Did you miss out on our series giveaway? Don’t fret! The first volume is permafree and available for download here.
[a website for the Editor and Narrator of the Circo del Herrero series]
Did you miss out on our series giveaway? Don’t fret! The first volume is permafree and available for download here.
“This kind of self-awareness is, to varying degrees, inherent in fanfiction. Transformative works are necessarily built on the platform of canon, expanding above it in countless ways. Fanfiction has to be aware of its source, but for a source to be aware of itself requires a very specific (and usually comical) type of art. Harry Potter and The Cursed Child, it goes without saying, is not that kind of art.
But of course, it is neither format nor self-reference that fundamentally fill The Cursed Child with That Fanfiction Feeling. Most prominently responsible are the controversial story decisions in The Cursed Child, all of which come about because the play propels itself on the energy of the wrong type of question. Over and over again, with wide-eyed enthusiasm, the play asks âWhat if?â
What if Harryâs son had polyjuice potion miraculously to hand? What if Voldemort had a child? What if Time-Turner?
âWhat ifâ questions are not bad questions, but they are almost always the domain of fanfiction, and for good reason. Within the bounds of an established, canonical tale, storytellers must be judicious in their application of âwhat if,â because âwhat ifâ is not governed by theme, history, or character. âWhat ifâ can lead anywhere, and stories that bear the weight of canon cannot afford to go anywhere.
…
None of these ideas are inherently bad, and none of the audacious ideas in The Cursed Child are inherently bad outside the context of canon. What they are, however, is fundamentally light, unmoored from cannnical responsibility. Thatâs a beautiful, inspiring thing, but it can also be less than satisfying.
Readers like rules. Modern stock in the concept of âcanonâ may be riding unnecessarily high, but it appeals to us for a reason. We want our stories to have weight and boundaries; we donât actually want them to fly off in any direction when we feel safe within the walls of canon. Fanfiction scratches a different itch than official stories do, and when those lines cross, we often feel damned uncomfortable.
Thatâs certainly how I felt, reading of Voldemortâs unexpected progeny in The Cursed Child. Itâs how I felt every time someone yanked out that ridiculous Time-Turner. Itâs how I feel now, imagining new characters tramping over a world that had been so definitively bounded by the words âAll was wellâ back in 2007.
I think this is more than the growing pains of change, the mild discomfort we all felt while digesting the latest Harry Potter novel. I believe That Fanfiction Feeling represents a fundamental difference between Rowlingâs approach in her novels, and the tact taken by John Tiffany and Jack Thorne. Rowlingâs series was constantly inventive and powerfully imaginative, but also deeply consistent. It was not self-aware; it was loyal to the pulse of themes and characters pounding through a remarkable body of work.
The Cursed Child, however, beats to the drum of âWhat if?â questions, spinning off into a kaleidoscope of surprising (and to be honest, bizarre) answers. To that end, the story feels like fanfiction; this is not a measure of quality, but a measure of intent. Author-approved or not, The Cursed Child shares the fundamental sensibilities of fanfiction â not of canon.
It is a lesson of The Cursed Child that both good and bad can come from unexpected places. This is just as true of literature. Canon can awe or disappoint, while fan-works can make us groan or move us to tears. As a story hatched from the worlds of canon and fanfiction, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child also does both â and itâs up to each of us to decide if thatâs our cup of Polyjuice or not.”
[Via]
We saw this back in January, and it was surprisingly better than I thought it was going to be.
But, here is the thought(s)/questions I’m left wondering [spoilers]:
1. Was the Japanese automaton a symbol for the woman he truly wants? The automaton’s voice at the end was the only distinct non-Tom Noonan voice left. Was the automaton the only true Anomalisa? Or maybe the anomalisa was himself–that he can never find someone as original as his own person?
2. Was the glitchy dream really necessary? Indeed, are any dream sequences necessary? While it reminded the audience that they were dealing with puppet-dolls (which is ironic because part of the plot centers around said puppets dealing with an antique sex doll/automaton), did this add anything to the greater theme other than irony? It tired the point, for sure.
3. Also, it bothered us that all the characters were white, even though, yes, they were supposed to have the same face. Adding diversity of skin tone probably would have made it harder to notice they were all the same (which was kind of hard to notice as purposeful to begin with). But I’m sure something else could have been done to drive home that point that didn’t involve whitewashing every human being alive.
If you’ve got some thoughts on this movie, please tell us below!
[“BLA and GB Gabbler” (really just a pen name – singular) are the Editor and Narrator behind THE AUTOMATION, vol. 1 of the Circo del Herrero series. They are on facebook, twitter, tumblr, goodreads, and Vulcan’s shit list.]
‘I canât say the book was a pleasurable read, a good bit of it was a slog and it took me since May to read the final twenty pages. It was sort of like facing down the vegetable you like the least. You know it is good for you but you just canât bring yourself to like it no matter how it gets dressed up. But once youâve eaten it there is a certain sense of accomplishment and satisfaction as well as relief. Howâs that for a recommendation? Read it if you dare.’
Chapter the first,
Too many freaks, too few circuses:
As Odys walked down the sidewalk he saw the manâthe man standing at the crossroad. The man just stood there, even though he didnât have to. The light was green and he was free to walk across. But he didnât. He simply stared at the traffic flowing past him. He even waved on the car waiting for him. Come along, motorcar. Iâm in no hurry. Have a good day.
Odys noticed the man carried the absolute longest black umbrella, the fascinating kind that adapts into a perfectly fine walking cane. But there wasnât a chance of rain today. Not even sprinkles. Mildly overcast, perhaps, but nothing to deserve something that drastic.
And goshwow was that a top hat the old man was patting on?
As far as Odys could tell from the manâs backside, this giddily-suited gentleman had time travelled from the 1800sâgive or take a hundred years (Odys was no good at history). Not that Odys judged people by their appearance. No, Odys didnât judgeâthough he was mature enough (as a twentysomething) to know that elders shouldnât go about playing dress up. Not on days other than Halloween.
Odys avoided eye contact when he eventually caught up to the stranger. Normally, he would have given an elated grin to someone so dressed up, but not today. Today was different. Today Odys was one. Not two.
His broken-down car had not only forced him to walk but his runaway sister had forced him to walk alone. Okayâfineâshe hadnât really run away but she had abandoned him this morning. Now he was forced to brood and not know what to do with himself.
The older fellow didnât bother to glance at our aimless-Odys, who arrived just as the light turned red. The orange hand. Thatâs no high-five itâs asking for. Donât walk. Donât talk.
As he waited for the next green light, Odys stared straight aheadâwatched his wakeful downtown settle into its afternoon placeârefused to gawk at the probably-charming old chap. Gawking was rude anyway, right? Right.
Odys was much too depressed to spark a civil greeting. Or smile. Or even acknowledge the fellowâs existence, for that matter. I donât see this, Odys thought to himself.
Yes, just stand still, Odys. You canât see him, he canât see you.
Heâd just ignore the man until that light turned green. Green, green, green. Turn green, already, damn it.
âYou look like youâve lost something, Odys Odelyn.â
Odys made eye contact.
The old man adjusted his white-gloved hands on the umbrellaâs handle. A swanky circus ringmaster, this man! No, scratch that. Odys had always pictured a ringmaster with elaborate facial hairâa curled handle-bar mustache and devilish beard. This man was too clean-shaven to be a ringmaster, though he reminded Odys of one nonetheless.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, CHILDREN OF ALL AGESâŚ
âPardon?â Odys said with a frown (he refused to enjoy this unwelcome human interaction). And had he heard his name? What had the old man said? In his resentfulness, Odys had already forgotten. But we havenât, have we, Reader?
The man smiledâa warm and sophisticated grin. His jauntily-angled top hat half-amused Odys, who tried to hate it (he would enjoy nothing today).
âŚWas he some sort of immaculate butler?
âI said,â (still not lending Odys his eyes), âyou seem lost.â
âŚWas he on his way to a steampunk convention?
Odys realized he should respond. âDo I know you?â Hadnât the man said his name? Hadnât he? Hadnât he?
âAfraid not.â The older fellow cracked a smile. The manâs confidence made Odysâs eyes shift.
Odys gave himself a shake. Maybe heâd just misunderstood.
The light turned green. Walk. Walk faster.
As they walked, the old man swung his umbrella. He tapped it on the ground in between paces like a cane. These two characters fell into step, neither one walking too fast or too slow. Odys kept his hands in his pockets (defensively) while he tried to out-walk the man. But the man kept up with Odysâs stride, his fancy coattails floating behind him. The tap, tap, tap of the umbrellaâs metal tip echoed off the cement. It reverberated in Odysâs feet.
The sound annoyed Odysâso much he couldnât help but count the times it hit the groundâeleven, twelve, thirteenâŚ
The tapping stopped and Odys sighed with relief. They both stepped up onto the sidewalk. A few more steps, then: âSo, where are you headed this morning?â The man turned to Odys at last.
Those blue eyes! Tiny little dots of sky. They peered at Odys as if looking at an old friendâŚan old friend he had dirt on.
âJust walking.â Odys shrugged off the manâs interest.
âAh, me too.â The man nodded. He tucked the umbrella under his arm.
Odys didnât know how to respond, so he didnât.
The traffic light turned red. Donât walk.
âHave you a reason, boy? For walking, that is?â
Odys wanted to yell, YES, MY STUPID CAR WOULDNâT START. But itâs a story full of curse words and violence (weâll save it for another chapter).
âWell, itâs not really any of your business is it?â He forced a social smile.
âI suppose youâre right, yes!â The man tapped his umbrella point on the groundâtoo jovially. âForgive me for prying. I get carried away.â
Odys cut his eyes at the man. Had this man escaped from some loony bin, and did Odys need to alert someone? He seemed harmless enough, yet there was a mischievous purposefulness behind his every action.
ââŚI see youâre admiring my outfit?â
No, actually. Odys had just blotted it from memory, looked ahead, prepared to forget everything so he could concentrate on the important matter: his traitorous sister.
âYes, you are dressed up,â Odys forced a smile. All the man needed was a monkey on his shoulder or a few pins to juggle.
âIâd like to tell you I donât normally dress like this, but I do. I look nice, donât I?â
That statement deserved a chuckle. âYes, you do,â Odys consented. He frowned at his own laughter.
âŚWas this some candid camera prank?
âI met my wife, you see, wearing a suit like this. Sheâs dead now. I made a promise that when I met her again, Iâd be wearing a fancy suit.â No chuckle from Odys this time. Had the man met his wife at some historical reenactment? Had he expected to die for a while now if he dressed like this all the time?
âAs they say,â the man continued, rocking to and fro until the light turned green, âyou never know when youâre going to go. You canât plan for it. Unless, of course, you commit suicide. Then youknow to dress for the worst.â
Wait. What?
Odys was about to be confused when (ohthankgod): Green. Walk.
WALK QUICKLY, ODYS.
The man turned left as they stepped onto the curb; Odys went straight. One, two, three four, five uneven steps before: âOh, Odys Odelyn!â he heard the man call. He made a half-trumpet with one hand, âYou dropped this.â
This?
Odys paused and turned in the loading-dock/alleywayâs threshold, right beside a giant green waste bin. Another chill ran down his spine. That was definitely his name, right? He wasnât mistaken, was he? He had heard his name, hadnât he?
Oh, hadnât he!
Like a magician performing slight-of-hand, the old man concealed something in the palm of his glove. His fingers opened like a magical bloom. He presented a shiny, roundâŚquarter?
Well, it was the about the same size as a quarter, anyway. It reflected a spectacular amount of lightâamber light. The showy presentation enchanted Odys. He had to force himself say, âNo, itâs not mine.â
(Once again, heâd already forgotten the man said his name).
âOh, but Iâm sure it is, Odys Odelyn,â the man insisted with slim bantering flair, a twinkle in his blue-blue eyes.
Third timeâs a charm. Odys Odelyn. No mistake.
âHowâd you know my name?â Odys demanded, jaw clenching. Whoâd want to prank him like this?
âAre you so sure itâs your name?â the old man said, walking forward and seizing Odysâs hand from his pocket. He inserted the warm coin in Odysâs hand. âThereâs bound to be more than oneOdys around. The nameâs not that original. After all, every time someone says Odysseus, theyâre saying part of your nameââ
âMy nameâs not Odysseusââ
âNo one said it was.â The man gestured with a nod to the coin.
Odys couldnât help but look at it. He realized its tarnished spots didnât stop it from shining.
âItâs a penny,â the old man said. âPenny for your thoughts.â He tapped the ground with the umbrella again. He tucked in his chin and stared at the cement as if regretting what heâd just given up.
Odys examined the coin to appease him (Odys was in no real hurry this morning).
âThe date, there, says 1793,â the man pointed, although Odys had already read it. âThey only minted them that year. A collectable, for sure. Only seven known in existence, and that isnât one of them. Youâll not want to giveher away or sell herâno matter the price!â His polished voice was unexpectedly grave, more warning than advice.
Odys rotated the side that read âOne Centââthe side with the intricate wreath. He turned it over to the head: the profile of a beautiful woman with flowing hair.
Odys looked up. The man removed his hat. Odys felt like Frodo taking on the burden of Bilboâs ring, though he had no idea why. (But donât get ahead of yourself, Odys. Who said youâre the hero of this story?).
âWhyâre you giving this to me?â His cold lips could barely form the words.
âGiving it? My boy, you dropped it!â Silly young man! âDid you know, Odys Odelyn, that many would like to do away with the penny altogether? They say they cost the government more to make them than what theyâre worth. Many would rather have us round to the nearest nickel and be done with it. A disappointing thought, for sure. I always did like picking homeless ones up from the ground. In fact, thatâs how I discovered that one, there. People drop them like trash and simply let them beâas if it costs more to bend down than to leave it. But for me, I liked to save money. I valued little nothings, you see,â he nodded, trying to make himself believe his memory. He smoothed back his hair one more time, tapped his hat down. âAs they say, âFind a penny, pick it up, and all your days youâll have great luck.â Donât forget that, Odys Odelyn. Todayâs your lucky day.â
Before Odys could question that statementâ
âMany would say that the girl on that coin is Lady Liberty. To a point, theyâre right. But that specific girl, there, is not the lovely lady Libertas! Not really. You may call her that, but ironicallyâŚthat penny is anything but free. Not only is she trapped in that metal, but bound to be spent. That woman, there, is just the right sum for the ferryman.â
What the hell was this, his catechism?
The old man lifted his umbrella and swished it toward Odys, tip inches from his face. Odys jumped back, almost bumping into a tiny woman with her dog. The dog didnât mind, but the woman glared.
âLetâs just say, Mr. Odelyn, that the penny is my debtâmy obligationâpaid in full. Iâll owe nothing else to you since you now have the funds. The rest is up to you.â
Odys put up his hands. âErâall right, then.â Anything to shut this man up. People were staring as they tried to make their way into one of the buildingâs entrances. Is this man putting on a street show? Whyâs he dressed up? Is this a film production? Are we on camera?
The man lowered his umbrella, fixed the hat on his head, smoothed down his breast. âWill you hold this, Odelyn?â The man presented the umbrellaâs curved handle.
âHow do you know my name?â
âTake the umbrella and maybe Iâll tell you.â The man raised a brow.
To move this thing along, âFine.â
Hands free, the old man reached into his suit pocket. Odys froze in place when he heard the click and saw the barrelâthe barrel pointed directly at his face.
Holyshit.
âSorry to do this, here and now, but Iâm crunched for time. You walk very slowly, Odys.â The mad manâs voice was so rushed it whisperedâOdys could barely hear it. The onlookers (debating whether or not to record this on their phones) were too preoccupied to hear.
âIâm being followed, you see. Iâll need you to put that coin in your pocket. Quickly, now, boy! Donât spend my timeâIâve paid enough, dealing with you. Thatâs it. Put it away. Donât you drop her either, boy. Sheâs small enough to fall through that drain, there. Or even an unsuspecting pocket hole. Sheâs very important. Now, open the umbrella.â
âWhat?â
âI said open the umbrella!â
Obediently, Odys fumbled with the binding strapâs button, hands shaking.
The black webbing popped out like a monstrous bat wing.
âHold it up. Thatâs it, yes.â The manâs eyes darted about. The few in the area were clearing out, ducking and rushing from this antiquated man with his antiquated gun.
Odys rested the umbrella on his shoulder, noticing the man was going to speak once more. Odys swallowed hard, bracing himself.
âNow, Odys Odelyn, thatâs my last cent, there. Iâve spent the rest. Itâs up to you to buy more time. Spend wisely.â
The man drew back the gun and held the nose upward, as if finished with his prestigious show. But no. That wasnât the end of his haywire session:
The man shoved the gun in his mouth and gave an encouraging winkâa wink!âright before Odys heard the echoing BANG.
The pigeons flapped up.
As the blood, hat, and brains showered from the sky, Odys half-noticed the shiny name carved on the umbrellaâs handle: Pepin J. Pound.
PEPIN: Willing to share his umbrella.
WALKING: Because he knew Odys would be walking.
HOW DID HE KNOW?: Because heâs the reason Odysâs car didnât start.
CHARM: 100%
[BLA and GB Gabbler” (really just a pen name – singular) are the Editor and Narrator behind THE AUTOMATION, vol. 1 of the Circo del Herrero series. They are on facebook, twitter, tumblr, goodreads, and Vulcan’s shit list.]