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The Rock and the River
Say it with me: Kekla Magoon. Kekla Magoon. Now when you hear someone mention this ground-breaking debut novelist, you won't make a huh-face like I did. (Same thing happened to me the first time I was told to read 'Pinkensay.' Um, that'd be Pink and Say.) Trust me, when something like this comes along, you don't want to be the last nitwit standing. Promise not to laugh? Just about everything I knew about the Blank Panther Party prior to this novel came from a 30-second clip in Forrest Gump. So while I've yet again managed to inexplicably dodge the emotional clutches of a powerful story*, I can't miss the significance of what Magoon's done here. Because the Civil Rights Movement is getting to be a stereotype of its own in children's lit: solid, united people marching steadily toward righteousness. Usually singing. Enter Kekla Magoon, who's got the moxy to show the tension and conflict within the Movement itself, and the talent to do it with a subtlety. Don't you dare be confusing subtle with boring though - believe me, when your father's on a first-name basis with MLK Jr. and your brother's climbing out your bedroom window to meet with the Black Panthers, there's going to be some fireworks. The finale just might knock you sideways. *Honestly, this is the fourth book in just over a week that's lit hardly a flicker in my emotional fuse box. The heck?
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Diary of a Witness
Oh hey, another book about bullying? Lots of kids get picked on, and plenty more witness it. Sometimes, those kids are one and the same. For once, our witness is the requisite fat guy, not the guilt-ridden trying-to-be-cool kid who stands by and lets nasty things happen. So who's got it worse - fat Ernie or his buddy Will, the fish-freak? What makes the difference between finding your voice and your breaking point? And how far is too far, when it means protecting a friend?
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One of the most faithfully executed book-to-movie conversations I've run across so far at the hands of the Walt Disney Co. Fans of the novel shouldn't find much to gripe about in Disney's version - all the best bits are straight out of the book - and vice versa. Both still hang onto a few unique delights, though. Get the blow-by-blow Disney Literature Challenge analysis here.
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Prepare for a vague review, because I refuse to pull the rug out from under this story. Attempting to describe the intensity - life & death! love & violence! - comes off as melodramatic. Address the issues it tackles directly and I'll sound like an after-school special. So let's just put this out there for starters: Rage is fueled from start to finish by Johanna's rampant crush on the most volatile girl in school. If that setup makes you squirmy, this book isn't going to help you overcome that tendency because Julie Anne Peters sure doesn't squirm when it comes to portraying the ardor of GLBTQ teens. As for the subject, well, sometimes you don't know there's a hole in the literature until someone plugs it. And if I point out the gap, you're going to focus on the architecture of the bridge that spans it instead of enjoying the view. So just step onto that bridge and don't look down. It's going to lurch and sway something fierce, but I promise Julie will get you safely across.
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Bed-Knob and Broomstick
I shouldn't knock this just because it's episodic, but I'm going to. I grew up on the WWII-driven plot of the movie, which relegates this hopscotchy romp from place to place on a magical bed straight to the land of meh. I'll freely admit that Disney pretty much corrupted the original story, and I suspect once you fall for one version, there's not much hope of appreciating the other - the differences are to significant to satisfy both camps at once.
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A Little Princess
No wonder this story has stood the test of time. The language doesn't run (or meander) away with itself, and the plot has enough bite to sink its teeth into modern readers, even if it is liberal with the conicidences. Little Sara Crewe, though certainly eligible for membership in the official goody two-shoes society, never quite crosses the line into cavity-inducing sweetness.
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The Sword in the Stone
A bit ambly, but not so different from the Disney movie as I'd expected. Turns out Merlin's bungling habits and outlandish references to modern culture and conveniences are the author's invention, not Uncle Walt's - right down to "Blow me to Bermuda!" Although as usual, Disney's guilty of assembling his characters out of those quirks and eccentricities and little else. What you gain from White's subtler character nuances, however, you lose in pacing, and now and then the dialect gets thick enough to stumble over. So truth be told, even though the book is superior, I still enjoyed the movie more.
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Basil of Baker Street
Just when I'd become accustomed to berating Walt Disney for draining the delicacy out of the finer characters of children's literature, along comes Basil of Baker Street. In Eve Titus, Disney's animators found an author who was no slouch at mapping out a tight, straightforward story. And then they proceeded to invent a plot of their own. Okey-dokey, then. Moving on. But Titus's characters, however endearing in their mousiness, aren't much more than servants to the plot - perhaps an unfair criticism in a mystery series geared toward lower el reader, but for once, Disney took the opportunity to expand on those personalities instead of stripping them down. So while both versions of the rodent detective have equal sleuthing abilities, Disney's Basil doesn't just sweetly emulate Sherlock Holmes, he's cast in the same mold as his human counterpart, right down to his ego, moodiness, and disdain for social niceties. Yet the folks at Disney managed to squeeze some emotional growth into the little hard-nose, accentuated by the charm of the supporting cast. And if that's not enough to sway you, consider that the movie boasts the voice talent of Mr. Vincent Price as the villain Rattigan. Case closed.
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Princess of the Midnight Ball
Although I'm still awfully partial to the more elaborate Wildwood Dancing when it comes to retelling the story of the twelve dancing princesses, I've got to give Jessica Day George her due. For a brightly paced, traditional version of the story, she has no equal. And I can think of just one other fairy tale-based novel that actually focuses on the prince's point of view instead of the inevitable princess narrative. (Though in this case the "prince" is a soldier/gardener who knits. Beat that.)
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Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Even though I'd read the story before, somehow I expected Lewis Carroll's prose to be much more stuffy and old-fashioned. To my chagrin, Alice turns out to be a heap more accessible than my beloved Peter Pan. And if I'm supposed to be outraged when the story abruptly quits with the cop-out that it's all been a dream, I wasn't. C'mon, what other explanation could there be for Wonderland? Normally I'm a traditionalist, but I make special exception when it comes to Helen Oxenbury's illustrations. They're so cozy and ageless, as opposed to Tenniel's stiffly Victorian originals. I don't see how anyone could resist the whimsy and design of this particular edition.
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Alice Through the Looking Glass
Now that the cat's out of the bag and we all know Wonderland isn't real, I think it's interesting how Carroll lets go of the charade to take full advantage of the vagaries of dreams. And he gets away with it, too - the narrative dissolves unapologetically from one scene to the next, and I hardly batted an eyelash. Also, seeing as I'm the sort of girl who grew up on the Disney version, it's nice to finally sort out what happens in which book. So now, like Julian in The View from Saturday, I'll never misplace Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
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Oh, Anne. . . Shame on me, but somehow I'd managed to forget just how endearing Anne Shirley is. It's been ages since I've seen the movie, let alone read the book. This recording has become a permanent resident on my iPod. Although I have one petty little gripe: adverbs. Adverbs are especially redundant in well-performed audiobooks. (And yes, I do realize I used an adverb in order to complain about them.)
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Here's How I See It - Here's How It Is
I may not have a summer stock theater in my backyard, but man can I relate to a season where everything goes rotten. Junebug knows she's leading lady material, but so far she's only been cast as. . .a thunderstorm. Plus, her family's cracking at the seams, and there's a weirdo wannabe thespian trailing her like a puppy dog. Oh, and she might have given her own father a heart attack. Yet the show must go on. The story may revolve around stock theater, but you won't find stock characters here. And the two-birds-with-one-stone way Henson gets across all sorts of information about the history of acting and the stage made me grin - once I'd caught on, that is. This is a book anyone can love, but given Junebug's ping-ponging between her dreams (Here's How I See It) and reality (Here's How It Is) I'm betting fans of Linda Urban's A Crooked Kind of Perfect in particular will find a friend indeed in this plunge into the performing arts.
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Reasons I shouldn't like this book: 1. A dawdling plot 2. A sullen, self-absorbed narrator 3. Telling where there could have been showing And you know what? I don't like it - I LOVE it. There's something so subtle and gentle going on here, I can't spot it, but I sure can feel it, and I don't want it to stop.
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The Hundred and One Dalmatians
