To kickstart this year, I decided to revisit some of the seminal classics of children’s literature: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, and Peter Pan, along with some of their assorted television/filmic adaptations.
It intrigues me greatly that three touchstones of early children’s literature involve little girls navigating dangerous fantasy lands, and there’s something about the characters of Alice, Dorothy and Wendy that just goes together somehow.
(I’ve always felt there should be a second-tier trio to this very specific type of heroine, but all I can come with is Clara from The Nutcracker and Gerda from The Snow Queen – there must be a third girl out there somewhere to complete the set, but who? Pippi Longstocking? Ronja the Robber’s Daughter? No, they don’t quite fit into the same dreamlike space as the others. I’ll think of her one day…)
Also interesting is that two famous adaptations of these stories take on a “it was all a dream” framing device that was only ever present in one of the original books: that is, MGM’s The Wizard of Oz and Disney’s Peter Pan, in which the Darling parents arrive home to find Wendy sleeping by the open window. Neither book used this conceit, but it would seem the precedent set by Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland loomed large in the imaginations that followed it. Likewise, a preoccupation with themes of insanity as it pertains to young women specifically has emerged around these stories, almost without anyone realizing. In Return to Oz, Dorothy is taken to a clinic where she faces electric shock treatment to help her with her “delusions” of Oz, while Once Upon a Time in Wonderland begins with Alice locked up in an asylum after she refuses to renounce the adventures she’s had.
A lot of this might just be the natural conclusion of retelling stories that are so inherently wild and random, but I do wonder if this theme would be quite as pronounced if the main characters of these books had been boys.
That little girls are so often traversing fantasy lands on vague journeys of empowerment and self-actualization also makes me wonder if there’s a line that can be drawn between these early nineteenth century texts and the recent proliferation of romantasy, but that might have to be a longer post for another day…
(And don’t worry, among my exploration in various adaptations, I’ve spared myself Spielberg’s Hook and James Franco’s Oz the Great and Powerful. Never again!)
Kristy and the Haunted Mansion by Anne M. Martin
I have been looking forward to rereading this one for ages, recalling it as being one of the best mysteries in the subseries. And I was right, even though it’s more about surviving an ordeal with kids than solving a mystery. But check out that cover art: the lantern, the lightning, the body language of Kristy and the kids – totally iconic, and one of my favourite covers in the whole series.
Kristy, Bart and the Krashers (the combined team of the best Bashers and Krushers players) have driven out of town for a game with another team, despite a storm brewing in the air. For plot-related reason, the players are travelling in a van driven by Charlie, even though their parents are all attending the game. This makes no sense, as it means everyone had to meet at a designated spot to drop off their kids for the transit there, despite everyone driving to the same place anyway. Then they presumably have to meet again at the same spot on the way back to pick up their kids (unless Charlie planned to drop everyone off at their own addresses) instead of just driving straight home with them.
That’s not even getting into the question of who this van belongs to or where Charlie got hold it for the day. But it’s all necessary for the plot to work, so here we go.
Charlie is driving the assorted kids, plus Kristy and Bart, back to Stoneybrook when he misses the turn-off and gets lost. A thunderstorm starts and the kids get scared, especially when they double-back from a dead end only to find the bridge they crossed a few minutes ago has been washed out. They’re stranded, and because these are the days before cellphones, there’s no way to contact home.
Having spotted a large mansion in the distance, they stop at the caretaker’s cottage to ask for help. The man inside isn’t very friendly, but he offers them shelter at the mansion for the night – yes, it’s a scenario straight out of Scooby Doo, complete with a van, thunderstorm, and getting stranded in an abandoned mansion for the night. I love it.
To pass the time, the team explores the house, eventually discovering (what else?) an old diary that explains the house’s backstory. A girl called Dorothy – not Dorothy Gale though – once lived there, and planned to elope with her beloved Will Blackburn, a young man who her father disapproves of. Why is there always, always an old diary or letter or photo album on hand to illuminate all this deeply personal history? I love it.
Downstairs, they also find newspaper clippings that reveal Dorothy went missing on the night she planned to run away with Will and was presumed drowned. With that, Jackie Rowdosky identifies the place as the old Sawyer Mansion, said to be haunted – and they’re all stuck there for the night.
Back in Stoneybrook, everyone soon realizes that the team hasn’t returned home, and attempt to keep things normal (that is, go to their usual babysitting jobs) while awaiting news. It’s quite suspenseful, as even though we know everyone is already, the tension is palpable as the hours tick by and there’s still no news. A nice moment is when the BSC write encouraging messages to Kristy in the club notebook, having faith that she’ll read them on her return.
The MVP at this point is Charlie, who steps up as the oldest person present to take charge, distribute food and blankets, keep the kids calm, and point out that their parents will know that wherever they are, they’re all still together (on returning home, Watson shakes his hand, which got me a little teary).
The following day the storm is over, and when the old man comes in to check on them, the kids recognize him as Will Blackburn from the newspaper clippings. He admits to this, telling them that after Dorothy’s disappearance and the death of her father, he brought the Sawyer place and managed its upkeep in memory of his lost love. (Though how did he manage to purchase it? Presumably Dorothy’s father disapproved because he was of lower social standing, so where’d the money come from to buy a whole-ass mansion?) All the reported ghostly activity (the lights, the chimney smoke) was just him looking after the place.
With the bridge repaired (that was fast), the team head back to Stoneybrook. Kristy contacts Watson at the nearest payphone, and they return home to a warm, relieved welcome from their loved ones.
But it’s not over yet! At a sleepover that night, Karen walks in on the babysitters to reveal that she nicked a photograph of Dorothy from the mansion because she found her face so familiar. Mary Anne identifies her as the old lady who runs a local sewing shop, and the next day they all go there to check it out. Yup, it turns out that Dorothy didn’t drown after all. In her own words:
“That night, that stormy, stormy night, when I was swept downstream by the raging creek, I realized something. As I was climbing up the muddy bank where I had finally found something to hold onto, I realized that for the first time in my life I was free. Free! I was on my own. I didn’t have to answer to any man: not Father, not Will. For, as much as Will loved me, I knew he would have given me the same sort of life that Father had: a life that was overprotected and stifling. And so I never returned… I made up a new identity for myself. I travelled all over the world. I had a wonderful time.”
I love it.
Well, mostly. Obviously I have no problem with Dorothy choosing this path in life, but girl. Write a damn letter to your father and fiancé to let them know you’re not dead! Yeesh! At the end of her conversation with the babysitters she says she’d rather like to pay Will a visit, so let’s hope that doesn’t end in him suffering from heart failure from the shock. That, or he’s going to be mightily pissed off that he’s wasted his whole life making a shrine of his beloved’s childhood home for a woman who wasn’t even dead.
Other minor notes: Weirdly, Bart does not mention either of his parents during their time as missing peoples, and neither are they seen at the Brewer house where everyone gathers to pick up their kids. Has he been a secret orphan this whole time? One of the players from Bart’s team is a girl called Patty, who I’m pretty sure has never existed before this book. It’s always been assumed to be a boys-only team up until now. On hearing about Kristy’s experience, Cokie of all people tells her: “I hate to admit it, but you are really awesome” (then she asks if Kristy felt the cold slimy hand of the ghost as the clock struck midnight, because Dawn has been telling tales). Claudia wears a tie-dyed T-shirt in the rain and ends up with rainbow colours all over her, which reminds me of this great moment from Project Runway:
Anyways, I loved this one. Reading this was a great start to the year, and also a rather exciting one considering that (with the exception of Dawn and the Surfer Ghost) it was the LAST of the mystery books I ever read in this series. I’m going in blind from here on out.
Sea City, Here We Come! by Anne M. Martin
The second book in a row in which the babysitters have to deal with torrential weather! What are the odds?
This Super Special is aptly titled, as halfway through the book, a fair number of the babysitters haven’t even gotten to Sea City. The story starts with half the girls in Stoneybrook and half in Sea City, just waiting for the others to join them – but there are no juicy stories when they do.
As the first Special of the year it’s not a particularly rewarding read, as aside from the change of scenery and the effects of Hurricane Bill, not a lot of fresh material is on display here. (Between the vacation and the heightened weather event, it’s a blend of Babysitters’ Island Adventure and Snowbound).
As ever, all the girls get their own chapter and subplots, but there’s no framing device this time around. Every chapter opens with a postcard one of the girls has written, and some of them are writing to the strangest people. I suppose it’s not out of the question that Mal would write to Dawn or Dawn to Jessi, but why is Kristy sending a postcard to her Aunt Colleen and Uncle Wallace, who we haven’t seen since Book #6, or Mal writing to Mrs McGill, Stacey’s mother?
Here’s the setup: as usual, the Pikes are spending their holidays at Sea City, and this time around Mrs Barrett is going to join them, albeit in a different rental home. Mal and Jessi are going with the Pikes as parent helpers (so Mallory is on a working holiday? I thought the Pikes had stopped doing that?) while Stacey is going with Mrs Barrett. She’ll later be joined by her boyfriend Franklin and his kids, erroneously described throughout the book as having the surname “Harris,” even though every single other publication calls them the Dewitts. Also, Frankin is described as Mrs Barrett’s fiancé, though that’s getting way ahead of future developments in later books. The rest of the babysitters – Mary Anne, Dawn, Claudia, Kristy and Logan – will travel to Sea City and back with the Dewitts/Harrises, even though I have never in my life heard of families just inviting the local babysitters along on their private vacations in a guest capacity. Seriously, who does that?
As for Shannon, who is now regularly turning up to Babysitter Club meetings without explanation (how does she get there? Is Charlie driving her with Kristy?) is off to drama camp, and we get nothing further from her in this book.
So, here are the plots. Jessi is the second parent helper for the Pikes and vows to be a “super sitter” in order to impress her clients despite being eleven years old, though this doesn’t really manifest in any meaningful way. She’s just worried about the Pike girls being disappointed if they lose a sandcastle building competition, and then it’s cancelled anyway. (Though at one point she considers taking them to a place called Kotten Kandy Korner, and – holy shit, Jessi – don’t go in there!)
Claudia is stuck in summer school, though she makes new friends and is chuffed to find she’s unexpectedly the smart one. Because half the Krushers are off on vacation, Kristy canvases the neighbourhood for any kids that hold a bat so that she doesn’t have to forfeit the game. Tenacity is this girl’s middle name, but the Krushers end up losing 31 – 1, with the only point scored by Gabby with her wiffle ball, and the fact Charlie hides it in the stands when the baseman throws it too far.
Dawn and Mary Anne are running a day camp for the neighbourhood kids (I guess there wouldn’t have been enough babysitting in this book otherwise), which involves them going to the Stone farm to visit Elvira the baby goat, and later hosting a sleepover in their old barn, during which Dawn adds some embellishments to the Jared Mullray ghost story.
But the best subplots involve the return of Alex and Toby: Those Cute Sea City Parent Helpers that keep running into Mary Anne and Stacey across various books. The juiciest part of the story is when Toby starts flirting with Mallory, leading to Stacey (who is already having a hard time with Mrs Barrett, who is stressing out about everything) getting hopping mad. I mean, I get it. It’s hard enough getting dumped, and then the guy who did it starts to show an interest in Mallory? That’s adding insult to injury.
Meanwhile Logan visits Mary Anne in Sea City and despite having a romantic night out with her, starts getting paranoid and jealous that she’s there with Alex. Both he and Stacey eventually get over themselves, Mallory realizes that she only wants to date Ben Hobart, and Toby has the gall to ask if Jessi is available. Damn, that boy’s a player.
There are other minor events strewn throughout: Stacey and Dawn take the kids to a circus, Logan organizes a horse-and-buggy to pick up Mary Anne, and some of the babysitting charges narrate their own single chapters: Margo gets a chapter in which she opens “a rock pool zoo,” Buddy examines the aftermath of the storm (and amusing, notes that a lot of adults call him “buddy” without realizing that’s his name) and in one of the most pointless chapters in anything, ever, Karen experiences the bad weather from Watson’s house in Stoneybrook.
Of course, the main event of the book is of course, Tropical Storm Bill. The adults discuss whether they should go home a few days early, but instead decide to stick it out, only to discover that the causeway on which Sea City is reached gets washed out and they can’t evacuate. Everyone takes shelter at the nearby school, and the MVP award goes to Mrs Pike who fortifies the house, keeps the kids calm, manages the supplies, and directs Mrs Barrett to the school safely.
This lead-up to the hurricane also includes a moment that rang very true: “I looked at Kristy. This tiny smile was on her face. I could tell she wanted to do just what I wanted to do. Squeal. This was very, very exciting,” and the book in its entirety is quite funny. Here’s Claudia deciding what to take with her when the families decide to go inland to a motel:
I was having a dilemma. I was wearing the only long pants I had packed, these overdyed navy jeans. I was also wearing a loose black cotton sweater over a white tank top. So if I packed my big purple Hawaiian shorts, which were the next warmest pants, I’d be stuck having to wear an orange striped shirt, which was the only long-sleeved one I’d brought. Unless I wore the sweater again over it…
“Uh, Claud?” Kristy said. “Bill is a hurricane, you know – not a fashion-show judge.”
Also, this letter from Logan to Mary Anne:
As I write this, I am thinking of our night in Sea City. Remember when we went into the haunted house, and the lights went out? I pulled you close. You put your arms around my shoulder. We turned to each other and started to kiss. If the orange slime creature hadn’t popped out of the wall, it would have been a wonderful moment.”
Other minor notes: This mentions that two children called Bobby and Alicia Gianelli are on the Krushers team, and though they sounded familiar, I couldn’t recall whether we’d seen them before. Turns out we have (they were first seen in Mary Anne + 2 Many Babies) but they have a much larger presence in the Little Sister books. Stacey describes the meal they have at the high school as “divine,” and I honestly cannot tell if it’s meant to read as sarcastic or not: “I had a savoury helping of canned devilled ham, garnished with canned lima beans (in their own juice). My beverage? A V8 juice cocktail.” Er, okay Stacey.
During the course of the book, the babysitters also take the kids to a double-feature of Robin Hood and The Sword and the Stone – presumably the Disney animated versions, right? Why then are the kids described as “gabbing about Prince John’s death scene” afterwards, since that character is very much alive by the end of that film? Okay, maybe it was a different Robin Hood… but that seems very unlike since it was paired with The Sword in the Stone.
In all, this was a very scattershot Babysitters Club book, and I’m tempted to say it was ghostwritten by someone who wasn’t completely familiar with the characters (and not just because they got Franklin Dewitt’s surname wrong. Seriously, every time the text mentioned “the Harrises,” I had no idea who they were talking about).
Out of curiosity, I had a look over a list of the entire Babysitters Club books in chronological order, and guys – I’ll be doing this for at least another four years.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
I have to admit that I downright hated this story when I was a little girl. Its unstructured randomness was unsettling. I was nervous of the Queen of Heart’s casual calls for beheadings. The Mock Turtle gave me the creeps. The theme of insanity was deeply unpleasant. And of course, it commits the heinous crime of just being a dream. Scribble that on the end of an English exam or a creative writing exercise and you’ll get an instant fail.
Even stranger, Carroll ends his story on an impossibly sentimental note that’s completely at odds with the sideshow of unnerving surrealism and grotesquery we’ve just sat through:
Lastly, [Alice’s sister] pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.
Uh, sure Carroll.
So much of this book’s fame and popularity is down to how unusual it was back in 1865, when it can be fairly described as the first children’s book ever that was written purely for pleasure and entertainment (as opposed to the multitude of delightful little tales about how if you disobeyed your parents, you would die immediately). Since then, so much of its content has seeped into our everyday vernacular, such as saying “gone down the rabbit hole” for people who have been sucked into conspiracy theories, and popularizing such phrases as having a “Cheshire cat smile” or being “as mad as a hatter” (which were both idioms used prior to this book – Carrol just made them literal).
Alice has also been described as literature’s first realistic little girl, as she’s equal parts naïve or perceptive, gullible or discerning. Everyone in her dream seems committed to the attempt to convince her she’s either mad or an idiot, and she agrees with them just as often as she pushes back. There’s wordplay and in-jokes galore, much of which could only be understood by the book’s Victorian readers (Alice’s “how doth the little crocodile,” is actually misquoting a real poem about the danger of idle hands, which would have been widely recognized by Carroll’s original audience).
There’s not much narrative structure, just one random thing happening after another. This didn’t appeal to me either as a child, though the story does have a level of consistency when it comes to recurring appearances from the White Rabbit, the Duchess, the Cheshire Cat, and almost every other character turning up to the court hearing in the final chapter, not to mention Alice’s early desire to reach the garden. (I prefer Through the Looking Glass, as the chess template gives the story a better sense of structure, even if it still includes extremely random events).
But even within the context of a dream, there’s some bizarre stuff going on, which always frustrated my child’s logical-loving brain. Alice does just wander around, as sometimes her surroundings just melt away into another scene. While stuck inside the White Rabbit’s house, the animals throw pebbles at her which inexplicably transform into little cakes that will allow her to shrink back her normal size. While meeting the Duchess, the Cook is described as throwing pots and pans around the room – sometimes directly at the Duchess and the baby she’s holding. But why? WHY IS SHE DOING THAT?
These days, the animated Disney film is the basis of most people’s familiarity with this story, and it’s surprising just what makes it into the adaptation, and what’s borrowed from Through the Looking Glass, as it’s led to a lot of misapprehensions about the contents of each book. Gone from the film is the Duchess and the pig, the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle, and the pepper-loving Cook. Transferred over from Looking Glass is the garden of singing flowers, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, the Walrus and the Carpenter, and the concept of an un-birthday. Even the title was changed from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to Alice in Wonderland, which is how most people would pronounce the book’s title today.
Another point of interest is that everyone knows the greatest hits of the book: the Mad Tea Party, the Caterpillar, the Cheshire cat, the croquet game with the Queen of Hearts – but how many recall the game of fetch with the giant puppy, or the pigeon who mistakes Alice for a serpent?
This edition was illustrated by Chris Riddell, and although John Tenniel’s artistry is irreplaceable, as inextricably linked to the text as Pauline Hayes is to The Chronicles of Narnia or Quentin Blake to the works of Roald Dahl, I don’t think it’s necessarily sacrosanct. Riddell (who has also recently illustrated The Little Prince and Arthur: The Always King) has some interesting interpretations to offer, such as an Alice who looks a lot like the real Alice Liddell, with short dark hair instead of long fair hair, and depictions of elements that are seldom seen, like the Treacle Well or other scenes from Carroll’s limericks. The Queen of Hearts and the Duchess are considerably younger and more attractive, and his take on the Mad Hatter is as an individual who is either a woman, or a very effeminate man!
So, what even is this story? A little girl trying to navigate the madhouse of life? A complex allegory of something so specific to Carroll that we can’t fathom it? A bad trip? Look, I can appreciate this book for its place in history and its contribution to children’s literature, but you can’t make me like it!
Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens by J.M. Barrie
The genesis of Peter Pan is a strange thing, and like most stories that have entered the collective consciousness, a lot of what we assume to be crucial parts of the tale are actually later additions – though in this case, most of the basics remain the same. Peter Pan (or Peter and Wendy, or Peter Pan: The Boy Who Never Grew Up) was published in 1911, but the story was first experienced by the public in Barrie’s earlier stage play, which premiered in 1904 (both versions also have official abridgments that were written by other writers).
But the character of Peter Pan had an even earlier debut than all this, in a range of interconnected stories found in the anthology The Little White Bird, published in 1902. They were later published separately as a children’s book: Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, and in today’s fandom parlance, could be accurately described as his origin story.
Naturally, as the earliest version of the character, there are many differences between what we read here, and what we discover about him later in his literary life. Instead of a little boy, he’s depicted as an infant in Arthur Rackham’s illustrations, and there is no Tinkerbell, no Captain Hook, no Neverland. Instead, these are a series of short vignettes about what Peter gets up to in Kensington Gardens after escaping his nursery at seven days old.
You see, babies actually begin life as birds, and so Peter simply flies back to their nesting place on Bird’s Island on the Serpentine. Though the first chapter is given over to a tour of Kensington Gardens (I checked Google maps and plenty of the mentioned landmarks are still there), it soon turns to Peter’s adventures in playing panpipes for the fairies, building a boat from a thrush’s nest, and going back to revisit his grieving mother, only to eventually find that the window has been barred (I actually recall this scene being dramatized in Steven Spielburg’s Hook).
It’s an odd little collection of stories, and the author frequently references a young companion called David (I think it’s safe to assume that’s one of the Llewellyn boys, right?) who adds his own insights into the proceedings. It’s also whimsical to the point of twee, and not long before casual sexism rears its head. According to this book: “to be Mary Annish is to behave like a girl, whimpering because nurse won’t carry you, or simpering with your thumb in your mouth” – though that said, it is rather amusing that Barrie calls this state of being “Mary Annish” given my issues with the character of the same name in The Babysitters Club.
It was fascinating to read Barrie’s early understanding, and a lot of what’s here resonates with his characterization in the later novel. For instance, his introduction is as follows: “if you ask your mother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a little girl, she will say: ‘why of course I did, child.’”
The concept of Peter is as something that is almost a god, or the embodiment of youth, or someone that we’ve always known, like a universal archetype (As C.S. Lewis said of the White Witch: “we are born knowing the witch, aren’t we?”) Later we are informed: “Peter is ever so old, but he is really always the same age, so that does not matter in the least. His age is one week, and though he was born so long ago, he has never had a birthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one.” At this point you could easily add on the famous line from the book: “that is part of the riddle of his existence.”
In other words, Peter Pan is eternal; the spirit of selfish, joyful, egotistical youth. There’s also quite a lot here that eventually made it into the play and novel, such as a child being rescued by a passing kite, the anecdote about how fairies were born from the laughter of the very first child, and eventually an encounter with a little girl called Maimie Mannering, who is clearly a precursor to Wendy. Like her, she has a little house built up around her while she’s unconscious (though by fairies and not Lost Boys), and a conversation with Peter that involves a misunderstanding of what exactly a kiss and a thimble are.
But there are also plenty of original anecdotes and observations, like how if you see a bird flying off with a large crust of bread, they’re not being greedy, but taking it to Peter Pan. That among fairies, it is always the lastborn who ends up being the chieftain. And fairies don’t say “we feel happy,” but “we feel dancey,” given their great love of music and balls.
It’s a fascinating little collection, though probably of more interest to those delving into the lore of Peter Pan than those reading about him for the first time, and which ends on a truly bizarre note – a completely out-of-nowhere explanation about how Peter will buy children that get lost in the park and erect little tombstones for them. The final sentence in the book is: “it’s all rather sad.”
Yes, but also extremely random. Maybe it made more sense in the larger context of The Little White Bird.
The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum
Reading this book is an exercise in just how profoundly the 1939 film dominates our collective understanding of this story. So much of what we associate with Oz: the ruby slippers, the green skin of the Wicked Witch, the horse of a different colour, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” the fact Dorothy’s adventures were just a dream with corresponding characters in both worlds, iconic lines from “there’s no place like home,” to “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore…” none of it is anywhere to be found in Baum’s original text.
The most notable difference from a storytelling perspective is structural. The singular character of Glinda in the film is actually two different characters in the book, with one (the unnamed Good Witch of the North) bookending Dorothy’s journey to the other (Glinda of the South) at the end of the yellow brick road. The film’s climactic death of the Wicked Witch is only a paragraph long in the book and occurs about halfway through the page count – Dorothy still has plenty of adventures left to go after that, including travelling through a town made entirely of China and encountering strange creatures called Hammer-Heads, who use their heads and elongated necks to punch out travellers.
Also absent is the film’s narrative thoroughfare of the Wicked Witch and Glinda either helping or hindering Dorothy on her journey. This too was an invention of the film, along with the rivalry between the two of them that inspired Gregory Maguire’s Wicked. In fact, the book feels quite random and piecemeal by comparison, very akin to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (the difference being that in the book, Dorothy’s adventures are not a dream).
Reading my edition’s introduction, it struck me as extremely strange that Baum himself seemed to have a misunderstanding as to what he had written. In his foreword, he claims that his intent was to write a story in which: “the wonderment and joy are retained and the heartaches and nightmares are left out,” along with “all the horrible and blood-curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a fearsome moral to each tale.”
Er, excuse me? There are dozens of horrible and blood-curdling incidences in this book, such as the Tin Woodsman beheading an entire pack of vicious wolves, a giant fanged spider with a creepy wasplike neck that the Cowardly Lion kills with one swipe of his paw, and the terrible Kalidahs, who have the bodies of bears and the heads of tigers, “with claws so long and sharp that they could tear me in two as easily as I could kill Toto.” So says the Lion before his companions trick the creatures into falling to their deaths, where they are “dashed on the rocks below.”
Perhaps Baum was simply referring to the fact that none of this points to any moral lesson for children, but it’s still a contradictory sentiment to share.
But hey, here’s the SNL skit on Dorothy waking up in Kansas and sharing her story with the people who inspired the Munchkins, because it cracks me up every time:
The Marvellous Land of Oz by L. Frank Baum
Reading this book, the first sequel to 1900’s The Wizard of Oz, was a bit of a surprise, even knowing some of the basic plot points going in. Namely, Dorothy never appears in person (neither does the Cowardly Lion, for that matter). She’s mentioned by characters like the Scarecrow and Tin Woodsman, but our new protagonist is a boy called Tip, who has been raised from infancy by the evil witch Mombi.
He lives as a servant, and one day decides to play a trick on his mistress by building a large Jack O’Lantern (complete with body and limbs) with the intention of frightening her. Jack Pumpkinhead is duly assembled, but far from being horrified, Mombie brings him to life with a magical powder before informing Tip that she’s preparing a potion that will turn him into a marble statue. It’s unclear why she actually tells him this, though even stranger is the fact she just goes to her bedroom for the night without giving any sort of measures to prevent Tip from escaping. Which he does.
He decides to head for Emerald City, which is having its own problems. Now, here’s were the story gets even weirder. Baum was an early feminist (his wife was a suffragette), so it tracks that when an army of little girls wielding knitting needles storm the city and take over, King Scarecrow’s reaction is a half-hearted: “okay, fine I guess.”
According to their leader, General Jinjur: “Emerald City has been ruled over by men long enough… moreover the City glitters with beautiful gems which might be far better used for rings, bracelets and necklaces, and there is enough money in the king’s treasury to buy every girl in our army a dozen new gowns.” Victory is assured because: “what man would oppose a girl, or dare to harm her? And there is not an ugly face in my entire army.”
Tip, the Scarecrow and their companions (which eventually include a talking sawhorse, Jack Pumpkinhead, a giant sentient beetle, and the Gump) make for the Tin Woodsman’s kingdom for assistance. Meanwhile, the conquering army of girls enlist the help of Mombi, and the menfolk are set to domestic chores (“if it is such hard work as you say, how did the women manage it so easily?” “Perhaps the women are made of cast iron”). They’re prepared to return Tip to Mombi as the witch’s property, and are run out of the palace when the Scarecrow smuggles some fieldmice into the throne room. Because, you see, little girls are afraid of mice.
The whiplash between rank sexism (the fear of mice, the knitting needles as weapons) and early feminism (men acknowledging that domestic work is difficult) is strange enough, but then there’s all the moral dissonance (the girls stripping the city bare of its jewels for their own personal gain, the way they solicit the help of an evil witch, the fact that none of this is held against them). It makes for a very confusing story.
Eventually our heroes call in Glinda, who tells them the rightful heir to the throne is Princess Ozma, the daughter of King Pastoria, who was overthrown by the wizard before he gave the infant princess to Mombi to prevent her discovery – yikes! Remember when he told Dorothy: “I’m a very good man, just a very bad wizard.” Well, nope – he was clearly a very bad man as well. That’s outright villain behaviour, even though according to the Scarecrow: “he was guilty of some slight impostures.”
Look, maybe Baum is just keeping things light and doesn’t expect us to think through the implications of all this, but sheesh. That’s some serious moral revisionism at work. Even Mombi gets let off the hook at the end of the story!
Finally, it turns out that Tip was Ozma all along, having been transformed into a boy by Mombi to disguise her true identity, and Glinda ends up turning her back into her original form. Given the hysteria around transgender people today, this turn of events is flabbergasting. Can you imagine if someone published this now? And Tip is barely fazed by the change in gender, beyond asking that: “if I don’t like being a girl you must promise to change me into a boy again.” (Glinda refuses).
Even more than Lewis Carroll, it really feels like Baum is just making up these stories as he goes along. With Carroll, you can at least tell that a certain amount of care had to be taken in the math puzzles and the rhyming couplets, but in Oz, anything goes.
Return to Oz (1985)
This film is in a neck-and-neck race with The Witches for the prize of “How The Hell is This a Children’s Movie and What Kind of Sicko Would Actually Show This to an Under Ten-Year-Old and Not Expect Them to be Traumatized?” award. It’s great.
The most interesting thing about Return to Oz is that it doesn’t purport to be a sequel to the MGM film, but rather an adaptation of Ozma of Oz (with a little bit of The Marvellous Land of Oz sprinkled throughout). The tone and characterization is so profoundly different from the 1969 film, that despite having the word “return” in its title, it really feels like a sequel without a predecessor. Dorothy is younger, Toto is a different breed of dog, and the character designs for the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman and Cowardly Lion are more in keeping with W.W. Denslow’s original illustrations.
(It makes you wonder why they were so insistent on having ruby slippers instead of silver ones, and apparently shelling out big bucks in order to obtain the rights. Perhaps they were considered just a little TOO iconic).
Set six months after the tornado, the Gale farm isn’t doing too well. There’s still plenty of visible damage, Uncle Henry seems to be depressed, there are no signs of any farmhands (to be fair, they weren’t in the book either) and Dorothy is suffering from insomnia, which makes her unable to do her chores properly during the day. And of course, her stories of Oz make her sound insane.
Aunt Em is concerned enough to borrow money from her sister and take Dorothy to a clinic, which ends up being the most interesting (and scariest) part of the film. Having read the two books upon which this film is based, it’s easy to identify what parts of the story were borrowed, and which were added. But in this first act, the film takes inspiration from the original film’s framing device, by investing a lot of time into introducing the human counterparts to Oz denizens: Doctor Worley becomes the Nome King (that he’s wearing the same ring and uses the same pipe is a nice touch), Nurse Wilson becomes Mombi, an orderly becomes the head Wheeler, and Ozma appears as another mysterious patient in the clinic.
Even Tiktok is represented by the Doctor’s machine (not to mention the loud ticking clock in his office) and Jack Pumpkinhead by a jack o’ lantern that Ozma brings to Dorothy. As in the MGM film, almost everything corresponds to something in Oz, begging the question: is the magical country real, or just part of Dorothy’s fractured psyche? (Though if it’s the latter, one has to ask: just who WAS the girl in the clinic, and what happened to her?)
Having read the book, plenty of other questions arise. How did Bellina the hen end up in Oz? In the book, she was on the ship that Dorothy and Uncle Henry were travelling on, and Dorothy saves herself by clinging to the chicken coop. Here Bellina is first seen on the Gale farm, and then inexplicably reappears in Oz. How did the Oz-engraved key get to Kansas? In the book, Dorothy finds it in the Land of Ev, whereas here she speculates that the Scarecrow used magic to transport it to her – something that’s never actually confirmed later in the film.
A bit like the Pevensies in Prince Caspian, Dorothy is called to Oz to help it in its time of need, as she arrives to find the Munchkins gone, the Yellow Brick Road dilapidated, Emerald City in ruins, and the place overrun with the terrifying Wheelers. The number of nightmares these guys conjured in the minds of children probably can’t be quantified.
From here, the film is roughly divided into two parts: Dorothy outwitting Mombi, and then the Nome King. In the book, she’s up against the far less dangerous Princess Langwidere, for though she too steals people’s heads, and some of her more sinister lines are spoken verbatim by Jean Marsh’s Mombi, she’s too vain and self-absorbed to pose much of a threat.
It’s actually rather fascinating to see how the two stories were combined to make this film, especially if you compare it to another retelling like Emerald City (see below). Jack Pumpkinhead and the Gump are taken from The Marvellous Land of Oz, though in Ozma of Oz the titular character is a co-protagonist alongside Dorothy, with the two girls teaming up in order to free the royal family of Ev from the underground city of the Nome King. Here that rescue mission is done for the sake of the Scarecrow instead, though the Nome King’s test in the room of ornaments largely remains the same. All things considered, it’s a surprisingly effect mingling of two books and a prior film – how many other movies can you say that describes?
Miscellaneous Observations:
As a child, the most terrifying element is a toss-up between the Wheelers, the headless Mombi and the malformed Nomes crawling out of the walls, but as an adult I was suitably creeped out by the statues in the Emerald City. Some of the figures look calm, like they don’t know what hit them, but others appear frightened, as though they saw something horrifying before they were petrified. Then there’s the deserted streets of the city, and the hall of mirrors, and the cabinets of silently watching heads – even Jack is a bit unnerving. That the Nome King gradually becomes more human as his scenes go on is also rather unsettling, as the implication is that he’s deriving the power to change from the victims of his little competition.
Watching through this, I ended up a little disappointed that Disney didn’t go whole hog and make three separate films based on Baum’s books with this particular aesthetic and tone, starting with a remake of The Wizard of Oz – but let’s face it, the MGM film is considered untouchable at this point.
That the ruby slippers are once more being used for evil is an interesting reveal (they weren’t present in either book) and I like that the Nome King offers to use them to send Dorothy home. She’d have to abandon her friends by doing so, but she’d be safe. That’s the real test, and she passes it.
Jack’s backstory in which he’s built by Ozma as a practical joke to play on Mombi is actually recounted by him at length as Dorothy helps put him back together, though it entirely skips the detail that Ozma was a boy called Tip at the time.
There’s a little gag in which it’s asked of TikTok: “if his brain’s run down, how can he talk?” which has to be a callback to the Scarecrow saying: “some people without brains do an awful lot of talking.”
The practical effects are wonderful, from the matte paintings to the Claymation to the animatronic chicken. They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore, and the only effect I’m not sorry to see go is the bluescreen, which never looks remotely realistic. If I’m going to look at something fake, I want it to be real, if you get my meaning.
That the Nome King is afraid of chickens and their eggs is a bit random, but hey – no more so than a witch’s aversion to water. Here it’s at least foreshadowed early and regularly, and for the record it’s Bellina who saves the day in the book, having overheard the secret to the Nome King’s competition (that all the trapped souls are either purple or green ornaments) and proceeding accordingly.
What I really like is that ultimately everything comes down to a sense of kinship between two young girls – not just a friendship, but a sense of duality and spiritual recognition. Dorothy and Ozma are quite literally reflections of one another, brought together by mirrors and dreams. It’s easy to see why this has become a cult classic despite initially failing at the box office, for there’s some genuinely interesting material here concerning Dorothy’s psyche and the relationship between reality and imagination.
Come Away (2020)
What a strange movie. I have no idea what it’s trying to be. A biopic? A reimagining? An origin story? Or a tale that’s simply inspired by the screenwriter’s love of Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland?
The Littleton children live an idyllic life in the English countryside. Their mother Rose makes hats and their father Jack makes ships in bottles, and they run wild in the woods and gardens, playing pirates, tea parties, and whatever else they can make-believe. The only shadow in their lives is their mother’s disapproving sister, who wants the children to attend various schools according to their abilities.
One day tragedy strikes when oldest son David drowns in the lake adjourning their property, and the rest of the family grieves in their different ways: Rose can’t reconnect with her remaining children, and Jack falls back into his gambling habits.
Now, at this point you may have heard a bell ring. This development echoes the death of J.M. Barrie’s elder brother David, who also drowned when he was very young, and whose death had a profound impact on him – particularly his mother’s attempt to comfort herself by pointing out that David would remain a boy forever, never to grow up and leave her. This incident is believed to be the key inspiration to the creation of Peter Pan.
So, you might ask, is the remaining brother meant to be Barrie? Is he now tragically inspired to write the story of boy who never grew up? No, not exactly – he eventually becomes Peter Pan, just as his sister rejects her aunt’s offer of an education and scampers down the nearest rabbit hole. Is this then meant to be the origins of how Peter and Alice the characters came to be? Well, not that either, as there are appearances from plenty of other familiar figures that don’t match up to their book narratives: their mother is briefly equated with the Queen of Hearts, their grandfather bears a close resemblance to the Mad Hatter, and their father ends up losing a hand à la Captain Hook, but they never actually become those characters, nor fulfil their book roles in relation to Peter or Alice.
It’s framed with scenes of a grown-up Alice taking on the role of Mary Darling, and bidding goodnight to her three children just before they’re taken away by her brother, Peter Pan. What is going on? I can usually see the logic in these types of fairy tale mashups, but even ABC’s Once Upon a Time made more sense than this. I just can’t get a fix on what this is or who anyone is meant to be. It’s not the “true story” behind the familiar tales, it’s not a biopic of Barrie or Carroll, and it’s not an origin story of the characters either. It’s just baffling.
And for such a slight little film, there are some big names attached. Angelica Jolie and David Oyelowo play the Littleton parents, with Anna Chancellor in support as Rose’s judgmental sister. To complete the confusion, Derek Jacobi and Michael Caine turn up in completely irrelevant small roles that really could have been filled by anyone. Why would you book actors of that calibre for roles that amount to nothing? Were they calling in a favour? I’m stumped.
In the film’s favour, it’s very lovely to look at, with plenty of bucolic scenes of childhood and the English countryside, so feel free to watch at your own discretion.
Wendy (2020)
Here is a movie that in many ways is as confusing as Come Away, but at least has a stronger grasp of what it is and what it wants to be. Despite some weirdness, it’s a retelling of Peter Pan set in the American South. Okay, great. I can fathom that.
Wendy and her twin brothers are the children of a single mum whose dreams have changed since she was a girl, from riding in a rodeo to looking after her tribe. Now she works as a waitress in a greasy spoon, something no child has ever dreamed of growing up to be. It’s therefore unsurprising that when Wendy notices a strange, beckoning figure on one of the roaring freight trains that hurtle past her house, she barely hesitates. She and her brothers leap from their bedroom window to the roof of the train, and there meet Peter Pan.
In a funny coincidence, this was the second time in the same year that the legendary figure was played by a young Black actor – here it’s Yashua Mack, whereas in Come Away, it was Jordan Nash. Mack’s Peter isn’t really the focus of the film, but rather the engine through which Wendy and her brothers are transported via train, and then boat, to a volcanic island where they can run wild: no parents, no chores, just pure freedom.
As in director Benh Zeitlin’s previous film, Beasts of the Southern Wild, this is a story more interested in establishing a mood, a vibe, and letting the audience drift along in its wake. The use of hand-held cameras take you right up beside the characters as they sprint through the trees or dive into underwater caves, dance around campfires or shout at volcanic explosions, though a few important story beats eventually manage to push through. Wendy notices an old man on the island, and learns he was once a Lost Boy that the others have staunchly rejected. When one of her brothers fail to surface from a diving activity in a half-submerged wreck, his twin finds himself rapidly aging with grief, much to the consternation of Peter and the other boys.
Unfortunately, both these developments come to rather lacklustre conclusions. Wendy seeks out assistance from the adult community on the island, but they prove themselves to be lethargic and then dangerous. Her brother becomes a twisted, bitter man (who eventually loses a hand, making him a Composite Character of John Darling, one of the Lost Boy Twins, and Captain Hook) who remains as such even when it’s revealed that his brother didn’t drown after all. His ultimate fate is left ambiguous, as I certainly didn’t spot him amidst the home video footage of Wendy and the other boys that concludes the film.
Like I said, it’s a confusing one. Not bad by any means, and I’m glad I saw it at least once, but it doesn’t really shed much light on the story of Peter Pan or its meaning. Despite the title, it’s not even about Wendy all that much, at least not by the third act. But it’s strange and dreamy and compelling while it lasts – if you liked Beasts of the Southern Wild, this is clearly made by the same guy.
Hustle: Season 5 (2009)
The fifth season of Hustle comes with a cast shake-up to go with its slick new credits. Mickey is back from Sydney, but Stacie and Danny have departed, along with Billy in a very swift case of Shoo Out the New Guy (I had a look around online, and yeah – he’s gone for good with no explanation. I hate it when shows do this. I can’t say I’ll miss Danny though).
I’m not sure if these actors left of their own volition or if the producers felt they needed fresh blood, but with two of the original crew overseas, Alfie enjoying a stint in prison, and even Eddie evicted from his bar, Mickey and Ash have their attention drawn to a new mark: a beautiful but ruthless young property developer.
But because I knew that Kelly Adams (best known in my fandom circles for playing Eve on the BBC’s Robin Hood) would eventually be joining the cast as a new regular, I was sadly not taken in by Alfie’s ingenious plan to introduce her to Mickey by setting up each one as the other’s mark. Eventually Emma and her little brother Sean are taken under the wing of Ash and Mickey, and the new team sets off on a new series of elaborate cons.
Thankfully we’re back to “one character actor per episode that I recognize,” whether it’s Adam James, Billy Bailey, Tom Brooke (currently playing Coe on Slow Horses), Kate Fleetwood (Liandrin on The Wheel of Time) or Tom Goodman-Hill (who will turn up in everything sooner or later). There are a few ongoing arcs this time around, such as Mickey’s ill-advised play for Emma, and for the first time, two marks return with a revenge scheme on the con-artists – though they’re outwitted disappointingly easily (who could have foreseen that the people they rope in to help them were working with the hustlers the whole time?)
It’s still very noughties, as one episode has Emma getting sexually harassed by an associate, only for Mickey to inform her it’s a compliment. Living in the enlightened days of 2026 (sarcasm) meant I took his behaviour as a red flag and spent the entire episode assuming Emma’s instincts were correct and that the guy was secretly working for the bad guys. But nope… turns out he was an innocent victim, and the onus is on her to learn how to take a joke. By the end of the episode, he’s still making lewd comments, but now she can just laugh along with him, because honour among thieves or something. It’s gross.
But I’m over halfway through this show, and technology is finally catching up with it – recognizable cellphones and laptops are starting to make their appearance. The whole thing ended in 2012, which still doesn’t feel like that long ago.
Peter Pan Live! (2014)
For a few years these live stagings of famous musicals were popping up on networks everywhere, starting with The Sound of Music Live! (exclamation mark included) in 2013. Since then, productions such as Grease, Hairspray, Annie, Jesus Christ Superstar and Spongebob Squarepants (all with Live! tagged on the end) have all aired, the gimmick being that they were performed and broadcast live, which seems a bit unnecessarily stressful for the performers. If something goes wrong, it’s there forever. Isn’t the magic of television that these errors are erased, just as the magic of theatre is that it’s unfolding right in front of our eyes?
In any case, these musicals have died out a little in recent years, but given that I’m focusing on Neverland, Wonderland and Oz this month, I thought it was a great excuse to revisit The Wiz and Peter Pan… Live!
As it happens, I’ve never actually seen J.M. Barrie’s original Peter Pan on stage, and I get the feeling that it’s been considerably changed since its 1904 debut. I don’t think the original involved musical numbers, for example, though that’s pretty staple to any performance of the story these days – including this one.
This does keep most of the show’s most iconic elements: obvious wire-work for the flying, a tinkling light portraying the movement of Tinkerbell, and a young woman in the role of Peter Pan (though oddly, the actor who usually plays double-duty as Mr Darling and Captain Hook instead plays Mr Darling and Smee instead). It also takes advantage of its unique set up as a theatre and television production, with the camera swooping in and out of the nursery windows, across the miniaturized London set, and all the nooks and crannies of Neverland itself.
You couldn’t do it this way in front of a live audience, as the camera still controls where the viewer is meant to be looking – which is a problem sometimes, as when Peter and Wendy go rowing across the lagoon, we don’t really get a good look at any of the mermaids that are relining on the shore.
The whole thing is carried by the ensemble of tribal warriors, lost boys and pirates, as the casting for Peter and Hook is deeply strange. Allison Williams is completely miscast as Peter (she can’t even muster a convincing crow) while Christopher Walken plays Captain Hook as his usual lackadaisical self. Come on, Hook is meant to be high camp, and as much as I love Walken, he’s just not made for this role. Both actors are putting out a completely different energy from everyone else in the show, and they stick out like sore thumbs as a result.
But it’s not unwatchable. The sets are impressive and the costumes are fun, and thankfully they cast an appropriate performer as Tiger Lily (it was only a year later that Rooney Mara played the same character in Pan). In fact, Alanna Saunders is so good that she makes more of an impression than Wendy, the ostensible female lead – and she gets a fab costume to boot.
I can actually feel a longer post about the presence of Native Americans in Peter Pan adaptations brewing at the back of my mind, but for now I’ll just say that the terms “Indians” or “redskins” is thankfully never uttered here; they’re referred to as “islanders” or “Tiger Lily’s tribe” instead.
Aside from Walken and Williams, the other big name is Minnie Driver appearing briefly as the adult Wendy, though there’s also a fun bit of Retroactive Recognition in recognizing Kelli O’Hara as Mary Darling, now best known as having to force out the line: “when I bedecked myself in these gewgaws, I was looking forward to your coming home” in The Gilded Age. Wow, they really did stack that show full of Broadways stars, didn’t they.
The Wiz Live! (2015)
I’m not as familiar with The Wiz, which is essentially a Black retelling of The Wizard of Oz. A quick Google search tells me it apparently opened in 1974, won seven Tony Awards, and was an early example of Broadway getting comfortable with productions that had all-Black casts. These days, it’s perhaps best known for its 1978 filmic adaptation with Diana Ross and Michael Jackson.
Its Wikipedia page tells me there are some substantial differences between the Broadway show and the movie, and that this production more closely resembles the former, opening on a farm in Kansas instead of an apartment in Harlem in which Dorothy Gale is at odds with her Aunt Em. It follows the familiar beats of the story pretty faithfully after that: the tornado that whisks Dorothy away, her meeting with the Munchkins and the Witch of the North, the yellow brick road and the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion – look, you know the story, I won’t repeat it.
There are some interesting wrinkles here and there, such as the Kalidahs (that’s a deep book dive) disguising themselves as Dorothy’s mother to try and trick her out of the slippers, as well as a gender-flipped Wizard of Oz (because if you can get Queen Latifah, you use Queen Latifah). There are some beautiful costumes and set design at work here: the vibrant blues of the Munchkins, the sultry red of the poppies, the stylish green voguing of the Emerald City residents, and I like that the show has given names to the hitherto unnamed cardinal witches: Addaperle, Evermean and Evillene – along with the familiar Glinda.
Everyone is committed: Shanice Williams as Dorothy is earnest and caring, the trio of Elijah Kelley, Ne-Yo and David Alan Grier manage to effectively remote through their elaborate makeup, Queen Latifah is obviously having a lot of fun, and the likes of Mary J. Bilge, Amber Riley and Uzo Aduba get to wear some truly incredible costumes for their short appearances. Even Cirque du Soleil got involved!
I haven’t watched all of the Live! productions, but this is widely considered the best of them.
Emerald City: Season 1 (2017)
What is it about the Land of Oz specifically that lends itself so well to post-apocalyptic wastelands? More than Neverland or Wonderland, the rustbelt aesthetic of old-timey Americana calls up images of cracked brick roads, raggedy scarecrows, broken windmills, blasted wheatfields… Maybe it’s something to do with the nostalgia quotient, or the endless vistas of the Kansas prairies, or the aesthetic that was inherent in Baum’s own writing, but Emerald City isn’t even the first adaptation to reimagine the source material in this way – it’s very akin to Return to Oz and Tin Man, which also paint a much grimmer portrait of Oz than the glorious technicolour of the MGM film.
Heck, this show also reminded me a little of Dune, what with all the prophetic nun-coded women in big hats that provided guidance to those in power, à la the Bene Gesserits.
The other notable feature about most Oz reimaginings is that they usually feel beholden to add a tweaked equivalent to every familiar book character. Tin Man had variations on every single major character, to the point where it got a little eyeroll-y, but Emerald City is more interested in taking the barest outline of the adventure and crafting a brand-new storyline (Dorothy is joined by the Scarecrow, for example, but she never crosses paths with the show’s take on the Tin Man or Cowardly Lion).
More interestingly, this show brings in oft-neglected characters from later books, such as Tip and Langwidere, which makes it a much fuller, richer adaptation than the more straightforward Tin Man (which granted, had a much shorter runtime).
Dorothy Gale is a twenty-something nurse who has been raised by her adoptive parents Henry and Em. Her real mother is Karen Chapman, who she knows very little about besides the fact she left her as an infant in the care of the Gales, and hasn’t made any further contact despite not living very far away. On the brink of a terrible storm, Dorothy takes the plunge and goes to visit her – only to find the woman badly wounded in a tornado shelter.
Before she’s shot by the hostile police officers that arrive on the scene, an unexpected tornado (don’t you just hate those?) whisks Dorothy away into regions unknown. The best part of the show is that the audience is thrown into the deep end, leaving us to piece together what’s happening to Dorothy with only our foreknowledge of Baum’s original stories – which here have been reshaped quite dramatically. There are plenty of power structures at work in this world, from the staunchly anti-magic Wizard of Oz, the cold and regal Glinda, the drug-addled Witch of the West, or the enigmatic Princess Ev (who is never seen without a mask over her face). All of them are on edge about portents heralding the return of something called “the Beast Forever.”
Dorothy ends up killing – as per the book – the Witch of the East, and inheriting not a pair of ruby slippers, but ruby gauntlets. In quick succession she rescues a crucified man from certain death (he can’t recall who he is or how he got there, so no prizes for guessing what original character he represents) and liberates a young boy from the clutches of an old witch. Believing that the oft-mentioned Wizard of Emerald City has the power to get her home, she heads in that direction.
More characters and their storylines are gradually woven in, most notably the boy called Tip that Dorothy rescued from captivity, who discovers that without the daily potion supplied to him by his jailer, he transforms into a girl. As mentioned in my discussion of The Marvellous Land of Oz, this is true to the books – though sadly this show has as little interest in the transgender issue as the book did. (This Tip is more perturbed by the sex change than her book counterpart, but still adapts reasonably quickly).
Of more interest is the Wizard himself, played by Vincent D’Onofrio. Villains that embody the incel mentality are pretty prevalent these days, but this one is portrayed with more subtlety and finesse than usual (I’m not even sure the term “incel” was that well-known in 2017). The Wizard is initially presented to us as a sage-like ruler, only for a midseason flashback to reveal him to have been a maintenance worker from our world called Frank. The women who outrank him aren’t rude or unpleasant to him, but it’s clear he doesn’t think they’re affording him the respect or attention he thinks he deserves.
(A great scene is where he tries to interrupt one of them while she’s having a phone conversation, and she silently motions him away – not a big deal, but you can tell it rankles him).
After it turns out he’s the one that transported them all to Oz, it becomes clear that his anti-magic crusade is very much based on a misogynistic hatred of women with power. It’s all very carefully and cleverly done, taking me by surprise while being obvious in hindsight.
There are plenty of other good ideas here, from Glinda as a frosty Ice Queen to the Scarecrow as a warrior who has lost his memory, not to mention some strong talent: Adria Arjona, Oliver Jackson-Cohen, Joley Richardson, Gina McKee, Fiona Shaw, Gerran Howell (who has since made his big break in Ludwig and The Pitt) and Florence Kasumba (who is completely wasted, a crime I tell you!) Other things don’t work as well, from the lacklustre reveal of the Cowardly Lion to the twist that Dorothy’s biological mother is not who she thought she was, a reveal that makes no difference whatsoever to the plot or any of the characters.
Furthermore, there was no real sense of urgency or stakes at work here. Between the warring factions of Oz, we’re given little reason why we should be rooting for one other the others, and Dorothy herself is a rather thinly sketched character. She’s plucky and determined and played by the lovely Adria Arjona (of Andor fame) but never really feels like a fully dimensional person. Just your standard Nice Girl traversing a strange land.
So I can’t say I’m too surprised it got cancelled, even though it ends on a cliffhanger and I would have definitely come back for more. All the episodes are directed by Tamsin Sigh – yes, the man behind The Fall and The Cell – yet there was never any single shot or composition that took my breath away, which is extremely strange for a guy who is renowned for delivering such things. All things considered, it just didn’t have the X-factor, though I’m glad I watched it at least once.
Stranger Things: Season 5 (2025)
And so Stranger Things comes to an end, not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with… I dunno, a decent fireworks display that you enjoy while it’s happening and then forget about pretty quickly? This show has always been something I’ve watched enthusiastically while it was on, and then not given a second though to between seasons. In fact, I was flummoxed to realize that the last season was released two whole years ago!
To summarize this season in the three parts in which it was released, I’d say Volume 1 was great build-up, Volume 2 lost me a bit, and then the Grand Finale more or less landed the plane successfully – with one huge caveat. But we’ll get to that.
Looking back over the show in its entirety, it’s obvious that Vecna as the Big Bad was a late addition to the lore, meaning that the fifth season feels like a direct sequel to the fourth. They work well together as setup and payoff. Meanwhile, seasons one and two coasted heavily on the thrill of discovery and eighties nostalgia, so it’s no coincidence that season three (the “bridge” between the two halves) is widely considered the weakest of the show’s run.
It’s also worth noting that the Duffers originally conceived this as an anthology show, with each season revolving around a brand-new cast of characters, who would have presumably had to deal with the effects of the Upside Down on their lives. Given that they set up Hawkins Lab to have a number of children being experimented upon inside its walls, it’s not difficult to imagine that we could have followed one of these individuals per season, until they realized the gold mine they had with the cast they’d already assembled.
But it’s worth remembering this original vision for the show, especially when it comes to Mike and Eleven…
It’s been a few months since the conclusion of season four, in which the Upside Down has finally encroached upon Hawkins in a way that cannot be ignored. As we saw in the final minutes of the last season, giant rifts have appeared in the earth, white flakes fill the air, and darkness looms on the horizon.
Well, when things open in the premiere, circumstances aren’t quite as dire as that final scene made it out to be. Military quarantine has been imposed over the town, and the rifts have been nailed down beneath metal plates, but apart from that – everything is kind of carrying on as normal? It’s a bit of a bummer, since I love watching people get their worlds ripped out from under them, forcing them to live in the aftermath. It’s like how winter was always coming but never arrived in Game of Thrones, or when Voldemort’s fascist takeover in Harry Potter only lasted the length of one book. Come on, we like to see these things. That’s when shit really hits the fan!
But at least our heroes aren’t resting on their laurels. El is doing serious training, the boys are keeping tabs on the military, Murray is smuggling in supplies, and Steve and Robin are running a radio station through which they can send coded messages to the others whenever the opportunity arises for “a crawl” – that is, when Hopper smuggles himself onto an army truck and goes with them into the Upside Down to try and find out where Vecna is hiding.
But Vecna may be making his own moves a little closer to home. Mike’s little sister Holly has been a staple (albeit minor) part of this show from its inception, and now she takes centre stage as what almost feels like the new protagonist. She has an imaginary friend called Mr Whatsit (named after the character in A Wrinkle in Time) who is clearly more than what he seems, and seems to have a vested interest in both her and a number of other Hawkins children…
There is a lot to like in this final season of such a massive pop-culture phenomenon, and a number of eye-rolling qualities as well. As ever, there are exposition scenes with props, wild theories about what’s going on that are filtered through a D&D context which almost always turn out to be accurate (I say “almost” because there is one big subversion about halfway through this season), characters delivering long monologues when you’re practically screaming at them to START RUNNING ALREADY, revelations that aren’t nearly as fascinating as the Duffers seem to think they are…
I will say this for them: they are excellent at not only assembling a range of immediately loveable and interesting characters, but in finding unlikely and exciting dynamics within that ensemble. Derek Turnbow is a perfect example of a new character who starts off as incredibly obnoxious, and yet gets a swift and completely natural turnaround into “delightful” in record time. That’s an impressive feat.
But here’s the problem: when those dynamics are no longer relevant to the plot, or when the Duffers simply lose interest in them, they REALLY lose interest. I mean, after everything those girls went through together in the Upside Down, it seems bizarre that Holly and Max never once interact in the real world. Not even a hug at Graduation Day? Robin and Will form a very lovely older lesbian/baby gay mentorship in the first half of this season, and then just stop talking to each other after his coming out scene.
I thought Eleven was so gung-ho about training to kill Vecna because of what was done to Max, but when the two girls reunite, they get little more than a “oh hey, what’s up?” Max gets a more heartfelt reunion with Will, who I’m pretty sure she’s never spoken to on-screen before. (In fact, female friendships took a battering all round, as Robin/Nancy barely noticed each other, and they go to all the trouble of bringing back Kali just to kill her off again). I’m pretty sure Joyce has completely forgotten that she a) has more than one son, and b) raised Eleven for at least a year, as she has absolutely no reaction to potentially losing either of them.
After all that interminable love triangle nonsense between Nancy, Jonathan and Steve, and none of it really amounted to anything. Not even Steve and Robin get that much screentime together, and when Nancy rescues Holly from the remains of the Mind Flayer, I half expected her to say: “I’m Nancy. We’ve never met, but I’m your sister.”
Also, there were plenty of characters that were just plain missing, and whose absence could have been established by a single line of dialogue. Why not have Robin tell the others on the rooftop that she’s meeting Vickie later? Why not have Jonathan state that Argyle is helping him with his movie? Why not have Dustin press “send” on an email to Suzie in the ending montage? I mean, it would have been so easy to give these characters are little nod, though I suppose it’s a mystery for the ages to ponder just what the hell happened to Doctor Owens. Is he still handcuffed to that radiator?
With such a massive cast of characters, some were naturally going to get short-shrift, and though the writers were careful to give everyone their big moment of heroism, it was really the relationships that suffered. Because I haven’t yet mentioned the big kahuna: Mike and Eleven. It is downright astounding to go back to season one and remind yourself that Mike was originally this show’s protagonist, and that his love and care for Eleven was the emotional centre of the show. Hopper doesn’t even meet her until the final episode.
Steve/Dustin, Eleven/Hopper and Nancy/Jonathan are really the only long-established dynamics that gets any attention here, though there are some really nice beats between Max/Lucas, Hopper/Joyce and Steve/Jonathan.
Yeah, I know the Duffers had a lot on their plate, but there is a very pronounced lack of breathing room for these characters, who (let’s face it) are the main drawcard of the show. We’re here for them, and it can get downright weird when they try to shove in stuff like Kali/Henry, with her referring to him as “brother” and referencing their childhoods at the lab, because it’s like – no guys, no. You have run out of time for this.
But for all the complaints, there is one thing I think the Duffers should be commended for, and that’s that they never betrayed their characters. This is where I reject the comparisons with the dumpster fire that was the end of Game of Thrones, as though some questionable decisions were made here, there’s no one who is drastically out of character, or who doesn’t get a fitting end to one extent or another. (Yes, I believe this to be true, despite the online histrionics about shipping and personal character headcanons).
But as mentioned above, I did have one caveat: the treatment of El.
As I’m sure you know, the show ends with Eleven sacrificing herself to close the door between the Upside Down and the real world, thereby preventing the US army (or anyone else) from accessing its power, or her own genetic material. A few months later, Mike realizes there were a few inconsistencies to what they all witnessed: namely that the army’s power dampeners were pointed at El for the duration of her noble sacrifice, even though they should have incapacitated her. He posits that Kali’s bullet wound may not have been as immediately fatal as it appeared, and that El’s death was merely an illusion cast by her sister before she died.
Both of these scenarios have serious gaps in logic. If El died, how was she able to get out of the truck and all the way to the gate without the army grabbing her? If she survived, then how was Kali able to project an illusion from such a great distance? Furthermore, the story Mike spins feels very much like a coping mechanism that a story-loving kid might come up with to counter his grief, especially since he gleaned most of the information used to construct his thesis from Hopper’s secondhand account of Kali’s death.
Both scenarios are equally unlikely to have happened. And yet, one of them did. It’s a Schrödinger’s Cat situation, as the writing does not confirm or deny either one, leaving it up to the viewer to choose which one they prefer. Either El decided that she needed to die in order to prevent the military from exploiting her body and making more superpowered children, or she fakes her own death and permanently separates herself from her loved ones without any hope she’ll ever see them again.
I profoundly dislike both of those options. Now, I won’t say that “sacrifice yourself” is always a terrible way to end a story, as sometimes it makes thematic and narrative sense (Gladiator, Nosferatu). But when it’s related to a teenage girl? Yeah, it’s pretty irresponsible to lay this option before her, especially when she’s been abused and manipulated and controlled for her entire early childhood. Heck, Hopper even verbalizes this monstrous unfairness, telling her she deserves better than to simply kill herself.
So… maybe she didn’t. But the alternative is that Eleven is out there on her own, completely cut off from the family she’s built over the years, knowing the people that love and care for her think she’s dead, and presumably believing she’ll never see them again.
That’s horrendous. Absolutely antithetical to what badly damaged and traumatized people need. In some ways, that’s even worse than just dying! If the Duffers wanted this scenario to be a viable option that I could live with, all they needed to do was provide confirmation of life. Like if she’d slipped Mike a more definitive clue that proved she was still out there – then Mike spinning this yarn to his friends could have been a veiled hint as to what he was going to do after graduation: meet her at their designated meeting place in Iceland.
But even that would have been on the “bitter” side of bittersweet. El deserved a full, happy life with ALL the people that loved her. Like everyone kept telling her throughout these final episodes, they would have figured something out, and that Hopper’s attempted suicide is framed as a stupid, senseless betrayal, while El’s is “the only thing she could have done” doesn’t make a lot of sense.
On a narrative level, it also means that all that time we spent with Linda Hamilton and the army was largely pointless, since their ultimate purpose was simply to push El towards making her decision. Furthermore, there’s a very good chance that her sacrifice didn’t break the cycle at all, since her powers were derived from Henry/Vecna, and his were derived from the metaphysical stone that he found in the suitcase of the man he killed in Nevada. Whoever that man was, and wherever he obtained that stone, that’s the true origin of all this suffering – not El. Who’s to say the army won’t eventually trace that back to its source?
Finally, my biggest problem is that Mike and El have already gone through this exact same scenario before, at the conclusion of season one and across almost the entirety of season two, in which Mike thought El might be dead, but held out hope she was still out there somewhere. Their reunion at the end of season two ended up being one of the most emotional, cathartic moments of the whole show. To negate all that is just a variation on Cheated Death, Died Anyway, a trope that I despise. Don’t allow your characters to pass through the fire only to force them back into an identical situation they were grappling with years earlier!
What makes matters worse is that the season one moment in which Mike thinks El has died is actually in the montage of traumatic events that everyone recalls while they’re watching Vecna die. And now they’ve thrown poor Mike back into that moment, and made it permanent. The first rule of comedy is “never tell the same joke twice,” but the same goes for tragedy – never put a character through the same grief multiple times.
And even if you do buy that El made it out and Mike is hanging onto hope that they’ll one day see each other again, it doesn’t change the fact that Hopper isn’t privy to this information, which means he’s lost two daughters – after telling one with his heart and soul that she should not kill herself. I mean, the guy should be in a mental spiral, but there’s no time to deal with that, so instead he’s depicted as doing just fine. Seriously, it was downright jarring to watch him act so upbeat in the wake of El’s supposed death.
Okay, so I got even more problems with this. It also doesn’t track that El had to leave one way or the other because of the military, since – guys, if you’re going to use them as an unsurmountable obstacle between her and a normal life with her loved ones, then you can’t simply brush over the fact that Nancy and Hopper openly killed American soldiers, on American soil, and then got off with no consequences whatsoever. Seriously? Nancy killed a guy! Several, in fact! Doctor Kay just gave up after all that and left everybody alone after the gate closed? That’s just insane on so many levels. At the very least, you have to make sure the main characters know they’re under surveillance for the next few years, which could have also been used as a good reason for El to get the hell out of dodge for a while.
AND ONE MORE THING. As it happened, I really loved the Mike/El relationship in the first two seasons. It captured the all-encompassing power and purity of first love, even as I recognized that it was way too codependent to be healthy, especially in two such young people. And then the show itself did something strange – it completely lost interest in it. Despite build-ups to sharing an exchange of “I love you,” the pair seemed to drift apart over the last few seasons, and when this one started I was actually left wondering if they’d broken up off-screen, as there was so little of the intensity and affection that used to be there. Which would have been fine, but you have to clarify that for us!
Maybe Mike and El should have been given the Jonathan/Nancy break-up, just to let them grow up a bit first and let us know they were already on different paths – because otherwise, I can assure you that couples who are on the edge of death become extremely touchy and clingy, which just wasn’t the case from them this season. Two hugs and two conversations (in which they’re sitting three feet apart) is the sum of their relationship before their tearful goodbye in the finale, and guys – you cannot sell that final parting as truly heartrending if their prior interactions are so slight that their relationship status is in question.
I’ve never seen a show uproot its emotional centre so thoroughly since the BBC’s Robin Hood killed off Maid Marian. I defend a lot of the Duffers’ choices, but they really needed to do more with this relationship if they wanted Mike and Eleven’s farewell to land. That bond was so pure and powerful, it’s a bit of a shock to watch it peter out the way it did.
Ultimately, it would appear that the Duffers always saw Eleven as a fey-like creature who could never belong to the real world – which is rather sad. And yes, I did notice the kid wearing the E.T. t-shirt for the duration of his adventures in Vecna’s mind, which seems to have been a visual hint as to their plans for her, but El was never an alien longing to return to her home planet. Her whole arc was to find a home and family away from Hawkins Lab. And by the end of this story, she didn’t go home, she went into exile.
As a notorious non-shipper, even I thought she deserved a happy ending with her surrogate parents and the boy she loved, and the Duffers’ idea that none of that mattered, that the audience gets to choose what they believe, is simply not the right story for her – at least in my opinion.
Whew, okay I think I’m done here. I’m sure I’ll make my peace with all this in time, as despite everything I just said, I did largely enjoy this final season and felt that they carried it off. But El’s fate is narratively unpleasant on a level that I don’t think the Duffers are fully cognizant of, as that she’s denied something so basic as a normal life with her found family is just cruel. I think one of three things may have happened:
1.The Duffers were aware of the shipping wars between Mike/El and Mike/Will fans, and so opted to pull back on both of them, along with shutting down the Steve/Nancy/Jonathan love triangle for good measure. This sort of thing happens more often than people realize, and it always effects the quality of the story. Remember when Stucky fans got so pushy that Steve and Bucky didn’t have any meaningful interactions in Endgame? Remember when the fourth season of Sherlock disappeared up its own ass? Remember when Felicity Smoak went from Arrow’s most popular character to its most despised? Remember when The Rise of Skywalker was a load of crap? It’s because writers become so preoccupied with trying to handle shippers that they forget to tell an actual story.
In that regard, I can kind of respect the Duffer Brothers saying to shippers: “y’all so obnoxious, we’re taking away ALL your toys!” except for Lucas/Max, which happily was the only ship I cared about at that point.
2. As this was originally going to be an anthology series, it’s easy to surmise that the end of the Mike/Eleven relationship was initially going to end the way it did at the conclusion of season one – with El sacrificing herself to close the gateway between worlds. Now it feels like the Duffers have looped back around to that original plan, since this season has them part ways in almost exactly the same way.
It also makes sense as to why they seemed to lose interest in the relationship from season three onwards, with the characters seemingly drifting apart rather than becoming more like a solid couple – because it was probably never meant to get that far in the first place, and the writers simply lost interest. (In which case, perhaps there should have been an arc about Mike realizing he simply couldn’t keep El, but there wasn’t – just some confusing stuff about why he can’t tell her he loves her).
3. They felt that “this ending is too upbeat, we HAVE to do something bittersweet in order for it to be taken seriously,” without thinking about the implications of what they went with. Kind of like in the last How To Train Your Dragon movie, in which the dragons have to leave their humans for no real in-story reason, only that this way it allows for a big emotional farewell. But guys, if your story calls for it, then it’s okay to have a happy ending.
And hey, maybe we’ll get that eventually. This is Netflix’s biggest franchise, and there’s already an animated midquel on its way, as well as rumours about a spin-off. I’m sure the Broadway play will eventually be filmed for television, and because nothing is truly dead these days, I give it ten or so years before everyone reunites for a legacyquel in which Mike and Eleven are reunited – for good this time. Ezra and Sabine were reunited after four years, Allan and Ellie Satler after twenty-nine years, Ian Chesterton and Doctor Who after fifty-seven years. We’ll see them again, I have little doubt of that.
So I’m looking forward to letting some time pass, allowing things to settle down, and then watching Stranger Things again from start to finish, hopefully reconciling myself with what happened to Eleven in the process.
Miscellaneous Observations:
As stated, I’m left somewhat amused that the Duffer Brothers decided to deal with obnoxious shippers by jettisoning pretty much every single ship, and I can’t say watching the histrionics wasn’t a little satisfying. They even dragged out the corpse of Steve/Eddie and shot that a couple of times as well. Of course, I get to feel particularly smug about this since the one romantic relationship I did care about came through with flying colours. Man, Sadie Sink and Caleb McLaughlin nailed their scenes together. I was feeling the feels throughout this whole experience, but it was her waking up in his arms that really got the waterworks flowing.
I’ve seen some people point out that Nancy and Jonathan broke up because shared trauma isn’t a good basis for a relationship, in which case – aren’t Lucas and Max also trauma-bonded? I’d say no, as we saw them function as a happy couple with shared interests and the ability to have fun together well before shit hit the fan.
But let the record show that I stated back in 2022 that I didn’t care what shipping endgames transpired, and for the umpteenth time I’m left wondering why people do this to themselves: base their entire enjoyment of a story on whether or not two characters hook up. I mean, if that’s your main priority, then why the hell are you watching a sci-fi show? READ A ROMANCE NOVEL! It’s clearly what you’d rather be doing, so why are you wasting your time elsewhere?
(I’ll have more to say about the Byler situation in another post, because damn – shippers in general really cranked it up another notch last year).
For a while there, Nell Fisher as Holly Wheeler (along with Max) felt like the new main character of the entire show! Those girls definitely did most of the heavy lifting when it came to getting the edge on Vecna, and though I was a little on the fence about it, as this was our last chance to spend time with the original ensemble, the actress put in a great performance. I loved the fact it all came down to passing the torch on to the next generation, with the younger kids piling into the basement to play their own game of D&D.
Mr Clark! After sitting out season four, I loved that they found room to not only bring him back, but integrate him into the party.
After sitting on the sidelines for so long, it was fitting that Joyce was the one who finally finished Vecna off with that axe, and the montage of trauma that went on during the beheading was every affecting too, with each bystander reacting to the harm this character has done them over the course of the last five years: Karen Wheeler’s injuries, Bobby, Barb and Eddie’s deaths, Max’s coma, Will’s trauma, Mike and Eleven losing each other – that was extremely cathartic.
On a similar note, I appreciate that on realizing what happened to Henry Creel in his youth, Will offers him an olive branch and a way to redemption – only for it to be rejected. I can understand why they did it on a Doylist level (to pass the role of Big Bad back to the Mind Flayer instead of the more human face of Henry would have been too little, too late) but on a Watsonian level, it’s also nice to be reminded that some people are too far gone to come back, and it’s not your responsibility to change that. I’m always relieved when the writers understand this.
It’s funny – whenever shows ask me to feel sorry for a villain, I vehemently object, and when they don’t, I can find it in myself to feel a modicum of pity. Either way, it was a great performance by Jamie Campbell Bower. I watched him earlier this year in the truly dreadful Camelot, so it’s nice that over ten years later, he’s managed to get his career back on track.
Out of interest, I ended up reading a synopsis of the Broadway play, and though it’s not need-to-know material it does fill in a few of the remaining gaps in the narrative (such as who the guy in the cave was with the suitcase, and why exactly he was so terrified when Henry showed up. Perhaps they’ll release a proper recording of it one day – until then, there’s always bootlegs).
Though I am rather bemused by the fact Henry Creel went to school with the likes of Joyce, Hopper, Karen, Ted and the other adults of Hawkins – and they never mention this in the present day. I’m not remotely surprised, as that would have added a layer of complexity to the proceedings that simply would have gotten in the way of the story, but it’s the price of capitulating to the Muppet Babies-style temptation to put ALL your characters in the prequel.
The rooftop scene between the four young adults was suitably bittersweet in that they all promise to meet up every month, and you know that they know it’s never going to happen. Still, they went through some pretty insane stuff together. Even if they only see each other once or twice a year, that bond will remain (also, I’m still in close contact with three of my high school friends, so it can happen!)
This also made me laugh:
Oh shippers, will you ever learn?
I was never remotely interested in Nancy as a character, and I’m annoyed that she had to spend a fair chunk of her screentime navigating a love triangle, but now that it’s all over I’m glad the writing ultimately allowed her to just be cool, no strings attached. She was an intrepid reporter, a crack-shot, had a vaguely empowering second-wave feminist arc… I think I’ll appreciate her more when the time comes to rewatch this show in its entirety, though I do think there should have been a post-climax conversation between her and Mike about what happened to El.
It’s obvious why Millie Bobby Brown came across as a little lukewarm when she was asked if she was happy with the conclusion of Eleven’s story, as if nothing else, I’m sure she would have wanted to finish things off with her co-stars in that basement and not hiking up a mountain in Iceland.
There were quite a few The Lord of the Rings vibes at work here, not only blatant in-jokes like Mr Clark saying “mellon” when the gates to the army compound opened, but stuff like nine companions traversing a wasteland that looked suspiciously like Mordor. I suppose I’d also have to add the fact that El’s fate felt very much like Frodo going to the Grey Havens, but again – I call foul. If that was their inspiration, then I have to say there’s a big difference between a middle-aged man with deep physical and spiritual injuries choosing to peace out of a life that’s causing him prolonged pain, and a little girl who didn’t want freedom or healing – that just wanted to go home. Sorry, the analogy doesn’t fit!
I’ve heard people complain about Will’s coming out scene, and I get their point that it was a little ridiculous that so many people were present for it (including Murray and Kali!) but it didn’t bother me too much. I rationalized it by looking at it as a war committee. Yes, it’s a little sus that Will felt pressured to come out because Vecna threatened to use that secret against him, but that’s the reason why everyone needed to know, including those that didn’t know him. If Will had called a meeting with just the inner circle, wouldn’t the likes of Kali and Vickie have had a right to feel ill at ease about what was going on? Circumstances are dire, people are putting their lives on the line, and communication is critical in times like these. Everyone had to be on the same page. You can still feel uncomfortable about it, but there was a logical reason behind why it played out the way it did.
(What’s mildly funny is that Byler shippers decided to show their anger by review-bombing that episode, only to backtrack real fast when it became apparent homophobic right-wing trolls were doing the exact same thing).
Also, I thought Jonathan’s reaction was beautiful. You could tell from Charlie Heaton’s performance that he knew exactly what was going to come out of his little brother’s mouth, and the little kiss he gave him afterwards was so natural and unaffected.
There are a few things that I’m annoyed never got explained. Why did Vecna need twelve (that is, specifically twelve) kids? My friend and I were speculating that it had something to do with either the number of children that were originally with him in Hawkins lab, or to mirror the twelve numbers on a clock face (Henry having an affinity for the Creel House’s grandfather clock) but… apparently that was just random? And I naturally assumed Henry targeted Holly because she was a Wheeler and he was making things personal, but nope – in a BTS clip there’s an interview with Jamie Campbell Bower in which he discusses rationalizing it to himself, and coming up with the idea that she was the most intelligent, thereby believing that the other kids would fall into line if he could get her on board first.
Also, why draw attention to the fact all these events were coming up on the anniversary of Will’s disappearance? How was that relevant? And did we ever find out why the Upside Down was “frozen in time” on the day of said disappearance, as Nancy discovered last season?
I am also extremely annoyed that they took all the trouble of bringing back Kali, only to use her as a plot device and then kill her off. They use her unique power a couple of times (when she makes Kay believe she’s still in the laboratory, and then in shielding the children so they can see Henry’s true nature) but ultimately it feels she was brought back solely to assist Eleven’s arc.
It would have been nice if they’d found a way to have Kali survive along with Eleven, and for the two of them to travel to Iceland together (Elphaba also had to fake her death, but at least she got to take Fiyero with her), but I can see how they backed themselves into a corner with this character. If Kali hadn’t been badly wounded by that bullet, nothing would have stopped her from accompanying Eleven to face Vecna. And if that had happened, there would have been no way for Eleven to effectively fake her own death without anyone immediately realizing what was going on.
So, Kali had to die, either quickly or slowly, in order to remove her from the board and get the narrative direction the Duffers wanted. Unfortunately, that means we’re left with another female lead made to ambiguously sacrifice herself for the good of others and the world, and it’s not a good look that the only fatality among our heroes was the woman of colour.
In hindsight, I feel that season four will probably be remembered as the best season, even if the entire thing was essentially setup for the final season. Not only did it have pertinent things to say about the Satanic Panic and featured the show’s best “seasonal guest star who always dies tragically,” it was – with the exception of the interminable Russia subplot – firing on all cylinders when it came to the suspense of the targeted killings, the mystery of why it was happening, how all three of the subplots came together, and the reveal that Henry Creel, Vecna, One, and the orderly were all the same person. That was such a fantastic moment. (I mean, just watch the ending of season four’s penultimate episode, and compare it to the end of the same episode in season five. No comparison!)
Despite my griping, I’m ninety percent happy with this season, though that Eleven-shaped ten percent is a big issue for me, and I’ll probably have to percolate with it for a while. One day I’ll watch this show again from beginning to end and see how it all holds up – until then, I’ll say that I believe the Duffer Brothers and their team did their best with a very large deck of cards, and even though it wasn’t perfect, fandom’s reaction to the end result is wildly out of proportion to what we got. Plenty of plot holes? Sure. But like I said, they didn’t betray the characters, and that was always the most important aspect of the show… at least for me.
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