HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS, PART 2
Thanks, J.K. Thanks, Daniel and Rupert and Emma. Thanks, everyone who had anything to do with the books, the movies, the memories, the happiness. It’s been an amazing ride, a pure joy.
My own entrance into Harry-dom was activated by a desire to know what all the fuss was about, and once I read the first line, I was in, thank you very much.
From that moment in 2000, until this in 2011, Harry Potter has been a happy part of our family’s life. Sure, we took flack for it—still do. Because, you know, spells and potions and incantations and note-to-self do not start on the haters and why they all love Gandalf with his spells and Skywalker with his midichlorians and virgin birth and Gretel who shoves a witch into an oven and burns her to death, and Juliet who kills herself at 14 over a boy she had no business even knowing, and whatever other fiction they approve, but can’t give a little love to Harry who gave an entire generation a reason to read, a model of self-sacrifice, loyalty, friendship, and a courage that please God may none of us ever need.
While I’m gushing, can we say something about the stunning creativity of Ms. Rowling, who dazzled us with a complete world of make-believe—not just people and buildings, but chocolate frogs and butter beer and Knight’s Buses and Quidditch tournaments and the Weasleys and The Daily Prophet and dementors and Azkaban and people who run in and out of pictures and Quick Quotes Quills and on and on and on. There isn’t a page, there isn’t a paragraph that doesn’t have some new detail of the wizarding world. Marvelous Me. Boggarts. Dobby. Quaffle. Flying cars.
Last night, I took three children to the midnight showing. Today I took one husband to an afternoon showing. I enjoyed the kid-free showing more because I didn’t have to alert anyone that if they go to the bathroom now, they’ll probably miss the opening scene, and later I didn’t have to tell anyone that if they went to the bathroom now, they’ll miss the part where Voldemort gets killed. I also didn’t have to tell anyone to be quiet, already, we’re in public, son. (“MOM! Fred’s going to DIE! and then Molly’s going to kill Bellatrix!”)
If you’re a fan, you know what the story’s about. If you’re a non-fan or a newbie, good luck to you. No one goes around explaining anything—with the teeny exception that a horcrux is explained to be an object in which Voldemort has placed a piece of his soul for safe-keeping—so you have to know the whole story up til now.
I find I really have nothing to say. The movie’s great, and I expect I’ll see it several more times. I loved the gigantic crowd at the Palladio theater in Folsom (my usual theater because the people are very nice, and the clean-up crew doesn’t start their work until everyone leaves, which means when I go, they stand there until the end of the credits, wait until I drop my popcorn bag in their bin, and then they say, “Hope you enjoyed the show. Thanks for coming,” so I go there even though it’s not the closest theater to my house). Lots of people in robes and Gryffindor colors. Hundreds and hundreds of well-mannered young people milling around in costume.
Here’s something astonishing: there are (I learned today when I went back) almost 2,000 people at the theater, and quite a lot of them are in the popcorn line. When it’s my turn, I order 2 large popcorns and 2 large Diet Cokes. Then I realize I won’t be able to carry all this back to theater #2 where my children are waiting for me, but I start to arrange it all the best I can to make a go of it, trying to spill as little as possible, when the young man behind the counter says, “I’ll carry your drinks for you. Which theater are you in?” Seriously? Customer service like this at a theater?
Of course I laughed and cried through the movie. Snape. Snape. Snape. There should be a verb to snape. It means to love so much you make yourself unlovely in order to protect your beloved. However, I can’t think of any other situation in which this could occur than how it does occur in Harry Potter years one through seven, so there the verb lies, unused, unneeded.
I could go on and on about the movies, all eight, about the books, about how I’ve seen with my own eyes these books open children’s hearts to reading, but enough.
So, good-bye, Harry, and thank you for years of happiness.
There are no trackbacks on this entry.