7th Harry Potter Riff (Spoilers)
Cut, as most likely everyone who isn't a devoted fan is thoroughly sick of the subject by now. But this isn't a just a series of books, it's also a phenomenon, and how many of those do we experience in our lives?
In her short novel, or novella, Bellwether Connie Willis speculates in a sort of Josephine Tey manner on how fashions change, and who changes them. In that particular story I was mildly frustrated because I kept waiting for her to answer the story's specific question with Coco Chanel, but she never does. Still, the general question is interesting to contemplate: many times we don't precisely know who kicked off what fashion when. Like, a friend and I were talking about codpieces recently, when discussing the HBO Henry VIII miniseries. The filmmakers somehow forgot about giant codpieces in their otherwise lovely period detail. Those fashion necessities persisted for a couple of decades at least. And every man wore them. Henry's were not subtle. We can probably figure out why they were left out for modern TV audiences, but that leaves the question, what was going on in early sixteenth century Western European culture to make codpieces popular in the first place?
The question could be reframed as, can we recognize what it is in the zeitgeist that makes a particular piece of work take fire so much that everyone gets drawn in? A bit over 100 years ago one of the Hot Novels of the Future Generations was Trilby, which dwindled gradually to Svengali entering the surging sea of detached metaphors whose origin is long lost.
How can we tell at the time if the work is going to become an enduring part of literature or a relative flash like Trilby--all but forgotten the next generation down? In my own experience, there were two novels that many around me claimed would last forever: Love Story and Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Looking back now, i can see some of the cultural clues to their popularity. And at some point, they gained enough readers that they became fashions: I remember a conversation with a neighbor in Isla Vista (scene of much bank burning and rioting in the early seventies) that having Love Story lying in plain view on his stereo, below his potted plants, signalled that he was hip and mellow, date material. Even though he thought the book the stupidest thing ever written. I wondered how many women secretly despised the book, but paid lip-service if it meant getting a hip, mellow guy (he's got spider plants in macrame hangers, long hair, Bob Dylan on the stereo, and Love Story right out there!) interested. Yet I also had some friends who read either or both to pieces, memorized much of the latter, had portions read (and the "Love Story" theme played) at their weddings. There were many people who felt that "Love is never having to say you're sorry" was deep and meaningful.
TI am not trying to say that kids really hate Potter and pretend to like it for social points, though there are definitely levels to engagement, I discovered over the past few years as a teacher using the books in the classroom: the kids who don't actually read the books--though they own them--but wait for the movies, the kids who don't read them or see the movies but like to talk about the story with other kids. That doesn't explain a readership of 80 plus million, of course: there's definitely something in the Zeitgeist within the last decade to make the books resonate so heavily with so many kids. At some point, yes, I suspect they became de rigueur but before then, there was the eager readership.
I have this deeply intellectual and academic theory I call zing. Watch out Harold Bloom! Cultural attitudes and attractions change all the time, but at any given moment some form of medium is going to resonate powerfully. Some works zing with the general populace way after they appear--they appeared too early. Unfortunately, appearing too late means the scorn of the familiar: yes the creator got all the current attractive elements right, but didn't get their form out first, and by the time they did, they were accused of being a copycat. Even if they created their piece before whatever work with the same, or similar, elements hit big.
Cultures are made up of individuals, who share elements of zing (thus popularity) but one mustn't overlook the personal elements of zing. I see zing as that moment of visceral thrill (which includes physical reactions--terror, vertigo, eroticism, grief, laughter, etc), the joy of recognition, the shiver of the new, the echo of longing, the glimpse that widens the universe in a single flash, which in many human beings can be defined as the religious impulse. Current brain theory states that some are born with that, some aren't, but for those who are, a work that resonates with that level of meaning can strike so far down in one's psyche as to cause tectonic shifts in paradigm.
Readers who're long familiar with a given genre are not going to get as many zings of the new as an older readership. Some are going to perceive zing where others are going to get the anti-zing, the eeew! Conversely, if a work gives a reader enough zings, especially a variety of zings as well as quantity, the reader is going to invest all that zinginess in the next work by that author before reading the first page, so unless the second work really disappoints, even more meaning will be descried . . . even if it's not actually there for a new or an indifferent reader. Here's an example. There is a line in a Bujold book: "The next number up is one." I was on a panel not long after that novel came out, and the line was discussed. There were two panelists unfamiliar with the book, who shrugged at the line. One thought it was cute. Those of us long familiar with Bujold's work had gotten a 1000 horsepower zap from that line. Cute? I don't think so!
So. I finished HP 7 last night, after a few days of reading. Like the other books in the series, which I've read once, it was always fun to pick up, but easy to put down: the story seemed to follow the track I'd thought pointed out in the previous books, with few surprises--we're going to have yet another battle with Voldemort, bigger and better than ever, and as always, he'll go down at the end of the school year, the battle being connected with Hogwarts in some way. This time Voldemort will finally die--but then everything will go right back the way it was.
Snape's fate wasn't any surprise. I'd felt for the last three books or so that Snape was being set up to take the fall for Harry in some way--that he was a secret good guy, and the bottom motivational line would be his obsession with the Potter parents. I'd hoped it would be James (their relationship seemed far more interesting than his with Lily, even after the memory sharing, which didn't quite come into focus for me) but figured it would be Lily, as despite some slashy resonances (rather strong ones at times) the books had been kept firmly het. Voldemort continued to be a ranting idiot straight to the expected end, and I figured that a lot of secondary characters would have to be turned into redshirts in order to keep the sense of danger up but have the main three (with Ginny added on as Harry's future love interest) safe.
The characters never really grow and change, they stay pretty much the same all the way through; this is mostly an action series, though there are some very good emotional scenes--mostly when the main three are in conflict, Rowling doesn't really do love scenes. Since the wizarding world doesn't work for me (why are they trained for eight years to either do tricks or to fight one another? Why don't they use all that power to make the world a better place?) those long sequences guessing about the various spells and hunting about for Horcruxes made me want to skim. But Harry finally became a hero at the end, and didn't leave all the real work to Hermione: and the moment of meaning, I think, for young readers who are seeking the zing of paradigm was Dumbledore's "You move on."
I got one big zing from this book, and some mild ones, mostly toward the end. The big zing was when Harry found his mother's letter, and saw that her handwriting was like his--that the familiar tails on the g's were like a friendly wave. Woo, did that zap me good. The next zing in intensity was Harry's realization that Voldemort, Snape, and he himself had found a sense of home at the school. That snapped the storyline into focus: the climaxes being set at or connected to Hogwarts took on meaning. And another zing was Harry using Severus's name for one of his kids.
I think the story will make a terrific movie because the action will play well on screen, being tightened down and made visually wondrous. The end will be fantastic in good directorial hands--the actors are certainly up to the job. And in a movie one doesn't notice so many characters staying cardboard all the way through, like Crabbe and Goyle. Though some did get to take a single breath of life: Dudley in chapter one, and Malfoy in the previous book, ever so briefly. And Cissa did in this one--again ever so briefly. Dobby was less painful right before his death--I felt that Harry began his apotheosis by making Dobby's death meaningful. And I really liked the tense dialogue with the goblin, as both make enough effort to see one another's point-of-view to give us insight into the two cultures.
Clearly a vast number of readers got many zings from the books, and not just kid readers. Adult readers and writers like Orson Scott Card found the books powerful--in his review he states that he feels they will become a part of enduring literature. I wonder about that, but none of us can tell--we're living in our time, we have no idea what elements invisible to us now will resonate with future readers. Henry James, who was no slouch on cultural as well as literary observation confidently predicted that Hugh Walpole (almost completely unknown today) would be a giant of literature within a hundred years, whereas P.G. Wodehouse would be utterly forgotten by 1910. There were Puritans who felt that Shakespeare's work was trash, and enlightened people who felt that Jane Austen wrote nice little stories suitable for girls. Far too many authors over the centuries got seduced into writing their One Great Work--and thus produced unreadable and forgotten stodge. Rowling has never given any evidence she was trying to write the One True Work, she just wanted to tell a good story. And readers around the world feel that she did.
In her short novel, or novella, Bellwether Connie Willis speculates in a sort of Josephine Tey manner on how fashions change, and who changes them. In that particular story I was mildly frustrated because I kept waiting for her to answer the story's specific question with Coco Chanel, but she never does. Still, the general question is interesting to contemplate: many times we don't precisely know who kicked off what fashion when. Like, a friend and I were talking about codpieces recently, when discussing the HBO Henry VIII miniseries. The filmmakers somehow forgot about giant codpieces in their otherwise lovely period detail. Those fashion necessities persisted for a couple of decades at least. And every man wore them. Henry's were not subtle. We can probably figure out why they were left out for modern TV audiences, but that leaves the question, what was going on in early sixteenth century Western European culture to make codpieces popular in the first place?
The question could be reframed as, can we recognize what it is in the zeitgeist that makes a particular piece of work take fire so much that everyone gets drawn in? A bit over 100 years ago one of the Hot Novels of the Future Generations was Trilby, which dwindled gradually to Svengali entering the surging sea of detached metaphors whose origin is long lost.
How can we tell at the time if the work is going to become an enduring part of literature or a relative flash like Trilby--all but forgotten the next generation down? In my own experience, there were two novels that many around me claimed would last forever: Love Story and Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Looking back now, i can see some of the cultural clues to their popularity. And at some point, they gained enough readers that they became fashions: I remember a conversation with a neighbor in Isla Vista (scene of much bank burning and rioting in the early seventies) that having Love Story lying in plain view on his stereo, below his potted plants, signalled that he was hip and mellow, date material. Even though he thought the book the stupidest thing ever written. I wondered how many women secretly despised the book, but paid lip-service if it meant getting a hip, mellow guy (he's got spider plants in macrame hangers, long hair, Bob Dylan on the stereo, and Love Story right out there!) interested. Yet I also had some friends who read either or both to pieces, memorized much of the latter, had portions read (and the "Love Story" theme played) at their weddings. There were many people who felt that "Love is never having to say you're sorry" was deep and meaningful.
TI am not trying to say that kids really hate Potter and pretend to like it for social points, though there are definitely levels to engagement, I discovered over the past few years as a teacher using the books in the classroom: the kids who don't actually read the books--though they own them--but wait for the movies, the kids who don't read them or see the movies but like to talk about the story with other kids. That doesn't explain a readership of 80 plus million, of course: there's definitely something in the Zeitgeist within the last decade to make the books resonate so heavily with so many kids. At some point, yes, I suspect they became de rigueur but before then, there was the eager readership.
I have this deeply intellectual and academic theory I call zing. Watch out Harold Bloom! Cultural attitudes and attractions change all the time, but at any given moment some form of medium is going to resonate powerfully. Some works zing with the general populace way after they appear--they appeared too early. Unfortunately, appearing too late means the scorn of the familiar: yes the creator got all the current attractive elements right, but didn't get their form out first, and by the time they did, they were accused of being a copycat. Even if they created their piece before whatever work with the same, or similar, elements hit big.
Cultures are made up of individuals, who share elements of zing (thus popularity) but one mustn't overlook the personal elements of zing. I see zing as that moment of visceral thrill (which includes physical reactions--terror, vertigo, eroticism, grief, laughter, etc), the joy of recognition, the shiver of the new, the echo of longing, the glimpse that widens the universe in a single flash, which in many human beings can be defined as the religious impulse. Current brain theory states that some are born with that, some aren't, but for those who are, a work that resonates with that level of meaning can strike so far down in one's psyche as to cause tectonic shifts in paradigm.
Readers who're long familiar with a given genre are not going to get as many zings of the new as an older readership. Some are going to perceive zing where others are going to get the anti-zing, the eeew! Conversely, if a work gives a reader enough zings, especially a variety of zings as well as quantity, the reader is going to invest all that zinginess in the next work by that author before reading the first page, so unless the second work really disappoints, even more meaning will be descried . . . even if it's not actually there for a new or an indifferent reader. Here's an example. There is a line in a Bujold book: "The next number up is one." I was on a panel not long after that novel came out, and the line was discussed. There were two panelists unfamiliar with the book, who shrugged at the line. One thought it was cute. Those of us long familiar with Bujold's work had gotten a 1000 horsepower zap from that line. Cute? I don't think so!
So. I finished HP 7 last night, after a few days of reading. Like the other books in the series, which I've read once, it was always fun to pick up, but easy to put down: the story seemed to follow the track I'd thought pointed out in the previous books, with few surprises--we're going to have yet another battle with Voldemort, bigger and better than ever, and as always, he'll go down at the end of the school year, the battle being connected with Hogwarts in some way. This time Voldemort will finally die--but then everything will go right back the way it was.
Snape's fate wasn't any surprise. I'd felt for the last three books or so that Snape was being set up to take the fall for Harry in some way--that he was a secret good guy, and the bottom motivational line would be his obsession with the Potter parents. I'd hoped it would be James (their relationship seemed far more interesting than his with Lily, even after the memory sharing, which didn't quite come into focus for me) but figured it would be Lily, as despite some slashy resonances (rather strong ones at times) the books had been kept firmly het. Voldemort continued to be a ranting idiot straight to the expected end, and I figured that a lot of secondary characters would have to be turned into redshirts in order to keep the sense of danger up but have the main three (with Ginny added on as Harry's future love interest) safe.
The characters never really grow and change, they stay pretty much the same all the way through; this is mostly an action series, though there are some very good emotional scenes--mostly when the main three are in conflict, Rowling doesn't really do love scenes. Since the wizarding world doesn't work for me (why are they trained for eight years to either do tricks or to fight one another? Why don't they use all that power to make the world a better place?) those long sequences guessing about the various spells and hunting about for Horcruxes made me want to skim. But Harry finally became a hero at the end, and didn't leave all the real work to Hermione: and the moment of meaning, I think, for young readers who are seeking the zing of paradigm was Dumbledore's "You move on."
I got one big zing from this book, and some mild ones, mostly toward the end. The big zing was when Harry found his mother's letter, and saw that her handwriting was like his--that the familiar tails on the g's were like a friendly wave. Woo, did that zap me good. The next zing in intensity was Harry's realization that Voldemort, Snape, and he himself had found a sense of home at the school. That snapped the storyline into focus: the climaxes being set at or connected to Hogwarts took on meaning. And another zing was Harry using Severus's name for one of his kids.
I think the story will make a terrific movie because the action will play well on screen, being tightened down and made visually wondrous. The end will be fantastic in good directorial hands--the actors are certainly up to the job. And in a movie one doesn't notice so many characters staying cardboard all the way through, like Crabbe and Goyle. Though some did get to take a single breath of life: Dudley in chapter one, and Malfoy in the previous book, ever so briefly. And Cissa did in this one--again ever so briefly. Dobby was less painful right before his death--I felt that Harry began his apotheosis by making Dobby's death meaningful. And I really liked the tense dialogue with the goblin, as both make enough effort to see one another's point-of-view to give us insight into the two cultures.
Clearly a vast number of readers got many zings from the books, and not just kid readers. Adult readers and writers like Orson Scott Card found the books powerful--in his review he states that he feels they will become a part of enduring literature. I wonder about that, but none of us can tell--we're living in our time, we have no idea what elements invisible to us now will resonate with future readers. Henry James, who was no slouch on cultural as well as literary observation confidently predicted that Hugh Walpole (almost completely unknown today) would be a giant of literature within a hundred years, whereas P.G. Wodehouse would be utterly forgotten by 1910. There were Puritans who felt that Shakespeare's work was trash, and enlightened people who felt that Jane Austen wrote nice little stories suitable for girls. Far too many authors over the centuries got seduced into writing their One Great Work--and thus produced unreadable and forgotten stodge. Rowling has never given any evidence she was trying to write the One True Work, she just wanted to tell a good story. And readers around the world feel that she did.