John Green Double Header Sunday

I just want you all to know, before we begin, that I am in the midst of day 4 of what is going to be a twelve day streak of unbearably hot and muggy weather, and that I am sitting on the floor on a pile of cushions (I've always doubted the fact that heat rises, since I've never felt any difference, but apparently it has to be roughly as hot as Tatooine before there's a measurable benefit to sitting on the floor), typing away while the thermostat slowly creeps higher and higher.  Actually, what I really want to do is complain about my utility bills and my hatred of air conditioner window units, but since that's neither relevant nor interesting, I suppose I will talk about these books. 


The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green

Despite a tumor shrinking medical miracle that has bought her a few years, Hazel has never been anything but terminal, her final chapter inscribed upon diagnosis.  But when a gorgeous plot twist named Augustus Waters suddenly appears at Cancer Kid Support Group, Hazel's story is about to be completely rewritten.

Let's get the elephant out of room right off the bat, okay?  How many of you were shocked, shocked, that the book did not end in the midst of a sentence?  I know, right?  I had the experience of reading this entire book in increments while in the bathroom, so, as you can imagine, it took me awhile (I was going alright, until it got warm enough that I had to open my bathroom window for the breeze to get in, and then I stopped turning on the light when I was in there because I didn't want to neighbors to see in, and it's pretty hard to read in the dark).  So anyway, in the months between when I first read that section about how An Imperial Affliction ends, and the end of this book, I totally built it up in my head that this one was going to go out in the middle of a sentence, and I have to tell you, I was super excited about it.  Like, at first, yes, I hate open-ended books (see below), but you know, when you have a few weeks to prepare yourself for it, you kind of get a little disappointed when it turns out to end on a period.

I told you about the bathroom thing in part because of that, but also to explain why I didn't cry at the end, they way you're supposed to.  It's like that scene in The Princess Bride (and how sad is it that I had to look up whether it was "a" princess bride or "the" princess bride, like, yeah, there's a bunch of 'em roaming around, can't throw a stone without hitting one) where Westley dies, and our narrator has to build a wall around his heart before he can go on with the story, except with this book, the ratio of heartbreaking stuff to time to prepare for it was super one-sided, and I definitely had time to clear each hurdle before the next one popped up, although I gotta say, my grinch-like heart did twinge a few times.

It is a sad book, I mean, it's at the crossroads of, books where kids die, and books where your true love goes away, plus like, books where your hero turns out to be a humbug, times cancer, so you know it's not going to end well.  But, obviously (or at least, obviously to me), it's about the fact that there's more underneath the surface, and even though they might end up being that kid who died of cancer, that's not who they were.  The other thing that stuck out to me was their wish to leave a mark, to make a difference in the world.  It's a theme that's somewhat echoed in An Abundance of Katherines, but it makes more sense here, where they know that there's only a little time to make that mark.  I don't remember thinking about that at all when I was growing up, but it is something that's on my mind more and more; this idea that you want people to remember you, you want to have done something, accomplished something, lived life like an adventure and not just a routine.  And it's true, though, that you could do none of those things, and still leave grief behind you when you go.  You don't have to have created something wondrous to be an important person.

This whole book is basically that line in the poem, "Tis better to have loved and lost/than never to have loved at all." (Tennyson, bitches).  It's also that movie French Kiss, which isn't quite as literary as Tennyson, but is vastly more enjoyable, where Meg Ryan goes on about how you can't protect yourself from getting hurt - "There's no home safe enough, there's no country nice enough, there's no relationship secure enough. You're just setting yourself up for an even bigger fall, and having an incredibly boring time in the process."  You are going to be hurt, but as Augustus Waters says, you can choose who hurts you.

Yay, let's move on to characters: they were pretty cool, yo.  I appreciated the wit in this story, the facility each person had with language.  It's not realistic, really, but it's similar to the way scripted television approximates life (and here I'm thinking more Buffy than, say Pretty Little Liars), an approximation, but a funny one, one that you wish you could be half as cool as.  It was interesting to me (as a person who does not have cancer, nor knows any one younger than sixty who has had cancer) to see that Hazel was about as irritated by the schmaltzy stuff as I would have been.  Possibly even more so, since I would have tried at least to have some reverence for people who are in imminent danger of dying.  I guess though, that's the thing - once you're the one doing the dying, you don't feel the same urge to give them leeway in being ridiculous.

One thing I did not appreciate was the return of Peter Van Houten.  I really enjoyed the way he was a complete asshole to these kids, but I thought the fact that he had secret pain and that's why he was a big old jerk was just too convenient.  Or, well, not convenient, but coincidental, I guess.  But not that either, more like a weird mix of those plus . . . . okay, I have to pause this, because a fly is swimming in my cherry water/vanilla ice cream float remnants.  Well, not so much swimming as "drowning" I think, since it keeps sitting up and then just sort of flailing.  I have to go take care of this.  The only thing worse than a hardened residue of ice cream at the bottom of a glass is a hardened residue of ice cream and a dead fly at the bottom of a glass. 

I don't want to sound cruel or anything, but that fly did not take long at all to die. 

Moving on, I did like the book, but even though it discussed a lot of meaningful things, I still felt like it only brushed the surface, maybe even because it discussed these things.  Sometimes, it's felt more deeply when there are no words to use, and that did happen here as well, and I understand that part of the point was that they had to use humor and words to cover up the fear and pain, or go mad, but sometimes you just want a good breakdown.  I guess my problem was the same from the very beginning: I wanted a sudden shock of half-written sentence, not the slow realization of a goodbye note. 

But it's still very good, and funny, and not at all forgettable or hard to keep track of from one page to the next, which is essential in a book that you're reading in two minute increments, I've come to find.



An Abundance of Katherines, by John Green

When it comes to relationships, Colin Singleton's type is girls named Katherine.  And when it comes to girls named Katherine, Colin is always getting dumped.  Nineteen times, to be exact.  On a road trip miles from home, this anagram-happy, washed-up child prodigy has ten thousand dollars in his pocket, a bloodthirsty feral hog on his trail, and on over-weight Judge Judy-loving best friend riding shotgun - but no Katherines.  Colin is on a mission to prove The Theorem of Underlying Katherine Predictability, which he hopes will predict the future of any relationship, avenge Dumpees everywhere, and may finally win him the girl.

The weirdest thing about this book, is the way that all of Hassan's dialogue, I heard with Aasif Mandvi's accent, which is terrible, since I know that Mr. Mandvi has to deal with "brown-typing" (I put that in quotes, not trying to imply that I don't believe it happens, just that I'm not sure whether that's a real word or one I made up, but even if it is made up, I think it gets the idea across pretty well).  Although now that I think about it, that's not a weird thing about the book so much as it is a weird thing about me.

I found myself vaguely dissatisfied with this book.  Unlike The Fault in Our Stars, I read it all in one day, today, in fact, so it was a much brisker experience.

[PSA: It has now reached the late afternoon/early evening portion of the day, in which everything just sort of heats up like an oven, especially the room where the computer is, and literally every pore on my body is emitting sweat, so what I'm basically trying to say is that if there are typos in this section, fuck you, man, I'm not staying up here any longer than I have to. Forewarned is forearmed.]

The thing about these books that I'm reading, apparently, is that I want them to be one thing, and then they turn out to be something else, and then I get pissy about it.  For example, I wanted this book to be a hilarious road trip book about Colin and Hassan, where they travel the country and meet weird people and see weird places and then wind up back in Chicago and go to college.  Instead, they have a one-chapter road trip, and wind up staying in Tennessee for the rest of the book, which is okay, I guess.  I dunno, maybe if Colin hadn't ended up with Lindsey?  I just want him to realize that he doesn't have to be in a relationship, with a Katherine or without.  I'm all, power to Hassan, because he seems like someone who isn't hung up on himself.  Unlike Colin, who is worried he's already peaked at age thirteen.  I just didn't finish the book with any faith that this relationship is going to be any better than his previous ones, besides the fact that she's named Lindsey, not Katherine.  Also, he's apparently going to school at Northwestern, and she's going to go be a paramedic, so they're basically going to be breaking up as soon as he goes back home anyway, right?

I guess I'm just confused.  What was the end result of the book?  Besides the realization that you cannot actually chart a relationship (which, if Colin honestly did need to come to that realization, then that is just plain sad) I guess the point is that even if Colin wasn't the dumpee in all those relationships, the important thing was that he had believed he was. I could definitely have done without that sub-plot.  It just baffled me that Lindsey found Colin in any way attractive, although we are talking about the same girl who wanted to date a guy who gave her dog food as a valentine.

Even though I was bored by all the Lindsey/Colin scenes, I did enjoy most everything else, especially the pig-hunt. Every one loves a feral pig, amirite?  This one had the same snappy dialogue as The Fault in Our Stars, but the central character and relationship was not as entertaining, like I said.  Plus, you got me all upset because it just ends while they're all in Tennessee still, like, is Hollis going to pay them $1,000 a week now that they know the factory is going under (and why would she offer such an exorbitant rate anyway?), and is The Other Colin still intent on beating them up, and what the the relationship theorem say about Hassan and Katrina's short-lived fling?   

 I do think this would be a visually entertaining book (as The Fault in Our Stars could be; they're both very cinematic) so if, as the notes say, it is going to be made into a movie, I think it could be delightful.  It's not a bad way to spend a hot Sunday afternoon, that's for sure.

Bitterblue

Bitterblue, by Kristen Cashore

In a world where a small percentage of people have an extreme skill called a Grace, King Leck's Grace allowed him to tell lies that everyone believed. When Bitterblue became queen at ten years old, she thought her father's murder meant the end of his violent, sociopathic influence.

She was wrong.

Bitterblue isn't going to make much sense if you haven't read Graceling, or Fire, to a lesser degree.   It's not the book I hoped it would be after the first two, but that doesn't mean it's a terrible book.  And certainly once you've read the Graceling and Fire you will have to read this one, if only to find out how Bitterblue turns out [spoiler alert: she's a dick].

It begins with Bitterblue, age 18, deciding she needs, like Princess Jasmine in Aladdin, to see a bit more of the world and winds up, like Princess Jasmine in Aladdin, meeting with some less-than-upstanding citizens, who she befriends and romances, etc. etc.  It's the weakest of the trilogy, although my mother and I disagree as to which of the other two books we prefer more.

Both Graceling and Fire revolve more around a straightforward action-adventure plot, with character interaction taking center stage.  Bitterblue is more of a mystery book, and there are so many new characters introduced, it can be difficult to keep them all straight, especially Bitterblue's four elderly advisers, Rune, Runnemood, Darby, and Thiel. 

Overall, I just wasn't as pleased with this entry.  It does suffer from such an excellent first and second entry, and the anticipation of waiting months to read this.  I remember feeling a similar feeling when I first started reading Fire, but I was won over by the end of that, which I wasn't, quite, here.  For one thing, I think Ms. Cashore had enough material for two more books, and the way that it's all squished into Bitterblue means that she (and the reader) are juggling a few too many plot lines at once, until they all start wrapping themselves up quite suddenly.  Bitterblue starts the book with a lot of questions, mostly about why her cabinet is acting so strangely, why people are attacking her friends, why things are being stolen that were never there in the first place, and why no one will tell her the truth about anything that happened during Leck's reign.  Unfortunately, it's structured so that we're asking more and more questions, and getting no answers, until everything is unraveled at once.  It's like a balloon popping in your face, yes, it's quite exciting, but not something particularly enjoyable.  I wound up feeling exhausted after everyone's secrets were out in the open.

Tied in with that is the secondary problem that Bitterblue suffers from, which is the problem of telling, not showing.  There were several times in there where two characters would be having a conversation between themselves, and, well, like this one, where Bitterblue wants to know who knifed her new-found friend Teddy in the gut:

"Teddy, who did attack you?"

Teddy answered this with a quiet smile, then said, "What did Saf mean about you asking your third question?"

And that's it! This is one of the questions that Bitterblue writes down as one of the mysteries she totes around for the first half of the book, and we don't even get to hear the answer.  Plus, it's something that comes up again and again, since Teddy was apparently the victim of a faction out to stop people from bringing up the past, and who turn out to be the big "villains" of the book.  Why would this clue be so off-screen?  Bitterblue doesn't even acknowledge it, she doesn't bring it up again at all, not even to say, "Hmm, that name means nothing to me, but I'll keep my ear to the ground."  Come on, anything!**

 [Interjection Time!  As you may know, often I can be a little slow myself, and it's only after writing something all out that I realize I am completely wrong.  In this case, I think a bit of linguistic confusion was the cause of the problem.  Looking back on it now, it's pretty clear to me that "answered with a quiet smile" means that he didn't say anything, just smiled and moved on.  HOWEVER, I want to maintain that it could also be read as "answered with a quiet smile" meaning that he answered her question while smiling.  Obviously I took it the second way.  I would take this section out and replace it with one that actually supports my point, but I am, too lazy to care about the quality of my output. Which is why I am a reader, not a writer.  And a lover, not a fighter.  And a count, not a saint!]

That brings me to my next beef: Bitterblue is kind of (a) a jerk and (b) stupid.  I didn't want to say stupid, but she's got blinders on the size of Texas, which has the same effect.  She knows (since she was there and all) that her father basically mind-raped (and rape-raped) his constituents for decades.  She herself has nightmares about his handwriting.  And yet, she uses people's experiences during that time as like, a conversational tool, a I'm-tired-of-losing-this-argument-so-I'm-going-to-say-the-most-hurtful-thing-I-can-to-you kind of a thing.  For example, when her adviser, Thiel, is trying to get her to talk about the fact that she maybe should be thinking about marrying someone, she goes,

"There's something I'd like to discuss," she said. "Do you remember the time you came into my mother's rooms to say something to my father that made him angry and he brought you downstairs through the hidden door? What did he do to you down there?"

and then later, when he shuts down and leaves, like she wanted:

Left along, Bitterblue shuffled papers, signed things, sneezed at the dust - tried, and failed, to talk herself out of a small shame.  She'd done it on purpose.  She'd known full well that he wouldn't be able to bear her question.  In fact, almost all of the men who worked in her offices, from her advisers to her ministers and clerks to her personal guard - those who had been Leck's men - flinched away from direct reminders of the time of Leck's reign - flinched away, or fell apart.  It was the weapon she always used when one of them pushed her too far, for it was the only weapon she had that worked.  She suspected that there'd be no more marriage talk for a while.

Wow, can you be more of an asshole, Bitterblue? "Let's talk about that time you watched my father kidnap and torture hundreds of little girls and perform experiments on them and kill them so I don't have to answer questions about boys."  I'm getting ticked thinking about it again.  Plus, she keeps doing it, like, what does she hope to accomplish?  Thiel does snap, eventually, and hits her with some truth she maybe could have figured out a few hundred pages ago, so, uh, great plan? 

The fact of it is that her entire kingdom is suffering from some mass PTSD and she goes around using that as a weapon.  Even after someone has to tell her that of course, her father couldn't have accomplished all this theft and kidnapping on his own, he had to have people helping him, she still doesn't ease up on her interrogation techniques.  Even after she finds out that he appointed four doctors to be his advisers, in all likelihood so that when he cut people open, they'd be there to sew them back up and keep 'em alive, she doesn't take a moment to go, "well, gosh, maybe they're suppressing some seriously heavy shit, let's get them to a therapist, stat." Nope, it's all, "When you lie to me in an effort not to talk about that time my father mind-controlled you in raping little girls, you lose my trust." I'm not surprised that she's down to only one adviser by the end of the book, I'm surprised she has any. 

It's a somewhat similar storyline to the one in the Miles Vorkosigan books by Lois McMaster Bujold, specifically the first two (Shards of Honor+Barrayar=Cordelia's Honor).  That also concerns a man who was kept as the puppet of a psychopath, and forced to deal with the resulting mental anguish in the fallout. People are a lot more understanding in that book than this one.  And yes, I know Bitterblue is only 18, but she lived it as well.  She watched her mother live through it, and she's not unintelligent.  She should know better.  She should also maybe not have waited eight years to even peek through her father's old rooms or the other closed-off areas of the castle.

That's really the problem (and the difference between Bitterblue and Graceling or Fire).  In Bitterblue, when there's a problem, Bitterblue can't really go out and do something about it - she basically assigns people to collect information for her, instead.  In the other books, even when Katsa or Fire wasn't really accomplishing anything, at least there was visible progress.  This is a claustrophobic book, and I think it suffers from the main character being so restricted in her movements.  There's a lot to explore here, and it's telling that a lot of big discoveries (the river of bones, the Dells, the re-taking of the crown) take place completely off-page.  I'm sure it was a deliberate choice, but it should have been explored a little more.  What's weird is that we spend the whole book in Bitterblue's head, but I still feel like I don't know her all that well, not as well as Katsa and Fire, or even secondary characters in the earlier books. 

Besides follow-up-itis, Bitterblue also has the problem that the reader knows all about the Dells (from reading Fire), so that when Bitterblue finds out that her father's fantastical stories may have, in this case, actually been true, the reader is all, finally, instead of whu-uh?  There's a feeling of impatience instead of wonder, which makes me peevish, as I'm sure will come as a big shock to anyone reading this. 

Plus, the book kinda ends abruptly, so I'm left wondering about all these loose ends I have - like who put the red language dictionary on Death's shelf?  Was that explained, and I just missed it?  What is going on with that revolution up in Estill? What about Bitterblue's sadly depleted cabinet? I felt like the other two books had a lot more closure than this one, even though it's ostensibly the final book.

There's just such a rich story here, that I don't feel like this book does justice to it.  The idea of a mad king and the reconstruction and restoration of trust is a grand topic, and I felt like it got obscured in the frenetic introduction of new plot points and characters. Oh well, I'm off to re-read Graceling!


To sum up, I leave you with the immortal words of Martin Blank:

"A psychopath kills for no reason. I kill for money, it's a job... that didn't come out right."

World War I for Kids

I had an itch to watch War Horse, which, as I described it to a friend before I had seen it, is about a boy and his horse, and the horse goes off to war, and the boy goes off to find him. And then I told her that I was pretty confident the horse survives, although I couldn't be sure about whether there was any maiming involved, because this is a war movie after all, and maiming has become the go-to shorthand for writers when they don't want to kill off a main character (because wouldn't that be depressing) but they don't want them to be visibly unharmed, like shell-shock and PTSD aren't enough, let's cut off one of their legs, too. And she looked all horrified about the direction this was taking, and long story short, I ended up watching it by myself. Good times!

Anyhow, I prepared for this experience by watching episode 1 of the second season of Downton Abbey, and making a list of things I know about WWI, which, due to the vagaries of a school system which favors memorization over retention, have basically all come from children's books. What's weird is that there are a ton of books about WWII, children's books especially, but not so much about the Great War, which you would think would be a lot more child-friendly than say, the war which resulted in such works as The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, which, for all of its faults, definitely leaves you with the haunting image of a neatly folded pile of clothes.

I also want to confess my sins: I originally included A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett on this list, because I was remembering that 1995 movie version where Sara's father has mustard gas poisoning and Sara herself is this well-fed blonde beauty, and she winds up screaming at him while he's trying to recuperate, like, don't you think he's been through enough without some urchin accusing him of being her father? And why do the movies insist on keeping her father alive? What is the point of that? Anyway, leaving all that aside, the book couldn't possibly take place during the war, since it was only written in 1905. Although I do love the scenes from the Ramayana.

Without further ado, here is a (short) list of children's books about WWI:

The Good Master & The Singing Tree, by Kate Seredy

Jancsi is overjoyed to hear that his cousin from Budapest is coming to spend the summer on his father's ranch on the Hungarian plains. But their summer proves more adventurous than he had hoped when headstrong Kate arrives, as together they share horseback races across the plains, country fairs and festivals, and a dangerous run-in with the gypsies.

(The Good Master, from Barnes & Noble)

Life on the Hungarian plains is changing quickly for Jancsi and his cousin Kate. Father has given Jancsi permission to be in charge of his own herd, and Kate has begun to think about going to dances. Jancsi hardly even recognizes Kate when she appears at Peter and Mari's wedding wearing nearly as many petticoats as the older girls wear. And Jancsi himself, astride his prized horse, doesn't seem to Kate to be quite so boyish anymore. Then, when Hungary must send troops to fight in the Great War and Jancsi's father is called to battle, the two cousins must grow up all the sooner in order to take care of the farm and all the relatives, Russian soldiers, and German war orphans who take refuge there.

(The Singing Tree, from Barnes & Noble)

Okay, technically, only The Singing Tree is about WWI, but it's really a two book series, and they're each only like, 100 pages, so it won't hurt you at all to read The Good Master, too. It's actually a really interesting look at Hungarian farm life in the early 1900s, with the beehive stove, and the egg-dying, and the horse-herding. It's a fun kid's book about Jancsi, and his wild cousin Kate, who isn't mean or bad-tempered, just a little imp, so you don't get irritated with her. It's definitely where I first heard of the term "pins" used for legs, which I used the other day and confused someone, since they hadn't grown up in 1915, and had no idea what I was talking about.

The Singing Tree is a much more mature book, but only because the author doesn't shy away from the fact that the war exists and has changed everything. The war itself doesn't touch the children's lives much, although the house becomes a sort of halfway home for war strays, including not only German soldiers, but also Russian prisoners of war, since, as you may recall, Austria-Hungary was allied with Germany, not with the "good side" that most kid's books use as a viewpoint. It's too easy to think of one side being good or bad, especially in light of the atrocities committed in the second World War, while forgetting that there were innocents on both sides, and that often, soldiers on both sides were farmers whose lives were upended by the decisions of powerful men.

[Aside: I think this is something that War Horse does well - the humanization of both armies, as seen through the eyes of this horse. The horse goes through a variety of owners, English, German, French, and it's never the case of owner mistreatment, like in Black Beauty, or King of the Wind. I mean, yes, there are terrible things that happen to him, but it's always the case that the people who have the responsibility of the horse(s) try to protect them as best they can, no matter which side they are fighting for.]

The Singing Tree is a sweet book, and definitely a rosier-than-strictly-accurate view of the war, since all the prisoners and soldiers get along, and are relatively unscathed and happy to be at the farm. There are some very serious moments, including those dealing with an AWOL soldier, but for the most part, it is a sweet and moving coming-of-age story. There is also a particularly bittersweet chapter, in which Kate's father, I believe, comes home and tells the story of a christmas miracle on the front lines, but has to acknowledge that after the story, darkness returned, and men picked up their guns once more.


Rilla of Ingleside, by L.M. Montgomery

Anne's children were almost grown up, except for pretty, high-spirited Rilla. No one could resist her bright hazel eyes and dazzling smile. Rilla, almost fifteen, can't think any further ahead than going to her very first dance at the Four Winds lighthouse and getting her first kiss from handsome Kenneth Ford. But undreamed-of challenges await the irrepressible Rilla when the world of Ingleside becomes endangered by a far-off war. Her brothers go off to fight, and Rilla brings home an orphaned newborn in a soup tureen. She is swept into a drama that tests her courage and leaves her changed forever.
(from Amazon and B&N)

Now, okay, this one is also part of a series, but honestly, I'm not going to make you read all seven Anne of Green Gables books before this one. Mostly because like, the sixth one is all about Anne's mid-life crisis, and one of my favorite games is to see whether there are any pages in the book without ellipses (I think there's one or two?). Most of them have multiples! If you don't read the earlier books, you won't have any idea who all these people are, and probably won't care about whether they live or die, but I have found that to be true even when I did know who they were, so I wouldn't stress about it.

Rilla of Ingleside is about Anne's daughter, Rilla (no shit!) who lives, not coincidentally, at Ingleside. It starts in 1914, when Rilla is about 15 or so, and abruptly plunges into war. The book covers the whole four year period, so there is some serious time-compression involved, although I wouldn't say that any part feels rushed, and Rilla's maturity comes at a natural pace.

This one is also about the home front, although it's for older readers than The Singing Tree, even though this home front is a lot further away from any action than Hungary. There is some death in this book, although all off-screen, and there is a semi-orphaned child (whose father is at the front) that Rilla takes care of. There is also more news of the war in this book, as basically the entire rest of Rilla's siblings are working for the war effort in one way or another, while Rilla stays at home and organizes Red Cross events and buys ugly hats. In fact, there's a lot more detail than necessary, as LMM seems to think that the readers will be just as familiar with Kitchener and the Kaiser and Verdun and Courcelette and Bucharest and Jutland and Wilson and so on as she is. I'm sure that was true when it came out, but people today are so much less informed about the war, it can be kinda confusing, like you're missing the context for a lot of these references.

I remember not liking this much when I first read it, as I was mostly interested in the romance between Rilla and Kenneth, and there, frankly, isn't a whole lot, since he's at war most of the book. But I did re-read it more recently, and I was able to enjoy Rilla for her own sake, as the desperately proud and stubborn teenager, that everyone else seems determined to bring down to earth. She's got a pretty good attitude about herself, and I do relate to her scene in the movie theater.

[Another aside: I don't generally feel the need to yell things at the screen, but I had to tell you, I had the most god-awful urge during the Quiévrechain advance in War Horse to scream at the British cavalry, "You're all going to die! Stop! Go home!" which would have not only been disruptive, but also, in light of what happened next, a bit of a spoiler. If one can spoil the plot of WWI, that is.]

A Countess Below Stairs, by Eva Ibbotson

After the Russian revolution turns her world topsy-turvy, Anna, a young Russian countess, has no choice but to flee to England. Penniless, Anna hides her aristocratic background and takes a job as servant in the household of the esteemed Westerholme family, armed only with an outdated housekeeping manual and sheer determination. Desperate to keep her past a secret, Anna is nearly overwhelmed by her new duties—not to mention her instant attraction to Rupert, the handsome earl of Westerholme. To make matters worse, Rupert appears to be falling for her as well. As their attraction grows stronger, Anna finds it more and more difficult to keep her most dearly held secrets from unraveling. And then there’s the small matter of Rupert’s beautiful and nasty fiancée. . . .

This is sort of cheating, since it doesn't take place quite during the war, but immediately after, in 1919. Rupert actually comes home after recovering in a hospital, and Anna's family is fleeing the fall out of the events of 1917. This is a pretty unrealistic book, and even though there are serious topics involved, the parties all sort of brush them aside in favor of romantic hijinks and pratfalls. For instance, when Anna is telling Rupert about the death of her father in the war, and then mentions, almost as an afterthought, that during the revolution, the soldiers were killing the officers, so they try to be glad he died before his own men could shoot him. Wait, what?!

I know it's part of Anna's charm that she is supposed to be unsinkable in the face of tragedy and obstacles, but to be honest, that sounds like a lot more interesting book right there, albeit one possibly not for children. Instead of getting the full scoop on that, we're treated to love triangle between Rupert and Anna and Muriel, Rupert's hilariously over-the-top evil fiancee. And when I say "hilarious" I don't mean she's funny, only that she's ridiculous, and an insult to three-dimensional villains everywhere. She has literally, not one redeeming feature. She's racist, she's snobby, she's a eugenicist, she's practically an adulterer, she's selfish and unaware, she's petty, etc., etc., etc. No, wait, one redeeming feature: she's got a great bosom. Great call, Rupert. I really respect your taste.

I mean, there's just no tension there, since it's absurd that anyone would allow this farce of an engagement to actually proceed to marriage. It's just not even a legitimate concern, just a stage prop for shenanigans and set-pieces involving the black sheep cousins pretending to be loony. And you know, I can generally handle a bit of non-realism in a teen novel, but this is taking it way too far. Even Disney wouldn't have had the long-missing nanny turn up with millions in sapphires and emeralds after a mysterious and ominous four year absence. Okay, maybe Disney would have. But it's the same reasoning that leads to Sara Crewe's father reappearing alive and (mostly) well, having gotten convenient amnesia for most of the book. It's not necessary to the story, and it cheats it a little. Well, it might have been necessary in this book, since Rupert desperately needed the funds to get the house back on its feet, but it still feels like cheating.

I guess I like A Countess Below Stairs alright, but more because I like the idea of it, rather than the execution, a problem I seem to have with all of Ms. Ibbotson's works. On top of all that, I barely got to talk about WWI for this book. It's there, it's the basis for the book, and why everyone is where they are, but it also has more of a deus ex feel, so as to provide a convenient excuse of PTSD nightmares for when Anna and Rupert need to have a secluded little heart-to-heart.



And that really is a surprisingly short list. I do feel like I am leaving books off, so if there are others, leave a note in the comments, if you like, so perhaps the next time I list what I know about WWI, the extent of my knowledge won't end with christmas cease-fires and white feathers.