I’ve been gone for a bit because I quite intentionally sealed myself into a near-complete media cocoon last week in order to avoid spoilers for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Once it became clear that what appeared to be a legitimate copy of the book had leaked, it seemed I was left with only three options:

1. Risk being spoiled.

2. Track down one of the leaked copies and read it. I’d feel no guilt about this, since I had already paid full cover price for my pre-order at a local bookstore. But there were two problems with this approach: First, there was no guarantee this was actually a legitimate copy. Second, I really wanted the experience of curling up with the tome, just as I had done with every previous volume in the series. Not only was it a matter of sentimentality and nostalgia and comfort, but also the magical ineffability of simultaneously sitting down with millions of other people around the world and beginning to read a common story…

3. I could stop perusing the web, watching television, reading the newspaper, and — in all other ways — seal myself off from all the likely avenues of spoilerage. I still came very close to still having it spoiled, as a friend of mine (infamous for her ability to spoil something even after you’ve asked her specifically not to) began babbling away at the release party about what she’d read in the New York Times review of the book. But fortunately I bludgeoned her unconscious in time and hid her behind the bookstore’s dumpster.

(I, personally, don’t care that the New York Times “prematurely” reviewed the book. If you don’t want to be spoiled by the contents of a review, then don’t read the review. If you’ve got such poor impulse control that you can’t resist seeking out and reading spoilers even if you don’t truly want the consequences of having read them, then that’s your problem and not the Times. And if you’re just concerned because somebody out there is being spoiled when you feel that they shouldn’t be… well, you’ve simply got too much time on your hands.)

So what did I think of it?

I thought it was excellent. It is one of the best, if not the single best, novel in the entire series — joining the third, fifth, and sixth books in the ever-shifting kaleidoscopic brawl in my mind for that distinction. It is tightly plotted, tautly paced, and utterly satisfying.

It’s also clear that Rowling — who was already a mighty fine writer indeed when she wrote the first book — continues to improve with every passing year. While it is unlikely that the lightning-scar of Harry Potter shall strike twice in the same spot (or at all, for that matter), I’m eagerly anticipating Rowling’s next project. I am completely fascinated by the prospect of what she might attempt next.

At some point in the next few days I shall probably post a spoilerrific reaction to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, giving me a chance to expound on many things I found admirable in the book. I doubt it will be able to expound on everything I found admirable in it, because the book is far too complex, layered, and rewarding for any single essay to completely explore its many excellencies. But I’ll give it my best shot.

After spending yesterday tearing apart the numerous shortcomings of the first four Harry Potter movies, I simply have this to say about Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix:

This is the Harry Potter movie I’ve been waiting for.

It’s the first Harry Potter film to truly work as a film. David Yates and Michael Goldenberg are to be congratulated on truly adapting the book to the screen — not just offering a visual rendition of favorite scenes, but identifying the core elements of the book’s plot and finding a way to capture those elements and that plot in a visual medium. Scenes are re-purposed and multi-purposed; characters are conflated; sequences of events are shuffled; long scenes from the book are transformed into a single, potent visual image that tells you everything you need to know (a picture really can be worth a thousand words) — but what they ultimately accomplish is not only the most powerful and effective film to date, but also the most faithful of the films to date (insofar as it captures more than just the visuals of the book, it also captures the plot and themes of the book).

I was also impressed by the extent to which Yates and Goldenberg were able to repair some of the damage done to the continuity of the franchise by the third and fourth films. The third and, particularly, the fourth films had so thoroughly dropped the ball in establishing certain points of factual and character continuity (and even the second film’s abject failure to establish Ginny as a notable character can be counted as such as a failure) that maters had reached a critical point where essential foundation material had not been laid for later films. Yates and Goldenberg managed to repair a lot of the damage done, allowing Yates to not only succeed with this film, but to lay the groundwork for a more powerful and effective sixth film.

Having seen Goldenberg’s success here, I consider it very unfortunate that Steve Kloves (who adapted the first four films) will be returning for the sixth film. But, on the other hand, Yates is also scheduled for a return with Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so — for the first time in a long time — I’ll actually be looking forward to a new Harry Potter movies.

This evening I’ll be heading out with a pack of my friends to watch the fifth Harry Potter movie: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. As a certifiable geek, I have the feeling that I should be more excited about this, but that’s just not happening. For stuff that actually excites me, I’m a midnight-showing type of geek, willing to stay up into the wee hours of the morning to see the next highly-anticipated visual feast of speculative fiction. But I wouldn’t even be seeing Order of the Phoenix on opening day if it wasn’t for one of my friends putting together the plans.

And the problem here isn’t Harry Potter. I’m already planning for an afternoon siesta on July 20th and am in the middle of re-reading the entire series in anticipation of picking up Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows at a midnight release party and then devouring it before collapsing into bed late on Saturday.

The problem are the Harry Potter movies, which I have not, as a general rule, truly enjoyed. And nothing about Order of the Phoenix has raised my expectations in the slightest. Like Goblet of Fire, they are attempting to cram a rather lengthy novel into a relatively short running time. And they have hired an essentially completely unknown director whose career consists of six feature films directed over the course of nearly two decades and a handful of BBC mini-series. I’m not going to judge David Yates sight-unseen, but his resume is hardly something designed to get the blood pumping. (On the other hand, if he knocks this film out of the park then I will be anticipating Half-Blood Prince, since he’s already been contracted to direct that one.)

(And, actually, I need to slightly revise this statement: Having just checked IMDB for David Yates’ credits, I finally noticed that the author of the screenplay has changed for this film. Although IMDB claims that Steve Kloves, who adapted the first four books, will be returning for the next two, this particular film is credited to Michael Goldenberg. Goldenberg has a very short list of credits, but they include the 2003 Peter Pan and Contact, both of which were really great adaptations. So now I have at least some small glimmer of hope for this film.)

But why have I not enjoyed the previous Harry Potter films? Although their flaws have been varied, not one of these films has truly raised itself above the level of mediocrity.

HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER’S STONE: Where Chris Columbus succeeded with this film was in his absolutely pitch-perfect ability to capture individual scenes, settings, and characters. The film was not only visually gorgeous, but showed such fidelity to the books that any fan could instantly pick out and appreciate their favorite scenes. The casting not only assembled an admirable cadre of child stars, but packed the film full of the most extraordinary talents imaginable while still finding the absolute perfect fits for essentially every character. The film may not always match the images my own imagination conjures forth while reading the book (such a task, of course, being impossible), but there is not a single moment where it is untrue to the book.

The problem, unfortunately, is that while the film captures every individual scenes with near-perfection, the individual scenes don’t necessarily tie together with the same careful, precise plotting which is one of Rowling’s primary strength as an author. As a book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is a truly masterful mystery story. Harry, Hermione, and Ron are surrounded by numerous enigmas, which they attempt to unravel with the true curiosity of children through a haze of clues, red herrings, and deductions both false and true. In the end, all of these enigmas resolve themselves into a single, masterful solution.

As a movie, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is a collection of favorite scenes, featuring characters who stumble from one favorite scene to the next with little in the way of the connecting tissue which constitutes the actual plot. As such, it ends up being something of a visual Cliff Notes.

Now, all of that being said, I like Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I love the books, and watching such beautiful visual renditions of some of my favorite scenes is an enjoyable way to spend a couple of hours — much like looking through a book of Alan Lee Lord of the Rings paintings. But there is a fundamental failure here insofar as the film should be a film in its own right, not merely a visual Best Of list.

HARRY POTTER AND THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS: My opinion of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets is essentially identical to my opinion of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Chris Columbus brings the same strengths and weaknesses to the table for this film as he did for the first.

In some ways, though, watching Chamber of Secrets is more frustrating for me because, in this case, they came so agonizingly close to restoring those ligaments of the plot which were missing. To take one isolated example, the film actually shows Hagrid holding a dead rooster. Later there is a completely bungled piece of editing in which an insert shot focuses on the rooster-hating properties of basilisks, but then has Harry repeat the same piece of information he had mentioned less than a minute before. An extra thirty seconds of film (which was almost certainly shot) could have fundamentally restored that most important property of mystery stories: The weaving together of multiple clues to reach a singular conclusion.

Chamber of Secrets also has another key bungle: When Harry first hears the murderous voice of the basilisk in the film, the first thing he does is press his ear up against the wall to hear it more clearly. In the book, the realization that Harry is not hearing a disembodied voice, but rather a voice traveling through the walls, is one of the key insights which allows Hermione to solve the mystery. By ham-handedly revealing this piece of information almost instantaneously, the film not only disrupts its own narrative structure, but removes some of the mystery surrounding the voice.

On the other hand, the film does make one significant alteration which fixes what I consider to be a bungling by Rowling herself.

When I first read the books, Chamber of Secrets was probably my least favorite of the series. This was in large part due to what I considered the entirely unsatisfactory nature of the book’s conclusion, which goes something like this:

–Harry, bitten by the basilisk in its death throes, is dying from its poison.

TOM RIDDLE: Ha, ha! You’re dying Harry! I shall stand hear and gloat! Even your phoenix is crying for you!

–The phoenix’s tears heal Harry’s wound.

TOM RIDDLE: Oh yeah, phoenix tears heal wounds. I’ve suddenly gone from being a cunning villain to being an ignorant prat. Well, allow me to monologue some more about how doomed you are, Harry Potter! You are doomed! Doomed! Doom– Hey, what are you doing?

–Harry stabs the diary. Tom Riddle dies.

There is a game called Before I Kill Your, Mister Bond… which makes fun of the propensity for Bond villains to monologue about their evil plans just long enough for James Bond to escape and destroy them. If you’ve seen the first Austin Powers movie, you’ll see the same joke.

Now, villainous monologuing can certainly work if its handled properly. Rowling herself does a masterful job of it when Voldemort returns in Goblet of Fire: Voldemort not only needs to destroy Harry, he needs his followers to see him destroy and ridicule Harry. He’s trying to eliminate any doubt that Harry was ever a true threat to him, and re-establish the fear and awe which are the foundations of his power. The plan, of course, backfires when Harry survives. But the result is a strongly-motivated and powerful scene.

The problem in Chamber of Secrets is that Tom Riddle never stops monologuing. His first session of monologuing, which actually takes place before the basilisk fight, makes sense: He’s revealing his true nature to Harry, but he’s doing it because he wants to understand how Harry was responsible for Voldemort’s destruction (so that he can avoid repeating the same mistakes). Once he’s got that information, he immediately unleashes the basilisk to kill Harry. (Which, if we assume Tom Riddle does not yet know the killing-curse, is probably the quickest and most expedient way of killing Harry.)

But after the basilisk fight, Tom Riddle returns to his villainous monologuing not once, but twice.

VILLAIN: Before I kill you, Mr. Bond, allow me to explain my entire nefarious scheme for conquering–

–James Bond escapes and destroys half of the villain’s base before being recaptured.

VILLAIN: Now that I have recaptured you, Mr. Bond, allow me to explain my entire nefarious scheme for conquering–

–James Bond escapes again and destroys the other half of the villain’s base.

The problem is that it makes Tom Riddle look like a complete schmuck. And, since he forgets a basic property of phoenix tears, it makes him look like a stupid and completely ineffectual schmuck.

Long story short (too late), it makes for an entirely unsatisfactory conclusion to the book. (Particularly with the deus ex machina of Fawkes, the Sorting Hat, and Gryffindor’s sword.) And, in combination with the relative ease with which Voldemort was dispatched in the first book, did much to reduce Riddle’s status as a Dark Lord. (He came across as the type of “Dark Lord” that actual Dark Lords like to make fun of.) It’s to Rowling’s credit that she has thoroughly managed to rehabilitate him over the course of the subsequent books.

Which brings me, ultimately, back to the film which does a brilliant job of fixing this sequence. In the film we get:

–Harry, bitten by the basilisk in its death throes, is dying from its poison.

TOM RIDDLE: Ha, ha! You’re dying Harry! I shall stand hear and gloat!

–As a final, valiant act, Harry stabs the diary and Tom Riddle dies.

–Ginny wakes up and Harry, in a heart-touching moment, tries to get her to leave him so that she doesn’t watch him die.

–The phoenix flies to Harry and her tears heal Harry’s wound.

Brilliant. Tom Riddle gloating over a helpless and dying Harry is perfectly in keeping with his character. Simply failing to anticipate Harry using the basilisk fang as a weapon against the diary is a very different and much more acceptable type of error compared to Riddle literally providing the exposition of his own stupidity when it comes to the healing properties of phoenix tears. And, on top of that, you get a truly brilliant, albeit brief, scene between Harry and Ginny.

So, on the strength of that correction, I think I shall say that I prefer Chamber of Secrets to Sorcerer’s Stone, although it’s a close thing.

HARRY POTTER AND THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN: The third Harry Potter film was, of course, a departure from the previous two, featuring the talents of Alfonso Cuarón (more lately of Children of Men fame). This is, in my opinion, the strongest of the Harry Potter films to date because, in short, it is the only film which actually succeeds as a film. Most notably it features a plot with not only a true beginning, middle, and end, but with the complications and rich texturing which make a plot something more than simply “A happens and then B happens and then C happens”.

On the other hand, Prisoner of Azkaban fails to evoke the same visual beauty and fidelity of the first two films. Instead of capturing the heart of Rowling’s work, Cuarón brought his own sensibilities to the tale. This is not necessarily the worst thing for a director to do when adapting a book to the screen, but in an ideal world I would prefer to see Columbus’ ability to capture the spirit of Rowling’s work paired with Azkaban’s willingness to restructure the plot in order to make the story truly work on the big screen.

I’m also faced with minor frustrations in Prisoner of Azkaban, much like I was in Chamber of Secrets, in places where I can see that spending an extra 30 seconds could have much improved the structure of the film. The thing that stands out most clearly in my mind is the failure to explain the meaning of “Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail”. Less than 30 seconds of dialogue explaining that could have tied together the Marauder’s Map, revealed important elements of the backstory (not only for this film, but for later films), and explained the significance of Harry’s patronus.

On the balance, I enjoy Prisoner of Azkaban, though. As I said, it’s probably my favorite of the films to date. So why do I still describe it as, ultimately, a mediocrity? Well, simply compare it to Cuarón’s Children of Men or The Fellowship of the Rings. It’s an enjoyable film, but if it wasn’t a Harry Potter film we would scarcely remember it at three years distance.

HARRY POTTER AND THE GOBLET OF FIRE: This film is a complete disaster.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is actually one of my motivations for writing out this lengthy essay. I saw the film once in the theater and was completely turned off by its complete, utter, and unmitigated failure: It failed as an adaptation. It failed as a film. It failed as entertainment. It just… failed.

Nonetheless, driven by my completist collectorism, I ended up picking up a cheap used copy at Blockbuster a couple of months ago. Last night, in anticipation of Order of the Phoenix, I decided to rewatch it. I only got halfway through it before shutting off the DVD player, and I had only endured that long because there was some intellectual curiosity to be satisfied in picking apart the film’s many failings. It’s been a long time since I was subjected to such utter drek.

Even more than the first two films, Goblet of Fire assumes that you have already read the books. The film is essentially gobbledygook to anyone who doesn’t already know what’s going on.

For example, early in the film the director pans across a large field and ends on a lingering glory short of a moldy old boot while the music crescendos in a cascade of awe. The shot is completely meaningless unless you’ve read the book and already know that the boot is a portkey (and, even then, the awe in which this particular portkey is held is bizarrely inexplicable). A little later, after building up to the Quidditch World Cup, the film inexplicably skips the entire match in a jarring jump-cut.

These are just two small examples, but the entire film is done in essentially the same manner: The director shouts, “REMEMBER THIS BIT? DO YOU? DO YOU?! DO YOU?!?!” And then jump-cuts to the next bit.

Nor can one simply enjoy the film as an eclectic collection of the Best Bits From the Book because the film is filled with endless and pointless alterations. Now, I’m not a purist about such things. As the rest of this essay suggests, I actually want a film to make changes to the material it’s adapting so that it can become an effective film in its own right. (As another example, I thought Jackson’s handling of Arwen in The Fellowship of the Ring was a masterful example of how to handle an insightful, yet faithful, adaptation.)

But if you’re going to change something, there had better be a reason for changing it. In other words, the change should make for a better film than if you hadn’t made the change. If it doesn’t, why are you making the change?

Perhaps the most inexplicable change in Goblet of Fire is the constant rewriting of the dialogue. Rowling’s dialogue is repeatedly replaced with trite, banal, cliche-ridden filler. And even when Rowling’s words are preserved, they are often shuffled in a seemingly random fashion until they’ve been rendered into utter nonsense.

For example, there’s a point where Professor Moody says to Neville that “Professor Sprout tells me your quite good at Herbology”. In the book, Moody is saying this specifically to reassure Neville after has been shaken by seeing the cruciatus curse in class. In the movie, however, this line of dialogue is nonsensically and jarringly moved to a much earlier point in the conversation, before the curse has even been performed. As a result, it serves no purpose at all — its just Moody saying something completely at random.

And the film’s failure as an adaptation only scratches the surface here. The director, Mike Newell, is a complete hack in this film. (Which I found surprising, given how much I enjoyed his work on Donnie Brasco.) The camera spins and twirls and rushes about with wild abandon, but it never seems to find a compelling visual frame. And every so often, Newell will pan quite randomly off the main action in order to show us a secondary character sitting or standing nearby… doing absolutely nothing and, frequently, barely reacting to what’s happening. Newell particularly likes to end scenes this way, which only contributes to the herky-jerky feeling of the film, with scene after scene ending on an awkward and inexplicable visual note.

HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX: So, when it comes to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, my hopes are not high. None of the films have truly excelled, and Goblet of Fire — with which Order of the Phoenix has the most in common (long book to short film, unproven director, and so forth) — was a complete train wreck.

But, ultimately, I’ve got my fingers crossed. Because, like I say, if I enjoy Order of the Phoenix there’s a strong chance that Half-Blood Prince will be good, as well. On the other hand, if Order of the Phoenix is a disaster, there’s little chance that I’ll see Half-Blood Prince at all.

Go to My Review of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

I have just now returned from seeing Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End for the second time. I am struck by how similar my reaction to the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy is to my reaction to The Matrix Trilogy, and how dissimilar my reaction was compared to other people.

THE SHORT VERSION: In both cases, of course, I thought the first films were fantastic. I’m sure there are some who may disagree, but for me both were high-water marks among my cinematic experiences. Both movies were pure fun. With both movies, I left the theater with a giant grin spread across my face.

SECOND FILM: I was shocked to discover, after ecstatically watching The Matrix Reloaded at a midnight showing, to discover that a large number of people hadn’t liked the film. And I was equally shocked, after watching Dead Man’s Chest, to discover the same thing. (I’m even more puzzled, in the latter case, by people who say they prefer At World’s End to Dead Man’s Chest.)

For me, the success of both The Matrix Reloaded and Dead Man’s Chest lay on two pillars:

First, the films expanded the breadth and depth of the mythology. I loved learning about rebellious programs like the Merovingian, fragmented remnants of previous iterations of the Matrix, the Architect, and the true purpose of the Prophecy. I loved Davy Jones and the revelation of Jack’s bargain.

Second, the films delivered some really fantastic action sequences. For The Matrix Reloaded, the piece de resistance was undoubtedly the car chase sequence. For Dead Man’s Chest, it was the brilliantly counter-pointed swordfight at the end — with Jack, Will, and Norrington fighting in the waterwheel while Elizabeth and the two pirates had to share just two swords between the three of them.

Ironically, these are both things which I have heard other strongly criticize, much to my confusion. For example, I’ve heard a surprising number of people complain about “all the kung fu” in The Matrix Reloaded because, in their opinion, the end of the first movie suggested that Neo should have moved beyond the need for physical combat. (These are people who have, essentially, pre-written the sequel they wanted and, when the filmmakers didn’t miraculously read their minds and deliver that film, they were disappointed.)

Similarly, a lot of the people who dislike Dead Man’s Chest talk about how the movie was “suddenly” filled with magical ships and mythological creatures. At least some of these complainants have the self-awareness to realize this sounds a trifle odd when the first film featured undead pirates and gold cursed by Aztec gods, but they justify their complaint because, essentially, they’ll accept one magical departure from our world, but not two.

This bugs me because, essentially, they’re saying that all they wanted the sequel to do was redo the first film while shuffling the pieces around. I’ve never understood that approach to sequel-making and I’ve been very glad to see Hollywood moving away from it recent years: If I just wanted to re-watch the first film, I’d pop the DVD in and watch it. With a sequel I want to see familiar characters in a tale told along the same vein, but I want something new. I want the new film to take me places the old film didn’t.

And, for me, The Matrix Reloaded and Dead Man’s Chest both delivered that.

THIRD FILM: But what really draws a parallel between the two trilogies in my mind is not their successes, but their shared failure. For me, in both cases, the sequels were fantastic… right up to their conclusions.

In the case of The Matrix Revolutions, I felt that the Wachowski brothers put the entire dramatic weight of the trilogy onto Hugo Weaving’s shoulders and said, “Okay, this monologue is the culmination of the entire trilogy. Land it like Keri Strug and we can all go home.” And then, much to my surprise, Hugo Weaving blew it. Maybe the script contributed, and certainly the editing didn’t do much to help. But, ultimately, I felt the moment, the necessary elements were there, and yet… they didn’t quite carry it off, for reasons I can’t quite put my thumb on.

In the case of At World’s End, the problem can be much more succinctly targeted: The entire plot of the movie was centered around getting all the pirates in the world together so that they could fight back against the armada of the East India Company. And they get all the pirates in the world together. And what do all the pirates in the world do? Absolutely nothing. And what does the armada do? Absolutely nothing. The film then compounds the problem by having Cutler Beckett act completely out of character not once, but twice: First by putting himself in danger (when he literally has an entire fleet of flunkies he could send to finish off the Black Pearl) and then again when he suddenly seizes up at a moment of crisis (despite the fact that we’ve seen him act cool and collected under pressure on countless occasions).

(My suspicion is that the writers and director originally intended to give us a huge sea battle between the armada and the pirate fleet, but they ran out of both time and money: The film was nearly 3 hours long and cost $300 million to produce even without the sea battle. Both those figures would have only ended up being even larger if a 10-15 minute sea battle, with all the requisite special effects, had been filmed.)

IN CONCLUSION: I have no grand statement or conclusion to draw from all this. I’m simply struck by the way in which both of these trilogies ended up, to at least some extent, squandering what could have been a triumphant crescendo on lackluster endings that didn’t quite close the deal.

Of course, endings are not always an easy thing to carry off. Look at Neal Stephenson, for example.

But, on the other hand, look at Terry Pratchett. Pratchett consistently delivers endings which are not only satisfying, but frequently elevate the entire work to a new level.

Imagine for a moment that you have been made aware of a novel with a reputation which places it on the same lofty plateau as the Foundation Trilogy, the Lord of the Rings, or Dune. Its author has carefully crafted an entire culture and society, complete with a language so detailed that many have learned to speak it fluently. Its plot is epic in its scope. Its quality is attested to by a legion of dedicated fans, multimedia adaptations, and widespread acclaim.

In short, it is reputed to be a masterpiece. And you have never read it.

So you go looking for it, but are frustrated to discover that it cannot be had. You are literally unable to discover a single copy of it. But the more you learn about it, the more it sounds exactly like the type of book you want to read.

And then you get some wonderful news: It’s being reprinted! You’ll finally be able to get a copy! Frabjuous day!

So the day finally comes when you hold a copy of the newly reprinted masterpiece in your hands. You crack the cover…

… and discover that the new publishers have decided to not only abridge the book, they’ve also decided to rewrite it as a juvenile.

Imagine, if you will, that you had spent several years searching and hoping to find a copy of the Lord of the Rings or Dune or the Foundation Trilogy. And then, when you thought you finally had a copy, it turned out to be a novelization of the movie which was based on the book.

The emotion you’d be feeling at that moment is roughly akin to the emotion I felt when I finally managed to get my hands on the Crest of the Stars, a space opera masterpiece by Hiroyuki Morioka.

The original novel was written in Japanese. For many years it has been known in English only through the anime and manga adaptations. Starting last year, however, Tokyopop began releasing translated versions of the novel. As is typical for the Japanese market, the book was serialized into three volumes. Tokyopop kept the same format and released it as a trilogy: Princess of the Empire, A Modest War, and Return to a Strange World.

The novel was translated by Sue Shambaugh. And, unfortunately, the decision was made to release the novel as part of Tokyopop’s juvenile line. The work was minorly abridged, but this was almost a minor sin compared to a translation which fundamentally kiddified the work and stripped out its complexities. The glimmering remannts of Hiroyuki Morioka’s brilliant world-building which shine through in these botched translations is utterly eclipsed by the incessant need to make the characters sound “hip” and “current” (in that utterly artificial way which only a thoroughly dreary adult can achieve when trying to copy “the way kids speak these days”).

Imagine, if you will, an edition of the Lord of the Rings in which Theoden would say things like: “Fine, spoilsport! Oh jeez! I really don’t want to go fight Saruman’s orcs!”

Perhaps you’d prefer it if Frodo’s hair was described using an analogy to a chocolate pudding pop?

Do you feel the pain?

Then you can imagine my pain.

I’d really love to encourage people to go out and experience this wonderful story. But, realistically, you have to be willing to squint your eyes and try to read between the lines to recreate Hiroyuki Morioka’s masterpiece from the wreckage of Tokyopop’s hamfisted translation.

NITPICKING TOKYOPOP’S EFFORTS

(1) The first words of Crest of the Stars consist of a quote from a fictional text. This quote begins: “This crest depicts the Gaftonash. The grotesque eight-headed dragon was long lost to the ages — forgotten, alive only in myth. Resurrected on an Imperial crest, the Gaftonash became infamous…”

When you flip open the book to the very first page you’ll discover a large rendition of the Imperial crest described. Count the heads: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7…

Yup. That’s right. The eight-headed Imperial crest has been rendered with only seven heads. This same image is then reused in miniature throughout the volume to break up the text.

You can literally say that Tokyopop screwed it up starting right on page one.

(2) One of the unique things about the original Japanese publication of Crest of the Stars was the way in which Hiroyuki Morioka worked the fictional language of Baronh into the story. As Tokyopop describes it: “In the original Japanese version, all the text is in kanji, and then above those Japanese characters are the Abh language words (called Baronh) in rubi (a smaller, phonetic alphabet).”

Fascinating. How could you duplicate this experience in an English-language edition?

Well, you could duplicate it precisely: Print the book in double-space print and insert the Baronh words on the interleaving lines. This would be awkward, but I’ve got an edition of Caesar’s Gallic Wars that does essentially this (printing a line of Latin and then the matching line in English and using two different colors to make them easily distinguishable).

You could also use footnotes. Or you could put the notes on the facing page (like the Folger’s Library editions of Shakespeare). Or you could consistently put the Baronh words in parantheses.

Or you could do what Tokyopop did: The first time a Baronh term is referenced the English version is written with the Baronh term appearing in parentheses immediately afterwards. So far so good… But then the English term is never used again. Only the Baronh term is used.

This might have worked if only a few select terms had been selected. For example, if the book refers to the “Imperial Emperor (Spunej)”, I’d have a pretty good chance of remembering that Spunej is the Abh title for Emperor.

But it becomes ridiculous when someone talks about taking a shower (guzas), and forever after the word “shower” is never used again. To the extent where you feel like you’re learning key phrases in a foreign tongue, its fun. But when the latter half of the book becomes an increasingly frustrating exercise in referring to the glossary at the back of the book to parse simple sentences, something has gone wrong.

(3) Making the ubiquitous use of Baronh terms even more painful is that, for reasons beyond comprehending, Tokyopop decided to Capitalize Every Single Baronh Word. It makes Everything look like a Proper Noun, and it makes Parsing sentences difficult even When You understand the Baronh Words to begin with.

What makes this even more absurd is that Tokyopop got it right when they used Japanese terms like “kanji” and “rubi” in their foreward: See how I italicized them in the bit I quoted up above? That’s because they’re italicized in the book.

It would have made sense to capitalize titles and ranks (like Spunej) while italicizing common Baronh words (like guzas). It makes no sense to capitalize everything.

Final analysis? I’m glad I finally got a chance to read Crest of the Stars. I’ve been waiting a long time for it.

But I’ll never buy another Tokyopop novel translation.

GRADES:

PRINCESS OF THE EMPIRE: C+ (A)
A MODEST WAR: C+ (A)
RETURN TO A STRANGE WORLD: B- (A)

Hiroyuki Morioka
Published: 2006-2007
Publisher: Tokyopop
Cover Price: $7.99
ISBNs: 1598165755 / 1598165763 / 1598165771
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