Reading/Watching Log #56

And so continues my year-long attempt to focus on female characters and their creators, though it’s a lot harder than I thought it was going to be back in January – not because there aren’t many of them out there, but because I keep getting distracted by new and shiny things coming into the library and dropping on Netflix. The Rise of Kyoshi has a male author, but the protagonist is female, so that counts right? And A Letter for the King is an incredibly male-centric story but was written by a woman, so that’s okay, right?

I’m not going to beat myself up over this, as my New Years’ Resolution was for fun and to encourage me to start reading/watching things that aren’t necessarily mainstream, and so far that’s working out for me... though there’s still a lot of franchise material under the cut. Vanya and Allison both get solid arcs on season two of The Umbrella Academy, and (despite some bad news on the live-action front) the Avatar franchise is spreading its wings with new stories about Korra and Kyoshi.

I finished up the third and final season of Disney’s Tangled series (with mixed feelings about how they handled Cassandra) and got started on the gloriously trashy Cursed, which shines the spotlight on the unsung heroines of Arthurian legend. On the movie front I saw Hustlers and 2011’s Jane Eyre, and allowed myself to watch Hitchcock’s Rebecca – hardly feminist, but unmistakably female-focused, which is sometimes better if the story knows what it’s doing. This one (mostly) does.

I even dipped my toe back into the Star Wars universe, being captivated by one Doctor Chelli Aphra, and (in a decision that feels very poignant now) read a younger reader’s Black Panther tie-in novel focused on Princess Shuri. That one still hurts.

The Legend of Korra: Ruins of the Empire by Michael Dante DiMartino

As everyone else enjoys marathoning Avatar: The Last Airbender on Netflix, I’m delving into the comic book continuation of The Legend of Korra, which is currently on its second trilogy (each story is divided across three issues).

In many ways this is more of a natural extension of the show than the previous trilogy, as the title – Ruins of the Empire – would imply. Whereas Turf Wars was about largely inconsequential gang warfare, this story explores what’s happening on a worldwide political scale (specifically Prince Wu’s attempts to turn the Earth Kingdom into a democracy) and the aftermath of the dissolution of Kuvira’s Earth Empire.

Naturally, things are easier said than done when it comes to introducing a new system of government (not helped by the fact that the strongest candidate in the election is one of Kuvira’s generals) and although Kuvira is on trial, she’s largely unrepentant about some of the choices she made during her time as the Great Unitor.

The last two seasons of Korra were good because they delved into the difficulties of managing the political landscape; involving complications and intricacies that the Avatar couldn’t solve by just punching them. Ruins of the Empire is very much in that vein, and though it involves a trope I’m not hugely fond of – letting a criminal out of prison because their expertise is the only thing that can solve a much bigger problem – the story doesn’t simplify the situation. Well, not too much. Brainwashing machines are involved, so I’ll let you draw your own conclusions on that score.

Its greatest strength is seizing the opportunity to explore the reactions and emotions of characters in regards to Kuvira; something that the show didn’t have enough time or space to do. As such, we get Asami grappling with the fact that her girlfriend is working with the woman who killed her father, the Beifong clan reassessing their familial relationship with their foster daughter/sister, and Bataar Junior coming face-to-face with his ex-fiancée, who barely hesitated when it came to the choice between his life and the advancement of her cause. Awkward.

Seriously though, the advantage of these comics is that there’s more opportunity to let the characters breath and have those necessary conversations that don’t make into an episode’s limited run-time. We even get a flashback to Kuvira’s childhood, and it’s pretty illuminating.

I’m a little lukewarm about the ending, which involves (SPOILER) Wu deciding to hold-off on the elections and be the Earth King for a while longer and Kuvira returning to the Metal Clan under house arrest (so much for progress and justice) but it’s still a rewarding look at where these characters would realistically be after the events of the show. Plus, more Korrasami!

Brownstone’s Mythical Collection: Books 1 – 3 by Joe Todd-Stanton

I grabbed these from the children’s graphic novel section at the library and they are DELIGHTFUL. Each one is centred on a member of the Brownstone clan, a family that’s devoted to adventure and artefact collection, and which draw upon the myths and legends of a particular part of the world in order to craft its story.

It’s a surprisingly graceful melding of original characters and ancient stories, in which the likes of the Egyptian gods, the Norse pantheon, and the Monkey King play out their tales with a young Brownstone at their centre – for instance, this has young Arthur Brownstone trick the wolf Fenris into standing still so the gods can bind him, or Marcy setting sail on board Ra’s sun-boat on a mission from Thoth, or Kai free the Monkey King from his prison in order to fight a destructive spirit.

Todd-Stanton’s illustrations are the real drawcard – they’re so detailed and colourful that you could spent hours poring over them, and he’s obviously done his homework when it comes to symbolism, colours and even star constellations as they pertain to the cultures they’re based on. Only three have been released so far, but I hope there’s plenty more to come.

Doctor Aphra: Books 1 – 6 (plus The Screaming Citadel) by Kieron Gillen and Simon Spurrier

Yes, I KNOW I’ve sworn off Star Wars, and God knows I’ve mentioned it enough times on this blog, but the entire collection of Doctor Aphra issues were just sitting there on the YA graphic novel shelf at work, and I couldn’t resist.

For those not in the know, Doctor Aphra is quite possibly the best thing that Disney has contributed to the Star Wars canon, and the best female character never to appear in an actual movie since Ahsoka Tano. (Not to mention a bisexual Asian woman that incorporates both those qualities with an effortlessness that renders Rian Johnson and JJ Abrams’s attempts at similar representation truly laughable).

Not to diminish her with this comparison, but Chelli Aphra can best be described as a cross between Han Solo and Indiana Jones; a sci-fi scoundrel and a rogue archaeologist. Amoral and largely conscienceless, her stories revolve around heists, black market deals, long cons and temple robbing, with all the twists and turns you’d expect from such material.

Unsurprisingly, she inhabits that subgenre of the franchise which lies beneath the family space operas, Light/Dark binaries and Jedi mysticism: the galaxy’s underbelly of thieves, pirates and other opportunists, all desperately trying to scrabble out a living in the Imperial-controlled universe. But unlike Han and Lando, who have good hearts beating under those scruffy exteriors, Aphra really could care less about the plight of the galaxy and the rebels.

First turning up as a quasi-ally of Darth Vader himself in his series penned by Kieron Gillen, Aphra is joined by protocol droid Triple Zero and astromech Bee-Tee, who are best described as the dark counterparts of C3-PO and R2D2, each with a lust for bloodshed and torture that can be quite harrowing at times. Constantly pin-balling from one side to the other, taking what she can and forever racing to keep one step ahead, the series also features the likes of Luke, Hera and Vader in important supporting roles.

Her series is certainly the most fun I’ve had with Star Wars for a long time, and I love that the writers never commit to an overt redemption arc for her. Yes, she can occasionally do the right thing for the wrong reasons (or the wrong thing for the right reasons) but she remains true to her messy, complicated self from start to finish. If Disney had any sense, they’d be eying her for their next standalone film, but after the clusterfuck of the sequel trilogy I doubt any new instalment will be pending any time soon.

Disney Villains: Books 1 – 6 by Serena Valentino

Urgh, what was I thinking? In theory there are few things I might find more interesting than backstories for the array of Disney villains, each one more flamboyant and gay-coded than the next. And this series looked so compelling, each one focused on a single villain within a larger story that spans several books. How could I say no to that?

Unfortunately, the tale that unfolds is baffling to say the least. For starters, the Disney villains barely feature in the stories that are ostensibly meant to be about them; instead the author concocts a narrative that centres on several original characters, to which the likes of Ursula, Maleficent and Mother Gothel are only supporting players.

This involves three evil fairies called Lucinda, Martha and Ruby (seriously?) who are obsessed with their younger sister Circe (no relation to the Greek myth) and decide to secure her attachment to them by destroying everything she loves. Or something – honestly, I couldn’t really follow it.

The general formula to each of these books is that while the so-bizarre-that-it’s-forgettable new plot takes place in the foreground, the famous villains are getting a half-baked origin story that “explains” their villainy, which eventually bleeds into a retelling of the movies they’re from (with the added context that supposedly justifies all the evil things they do).

Aside from some truly baffling additions to the original stories (apparently the Beast couldn’t actually communicate with the transformed household staff, but only noticed that they moved around whenever he wasn’t looking – um… okay), these books naturally do the two things I absolutely despise when it comes to villain backstories: first blaming all the cruelty and violence they inflict on “bad childhoods” and “misunderstood intentions” and casting our heroes in the role of the real bad guys.

So apparently Flora, Fauna and Merryweather are bitchy mean girls, and the Fairy Godmother is a prejudiced headmistress, and King Triton is the biological sister of Ursula, who convinced his parents to abandon her as a child because she was ugly. All of the villains are poor, helpless victims who were just defending themselves against abusive parents or school bullies, and the real heroes of the piece are the author’s original characters (which involve, among other things, her cat. Because sure, why not).

I’m not usually this scathing of books that I don’t enjoy, so this should demonstrate just how baffling it is that these ones even exist at all. Regret reading.

Don’t Look Behind You by Lois Duncan

My return to the world of Lois Duncan concluded with this, one of the few titles of hers that I hadn’t read as a teenager. And to round things off, it was unfortunately not her best offering. It’s predicated on the relatively compelling subject of the Witness Protection Programme, something that the protagonist and her family have to enter after her father testifies in court against a drug ring and is nearly assassinated as a result.

Duncan captures the usual strife that a teenage girl would go through once she’s abruptly torn from her life and sent into hiding – missing her boyfriend, prom, graduation and other social events, all the while conscious that a hired killer is after her. It all leads to its inevitable cat-and-mouse conclusion, and to her credit Duncan isn’t afraid of settling for a bittersweet ending, but what really makes the book entertaining is its time-warp quality.

The protagonist attends two movies over the course of the story: one is Song of the South, which she waxes lyrically about for its “charm” and “innocence”, and the other is The Lost Boys, which she hates for its violence and blood. You know, for a woman who was one of the pioneers of YA pulp fiction, Duncan sure as hell read the room wrong when it came to movies. Granted, the films actually tie into her own story a little – the assassin is known as The Vampire, and the protag plays a variation of the “please don’t throw me in the briar patch” trick when he turns up at her house, but it’s such a hilariously dated commentary on old films that it’s almost charming.

The Shadow of Kyoshi by F.C. Yee

This is the second part of the Avatar Kyoshi duology (the first being The Rise of Kyoshi) that explores the early years of the famous Earth Avatar who featured regularly on the animated show – usually in flashbacks or as a spiritual presence. According to canon, she was the longest-lived Avatar, eventually clocking in at over two hundred years old, and with a legacy that was apparent well into Aang’s time: the Kyoshi Warriors and the Dai Li for example, were two factions heavily based on her influence.

But in the usual way of fandom, her inherent badassery is too often simplified into one-dimensionality. According to them, she just blew up all her problems and killed anyone that got in her way (and too many viewers use her methods as a way to criticise or ridicule Aang’s). In response, these two books really delve into Kyoshi’s psychology, first as a child who lived on the streets, then to the friend/servant of the boy everyone thought was the Avatar, and finally to her uncertainty in the mediatory role once her true identity is revealed.

Unsurprisingly, Kyoshi had plenty of layers: strong but kind-hearted, aggressive but cautious, and even when she does make the tough calls, it’s clear that they come at a heavy mental cost. Will fandom take this on board? Probably not, but it’s fascinating to see her at the start of her life, making the choices that will define her era.

It’s also not afraid to delve into her bisexuality, with Kyoshi having romantic attachments to both Yun (the boy who everyone thought was the true Avatar) and Rangi, the daughter of her fire-bending teacher. But perhaps the real drawcard of these books is simply the chance to explore the world of Avatar: its geography, culture and history, which was always one of the most fascinating parts of the show. This one delves deeply into the social mores of the Fire Nation, with a young Fire Lord that’s like Kyoshi in several respects (both of them are uncomfortable in their new role, each are in the shadow of a more popular personality) but also profound differences.

More poignantly, this is a world in which the Air Nomads still thrive, and it’s heart-warming to see how beloved they are – considered good luck, granting blessings, providing transport, and generally being the sun in everyone’s life. It helps add to the weight of their loss in the show itself, and why Aang was the Avatar everyone needed at that point in time.

It’s definitely better than its predecessor (not that Rise of Kyoshi was bad) so I hope that isn’t the last story we get that centres on her.

A Letter for the King by Tonke Dragt

After watching the six-episode Netflix show of the same name, I was curious about how the adaptation had changed the source material – unsurprisingly it turns out: quite a lot. As in the show, Tiuri is a young squire undergoing the final challenge required to achieve his knighthood (a night long silent vigil in a chapel) when there’s a knock at the door. There an elderly man gives him a letter and begs him to return it to his master, the knight with black armour and white shield, or – if not him – then the king of the neighbouring country Unauwen.

And that’s pretty much where the similarities end. The show has a meaty subplot involving Tiuri’s fellow squires being ordered to hunt him down which isn’t anywhere in the book itself. Neither is the twist involving Lavinia – and not Tiuri – being the one that can call on magical powers to protect herself from the evil prince (in fact, Lavinia only appears in a single book chapter!)

All the scenes involving the princess and the king’s evil son are completely unique to the show, as are most of the obstacles Tiuri faces on the way to Unauwen. Heck, even the existence of magic is only present the adaptation, not to mention all the family drama with his stepfather that Tiuri has to deal with.

I’d love to know the reasoning behind why the book was adapted in the first place: aside from its popularity in Denmark and its recent translation into English, there was certainly no demand for it, and the makers of the show clearly weren’t at any pains to remain faithful to the text. As it happens, the story is a rather plodding adventure in which Tiuri must undergo a cross-country journey across the mountains to the neighbouring kingdom, during which he’s tested in all manner of physical and emotional ways.

After all my recent grumbling about villains and redemption arcs, the good/evil binary in this story is really quite dull – we’re never really in any doubt that Tiuri is going to do the right thing, and the rather stringent moral code that Dragt adheres to does make me appreciate the more contemporary interest in ethical shades of grey (in heroes as well as villains). Trying to eke enjoyment out of its old-fashioned values was a challenge, perhaps because the story itself crawled along at a snail’s pace, with very little in the way of intrigue or excitement.

Perhaps something was lost in the translation? Like, a sense of urgency?

Shuri: A Black Panther Novel by Nic Stone

It’s sad and strange that this book was sitting directly in front of me on my kitchen table when I read about Chadwick Boseman’s passing. I had so recently been immersed in the world of Wakanda that it came as a double blow to realize that its king had finally succumbed to a years-long battle with cancer.

I have no idea where Marvel plans to go with the franchise after losing its star, though that fact that Shuri takes up the Black Panther mantle in the comic books is a possibility that has already been floated across internet message boards – though it’s too soon to really be discussing such things, and Nic Stone’s standalone novel demonstrates that there are plenty of Shuri-centric stories to be told without the need for superheroics.

Totally non-compliant with the canon of the MCU films, Shuri introduces our young heroine as T’Challa’s half-sister, her being the daughter of T’Chaka’s second wife Ramonda (played by Angela Bassett in the film, where she was mother to both children). Given that my introduction to this entire cast of characters was the 2018 movie, it was difficult not to picture Letitia Wright while reading, and Shuri’s characterization here adheres closely to what was depicted in the film.

Shuri is a gifted-to-the-point-of-arrogant princess and scientist, who would much rather be tinkering in her laboratory than seeing to royal duties – not that her mother and brother are in a hurry to bestow much responsibility upon her, knowing that she’s not exactly reliable when it comes to matters of state.

But when she discovers that the heart-shaped herb is dying of a strange blight, Shuri teams up with her friend and Dora Milaje-in-training K’Marah to find out what’s behind the ecological crisis. The technological superiority of Wakanda is given prominence, as Shuri utilizes all kinds of fun gadgets and modes of transportation in order to seek out answers, though there’s a dose of spirituality at work as well (several dreams and visions prove precognitive in nature).

It’s pretty light reading, and obviously aimed at younger readers, but there’s a reason Shuri proved to be such a favourite among viewers: as clever and funny as she is tenacious, her youth, inexperience and upbringing only make her more determined to follow through on her plans, no matter how reckless they may seem.

Rebecca (1940)

I read Daphne du Maurier’s seminal novel a couple of months ago, and always meant to follow it up with Hitchcock’s film. Once again breaking my “stick to female writers and directors” resolution for this year, I bent the rules a little by telling myself that technically it was based on a book written by a woman. Add to that reasoning the fact that Netflix is releasing a new adaptation this October, starring Lily James and Armie Hammer, and I want to be able to compare the two versions once it’s available.

On watching the film I was astonished at just how faithful it was to Maurier’s text – aside from compressing the timeline (the shipwreck occurs on the same night as the fancy dress party) and the murder of Rebecca being retconned into an accidental killing (thanks for nothing, Hays Code) almost every detail is carefully transposed from page to screen.

And the casting is beyond compare: Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine are pitch-perfect: the former depicting glimpses of weakness and cowardice beneath his manly exterior, and the latter capturing the self-doubt and weary paranoia of a young wife who is such a shadow that she doesn’t even warrant a name. You want to protect her at the very same time you want to give her a shake and tell her to start standing up for herself.

But of course it’s Mrs Danvers that is the true gift to any experienced thespian, and Judith Anderson almost single-handedly codifies the imperious housekeeper archetype. Watching her swoop up and down stairwells, loom threateningly over the vulnerable Fontaine, disappear around corners and into shadows – she’s practically a supernatural creature, whose sole purpose is to keep the spirit of Rebecca alive throughout the halls of Manderley.

It’s peak Gothic, and I love it. How Netflix plans to handle this material is yet to be seen, though if nothing else at least they’ll be able to get away with Maxim having shot and killed his first wife. Still, the age gap between Lily James and Armie Hammer is practically non-existent (if there was ever a decent excuse to have a justified twenty-plus year age difference between lead actors, this was it!) and I’m not sure the story will play out the same way in colour. There’s something about Rebecca that just requires black and white.

Jane Eyre (2011)

Funny story: I was having dinner with the folks when my mum tells me that she’s going to a one-woman play based on the story of Jane Eyre. But she has no idea what Jane Eyre is about. So I go through the story with her in as much detail as I can manage, before realizing that the 2011 version starring Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender was on Netflix. Why not? We all settled down for a two hour period drama which (much like Rebecca) pretty much built the Gothic Romance genre.

Then the credits run, mum checks her phone, and then tells me that the play is actually based on the works of Jane Austen. Ah well, at least I got to educate my parents on a classic.

The adaption with which I’m most familiar is the 2006 miniseries starring Ruth Wilson and Toby Stephens, which had the advantage of a longer run-time to really delve into the intricacies of the text: not just the interactions between Jane and her employer, Mr Rochester, but her time at Lowood School and with St John Rivers. Yeah, I know – nobody really cares about the beginning or end of the story, Thornfield Hall is where it’s at – but these segments do allow things to unfold at a more leisurely pace.

This adaptation has to squeeze things into a more limited run-time, and even with the likes of Helen and St John Rivers reduced to little more than cameos, it struggles to build any sort of rapport between Jane and Rochester. Wilson and Stephens are perhaps my favourite takes on the characters, as they’re allowed to converse and flirt and occasionally make each other smile, whereas Fassbender’s Rochester is all doom and gloom. The strange thing about how Gothic novels have aged is that by now, readers are conditioned to find this type of morose attitude attractive in and of itself; a compelling mystery for our heroine to solve. Back in the day, the fact that the likes of Rochester were considered husband material (not withstanding his vast fortune) was as much a surprise to the readers as it was to the heroines.

Despite the truncated nature of the scenes and dialogue, they hit the major beats of the story and its characters, with the requisite money-shots of the Northern English countryside (or whatever passed for it in the film). Wasikowska is a very guarded actress, though that lends itself well to Jane’s character, and Fassbender could play the part of Rochester in his sleep – though both are far too good looking for people repeatedly described as average by the text. Hey, it’s Hollywood.

And the supporting cast! It’s almost hilarious how many stars they manage it pack into this. Judy Dench, not remotely convincing as a housekeeper (sorry, I’ve seen her as too many dowagers), Jamie Bell as St James Rivers, Holliday Grainger and Tamzin Merchant as his sisters, Sally Hawkins as Mrs Reed, Imogen Poots as Blanche, Harry Lloyd as Richard Mason! I laughed every time one of them showed up.

Hustlers (2019)

With this, I complete my viewing of 2019’s anti-capitalism films (the others being Knives Out, Us, Parasite and Ready or Not). Based on a true story that took place during – or directly after – the 2007-8 financial crisis, it stars Jennifer Lopez and Constance Wu as two dancers at a New York strip joint who find that their cash inflow has dried up after the Wall Street bankers lose their jobs.

With children to raise and lifestyles to maintain, the two (along with a few other co-workers) turn to hustling – though if you were looking forward to some intricately plotted heists, you’ll be disappointed. Their scheme is simply to target a wealthy mark, supply him with spiked drinks, and then when he’s good and pliant, get his credit card number and withdraw as much money as they can.  

Not the most sophisticated scheme, but one they consistently get away with thanks to the morning-after shame felt by most of these men in realizing how badly they’ve been fleeced (though it doesn’t stop a few of them from going back for more).

The framing device is an interview staged between Constance Wu and a journalist played by Julia Styles, which gradually reveals the true heart of the story: the deep bond that exists between Wu’s Destiny and Lopez’s Ramona, which begins when the latter takes Destiny under her wing and shows her the ropes of her new job, and concludes (or so we think) when the friendship falls apart once the police finally catch up to them.

It’s a friendship fraught with tension and complexity but also its fair share of affection and sexual attraction (Destiny first sees Ramona when she’s dancing onstage, and watches with as much thirst as any of the men in the audience); ultimately a bona fide love story around which the men fade into irrelevancy. It really is remarkable how obscurely they’re all portrayed, despite being the main source of income for the protagonists; but the film is securely focused on these women and their bond with each other.

It’s not always an easy watch, but ultimately a rewarding one – Lopez really does put in a fantastic performance (damn she looks impossibly good at fifty) and this is brand new territory for Wu (still best known as Jessica Huang). If you enjoyed Portrait of a Lady on Fire, you’ll be stunned at how well it vibes with Hustlers.

Cursed: Season 1 (2020)

I went in hoping this would be glorious trash, and I wasn’t disappointed. Wild tonal shifts, character inconsistencies, weird subplots that go nowhere, and all purporting to be a prequel to Arthurian legend in which nearly every familiar character is introduced under an alias, Cursed is everything I anticipated.

The last Nimue-centric story I read was years ago, part of a trilogy that actually started in Atlantis and ended with Merlin bringing Arthur to the lake to retrieve Excalibur – I wish I could remember what it was called, but it’s out there somewhere. Other than that, she’s been a constant but rather neglected staple of Arthurian legends, largely considered to be the woman who raised Lancelot and the keeper of Excalibur before and after it came into the hands of Arthur, and sometimes conflated with Vivian (or Morgan, or Niniane) who traps Merlin in his crystal cave, or under the hawthorn tree, or wherever it is he ends up.

As with Merlin, this show largely tosses out the network of familial connections that make up the legends and instead mixes in a bevy of original characters just to shake things up. Nimue is an outcast within a society of outcasts, a girl with magical abilities among the Fey people (wouldn't they also have magical abilities?) who falls into the role of leader once they’re targeted by the zealous Red Paladins, who aim to exterminate them all in a self-appointed holy war.

Along the way she meets variations of the Arthurian line-up: Morgana is a nun hiding out in a convent, Lancelot is a stone-cold killer, Percival is a little boy, and the man himself is a roadside sellsword who takes a shine to Nimue. And Merlin is none other than Gustaf Skarsgård, playing the character in very much the same style as his most famous role over on Vikings, and to whom Nimue is instructed by her mother to take Excalibur after their village is destroyed.

Aside from this quest-to-Merlin thoroughfare, the plot is all over the place, with very little clarity over what anyone is trying to achieve at any given time. The Red Paladins are as dull as dishwater (most religious fanatics not called Melisandre are) and the characters keep flip-flopping at an alarming rate: Nimue holds Excalibur aloft and declares herself Queen; in the next episode she demurs and say she isn’t one. Arthur works overtime to get Nimue naked and in a hot pool with him; once she’s in the water he suddenly runs cold and says nothing can happen between them.

It’s hard to really get a fix on what these people want or how they’re going to get it – but then that’s really not the point of this show. I wanted trash and I got trash, with all the melodrama, randomness, attractive actors, dodgy special effects, Chosen One tropes and surprising amounts of gore I could have wished for.

The best characters at this point are Pym, Nimue’s truly adorable childhood friend who falls in with Vikings and tries to pass herself off as a healer, Morgana who – despite a tedious repeat of the Bury Your Gays trope with her girlfriend – has the most interesting storyline as her better nature grapples with her seething hatred of those inflicting violence on her, and Iris, a deranged little nun who wants to be a paladin and has the potential to become an extremely interesting antagonist going forward.

I won’t be too devasted if this is it, but I certainly hope there’s going to be a season two.  

The Umbrella Academy: Season 2 (2020)

The second season of this high-concept, high-budget take on Gerard Way’s as-yet-incomplete comic book series provides an interesting illustration of a writer’s room taking its cues from the audience reaction to its first season. As this post points out, it cuts down on the quasi-incestuous relationship between Luthor and Alison, has Luthor almost immediately apologize to Vanya for the way he treated her, allocates more screen-time to fan-favourites Diego, Klaus and Ben, makes Kate Walsh’s vivacious Handler the season’s Big Bad while dropping Hazel and Cha-Cha, hilariously stops pretending that Vanya was anything but gay all along, and – most importantly – starts writing these characters as though they’re an actual family.

The Hargreeves of season one were so individually troubled and hostile to each other that the only sensible course of action was for them to part ways forever and get some serious therapy. The apocalypse was literally the only thing drastic enough for them to try and get over their grievances long enough to save the world – which is a story premise that gets more infuriating the longer you think about it.

But the second season recognizes these weaknesses, the ones that were discussed throughout fandom circles, and so does what it must to right the course and steer the ship in a better direction. As such, the Hargreeves feel much more like a family this time around, with a genuine affection for each other that’s not only born out of their traumatic childhoods and a sense of coming home once they find each other in an era they don’t belong, but also each one’s innate need for love and understanding.  

One day I’ll write a full post about why letting fandom guide the course of an ongoing story is a terrible idea – and yet in this case the writers manage to toe the line between realizing there were things they could improve on and letting the loudest fans on Twitter co-write their scripts. That said, I was disappointed that the cliffhanging ending of the first season is thoroughly retconned: in the last episode’s final few seconds, as the Hargreeves cling together as the world ends around them, they revert back to their ten-year old bodies as part of the plan to time-travel back to their childhoods and rebuild their relationships from the ground up.

That would have made for a compelling second season: placing the older actors out of the picture for a while and letting the younger cast play themselves as thirty-year olds returning to their childhood, now with the emotional strength and maturity (or at least more of it) to face down their abusive father, Sir Reginald Hargreeves.

Instead season two opens with them being thrown out of Five’s portal at various points across the 1960s, still very much in their adult bodies and forced to track each other down and work to stop the apocalypse that’s managed to follow them back from 2019. That’s a pretty hefty change from the story we were promised at the end of the first season, so if you were looking forward to the possibilities that arise from the conclusion of this season… maybe don’t take it as a given that we’ll see more of the mysterious Sparrow Academy?

In any case, it’s definitely an improvement upon the first season, with better focus on the characters and a more streamlined story. There’s still plenty of material to be mined – we still don’t know how Ben died, who (or what) Reginald Hargreeves truly is, or why these superpowered individuals even exist in the first place, so hopefully the third season will tackle these unanswered questions. That the siblings were all born at the same time indicates a design of some sort – and this season reminds us that there are more of them out there…

Tangled: The Series: Season 3 (2019 – 2020)

What to say about the third and final season of Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventure (formerly known as Tangled: The Series)? There are some stories that are planned out very carefully in advance (Avatar: The Last Airbender) and some that are clearly just made up as they go along (the Star Wars sequel trilogy). This one… is a bit of both. The level of continuity and call-backs make it very clear that the writers of this show knew where the story was going – at least in broad strokes - but there are also some strange creative decisions that indicate some plot advancements were not conceived in any great detail.

The show in its entirety could have easily been a simple life-lessons-learned-each-episode romp about Rapunzel getting to know her long-lost parents and acclimatize to her newfound role as Princess of Corona, and the earliest episodes were cute little tales in precisely this vein.

But around the midpoint of season one, the writers start delving into what becomes a frankly convoluted mythology that explains the origins of the sunflower that kickstarted this whole tale: turns out that a sun drop and moon drop fell from the heavens at some point, and whereas the sun drop became a flower which led to Rapunzel’s magical hair, the moon drop became a stone that infected an entire kingdom and had to be guarded by a secret brotherhood.

It has the power to create and control sinister-looking black rocks, which also respond to Rapunzel’s sun-drop imbued hair, and create a path that leads to the far-off kingdom where the moonstone is still hidden. There’s also a demon that wants to use the two opposing forces to create a portal, we meet Eugene’s long-lost father who is (would you believe) the ruler of the Dark Kingdom, and a talking monkey is involved at some point. Told you it was convoluted.

The show is also notable for choosing as its central dynamic, not the relationship between Rapunzel and Eugene or her parents, but the one between her and Cassandra, the prickly and tomboyish daughter of the Captain of the Guard, who in many ways is Rapunzel’s polar opposite. This caused a bit of a stir in fandom circles, as the relationship was not only established in the time skip between the end of the film and the start of the show, but because Cassandra seemed to have a real beef with Eugene, who definitely had to take on a supporting role in the face of the Rapunzel/Cassandra friendship.

The second season ends on a cliff-hanger, in which Cassandra seizes the opportunity to take the moonstone for herself, and after gaining its powers she decides to… well, it’s unclear.  

SPOILERS

This season doesn’t waste any time in confirming a long-held fandom theory about Cassandra: she’s the biological daughter of Mother Gothel, who abandoned her as a child – on the very same night she kidnapped Princess Rapuzel, in fact. This was undoubtedly where the writers always planned to go with the character, given her distinctive dark hair and the pointed mention of the Captain of the Guard being Cassandra’s adopted father.

But it creates two problems, the first one being – so what? Across the entirety of the first two seasons Cass has never brought up the fact that Gothel was her mother, and because the character is long dead at this stage, it’s unclear why it would even be an issue. It doesn’t stop Cass from forming a deep friendship with Rapunzel, and there was never any love lost between Cass and Gothel anyway, as the flashbacks into their past demonstrates. Are we meant to believe Cass was nursing this secret grudge against Rapunzel the entire time?

Which leads to the second problem: that this entire story could have played out just as well (if not better) without this particular revelation, because the idea that Cassandra resents Rapunzel for Gothel having chosen Rapunzel over her own daughter is frankly ludicrous. Cass knows that Gothel was an abusive mother, she knows that Rapunzel was taken from her loving parents, and she knows that her friend was kept trapped in a tower for the first eighteen years of her life.

Cass on the other hand, was raised by a loving adoptive father in a kingdom where her every need was met. Cass clearly got the better deal here! If anyone has the right to be bitter and resentful about how things panned out for them, it’s Rapunzel.

And yet the writers seem to think that this is enough to form a wedge between the two friends, to the point where Cassandra actually leaves Rapunzel to die in a cave-in over a misunderstanding. And of course, despite all the invective and blame and antipathy that Cass spews, Rapunzel responds with endless compassion and forgiveness and second chances. Because God forbid a girl get angry that someone is unfairly laying all this shit at her door. (Remember when Adora punched Catra in the face and told her she was responsible for her own choices? Remember how good that felt?)

A part of me is glad the writers resisted the temptation to resurrect Mother Gothel, and yet making a demonic force (who initially takes the form of a little ghost girl) the show’s Big Bad doesn’t really work either – Cass is smart enough to realize that this individual is deeply untrustworthy, but still doesn’t think to question her motives or whether there’s a greater stratagem in play (there is). In hindsight, perhaps they should have found a way to bring Gothel back and let the girls find genuine closure from their toxic relationship with her.

So not being able to buy into the idea that Mother Gothel is the reason for Cass’s betrayal means the very fact that they’re mother/daughter feels superfluous to the story, and her entire arc subsequently falls flat. Making it worse is that it remains totally unclear what Cassandra actually wants. She keeps going on about her “destiny” and getting “what she’s owed”, even though – as pointed out – she’s had a great life, and found nothing but companionship and acceptance and love from everyone around her.

And sure enough, once she attacks Corona and drives out its people and settles herself down on the throne… she looks around and realizes she’s got nothing to do. It’s not just annoying, it’s baffling.

The whole thing actually plays out on a microcosmic level with another supporting character called Varian – a young inventor whose father becomes trapped in an amber-like substance in season one which leads him to kidnap Queen Arianna and hold her hostage because Rapunzel “broke her promise” to help him. (In actuality, she couldn’t immediately come to his aid because she was grappling with a much bigger problem, one in which even more lives were at stake).

And this is reason enough for him to… kidnap Rapunzel’s mother and threaten everyone's lives? Overreaction much? But it’s all okay, because the moment he demonstrates an ounce of remorse, Rapunzel instantly forgives him, the threat to her mother is entirely forgotten, and he returns to being a trusted member of Rapunzel’s inner circle.

Look, I’m not adverse to Start of Darkness stories, or the Redemption Arcs that inevitably follow – I just ask that they have SOME basis in realistic human emotion. People with stable upbringings and loving parents like Varian and Cassandra do not just fly off the deep end the moment they hit a roadblock. And after committing very serious felonies and causing extensive damage to people’s homes, livelihoods and loved ones, their victims don’t just shrug their shoulders and say: “no biggie.”

It's not like this stuff keeps me up at night. It’s just a cartoon, and for the most part I really enjoyed watching it. But it’s part of a much larger trend in recent stories that’s starting to give me the creeps: not only that some characters are treated as completely justified in causing havoc because of mildly disruptive childhoods (Kylo Ren, Loki, Cassandra) but that the good guys in the equation are morally required to give second chance after second chance after second chance to the people that hurt them (I had to quit Once Upon a Time for my own mental health, I just couldn’t handle the fucked-up double standards it had towards Snow White and Regina).

For every Catra or Zuko, who are both strong examples of characters who a. have legitimate reasons to be terrible people, and b. work through their issues in ways that don’t put the impetus of redemption on anyone but themselves, there are a thousand more shitty takes in which it becomes the responsibility of a well-meaning teenage girl to unplug the emotional constipation of some asshole.

Okay, now back to Tangled: The Series. Despite my serious problems with the way Cassandra’s arc was handled, I still really like the character – her design, the voice-acting, her general attitude and demeanour. This final season did a good job in showcasing most of the regular characters, allowing each one to have their moment to shine and finding something important for each one to do in the grand finale.

I was also curious about how they were going to establish continuity between the end of the show and Tangled Ever After, the short film that depicted Eugene and Rapunzel getting married. The fact that Cassandra was absent for this event despite her importance in Rapunzel’s life was always going to be a problem – but the show covers for it by having her take off on her own to enjoy some solo adventuring for a while (which honestly, is probably what she should have been doing in the first place).

Of course, they don’t manage to explain the absence of Lance or Varian at the wedding, but we won’t quibble.

This show never got as much buzz as She Ra or The Owl House, but I think it’s a pretty solid piece of work. It won Alan Menken his EGOT, the animation is attractively stylized, and it’s definitely elevated by the fact that Mandy Moore and Zachery Levi both came back to reprise their roles of Rapunzel and Eugene (heck, even Donna Murphy returned for just a few lines as Mother Gothel). There’s an imaginary version out there somewhere that better manages Cassandra’s arc, and there are times when the physics are truly ludicrous (Rapunzel can somehow run up free-floating lanterns) but I’d recommend despite its flaws.