I had three weeks off this month, so I spent most of it relaxing and catching up on various things – and also finishing things: Trollhunters, Hilda, DuckTales and The Owl House, which meant I got a little verklempt at so many emotional goodbyes between assorted animated characters.
I spent time diving into the last three Earthsea books, which I generally enjoyed (with some caveats) and watched plenty of black-and-white films that have been sitting on my hard-drive for years. Throw in my usual two Babysitters Club book, the fourth season of Outlander, and a rewatch of The Others, and it was a busy few weeks of couch-reclining.
The reason this is late is because despite winter coming to an end, some sort of bug managed to catch up with me just last week, so there’s been a lot of sleeping and groaning (and not much writing). But as always, better late than never.
Stacey and the Mystery at the Mall by Anne M. Martin
Now that I’m well into reading BSC books I’m completely unfamiliar with, it’s apparent that both the nostalgia quotient of this exercise and the novelty of fresh stories is beginning to wane. Anne M. Martin is long gone, the assortment of ghostwriters somehow manage to be more formulaic and more outlandish, and the stories themselves are growing rather stale – not helped by the time warp everyone is caught up in, in which no one ever ages despite the ongoing changes in the seasons. Yet still, I press on…
This instalment in the Mystery branch of the series could quite easily be confused with Stacey and the Mystery Money given that Stacey is the protagonist of both, most of the action takes place at the mall, and there’s a heavy use of alliteration in both titles.
The students of Stoneybrook are engaged in a school programme called Short Takes, which (if I recall correctly) has never explicitly been termed that before, but seemingly covers involvement in activities like the egg-raising project in Mary Anne and 2 Many Babies and the Kids Can Do Anything Club in Jessi’s Wish. Someone on the ghost-writing team obviously likes the idea (or the potential for it as a staple premise) as it forms the basis of both this book and the next.
Here, Stacey’s class takes on internships at the local mall, which translates to work experience for underage teens and free labour for the shop owners. Nobody does capitalism like America. All the girls manage to get positions at retailers that interest them (Mary Anne at the pet store, Mallory at a bookshop, Kristy doing security – that cracked me up) and Stacey is enthusiastic about working at a toy store. This feels a bit uncharacteristic for a New York sophisticate, but oh well.
The store owner is called April, who has no other staff except on the weekends, and has to look after her preschool age son Sandy while she’s working. Insane. The presence of this kid is no doubt to swing the storyline back towards the subject of babysitting, as the girls of the club soon tumble to the idea that the mall should have a childcare centre, where employees and customers alike can drop off their kids for the day. This is mostly the B-plot though, as the biggest issue at the mall is all the shoplifting going on.
Stacey gets nervous at the thought of shoplifters (which is really more of a Dawn thing to do), though the case seems to be closed when a gang of teens are arrested. I choose to believe Kristy took them down single-handedly. But inexpensive necessities (like toothpaste and socks) as well as large items (such as TVs and treadmills) continue to go missing from the stores, which don’t feel like they could be the work of the same person. The girls have noticed a trio of kids acting strangely in various stores with no parental supervision in sight, and they wonder if they’re secretly living at the mall. But how to account for the bigger missing items?
Turns out that the store manager, the guy who leaped at the chance to open a daycare centre, is the one to blame. He kept saying “yes” to every new project and so found himself struggling financially as a result. After the kids discovered he was stealing things to pay the bills, he threatened them and they’ve gone to ground.
After a thorough search, the girls find their hiding place and learn their mother is in the hospital. The aunt that was meant to look after them never turned up, and the landlord evicted them from their home. They had no money, and because they were new to the area, they weren’t enrolled at any school that might have noticed their absence. Social services are called, and on an interestingly ambiguous note, the last interaction the babysitters have with the kids is described thusly: “that was the last we saw of Mara, Brenda and Kyle… Mara looked at us with accusatory eyes.”
That parting look suggests things could have ended on a somewhat dark note, but of course, the babysitters later find out the kids’ mother was discharged from hospital and they all found a new place to live – but I still kind of like that things don’t end on good terms between the babysitters and the children they rescued.
Other notable observations: this book finally explains how Shannon is getting to the BSC meetings. You’d assume it’s with Charlie and Kristy, but no – she tells the others: “I was at a drama club meeting and my friend’s mum drove me here afterward.” Stacey also throws a little shade at Claudia’s role in the club: “as Vice President of the Club [supplying snacks] is one of her only real duties, and it’s an unofficial one. Mostly she’s the Vice President because the club meets in her room.” Finally, I also liked a little scene in which Stacey is setting up a dollhouse in the toy store, placing the father in the kitchen and the mother in the garage (“this was a liberated doll family”).
Jessi’s Horrible Prank by Anne M. Martin
I’ve said it before, and I’m unfortunately forced to say it again: Jessi doesn’t get very interesting stories (though I liked Pet Sitter and The Dance School Phantom). We’re back with Short Takes, and Jessi’s class is being led by the dorky, socially awkward Mr Trout, who is trying (and failing) to teach them something about computer programming. He’s difficult to understand and isn’t very engaging as a teacher, so the students act up with a variety of pranks, from the stupid (everyone dropping a book at the same time) to the elaborate (they somehow manage to Rube Goldberg the toupee off his head).
Jessi feels a little uncomfortable, especially since Mr Trout never yells or disciplines anyone, but she’s distracted by signing up for the Follies, a variety show put on by the students that usually ends up satirizing the teaching staff – and guess who ends up having to wear a bald cap to play Mr Trout, even though in Jessi’s own words: “I was the wrong sex and skin colour.”
But she doesn’t want to make a fuss given the drama she made during the Peter Pan production (nice continuity there) and the difficulty she still faces in being accepted by her classmates, so goes through with it. The very next day she learns that Mr Trout quit very abruptly last night, leaving the principal high-and-dry in trying to find a substitute teacher – though the guy who does turn up doesn’t put up with any shit, in dazzling contrast to his predecessor.
But Jessi is guilt-ridden, certain that her performance is what pushed Mr Trout over the edge, even though every adult she confides in (her parents, other teachers, the principal) tells her that he was too oversensitive, and that all the other teachers were able to take the mockery in good stead. Eventually Jessi writes Mr Trout a letter to apologise, and he writes back to tell her not to worry about it – he’s happier where he is.
The whole thing reminded me a little of The Hundred Dresses by Eleanor Estes, but with a weird moral that appears to be: “if you can’t hack it, just quit” or “pranks are something teachers have to be able to deal with,” rather than: “don’t be an asshole by picking on sensitive, awkward people.” Even Jessi comes around to everyone else’s way of thinking – that Mr Trout wasn’t cut out to be a teacher, and has himself to blame for letting the class get out of control. Even Martin’s afterword is just: “Jessi’s pranks were cruel – but here are some funny ones to try!”
The best part of the book is when Becca is inspired by her older sister to organize the neighbourhood kids into performing their own take on the Follies to send up the BSC, and the results are pretty funny: Marilyn-as-Kristy is a drill sergeant who yells everything, Vanessa-as-Claudia eats junk food and tries to wear a clock as a hat, Carolyn-as-Mary-Anne bursts into tears at everything, and Margo-as-Dawn chomps down on carrot sticks. It’s very amusing, though Jessie thinking to herself: “I can handle this, why couldn’t Mr Trout?” is a bit rich considering Jessi’s caricature is just her sister doing ballet stretches, while Trout’s was his baldness after an elaborate prank that ended in his toupee being yanked off his head.
So yeah, a bit of a strange one and I felt terrible for Mr Trout. That he wasn’t a good teacher doesn’t excuse the cruelty that was inflicted on him, so I’m going to headcanon that he won lotto or married a supermodel or whatever else it is that would make him happy.
There’s some other weird stuff scattered throughout. The Follies is an annual event that Jessi has never heard of before since: “I didn’t live here last year.” It’s truly insane they’re trying to establish that Jessi has lived in Stoneybrook for less than a year – especially since she’s been present for at least three Halloweens. Just be vague about the timeline! Never say anything as specific as “last year.”
Early on, Jessi refers to Kristy, Claudia, Stacey and Mary Anne as “the Big Four,” in reference to their status as the original members of the Babysitters Club, and she relates the chapter two exposition as a Gothic melodrama:
“Woe is me,” cried Mrs Thomas, “for I cannot find a suitable person to watch over my youngest offspring.” “Alas, my heart aches to see my mother in such distress,” thought Kristy. “Oh, if only there were a single phone number at which she might reach a group of reliable sitters.”
It’s a fun way of getting across exposition that’s related hundreds of times by now (if you include the Super Specials and the Mysteries). Finally, this book also introduces the two teachers that are collectively known as the Dollies due to their resemblance to Dolly Parton (buxom and blonde) who turn up frequently in later books.
The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L.F. Baum
I return to Oz, even though Baum himself had every intention of concluding his series with the previous book, The Emerald City of Oz. Alas, only two years later financial troubles brought him back to the well. Or to the golden goose. Or to the cash cow, whatever you want to call it.
So, how does the author fare after a hiatus from his most famous work, knowing that his return is predicated on monetary requirements rather than true passion for his art? It’s fine. There’s certainly a bit more vigour and invention apparent in this plot than there was for some of the last few Oz books (especially The Road to Oz) but Baum also has no intention whatsoever of messing with his formula: an eclectic group of misfits go journeying across Oz for something they desperately want, until finally a powerful magical woman grants them their heart’s desire and a happy ending.
Okay, so there are some variations. Occasionally they’re not in Oz, but another realm altogether, travelling towards Oz. And the powerful woman who acts as Deus Ex Machina can be either Glinda or Ozma. But otherwise, that’s pretty much what always happens.
Having announced at the end of the last book that Ozma had made Oz permanently inaccessible to travellers from our world (including cutting off all communications) Baum engages in some quick retconning in the prologue, where he explains that he now uses wireless telegraphy to glean more stories from Dorothy – with Ozma’s permission of course.
This story begins on the outskirts of Munchkinland, where a Munchkin called Ojo (“the Unlucky”) lives with his taciturn Uncle Nunkie (or “Unc Nunkie”). Tired of isolation and poverty, the two travel to the home of Doctor Pipt: the Crooked Magician and their closest neighbour. He lives with this wife Margolotte, and is the very same magician who gave the Powder of Life to Mombi, who in turn used it to bring Jack Pumpkinhead to life.
Even though Ozma has banned the use of magic throughout Oz, he’s brewing up a new batch in order to bring a Patchwork Girl to life so that she might help his wife around the house. Hearing the women’s plans for her forthcoming servant (who’ll be treated as little more than a slave) Ojo secretly adds more “cleverness” to the mixture than originally intended, and the Patchwork Girl awakens to life with a mind of her own.
A terrible accident befalls them not long after, in which the Patchwork Girl accidentally spills Liquid of Petrifaction over Margolotta and Unc Nunkie, turning them both into statues. To make matters worse, the Potion of Life is spilt over the phonograph, which not only wastes the precious liquid but renders the phonograph too annoying even for these born-and-raised Ozians, who are used to such things.
To brew a fresh potion that will restore their loved ones back to life, Ojo sets out to fetch a six-leaved clover, the left wing of a yellow butterfly, a gill of water from a dark well, three hairs from a Woozy’s tail, and a drop of oil from a live man’s body. With him goes the Patchwork Girl (calling herself “Scraps”) and the magician’s cat Bungle, made of glass and brought to life by the Potion of Life prior to the events of the story (she’s very vain, with a visible heart and brain – “you can see ‘em work” is her comment to every new character that they meet).
And so the journey begins through the more familiar lands of Oz (the colour-coded settlements inhabited by Winkies, Gillikins and Quadlings rather than the more random communities featured in the later books). On the way they meet characters both old and new (most pertinently, the Shaggy Man, who seems to be a favourite of Baum given the number of times he’s featured since his introduction), have nonsensical philosophical discussions, and face plenty of non-lethal tribulations.
Eventually they make it to the Emerald City, where once again Ozma simply waves her hand and solves all their problems, rendering the gathering of those aforementioned magical ingredients completely pointless.
It’s nice to see the Scarecrow and Tin Man again (each taking a vested interest in the Patchwork Girl, though for very different reasons), as well as Dorothy, the Wizard and Toto of course. Sadly, the Cowardly Lion only cameos, and despite the Patchwork Girl being the titular character, this is definitely Ojo’s book from start to finish.
One notable scene involves the Shaggy Man feeding the Woozy a tablet that is the equivalent of a six-course meal, only for the Woozy to insist that he prefers the act of chewing and enjoying the taste of food. I’m with him, but the book itself apparently expects us to disagree, as the Woozy is described as being “ungrateful” when the Shaggy Man declares that: “one should only eat to sustain life and that tablet is equal to a peck of other food.” It’s a strange addition, not least because Baum’s (presumably) preferred mode of eating hasn’t been invented yet. Why advocate for something that doesn’t even exist? I’m afraid we’ll all be chewing our food and enjoying its flavour for many more years to come.
Then there’s Baum’s equally strange take on punitive justice: “Ozma thinks that one who has committed a fault did so because he was not strong and brave; therefore she puts him in prison to make him strong and brave. When that is accomplished he is no longer a prisoner, but a good and loyal citizen and everyone is glad that he is now strong enough to resist doing wrong. You see, it is kindness that makes one strong and brave; and so we are kind to our prisoners.”
Were that ‘twere that simple.
Finally, there’s this astounding description of a Quadling household:
The room was of dazzling brilliance and beauty, for it was lined throughout with an exquisite metal that resembled translucent frosted silver. The surface of this metal was highly ornamented in raised designs representing men, animals, flowers and trees, and from the metal itself was radiated the soft light which flooded the room. All the furniture was made of the same glorious metal, and Scraps asked what it was.
“That's radium,” answered the Chief. “We Horners spend all our time digging radium from the mines under this mountain, and we use it to decorate our homes and make them pretty and cosy. It is a medicine, too, and no one can ever be sick who lives near radium.”
Holy shit. RIP, Quadlings. Y’all gonna die horribly.
Tenahu by Ursula le Guin
The widow Goha, better known to the reader as Tenar (names are a big deal in these books) has enjoyed the years since the events of The Tombs of Atuan as a farmer’s wife, with two now-grown children – a daughter married and a son at sea. Her current life is unremarkable, until the day she’s called to attend a child who has suffered something unspeakable – her guardians have raped, abused, and deliberately thrown her into an open fire.
Between them, the village women bring Therru back from the brink of death, but she is left with terrible scarring all over one side of her face and body. More upheavals are still to come – the death of the mage Ogion, who was once mentor to Ged, Archmage of Roke (and to Tenar as well, albeit briefly) and the return of Ged to Gont on the back of a massive dragon.
Yes, despite the eighteen-year gap between the publication of this book and the last, the story picks up right on the heels of The Farthest Shore. Ged and Prince Lebannon have returned from death itself, and the latter has not yet been crowned king – he’s delaying the coronation so that the Archmage can attend. But when Tenar is reunited with Ged, it’s to find that he’s harbouring a deep secret: he’s lost all his magical abilities.
It is one thing to fulfil prophecies and crown kings and get happily ever afters – but it doesn’t automatically solve all the world’s problems. If anything, the work is only just beginning. By the time she’s reunited with Ged, Tenar has been busy raising Therru as her own, with the shadow of what happened to her (and the knowledge that her assailants are still out there) lingering over both of them.
Although this book was published with the subtitle “the last book of Earthsea,” we know now that is not the case. In hindsight, what ultimately became a six-book series divides neatly into two halves. The first three stories are traditional male-centric fantasy quest narratives, and the final three are more uniquely structured and subversive, built around le Guin’s growing interest in the feminine side of her world-building (especially in regards to her laws of magic), and the premise that dragons and human beings were once one and the same.
In fact, it’s difficult to believe the final three books weren’t mapped out in advance, as the connective tissue of theme and premise and subject matter seems so carefully foreshadowed, especially regarding the character Therru, whose storyline here concludes on such a wide-open note. Even taking into account there’s another eleven years between Tenahu and The Other Wind, the fact the “second trilogy” works as well as it does is a very serendipitous coincidence otherwise.
And yet, we have to take le Guin’s word for it that she had no inkling that the Earthsea books would ever have six instalments – or indeed, that they would ever be a quartet, a trilogy, or even a duology. She’s stated in enough interviews that the saga simply grew in the telling, and the first three books so neatly setting up the final three’s deliberate deconstruction of the established gender politics did, in fact, just happen that way.
As the story continues into the second generation, le Guin tackles misogyny and feminism, delving into the battle of the sexes and cross-examining her own world-building in the previous novels, confronting things like the phrase “as weak as women’s magic,” which has so far been uttered without any sign of irony, or the unchallenged fact that only men are allowed to attend the wizard’s school on Roke. My one complaint is that there are some rather disturbing depictions of violence and misogyny in the final chapters of the book, which come so late and are dealt with so quickly that it doesn’t feel particularly earned or cathartic when the instigators are defeated.
But a great sea change is in the air for Earthsea, one that is further explored in the next book of short stories, which in turn provide an essential bridge to the very last (for real this time) book.
Tales From Earthsea by Ursula le Guin
As many of the stories featured here were written for fantasy magazines and designed to be standalone reads, some might be tempted to skip this book, seeing it as supplementary rather than essential. But I’d very much recommend that people read it, if not just for “Dragonfly,” which is very important to the events of The Other Wind, and described by le Guin herself in her foreword as a bridge between the two stories (as well as a coda of sorts to Tehanu).
The first story “The Finder” fittingly concerns itself with the founding of the wizard school on Roke, and the unexpected reveal that women were very much involved in its inception, thereby making this a fitting prequel to “Dragonfly” and Tehanu, both of which were preoccupied by the lack of women in magical scholarly circles. Its protagonist is Otter, a young man forced into slavery who wins both physical and spiritual freedom before ending up on Roke, helped throughout by a variety of witches. The unspoken poignancy is that he must ultimately fail these women, given the state of affairs on Roke in the later stories.
“Darkrose and Diamond” is perhaps the most superfluous of the stories, featuring a romance between a potential wizard and a witch’s daughter, while “The Bones of the Earth” provides a welcome glimpse of Ogion as a young man, and the circumstances surrounding the oft-mentioned occasion in the books about how he stopped an earthquake. It comes with another feminist twist when we eventually discover his mentor, the one that everyone disapproved of, was a woman (which certainly sheds some light on his egalitarian disposition!)
“On the High Marsh” is the most unique of the anthology, involving a mysterious wizard with memory loss happening upon a small settlement in bad weather and forming a relationship with a woman who lives there. The villagers take complete advantage of the stranger when it comes to tending their livestock, but it eventually transpires that he was banished from Roke by Ged himself, who is now trying to track him down. It’s a thoughtful little story about redemption and community and gender equality.
Finally, “Dragonfly” is the book’s most important inclusion, about a woman called Irian who disguises herself as a man so that she might enter the school on Roke. Unexpectedly, her accomplice in this matter is another wizard who isn’t helping her for altruistic reasons – he just wants to sleep with her and humiliate his old masters. Though she’s not allowed in the school, she’s befriended by the Patterner, even as the Summoner (who also featured heavily in The Farthest Shore) grows increasingly hostile at the idea of a woman in the vicinity.
Finally, “Dragonfly” is the book’s most important addition, about a woman called Irian who is disguised as a man so that she might enter the school of Roke (unexpectedly, her accomplice in this matter is another wizard who isn’t doing it for altruistic reasons – he wants to sleep with her and humiliate his old masters). Though she’s not allowed in the school, she’s befriended by the Patterner, but Thorion (who was also in previous books) rejects the idea of a woman on Roke.
This forms a neat bookend to “The Finder,” as though le Guin doesn’t go into detail as to how, it’s obvious that women were expelled from Roke at some point in time, even though they’re the ones who first established it as a safe haven.
So there are five stories in all, plus a final essay on the geography, cultures, history and folklore of the Archipelago, which is mainly notable for laying down the full stories of Erreth-Akbe, Morred, Elfarran, Serriadh and Maharion – half-historical, half-mythological figures whose stories have up until now have only been told in bits and pieces, scattered throughout the prior books. It’s nice to have their tales put down clearly and chronologically.
Le Guin’s laws of magic and tradition of true-naming remains consistent throughout, but you can track the way they’re perceived and used across this fictional history, which is all rather fascinating to behold (there’s a correlation between how healing and fixing are magical arts delegated to women, thereby losing their value, and how in our world women-majority sciences like psychology are disparaged as “soft sciences.”)
Likewise, it’s clear how previously natural and unquestioned ways of ruling and teaching in the first few Earthsea books now feel like oppression and control by the time we get to “Dragonfly.” This commentary was always lurking under the surface of the previous stories, and I’m anticipating that balance will be sought again in the next book. Le Guin is exceptionally clever in her words, with repetition of phrases such as “the other wind,” and “the other breath,” and of a pattern that “is not glass to break, it is breath, it is fire.” Hmm, what else do we know of that has fire-breath?
On the whole, this anthology adds depth and context to the other books, and I wonder what it might be like to read them in the order in which they happened – that is, read “The Finder” before A Wizard of Earthsea. It might even make the dearth of female characters in those early books even more pronounced by their sudden absence, and a good lead-in to their eventual return. For that reason, I think I like the second half of this hexalogy more than the first, and for something that was never deliberately planned that way, it manages to be beautifully structured, with the manly quests gradually giving way to the subversive rise of the women.
The Other Wind by Ursula le Guin
Here we are, thirty-three years after the publication of A Wizard of Earthsea, at the final book – and this time we can say that for certain, for with le Guin’s passing in 2018, the story is finally, definitively done. And she seemed to acknowledge this in the way the story is told, which made me smile a few times, as there are a few unwritten rules to any final instalment, whether it be a film trilogy, TV show or book series: lots of callbacks to previous stories, no majorly important new themes or ideas, and a chance for all the main characters to come together for one last hurrah. It’s not a million miles away from what you see in Trollhunters: Rise of the Titans (see below) in terms of intent and structure.
But I have to admit, I came in with a few expectations and not all of them were met – specifically, the feminist reckoning that would fulfil the theme of balance that has been seeded since Tehanu’s publication in 1990. Granted, the climax does involve men and women working together to solve a problem, but Tehanu herself was far less central and important than I assumed she’d be, especially after all the mystery and promise of her inherent power.
And a question I thought would 100% be answered (“will women be allowed to study on Roke?”) wasn’t after all.
I also gotta say it was a bit eye-opening that for all intents and purposes, the protagonist of his book is a brand-new male character mourning the loss of his fridged wife, and that the plot is more of a sequel to The Farthest Shore than to Tehanu, in which the characters deal with the grim portrait of death that le Guin established in that prior book, in which the dead are trapped behind a low wall, wandering listlessly for eternity. (It reminded me of certain chapters in The Amber Spyglass, and though it’s probably overstepping to assume anything, I got the sense that le Guin in her advanced years was uneasy about her depiction of death, and so wanted to give her characters a more pleasant afterlife to look forward to).
Sure, the concept of dragons and human beings and their relationship to each other (and to magic) is brought back and forms a crucial part of the story, but I remain a little shocked that Tehanu is not the fully-fledged protagonist of this book. Surely it was her turn to step into the spotlight, especially as she was the subject but not the protagonist of the book named after her.
Alas, we meet Alder, a minor sorcerer who is having dreams of the dead, in which his deceased wife and thousands of others reach for him across the wall that separates life from death, threatening to breach the boundary and enter the living world (shades of Game of Thrones there!) He goes to Ged on Gont for advice, who sends him to Tenar, currently visiting King Lebannon with Tehanu in Havnor, where soon they’re joined by Irian. Yes, all the main characters of previous books are assembling.
They then travel to Roke, and in true le Guin style, things are resolved not through violence or strength, but by communication and pooling resources and working together. It might seem anticlimactic to those used to massive CGI armies lining up to fight each other, but it fits perfectly with le Guin’s modus operandi. Likewise, some might be surprised that Ged sits out this last adventure entirely, but le Guin committed to his loss of magic in The Farthest Shore, and sticks with it.
Now that Ged and Tenar are in their twilight years, I had to smile at all the reminiscent-flavoured callbacks: Ged recalls Ogion and his little otak, as well as Vetch and his little sister with the dragon bracelet (where is Vetch anyway? He’s the only important character who doesn’t appear). Tenar talks about her homeland and the Tombs of Atuan, as well as her adult children (she’s apparently reconciled with Spark, as there’s mention of drinking some of his wine). There’s one last visit to the towers of Havnor, one more to the Immanent Grove, one more to the deserts of the Kargad Lands (at least in another character’s recollection). Lebannon is here too, in a romantic subplot that’s just a tad predictable, in which his arranged bride-to-be turns out to be completely perfect for him after he initially balks at the idea of having a political marriage.
For all the deliberate callbacks, le Guin has restraint, she never delves too deeply into minutia that might destroy any sense of mystery. That Earthsea is up there with Middle Earth, Westeros and Narnia as imaginary worlds beloved by readers, with what feels like far less expository world-building, yet which remains deep and rich and fascinating – that’s a testament to her skill.
Plotwise, all the components lock neatly into place, and though it feels like a goodbye tour at times, it is also contemplative, poignant and beautifully written. Despite a few gaps and lingering questions, it’s a fitting conclusion for a saga that was five decades in the making and a final entry that is already twenty-five years old. Time, it just pounds on.
In all honesty, I have to say that I appreciated rather than enjoyed these books; the characters and premise never really sank into my bones, however much I wanted them to. Yet despite that, I’m glad I took the time to reread them, especially the new editions with Charles Vess’s beautiful illustrations. It feels a little strange that there are only six Earthsea books in all, as it feels like there’s so many more of them – perhaps because the writing of them spanned a lifetime.
His Girl Friday (1940)
Ironically, this was the last of the old-timey films I watched this month, even though it had the earliest release date. And hoo boy, is it a tricky one to unpack. First and foremost: it’s immensely entertaining. Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell bounce off each other like tennis balls, the dialogue is razor-sharp, there’s never a dull moment in the unfurling plot, and it’s truly laugh out loud funny at times – with a few touches of poignancy that hit like a splash of cold water, all the more so thanks to their screwball context.
It’s also a story about how a pathological manipulator completely destroys his ex-wife’s life. Here goes: Hildy Johnson arrives at The Morning Post offices to inform her ex-husband Walter Burns that she’s going to remarry, quit journalism and settle down. He’s having none of it, and immediately starts to sabotage her plans. Over the course of a single day, he successfully gets rid of her fiancé and her future mother-in-law, talked her into returning to her job as a reporter, and is ready to whisk her off on a second honeymoon.
It’s extremely entertaining to watch, and I certainly have no complaints about Hildy rejecting a boring lifestyle to return to an exciting career she clearly loves and is good at, but… well, after all the effort Walter puts into winning her back, the final moments of the film depict him convincing her to take a detour on their honeymoon so he can report on a story, the very thing she had pinpointed as the inciting event that led her to divorce him in the first place. You can see the realization dawn on her face: that he hasn’t changed, and she’s just been tricked into giving up a man who truly adored her. Having gotten what he wanted, Walter immediately starts taking her for granted again.
Now, you could make the argument that on a subconscious level, this is what Hildy wanted. After all, she did not have to tell Walter in person that she was remarrying and she definitely didn’t have to take her fiancé along with her to that meeting. She also clearly thrives when she’s being a reporter, though as in most of these old films, there’s a weird division in the characters’ minds between having a career and “being a woman” (that is, getting married and having babies) as though the two things are completely incompatible.
I always end up feeling desperately sorry for Disposable Fiancés, whose only crime is not being as interesting as the Other Guy, but I was also rather fascinated to realize that this setup actually forms an early example of fandom’s favourite narrative: that the Hot Villain represents the woman’s career ambitions; that he secretly wants to unlock her true potential by freeing her from a doldrum life of domesticity – whether or not this is actually true in canon. You see it applied to all sorts of dark ships in order to give them a feminist edge: Christina/Phantom, Dracula/Mina, Aleksander/Alina, in which the dark male of the love triangle also represents power (at least in the minds of fandom).
Could it be that a part of that pervasive trend had its origins in screwball comedies such as this? Even though I can’t hate the fact Hildy choses a career she loves over domesticity (and a nightmarish mother-in-law) there’s little doubt that Bruce Baldwin would have treated her better than Walter – and she would have gotten to wear the pants in the relationship. It’s actually quite fascinating to see how His Girl Friday operates as a prototype of fandom’s favourite ready-made interpretation of all love triangles involving a psychopath.
And that’s not even getting into the details of the story Walter is covering. A man called Earl Williams who is clearly a bit mentally disturbed is about to be hanged for killing a Black cop because the mayor wants to secure “the coloured vote,” even though Hildy blames the death on a socialist rally at the park that implanted the phrase “production for use” in the man’s mind, leading him to fire the gun. Listen closely and you can hear fandom’s head explode trying to process all this. It’s like a bomb you would throw into a Republican/Democrat convention that’s filled with capital punishment, racism, profiling, mental illness, socialism, the importance and/or corruption of the Fifth Estate, and politicking for profit.
All that’s missing is an abortion, though you could pretend Mollie is pregnant with Earl’s love child before she throws herself out the window, just to check every box.
Look, it’s a screwball comedy. You’re not supposed to take it seriously. By today’s standards, it’s almost daring you not to take it seriously by bringing up profoundly important issues and then stuffing them into a rolltop desk for laughs. It’s hard to know what to make of it all, but at least it was damn funny.
(One last thing: it’s taken me this long to realize that the term Girl Friday not only originates from this film, but that the term itself is a gender-flip of “Man Friday” from Robinson Crusoe. I’m stunned!)
The Maltese Falcon (1941)
This was a return to Humphrey Bogart since I watched this after The Big Sleep (see below), with Mary Astor instead of Lauren Bacall as the female lead. And can I take this opportunity to say that I really dislike the 1940s hairstyles on women? They look so frumpy to me, and I was struggling to see Brigid O’Shaughnessy an iconic Femme Fatale while sporting such grandmotherly hair. Yeah, I know it’s modern bias and personal taste, but I just needed to get that off my chest.
This time around Bogart is approached by a young woman whose sister has run off with a man she wants to get rid of – a story that he quickly sees through, especially after his partner is killed while tailing the man in question. The plot is eventually revealed to revolve around the Maltese Falcon, a classic MacGuffin in the sense that it could be anything as long as the all the characters care enough about it to fight and cheat and kill for it. (This is in comparison to some MacGuffins that have wider thematic importance, like the Ark of the Covenant or the One Ring. The Maltese Falcon does not).
What follows is more murders, plenty of double-crossing, abrupt declarations of love – to be honest, I watched this after The Big Sleep and they’re blurring together in my head a little. The classic scene comes at the end, when the gruff, jaded, cynical detective realizes he’s been betrayed by the woman he loves and so chooses his sense of right and wrong over love and desire (as in Casablanca) by turning her over to the police.
This probably would have hit a lot harder if I believed Brigit’s tearful declarations of love were in any way sincere, and therefore something that Sam truly had to sacrifice for the sake of his moral compass. Make it hurt by making us believe they’re losing something precious, as I can’t buy they’re in love after only about twenty minutes of screentime together. Not to do the thing I’m always telling others not to do (unfavourably comparing female characters with each other) but the better female lead is Sam’s Girl Friday: competent, level-headed, humorous, and clearly someone that he liked and respected.
Ah well, these old movies always get confused when it comes to the endgame pairings. See also: The Woman in White (below), though for very different reasons.
The Lady Eve (1941)
This is a screwball comedy which I found particularly funny since if you were to depict the sheer levels of deception and gaslighting and emotional torture that the titular Eve pours onto poor hapless Charles Pike across the course of this film today, there would be no end to fandom’s pearl clutching.
Basically, dorky young Charles Pike meets a couple of card sharks on an ocean liner bound for New York, and though Eve initially tries to fleece him for all he’s worth, soon falls in love instead. She’s ready to give up her crooked lifestyle for his sake, only for him to discover who she truly is and break it off.
In revenge, she (get this) impersonates an entirely different woman, seduces him in the guise of this woman, gets married to him, and then on their wedding night spins him all sorts of stories about how she’s known plenty of other men before he came along. He stomps off to get an annulment, she realizes she messed up, and so she reverts back to her first identity, with whom he’s all too ready to reignite a relationship with after his romantic tribulations with (as far as he knows) a wanton lookalike.
I mean, they called them screwball comedies for a reason, because this is an insane premise that is not meant to be taken seriously in the slightest. In fact, I suspect this is how Hayes Code-era female characters were able to get away with this sort of behaviour, as it’s not anything any reasonable human being would ever do in real life. As stated, fandom would not be able to handle any of this, from Henry Fonda’s continuous pratfalls and inability to assert himself, to Barbara Stanwyck’s steamrolling manipulation. Amazing stuff.
Laura (1944)
This ended up being my favourite of all the black-and-white films I watched this month, perhaps because I went in with no preconceptions whatsoever. It begins in the midst of a police investigation over the murder of Laura Hunt, a successful advertising executive who was found shot to death at the door of her own apartment. Everyone who knew her has nothing but gushing praise to share: her fiancé, her aunt, her housemaid, her older gentleman friend – even Mark McPherson, the investigator in charge of the case, ends up falling in love with the deceased.
If you don’t know the twist then I won’t give it away, but it’s an entertaining little murder mystery, with a very young Vincent Price playing against type as a superficially charming playboy (at least I think it’s against type, I’m familiar with him only through his later work in horror films). I also recognized Judith Anderson (who was Mrs Danvers in Hitchcock’s Rebecca) while Gene Tierney is lovely and elegant enough to make you believe that so many people could end up obsessed with her, even if we don’t get much in the way of any interiority (which is obviously difficult given she largely appears in flashbacks, from the perspective of other people).
I also saw Tierney in The Ghost and Mrs Muir this month, and was a little shocked to find out afterwards that it was her tragic circumstances that inspired the plot of Agatha Christie’s The Mirror Crack’d From Side to Side. There an actress is approached by an adoring fan who tells her that she once sneaked out of quarantine to meet her, unknowingly leading her to contract rubella during her pregnancy and giving birth to a baby with severe health problems. This is what truly happened to Gene Tierney, though until this film I never realized she was the actress behind the story.
The Big Sleep (1946)
I was looking forward to this one – Humphrey Bogart! Lauren Bacall! Noir classic! – but was relived to discover afterwards that it’s generally considered to have a profoundly confusing and impenetrable plot. Seriously, I’ve no idea what just happened. Bogart is a private investigator (cigarette, check; trenchcoat, check; fedora, check) employed by an aging millionaire who wants him to clear some of his daughter’s debts, though his eldest daughter thinks it might actually have something to do with the mysterious disappearance of his chauffeur. I think.
Here’s a funny anecdote I found out about after watching – at some point during filming, Bogart asked the director who was responsible for killing the chauffeur. Realizing he didn’t know, the director called Raymond Chandler, who wrote the book – who also had no clue. This all made me feel much better about having no idea what the heck was going on. It’s best watched as a series of stylish, well-acted, compelling scenes that may or may not make a lot of sense when strung together, but are fascinating to watch while they’re unfolding right in front of you.
The Ghost and Mrs Muir (1947)
We can thank Tumblr for cluing me in on the existence of this one, as I had noticed a couple of GIF sets and will automatically watch anything in black-and-white that involves ghosts. This is an impossible film to pin down: it’s a comedy, a tragedy, a romance, a supernatural fantasy, a coming-of-age story and so on, in which a young widow who wants to get away from her overbearing in-laws moves into a seaside cottage that’s said to be haunted, along with her daughter and loyal maid.
Soon enough she meets the ghost of a grumpy old sea captain (is there any other kind? Of sea captain, not ghost, that is) and befriends him, transcribing his memoirs in order to earn enough money to keep the house that she loves so much. But during her attempts at publication, she meets the charismatic Miles Fairley, and ponders the opportunity to marry again, even though she clearly has feelings for Captain Daniel Gregg.
It’s a surprisingly poignant story, as the film is aware that although the audience will be rooting for Lucy/Daniel, there’s no actual way for them to be together unless Lucy dies, and because they don’t want a terrible accident to befall their heroine (especially since she’s a mother) she’s allowed to live out a full and happy life. Yes, as in All About Eve (see below), there’s a bit of nonsense about how she’s only living a half-life because there’s no man around, but it doesn’t change the fact she seems to be perfectly happy and content in the interim.
I can’t say the love story between Lucy and the Captain was very convincing (he’s very loud and very crotchety – not particularly attractive qualities) but it’s a surprisingly involving, woman-centric story that was absolutely not what I was excepting from a forties film. I can see why the premise was readapted for an equally popular television series in the late sixties/early seventies.
The Woman in White (1948)
As stated in my thoughts concerning The Maltese Falcon, these old movies often get their romantic pairings round the wrong way. Or do they? I was rather chuffed to discover that this adaptation of the Wilkie Collins’s novel switches up the endgame couple, with Walter having a child with Marian instead of marrying Laura as per the book (though to be blunt, it’s left rather ambiguous – he doesn’t say he’s married to either of them, he declares his love for both of them at different points of the film, and the story ends with them all living happily together in a scene that if filmed today would 100% be implying polyamory).
Laura has always been the more compelling of the two women, a successor to Rebecca of Ivanhoe given her strength and proactivity when compared to her fairer counterpart, but described as incredibly unattractive by the text and therefore disqualified from being a romantic option, which only makes Walter look shallow (and doesn’t make Laura more interesting either).
Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. Based on the novel, which is widely regarded as one of the first detective novels ever written (with a heavy dose of Gothic tropes as well) it is chockful of clichés: a sinister madhouse, suspicious foreigners, old manor houses, and of course, a wraith-like woman running around in white. I’ve never actually read the book cover-to-cover, but this film made for an interesting contrast to the 2018 miniseries.
It contains another immensely convoluted plot (this was certainly a theme for this month) in which a painting teacher is sent to Limmeridge House to tutor the two young ladies living there, only to come across a frightened young woman dressed entirely in white on the road. She clearly wants to impart some sort of warning to the lady of the house, only to disappear into the night when a carriage pulls up, filled with men that are looking for her. Walter covers for her, but is later shocked to discover that one of the ladies he’s to teach is the splitting image of the mysterious woman in white (and is indeed played by the same actress, Eleanor Park, most famously known as the Baroness in The Sound of Music).
I’m afraid I lost track of the plot towards the end, so I’ve no idea what the villains were trying to do or how they were thwarted or how the lookalike Anne Catherick fit into any of it, but I suppose that’s my cue to read the book.
All About Eve (1950)
In which every new viewer finally gets context for: “hold onto your seats, it’s going to be a bumpy night!” I was excited for this one, though in the way of many immortal classis that get raved about, it left me a little cold.
Margo Channing (Bette Davis) is an actress in her forties, feeling her grip on leading roles start to slip through her fingers. It doesn’t occur to her playwright and longtime collaborator Lloyd Richards to start writing older women for his muse, so she’s in a vulnerable place in her life when she meets Eve (Ann Baxter), a young ingenue who worships her. Taking her under her wing as a secretary of sorts, Margo gradually comes to suspect that Eve has ambitions of her own, and that there’s a conniving mind behind that adoring expression.
It’s a juicy setup, and not one that doesn’t deliver – but perhaps I’m just jaded for having grown up on really salacious trash like Cruel Intentions and Teaching Mrs Tingle. This is downright demure in comparison, despite a few yelling matches and Bette Davis doing her thing (“hold onto your seats,” etc). What I ended up appreciating most were the unexpected details. Eve’s attempt to seduce Margo’s partner Bill Simpson is shut down pretty quickly, and so if there’s any love triangle here, it’s between Eve, Margo and Karen Richards (Celeste Holm), wife of Margo’s aforementioned playwright. She’s the one who introduces Eve to Margo in the first place, and later gets caught up in her schemes.
I can’t recall any other story dealing with this type of subject matter (jealousies and rivalries among women, tensions between “womanhood” and career aspirations, fear of aging, doing anything to climb the ladder of success) that involved more than two important female characters – one as the ingenue and the other as the aging star. Snow White and the Evil Queen is the most obvious comparison that comes to mind, but adding a third woman to the mix, one who has admiration and a sense of loyalty to both other women at different points, is a fascinating wrinkle to the formula.
Then there’s the fact that I didn’t really see Eve as a villain – or at least I didn’t hate her as much as the film (or the Hayes Code) clearly wanted me to. Girl knew what she wanted and went for it! Even when she gets her comeuppance, I still felt she mostly got what she wanted out of the whole affair.
Even taking into account the unfairness with which older women are treated in the industry and the terrible pressure upon them to stay young indefinitely, I did feel there was a degree of selfishness to Margo’s commitment to the spotlight, in which she stubbornly refused to make room for the younger generation of upcoming actresses.
Yes, we’re in a patriarchy that values youth and beauty, but at some stage you have to just… you know, get over it. Are you really going to let them dictate your sense of selfhood? Especially when the men you’re trying to impress aren’t worth the effort? (As a young actress sighs when she’s told to make nice with a producer: “why do they always look like unhappy rabbits?”) To her credit, Margo eventually does get over it, though it comes wrapped up in a lesson about how being a woman means a career and womanhood are incompatible:
“Funny business, a woman’s career - the things you drop on your way up the ladder so you can move faster. You forget you'll need them again when you get back to being a woman. That's one career all females have in common, whether we like it or not: being a woman. Sooner or later, we've got to work at it, no matter how many other careers we’ve had...”
What? No, you don’t!
Finally, I had no idea Marilyn Monroe was in this, looking very young and beautiful in one of her first roles, and George Saunders popped up for the second time this month (after The Ghost and Mrs Muir) at his smarmy best.
The Others: Season 1 (2001)
After rewatching Constantine, I was very much in the mood for more supernatural/occult thrillers, which led me back to The Others, a strange little artefact of a show which was cancelled after one season, never became a cult classic, and which possibly had an audience of one single person. That is, me. I’ve never seen anyone online or met anyone in real life that’s ever even heard of this show.
But it fascinated me to no small degree when I was a teen. I couldn’t even tell you how I discovered it or how I ended up with all thirteen episodes recorded on VCR, but I’ve already done a deep-dive back in 2015, so there’s not a whole lot to add.
Marian Kitt is a college student with obvious issues: terrible nightmares, talking in her sleep, free writing, anxious phone calls with her mother, and a fed-up roommate that records her chanting in her sleep. This gets the attention of Professor Miles Ballard, professor of folklore and mythology, who introduces her to the Others, a motley group of psychics who meet regularly to discuss their abilities and experiences.
They are Elmer Greentree, their founding father, Alfred McGonagle, a man blinded in Vietnam who can only see in his visions, Mark Gabriel, an empath and resident at the local hospital, Sitori (or Ellen Pawlowski), a medium and the only one who makes her living as a psychic, Warren Day, an anxiety-ridden man who “reads the signs,” and Miles, who has no abilities of his own, but records all their goings-on.
Marian isn’t too keen on joining them, but you can’t really blame her – Alfred is rude, Warren is weird, Miles is off-putting, Mark is cute but deliberately leads her to an underpass where two children were murdered in order to test her sensitivity, and though Sitori is friendly enough, this was a show that aired in 2000, so there’s an underlying bitchiness to her and Marian’s interactions that never fully goes away. (In truth, I go back and forth on it. Women aren’t automatic besties with every other woman that comes along, and there’s also a solidarity between the two that’s unmistakably due to the fact they’re the only women on the team. Still, most of their tension is due to the fact both have the hots for Mark, who is a veritable Master of the Mixed Message. Dude, just PICK one or else leave them both alone).
Oh, and Elmer introduces himself by grabbing her wrist to get a read on her. Jerks all.
But if Marian doesn’t join, there’s no story, and what follows is a stylish, atmospheric, reasonably engaging series that unfortunately ends on a giant cliffhanger in which most of the characters are seemingly killed. Some of the one-offs aren’t great, but there was a slow-building arc about an entity called “the Unnamed” that was pretty compelling, and will sadly never reach any sort of resolution.
It stars Julianne Nicholson in her youth, who has since gone on to be a well-established actress, as well as Gabriel Macht (best known for Suits) and Kevin J. O’Connor (Beni from The Mummy). Missy Crider has disappeared, and Bill Cobbs and John Alyward have since passed on (both with huge resumes if you check their IMBD pages) while the likes of Zachary Quinto and Gabrielle Union pop up in tiny pre-fame roles. Heck, I realized for the first time during this rewatch that the ghost in the pilot episode is none other than Malin Åkerman (Silk Spectre in Watchmen!)
There was some major talent behind the camera as well, with horror directors such as Bill Condon, Tobe Hooper, Thomas Wright, Tom McLoughlin, and Jake Paltrow (brother of Gwyneth). You may not recognize the names, but you’ve definitely heard of the work. Oh, and Clive Barker also shows up in a cameo role. Yes, that Clive Barker!
All the main characters had a unique way of interacting with “the Other Side,” from Warren’s apophenia to Mark’s empathetic healing abilities, and there was an interesting emphasis on providing logical explanations as to how and why certain occult practices actually worked. For example, Elmer pours lines of salt across his doorstep to keep out evil forces – this practice is used similarly in shows/films like Supernatural and Hocus Pocus, because the magical quality of salt is a “real” bit of folklore. But here, Elmer goes on to explain that because salt comes from the sea, the source of all life, and is used to preserve food, thereby preventing rot and decay, it symbolizes “an incorruptible life,” and so has the ability to repel demonic forces. It was a neat little feature of the show that popped up frequently and gave its supernatural phenomena a grounded quality, in contrast to things like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which never really bothered to explain why crucifixes and garlic and so on had the effect they did on vampires.
What remains opaque is the correct order in which to watch these episodes, as if you take a look at the Wikipedia page, you can see that the production code order is vastly different from the broadcast order – most of the time it doesn’t matter, as many of the episodes are standalone, but there are certain comments made in “Unnamed” which puts it directly on the heels of the pilot episode (such as Marian being reticent about joining the Others) while “Luciferous” also needed to happen quite early on, as in it Marian moves into the apartment that features as her home for the rest of the series.
In New Zealand, “Luciferous” aired at about the halfway mark of the series, right before a long hiatus, one that started at just as the season arc in “The Ones Who Lie in Wait” was about to kick off. For this reason, I’ve seen the episodes in the first half of the season way more times than the latter ones. To this day, I’m not entirely sure how the showrunners intended these episodes to be viewed, though as stated – most of them are standalone.
Along with the usual storylines you’d expect from this sort of show, like the haunted aircraft and the crone who extends her life by spiritually draining others, are ones that take you by surprise, whether it’s due to their quality (“1112” is a poignant meditation on tragedy and grief) or their randomness (in “Don’t Dream It’s Over,” Mark starts time travelling to the Victorian Era in his sleep, where he meets Mary Jane Kelly, the final victim of Jack the Ripper. They fall in love, but the Others are powerless to save her from her historically-ordained fate, and the episode ends with Elmer being unable to offer an explanation as to why any of it happened in the first place. I mean, you’d think the writer could have at least found a way to make the Others the reason Jack never killed again, right?)
But hey, variety is the spice of life – though the show does use the whole “this individual who we assumed was dead is actually still alive” twist no less than three times, and for some reason every cast member gets a character-centric episode to showcase their talent except for poor Kevin J. O’Connor as Warren.
It now stands as a little-known curiosity piece of the noughties, a show which hardly anyone knows about… though I dearly wish someone who was involved would share intel on how it was all meant to conclude.
Outlander: Season 4 (2018 – 2019)
Since I last watched a season of Outlander, the show in its entirety has come to an end. Along with The Handmaid’s Tale and Game of Thrones, it may well be one of the last great shows of the Golden Age of Television, not only in that it was a high-budget prestige drama that ran for multiple seasons over a number of years, but that it was given the chance to end on its own terms (regardless of any waning quality across the seasons).
Like the others, it eventually overtook its source material (though less egregiously than Handmaid’s Tale and Game of Thrones, as Diana Gabraldon has only one more book left to write) and spawned a spin-off (though goodness know how long it’ll take before I get to that). I can’t say I’m a huge fan of the show, as I’m happy to dip in and out of it over long stretches of time, but I can’t deny that whenever I do settle down to watch a season, I’m completely locked in. It’s compelling television all the way through: the plots, the costumes, the performances, the attention to detail and so on.
Sure, its use of rape as a plot device is a lot to stomach, and it’s not even remotely equipped to tackle the subject of American slavery, but a lot of that is down to the source material. Gabraldon’s fixation on rape isn’t a secret, as she started this series in the nineties, and I really can’t overstate how much rape was used as a plot device back then – see also, Clan of the Cave Bear. It was practically a rite of passage for female characters.
As for the treatment of Black characters… you know how stories about gay people who are very sad and then die aren’t actually for gay people, but rather an attempt to stir up empathy among straight audiences? This season has a harrowing episode in which Jamie and Claire rescue a slave from a horrific execution, heal him from his injuries, and then euthanize him to prevent further torture from the mob. Again, it’s a quintessentially nineties storytelling choice, in which the focus is entirely on the white characters their attempt to impart a valuable lesson to white audiences.
Afterwards, the slave characters aren’t returned to in any meaningful way, and later on a supporting white character says: “we’re all here in this New World not because it’s new. These lands are as old as any. It’s only new because there is hope, and hope is at the very heart of love,” which is a pretty rich thing to say on the porch of a plantation house where slaves are quite literally being marched onto the fields in the background of the shot.
Okay, so those problems out of the way, what about the rest? Having washed ashore on the sands of America at the end of the previous season, Jamie and Claire decide to remain in North Carolina, along with Jamie’s nephew Ian, his foster-son Fergus, and Fergus’s wife Marsali. Meanwhile, in the 1970s, their daughter Brianna is attending college and tentatively dating Roger Wakefield – though the two can’t stop squabbling. After Bri learns that her parents were/are killed in a fire at some point in the 1760s, she travels to Scotland and travels through the stone circle to warn them, followed by Roger.
Brianna seems to be the designated female character that fandom viciously hates beyond all reason (every fandom has to have one for some reason), though the season very much belongs to her. Sophie Skelton may not be the stand-out performer of the ensemble, but she’s hardly the weak link either, and I mostly enjoyed her storyline – not withstanding the fact it hinges on a rape, though at least this one isn’t as horrendous as it apparently plays out in the novel, and mostly occurs offscreen.
Conversely, Roger made me want to wring his neck more than once, but is played by Richard Rankin, who is easily the best actor of the show. David Berry returns as John Grey (giving Jamie the chance to reunite with his illegitimate son) as does Duncan Lacroix as Murtagh (who gets a very weighty reintroduction, which was a little confusing to me as I’d completely forgotten who this character was). Fergus and Marsali are sadly underused this season, though John Bell is adorable as Young Ian.
Brianna starting her journey in Scotland meant we could catch up with the likes of Ian Murray and Laoghaire (no Jenny unfortunately – it’s probable that Laura Donnelly was already engaged on The Nevers, but she’s sorely missed) and even Tobias Menzies as Frank in Brianna’s flashbacks – which includes the very interesting titbit that he knew Claire would eventually return to Jamie thanks to an old newspaper clipping. That puts some of his previous behaviour into perspective.
Billy Boyd of all people turns up for a small one-episode role, and though I’m usually delighted to see Marie Doyle Kennedy, it’s hard to stomach her as a wealthy slave owner, especially once the show starts insisting she’s one of the “nice” ones who treats her property “like family.” Gimme a break. She’s also part of the season’s most baffling subplot, in which she tries to get Brianna hitched so that she doesn’t have her child out of wedlock, but by this point she’s already showing, so it’s a bit late to try and pass off the baby as anyone else’s. Why not just say her husband is away and that she has to remain in seclusion? This part was just silly.
Still, the show does use her to establish some details about Jamie’s mother Ellen, which I’ll be curious to see if they keep consistent in the prequel (if I manage to remember them by the time I get around to watching it). That only leaves Ed Speleers as Stephen Bonnet, the show’s replacement for Black Jack Randall, who is just as repulsive but without the je ne sais quoi that Tobias Menzies brought to his character. Oh, and a surprise cameo from George Washington! That was fun.
As the season advances there’s a gradual drawing together of characters, and despite its flaws it’s all so rich and vibrant and immersive – even when the story gets a bit predictable (all the beats of Brianna’s baby drama and the contrivances along the way are telegraphed well in advance). You’ll be unsurprised to learn I’m mostly interested in the time travelling aspects of the show, and I was very excited to see a neolithic stone circle in America and another time traveller who used them and appears to Claire as a ghost.
In fact, that’s another thing that bugs me about this story: that travellers such as Geillis and Otter Tooth are far more interesting than the likes of Claire. They come back with a purpose and a plan, in an attempt to change the past for the better, while she just fell through accidentally and has no interest in what’s happening around her beyond being with the man she loves. Her complete lack of curiosity over the stones and how they work drives me nuts – I’d be researching them like mad! Granted, they’ve established pretty definitively that the past cannot be changed, but I hope the show (or Gabraldon) will eventually do something interesting with the reality of time travel, and not just use it as a mere narrative device.
DuckTales: Season 3 (2020 – 2021)
The original series felt like it ran the duration of my entire childhood, so I was rather shocked to hear this reboot was ending after only three seasons, without spawning any spin-offs despite the many episodes operating as what felt like Backdoor Pilots. Alas, all we get are cameos of characters from all those Disney cartoons that nineties kids grew up with: Darkwing Duck, Rescue Rangers, Talespin, Bonkers (though for whatever reason, I never watched Bonkers).
The storylines are as zany as always: a range of adventures to collect priceless artefacts from across the world, and the occasional run-in with the shadowy conspiracy known as F.O.W.L., led by Bradford Buzzard, a villain with rather interesting motivation – not to take over the world or wreck vengeance on his enemies (and mercifully, no left-coded desire to destroy all billionaires, since this show is blatantly uncomfortable with its main character having a giant money bin) but rather an attempt to make the world safer by bringing all adventures to an end. He’s one of those villains that honestly believes he’s doing the right thing, and in many ways, he kind of has a point. There is a lot of child endangerment in this show.
Along the way, there are Easter eggs galore, from the large and obvious (a double-length episode that returns to the exploits of Darkwing Duck) to the slight (the Rescue Rangers appear in a silent cameo; Keith David voices a winged statue that comes to life) to the downright obscure (the Fluppy Dogs get a shoutout! I may be the only child alive who watched that show, and the only adult who knew just who the hell these guys were).
Yes, there’s a lot of fanservice, but it’s largely done for the fun of it, and I have to admit seeing some familiar cartoon faces from my childhood was an unexpected delight. Kit Cloudkicker and Molly Cunningham as young adults nearly brought a tear to my eye, and while watching the Darkwing Duck episode I found myself missing Gosalyn – about two seconds before she appeared! She was such a great character, a total antidote to the original Webbigail over on DuckTales, that it’s a shame she only had limited appearances after that. Dang it, do I have to go back and watch the original Darkwing Duck now?
In any case, this must be what MCU fans felt watching Spiderman: Brand New Day when a completely different spunky redhead from an adjacent IP appeared.
It’s been a while since I watched the first two season of this show, so I’ve no idea why the butler is a ghost or why there’s a statue of a horse with Scrooge’s head on it (I mean, I know there’s a reason, but I’ve totally forgotten what it is) and like I said, it’s amusing that the showrunners are clearly uncomfortable with the fact that Scrooge is a billionaire. There’s very little coverage of the money bin, with the focus almost exclusively on adventuring and treasure-collecting (with the assorted artefacts inevitably used as Chekhov Guns for later episodes). I also love that the McDuck mansion is rather dilapidated.
Also, the voice cast is WILD. The big one is of course David Tennant as Scrooge, but among the guest stars are Catherine Tate, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Marc Evan Jackson, Julie Bowen, Jameela Jamil, Jennifer Hale, Allison Janney, Jim Cummings (reprising his role as Darkwing Duck from the nineties), Nia Vardalos, John DiMaggio, Cree Summer, Giancarlo Esposito, Ashley Jensen, Grey DeLisle, Don Cheadle, Stephanie Beatriz, Michelle Gomez, Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa, Tara Strong, Martin Freeman, Kristofer Hivju, Jason Marsden, Nestor Carbonell, BD Wong, Doug Jones, Bebe Neuwirth, Hugh Bonneville, Clancy Brown, Stephen Root, Selma Blair, James Marsters (as a vampire!) and the aforementioned Keith David – and honestly, I’ve probably only scratched the surface of who turns up in this thing.
Other than that, I just really enjoy the little details strewn throughout, like how they added Della Duck to the opening titles, or occasionally switch up the theme song so it sounds spooky for Halloween or festive for Christmas. And apparently, there’s still plenty more of this show to enjoy: lots of little short films, specials and even a podcast! But most of all I loved what they did for the end credits of the very last episode. See for yourself:
Hilda and the Mountain King (2021)
I was under the impression this movie-length special was the final Hilda story, though apparently there’s a third season out on Netflix. That it exists at all is a minor miracle – this show is so calming, so quirky, so unlike the frenetic cartoons usually aimed at children of this age range, one more interested in establishing a vibe than presenting fast-paced action-adventures in which something is happening every single second (not that there aren’t any adventures though, they’re just rather more thoughtful in nature).
The show is based on Luke Pearson’s graphic novels, with several episodes based directly on his storylines. However, most of the episodes are completely original, as there simply aren’t enough graphic novels to sustain a whole season of television. I rather like that – fealty to the source material, but also the ability to combine Pearson’s work with brand-new stories. It gives the whole thing a blend of freshness and familiarity (for those that have read the graphic novels, that is). This one in particular is based on Pearson’s book of the same name, and follows it quite closely if my memory is correct.
The second season ended with Hilda waking up in the body of a troll-child in the caves on the outskirts of Trolberg – while a little troll wakes up in Hilda’s bed, and that’s precisely where this story picks up. It turns out a troll mother has magically switched their places, as she’s concerned for her child’s safety and eager to show Hilda the truth about these much-feared creatures by getting them up close and personal.
The plot is neatly divided into two: one in which Hilda begins to enjoy life as a troll, and one in which her mother desperately searches for her missing child – especially once the townsfolk begin to muster forces against the trolls. Though it doesn’t go full le Guin in the resolution of the conflict (the story can’t resist one out-and-out villain), it remains very Studio Ghibli not only in vibes and whimsy, but in finding a peaceable solution to the problem.
I can’t wait for my niece to be old enough to watch this; everything from the animation to the voice acting to the musical score come together to capture a very precise aesthetic: dreamy and gentle and imaginative.
Trollhunters: Rise of the Titans (2021)
Going into this film, which I knew virtually nothing about, I had an inkling that the fanbase was deeply disappointed in it. This confused me a little, as it starts off as everything you could expect from a last big, bombastic, crossover Grand Finale event.
It’s the full-length movie that serves as a conclusion to the Tales of Arcadia, a franchise made up of three different but interconnected shows: Trollhunters, 3Below and Wizards of Arcadia – that last one leading straight into the events of this film, with three great titans raised by the Arcane Order, in order to do what all nefarious sorcerers do: destroy the world.
Only our assortment of heroes can stop them: protagonist Jim Lake, the Trollhunter, his best friend Toby and girlfriend Claire, Aja and Krel, two royal aliens who crash-landed on earth, and Douxie, Merlin’s temporally displaced apprentice, along with an array of other allies and friends. The plot is pretty simple: stop the titans from converging at Arcadia Oaks, the centre of the universe, where they plan to destroy and then recreate the world.
For most of the film’s runtime, it’s a great edge-of-your seat adventure across the globe, as all the characters pool their resources, call on their reserves of strength, and gear up for the big Avengers-style team-up showdown. The only bizarre note is Steve, a character who has gone through a similar bully-to-decent-guy arc as that other Steve from Stranger Things, who is here reduced to bizarre comic relief when he ends up (and I swear I’m not making this up) pregnant with Aja’s children, giving birth to them by the end of the story.
He’s just a teenager by the way, and gets pregnant by kissing her for the seventh time, which is apparently how her species procreate, and which she completely forgot to mention to him. It’s just so, so weird, all the more so for what happens in the last five minutes of the film…
During the final stand, during our heroes’ last-ditch attempt to take down the third titan, Toby ends up mortally wounded, managing a touching goodbye to Jim before dying. Grief-stricken, Jim picks up the film’s MacGuffin and uses it to go back in time to reverse the damage.
Now, we’ve seen this device in everything from Harry Potter to Galaxy Quest to Days of Future Past. No big deal, right? Except that Jim doesn’t just go back five minutes in order to save Toby’s life – he goes all the way back to the beginning of the show’s very first episode in order to ensure it’s Toby and not himself that finds the amulet and becomes the Trollhunter. Putting aside the fact it’s unclear how this is meant to save Toby’s life, as it just puts him in considerably more danger than he was in the first timeline, the more egregious narrative crime is that Jim has erased everything we’ve just seen, not only in the film, but in all four combined seasons of Trollhunters and Wizards of Arcadia. (I suppose 3Below may have played out the same way, since Jim wasn’t involved in the events of that show).
Just let that sink in. Everything we’ve been watching for the past five years NEVER HAPPENED. It’s erased entirely! This has to be up there with Marian’s murder, Xena’s beheading and Luke’s portrayal as a curmudgeonly hermit as one of the most baffling creative decisions ever made. Because the kicker is that in those aforementioned stories (Prisoner of Azkaban, Galaxy Quest, Days of Future Past) we actually get to SEE the hero fix the timeline, making a whole new adventure out of the experience. But here it just ends with Toby finding the amulet.
If they wanted to reset the entire story with Toby as the Trollhunter instead of Jim, then why didn’t they just tell that story in the first place, instead of shoving it into the last five minutes of the entire show?!
It also renders Steve’s pregnancy even more bizarre, as those kids don’t exist anymore and given that everyone is now on a brand-new timeline, perhaps never will. I’m still a bit shocked to be honest, that they pushed the reset button and then promptly rolled the credits. A better ending would have been to respect the choices made by the dead and honour their sacrifices, like the adults they were supposed to be growing into.
It’s a damn shame because I was really enjoying myself up until that point. Great action, vibrant colours, beautiful visuals, one last hurrah to spend time with all these characters – and then that ending. Baffling.
The Owl House: Season 3 (2022 – 2023)
There’s only one thing worse than a prematurely cancelled show, and that’s a show which gets hurriedly wrapped up with a few specials or a truncated season. Nancy Drew, Sense8, The Umbrella Academy – we’re meant to be grateful we at least got an ending, though it’s frustrating and disappointing in a whole different way.
It’s been so long since I watched the second season of The Owl House that I was shaky on some of the details, and I get the feeling that vast swathes of Dana Terrace’s original plan had to be restructured or abandoned entirely in order to fit a coherent story into the three movie-length specials that Disney deigned to give her. For instance, it’s obvious that amateur witch hunter Jacob Hopkins was meant to have a much larger role to play, and I recall a sense of mystery surrounding Isabella Rossellini’s character, the Bat Queen, which goes completely unexplored and unremarked upon here.
Even the end credits are chock-full of scenes that hurriedly wrap-up all sorts of dangling plot-points. Again, in this cancel-happy nightmare we find ourselves in, we’re meant to be grateful that we got this level of closure, but you can’t help but think of what might have been if a studio could just (shock horror!) commit to the telling of a damn story.
Luz and her friends have escaped the Boiling Isles, but are desperate to get back in order to help Eda and King, not only in avoiding the cruelty of Emperor Belos, but the childish amorality of the Collector, a cosmic entity that just wants to play… with real-life beings as his playthings. It’s a pretty complicated story, and one day I’ll definitely sit down to watch the whole thing from start to finish in order to properly appreciate its twists and turns. A recurring theme of these blog entries is my increasing inability to retain details about the things I watch, especially when there are years-long hiatuses between seasons.
Until then, it was worth watching for Luz Noceda, a protagonist with genuine heart. She’s kind, open-minded, and an unabashed fangirl of the things she loves. This enthusiasm just spills out of her, informing her relationships with the denizens of the Boiling Isles, her growing mastery of her magical abilities, and her optimistic outlook on the world. Even if her story was cut short, she was a shining light throughout.
Another wonderful detail is that Eda and the titular Owl House are clearly based on the stories of Baba Yaga and her mobile house (chicken legs and all) and it makes a great change to have an important female character in a central role who is clearly in advanced middle age. And as always, the animation is consistently beautiful. In these days of washed-out filters, animation feels like the only medium in which you can find real vibrancy and colour.
I also took the opportunity to watch the “Owl Pellets” that were released alongside the show’s first season – that is, the six (very) short films that shed light on what day-to-day life in the Owl House was like, and a few “behind the scenes” shorts which were just two owls commenting on the show and drawing the viewer’s attention to some of the more pertinent details in each episode.
X-Men ’97: Season 2 (2026)
Too-long hiatus strikes again. The first season of this show had everyone buzzing, the second… well, I’ve yet to see anyone talking about it. A two-year wait for nine measly episodes is just not sustainable television.
This picks up where the last season’s finale ended: the X-Men team split up and thrown across time. Magneto, Xavier, Beast, Rogue, and Nightcrawler are sent to the past, while Wolverine, Storm, Morph, Cyclops, and Jean are sent to the future. Jubilee and Sunspot stay in the present day (that is, the nineties) and join X-Force, all in a bid to try and stop Apocalypse from ever seizing power.
Time travel in comic book related stuff has always been a convoluted affair, and this is no exception. After all, if Magneto and Xavier’s team is successful in preventing En Sabah Nur from ever becoming Apocalypse in the first place, why bother with sending Scott and Jean to the far-flung future? If the first team is successful (they’re inevitably not), then there’s no need for the second team to train Nathan against Apocalypse at all.
It gets even stranger about the halfway mark, when everyone has reunited in the nineties: to no one’s surprise, Gambit ends up being on of Apocalypse’s Horsemen, but in a truly bizarre narrative choice, he kills Apocalypse, off-screen, and becomes for all intents and purposes the Big Bad of the season. Having written themselves into something of a corner, the show then has to pull a Deus ex Machina to get their characters out again: enter the Celestials (last seen in live-action in The Eternals) to imbue Rogue with the power she needs to save the man she loves. And after putting a significant amount of time into grieving Gambit, everyone adapts to the idea of him being back pretty damn quickly. I guess they’re used to it with Jean around.
Still, that’s the big problem with this show: so much happens in such a short amount of time, involving dozens and dozens of characters and no downtime whatsoever. You can’t ever accuse it of being boring, but let it breathe for goodness’ sake. I half wish that the season finale had been the X-Men realizing Gambit was back, then the entire third season would have given them time to grapple with this fact and the reality of what he’s turned into (and what they’re going to do about it).
Still, the animation is gorgeous, which is unsurprising since it was done by Studio Mir, most famous for its work on Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra. On the downside, the dialogue isn’t quite as sharp this time around, though that’s only in comparison to the first season, in which every second line was an absolute banger. Nothing sticks out as much here, though we do finally get a set-piece for Jubilee, in which she busts herself and other mutants out of prison in a fantastic fight scene that demonstrates her skills and smarts. She’s come a long way since we first saw her back in the nineties cartoon.
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