Looking Back: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

The first time I read the Harry Potter series, I pushed through all 7 books in 17 days. That included time spent packing, moving, and waiting to be in contact with people from whom I could secure the next volume. Once I finally finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, at the end of that marathon, I was exhausted and, admittedly, a bit depressed. It was hard to feel anything about the book in particular, other than the wonderful, dreadful knowledge that it was all done. As time passed, and I reflected on the final volume in particular, I had a few nagging issues with it, but I wasn't confident enough in my recall to make any formal complaints. Last summer, I had a bit to say while re-reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It was a good re-experiencing these books in a less hurried (or should I say harried*) way, and I've been waiting for the opportunity to do the same with The Deathly Hallows.

I'm now happy to say two things about this book. One, my complaints still stand; and two, they are still largely overshadowed by a handful of key moments.

I'll start with the complaints because, well, that's just the sort of man I am. For one, the entire arc of the book is just alien to the rest of the series. Much of that comes from the fact that Hogwarts isn't present to provide structure of classes and quiditch term breaks. Stranger, though, is that, in this volume, Harry starts out on a mission. In every other book, Harry heads to school just hoping to God for a normal year. We know that isn't going to happen, but we also get to see everything develop and come together slowly with a few peaks of action or character building thrown in. It's almost a mystery structure: Weird stuff going on...One of the professors is acting weirder than normal... OMG, Voldemort!

In Deathly Hallows it's...well, it's just OMG, Voldemort! The whole time. It's a bit overwhelming. It's also strange because it gives Harry sort of a list of mission objectives to complete.

Primary Objectives:
     1. Find horcruxes.
        1a. Find the locket
        1b. Find the cup
        1c. Find something related to Rowena Ravenclaw
        1d. Get the snake alone
     2. Figure out how to destroy horcruxes.
        2a. Recover the sword of Godric Gryffindor
        2b. Break into the Chamber of Secrets in unlikely fashion
            to retrieve Basilisk Fangs.
        2c. Learn that the dumb, fat, evil kids randomly learned
            how to cast a ridiculously potent fire spell.
Bonus Objective:
     3. Unite the Deathly Hallows.

To me, it just feels less like a narrative and more like a lot of checking off of lists. It doesn't help that Harry, Ron, and Hermione are barely escaping death everywhere they go. Leave for The Burrow, barely escape death. Go to a cafe in London, barely escape death. Go to the Ministry, barely escape death. Go to Godric's Hollow, barely escape death. Go to a random forest, barely escape death. Go visit Luna's dad, barely escape death. Get captured by Death Eaters, barely escape death. Go to Gringotts, barely escape death. Go to Hogwarts, barely escape death. That's nine times, off the top of my head, that the kids almost die! That's nine times more than in any other Harry Potter book! Obviously, this is a very dangerous trip!

As borderline awkward as all of this is, though, it's not nearly my biggest complaint. That would be reserved for the long list of material that I feel is almost entirely unnecessary. There's a lot of time spent on the life (and lies) of Albus Dumbledore in this book. Most of it is there to give a false sense that Harry might have serious doubts or turn his back on his mission. I never thought that would happen. The only other purpose it serves is to humanize Dumbledore a bit, but I really don't think that was needed. Adults will assume that his wisdom was hard-won, and kids can stand to have a blemish-less hero once in awhile. It's all interesting to a degree, but not nearly as much as it is distracting. If Rowling can go on ahead and tell us what characters' lives are like in between the main ending and the epilogue through unofficial channels, she can do the same with Dumbledore's home life.

I also fail to see the point of removing Ron for a whole 80 pages of story. I suppose it serves to slap us in the face with the continued mutuality of Hermione's feelings and of his role in the group beyond comic relief, but it just seemed cheap to have him gone for one small vignette and suddenly back.

My biggest problem, however, remains with the eponymous Deathly Hallows and the half-assed introduction of wand lore. I really don't see how the Deathly Hallows were in any way necessary. The Resurrection Stone gave us a nice scene with Harry walking to his demise, I suppose, but it did nothing for the Cloak, and the nature of the Elder Wand then gets all mired up in the BS wand lore stuff. I would have much preferred they stick to the, "Hey, I died for everybody. You can't do any harm to anybody anymore. Suck it!" approach to the ending. Instead, they conflate it with the "Your wand is now mine by way of Draco's actions" Deus Ex Machina by which Harry doesn't even have to be the one to fire the killing curse at Voldy. If that was really the whole reason for all of that wand bull -- pretending that Harry never killed anybody (he did, think of why he didn't stun Stan Shunpike, and then the fact that he did the same to others on his trail) -- then it's just, well, dumb. I'll also note that, when push came to shove, none of the "good guys" were terribly opposed to using any of the "unforgivable curses". The readiness with which Harry uttered his first "imperius" always rubbed me the wrong way.

All said and done, though; as much as the various points above irritate me, it's still a more than adequate ending. Why? Because Harry experiencing Snape's memories is the most important chapter in the entire series. Because Rowling still knows these characters. Because I never actually wanted to stop reading, either time through the book. I meant to take four or five days to cover Deathly Hallows on this outing. I couldn't last longer than two, and I really tried.


*I really ought to be shot

About Me

Lately, I've been writing people from all across the Internets, notably those who are physically located in Boulder, CO, about considering me as a roommate. Since I am stuck on the Internets, unable to manifest myself in Boulder to meet people or see properties, I have been getting a lot of practice introducing and describing myself to people. This afternoon, I had the opportunity to write the longest such explanation yet while starting correspondence with a group of five guys from I've never met before whom I was put in touch with through InterVarsity and who might be willing to let me rent a house with them. I'm not even remotely enthused by the possibility right now, but I've got to take what I can get. At the very least, I think the email introduction a pretty good one -- at the very least, it's thorough (most are much, much more brief). Let's see how many of you agree and what you think I left out:

"...
Mostly, though, I'd like to know a bit more about all of you along with how and how well you know each other. I can get along with just about anybody, but I'm very much an introvert and it can take me awhile to figure out where I fit into established group dynamics and to feel comfortable. Living with 5 guys I don't know from Adam who I don't readily identify with and who are already pretty close could easily result in me semi-consciously cutting myself off. I don't particularly feel like doing that to myself or to you.

I can start by sharing a bit (or perhaps a lot) about myself: I'm an incoming PhD student in Computer Science. I don't fit super well into whatever stereotype that may cause you to imagine, but I am definitely a bit of a nerd. I like boardgames and videogames, I use Linux, I read and (usually) get xkcd , and I'm pretty willing to get excited and engage in debate about relatively meaningless things so long as nobody is being terribly serious about it. I even minored in Japanese. However, I don't obsess over anime, comic books, or RPGs (except occasionally Mass Effect and Chrono Trigger <_<); I get along perfectly well with people who aren't huge nerds; and I even enjoy watching and occasionally playing sports (especially my Twins and Vikings).

I really like music. If Calvin College, where I did my undergrad, had a better program, I would have pursued a double major with it. I sing and play saxophone pretty well and hope to do a bit of both at whatever church I wind up attending. A lot of what I listen to for pleasure is relatively indie (TV on the Radio, DeVotchKa, Explosions in the Sky), but I also love Jazz (Coltrane, Stan Getz), classic rock (Zeppelin, The Who), "classical" (Brahms, Mozart, Stravinsky) and even good pop music on occasion (The Killers, old Weezer). I will never proclaim that I hate an entire genre of music, as so many people do with hip-hop and/or country, even if I'm not terribly fond of the most prominent examples of those genres, as is the case with hip-hop and country. As a result of hanging out with a lot of media production people, I'm also really into movies and relish hanging out and binging on TV on DVD. My collection isn't huge, but I like to think it's of pretty good quality. If you have an appreciation for Arrested Development, Pushing Daises, Freaks and Geeks, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer...we'll probably get along.

In terms of things that more directly impact living arrangements, I have a fellowship, so paying my share of rent and utils should never be a problem. I sometimes let my own room get cluttered with laundry or papers, but I'm pretty good at keeping common areas clean so long as other people make an attempt to do so as well. If you're a bunch of slobs, I'll probably join right along out of spite. I like to cook, and I'm very happy to cook for others so long as they cover their share of the cost. I'm not terribly fond of passive-aggressive behavior, as I tend to respond in kind, which isn't something I like doing. I much prefer that issues be addressed directly and considerately. I'm usually pretty good at acknowledging when I'm in the wrong, and it takes a hell of a lot to make me hold a grudge. About the only thing you can do that will immediately give rise to dislike from me is display intolerance towards another person's race, sexuality, politics, religion, or whatever else (for the record, I am a white, heterosexual, liberal Christian).

I don't mind having people over, and would like to have people over myself for pot-lucks or grill outs or just to hang out. I don't want to live in a huge party house, though, and I tend to revert to people watching in crowds of larger than 10-15, which weirds some people out. I don't drink or smoke and would rather not live with smokers (certainly no 420), but I don't have any problem with others drinking so long as no one person is getting absolutely trashed five nights a week.

Finally, as long as you seem to know one another at least in part through InterVarsity, I may as well also comment that I'm Catholic. Not a "The Pope is always right and Protestants are heathens" Catholic, but an "I appreciate the bulk of the theology, love the level of social activism, and semi-reluctantly understand the value of the hierarchy and thus see no real cause to leave the Church" Catholic. I thoroughly enjoy discussing theology academically, but I'm not huge into talking about my faith or my "walk with Jesus". I can explain in a couple of easy sentences why I'm a Christian if I'm asked, and that's about the deepest I like to go on the subject under all but the most extreme of circumstances.
..."

huh? huh?

Fickleness and Fidelity

I used a car ride home the last couple of days as an excuse to read Pride and Prejudice. For years, I've been meaning to read this classic novel, and I'll admit that my curiosity has only been piqued by the abundance of women I know who have declared their undying love for Mr. Darcy. There's little I can say that hasn't been said about the book itself. Austen is rightly celebrated for her dialog, as it brings her characters, particularly the supporting cast, to life brilliantly. Indeed, without it, the novel would mostly be flat. But it is there, so all is splendid. Tangentially, I could complain about particulars of Regency Era grammar: The awkward, unrestrained use of commas; an abuse of semicolons that puts my own to shame; and the freedom with which pronouns are used without any attempt to establish a clear antecedent...but I imagine that these aren't issues particular to Austen, and the joys far outshine the frustrations.

Since I can't really say anything that hasn't been said already about the novel as a whole, I want to focus on one tangential aspect which I already mentioned: Mr. Darcy and his seemingly universal adoration. Now, I know that I'll draw a lot of flack for this from any lady readers I may have, but I just want to say this:

Dear Darcy Devotees,

shame on you

I say this because, in many respects, there is little remarkable in Darcy. Certainly, he is generous and intelligent and believably flawed, and he goes to great lengths to provide for Lizzy's happiness; but the same can be said of any number of well written romantic leads.

If you are interested in the particulars of his character at the end of the novel, then he is simply what I would call an extended introvert. That is to say, an introvert who has realized the importance of putting on an approachable air, of reaching out to others instead of expecting them to tolerate you in the expectation that you are ultimately worth getting to know. This is a fine sort of person in my mind, but people in general still don't take too kindly to introverts. Even those who have learned to deal perfectly well with polite company and new relations rarely radiate any sort of approachability, and just as infrequently are they any good at doing the approaching. This just weirds most people out, including plenty women I know who still claim to adore Darcy.

So, it clearly isn't Darcy himself that is so much more widely loved than any other male romantic lead in literary history. This leaves us with just a handful of means of explaining the ardor so many claim to hold for him, and none of them are particularly flattering. The first two reasons are Darcy's wealth and appearance. Neither of these seem particularly likely, though. We are reminded regularly of both, but neither is an essential part of his character or a particular reason for Lizzy's love for him (even if both are contributing factors). Since it is obvious why loving Darcy for either of these reasons would be disagreeable, and since it is also a highly unlikely case that it is so, we will abandon the entire possibility.

What's left, then, is to love Darcy for his (apparent) changeability. I say this because it is Elizabeth's rebuke that leads him to see the limitations of his ways and to begin to work on his seemingly haughty tendencies. It is the way he changes as a response to his unrequited love that causes Elizabeth to eventually change her opinion of him. It could seem, therefore, that Darcy is changing for Elizabeth. I ought not need to explain how this ties in with popular cliches (the tamable bad boy) or why it's a terrible reason for being into a guy (thousands of bad, even abusive, relationships). The big problem, however, is that it's clearly a misreading.

From everything we are told from the start by those close to him, Darcy has always, at heart, been a warm and generous man. It is just that his warmth and generosity are, at first, only shared with those in whose company he is comfortable. His apparent haughtiness is, likely as not, a byproduct of a combination of natural shyness and introversion (much like his sister's) and a firm understanding of his breeding and capacities. Darcy has seemingly been told from birth that, while anybody is worthy of his charity, only certain people are worthy of his knowing -- and most of these people will want to know him well enough that they will tolerate his aloofness and mild snobbery. He sees no cause to think otherwise until he meets Elizabeth. It is important to note that he does not change for her, as suggested above. It is not a desire merely to please Elizabeth that causes him to warm to those he may have previously thought beneath his station. No, Darcy opens up because of Elizabeth. She incites in him an awareness of the value of all people, an understanding that being a gentleman does not simply mean extending basic courtesies, but extending oneself to all.

So, it really makes very little sense for you to be in love with Darcy. Darcy will not change to be what you want him to be. He will become the man he was always meant to be; and that is a man you might admire, but probably wouldn't be terribly comfortable with. It makes perfect sense to rejoice in Darcy and Elizabeth's happiness and in the unexpected felicity they find. It makes perfect sense to celebrate Darcy's goodness and generosity in acknowledging his mistakes and working to amend for them for the sake of Elizabeth's happiness. However, what makes no sense is to be in love with Darcy. Those qualities which have been mentioned as universally laudable are hardly unique to him. Personal experience tells me that precious few of you are willing to tolerate introversion and apparent pride to the degree Darcy shows it long enough to gain the intimacy to see beyond it. And if your chief desire is to love a man who loves you as totally as Darcy does Elizabeth, well, you're barking up the wrong tree for an abundance of obvious reasons.

As for those of you who haven't read Pride and Prejudice: do. It's good for you.

Thinking Critically About Firefly: Bushwhacked (Episode 4)

I've said in each of my last posts that I'm not overly fond of this episode, which is why it's taken me so long to get to it (in fact, Sepinwall beat me to the punch on this one =/). Unfortunately, now that I have time and nothing better to do, my laptop doesn't want to read the disc, so I'm doing this from memory. So, instead of walking through specific moments in the episode, I'm going to briefly explain why, this episode ranks so low on my list.

Fortunately, my problems don't have much to do with the episode itself. It's a tightly paced episode that provides a solid introduction to the mentality of the series bogeymen and what makes them so scary all the while keeping them shrouded in horrific mystery. It provides some great humor moments to ease this tension, as well (Wosh and Jayne's interrogations) and also finishes the job of re-establishing characters who didn't really get their moments in The Train Job (Kaylee's unstoppable cheerfulness; Simon's insulated naivety). Finally, as Sepinwall noted, in showing even straight-laced Alliance troops breaking from protocol, it also continues the work of establishing the show as a Space Western (I briefly touched on what this means to me in my old Cowboy Bebop post and may devote a brief entry specifically to this concept in the near future).

Honestly, in terms of raw production, Bushwhacked is a pretty great episode. Why don't I like it, then? Well, partially because I'm not a fan of gruesomeness. I dread Mal's discovery of the passengers on the ship and the survivor's breakout from the Alliance infirmary every time I watch this episode. Mostly, though, my complaints are a posteriori and result from a lack of satisfaction with the ultimate use of Reavers in Serenity, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, feel free to celebrate the fact that Bushwhacked is a pretty solid episode that normal people, free of my squeamishness an pickiness, probably like quite a bit.

Coming up next, possibly even starting tonight, is disc 2. Disc 2 of Firefly is about my favorite thing ever. After realizing that three of its four episodes are probably the best of the series' more light-hearted outings, it became a defining element of the Pity Party as a proper noun*. While the remaining episode, Safe, isn't particularly strong, it contains at least two Important Revelations. Thinking about Shindig right now, I'm already pretty stoked for everything coming up.



*The Pity Party is defined as a get together with friends, all or most of whom have been having a pretty crappy time of things. Its purpose is to help people feel less like shit by bitching about their current problems, eating chili, and watching the awesomeness that is Disc 2 of Firefly. So far, five out of five Pity Parties have been remarkably effective in improving outlook.

Thinking Critically About Firefly: The Train Job (Episode 3)

Those of you who are long-time Firefly fans likely know that The Train Job was ordered as a replacement for the pilot episode, which Fox execs loved but, for some reason, didn't love enough to actually air until after they'd decided to cancel the series. As such, it does a lot to briefly and strongly re-introduce our heroes and highlight their pasts and relationships. Fortunately, Whedon and company care enough about and understand these characters well enough that they manage to pull it off fairly organically with a relatively fun adventure, but it does mean that we don't learn a whole lot knew about anybody and no real growth occurs.

The bar scene that the episode starts with is a great example. In the first five minutes or so, we get crystal clear characterizations of much of the crew, from Mal's wit to Jayne's surliness. We're reminded about Mal's history with The Independents, River's time in the "academy", Zoe and Wosh's marriage, and the less-than-legal means by which the crew makes its living. We're even reminded of the show's namesake -- the classification of the ship that is the crew's haven against meddling governments. None of this is terribly atypical for a second-episode recap-wise, but we clearly saw in Serenity that there's more to these characters, especially Mal, than this; and we need to be shown all of that again.

This is why the episode suffers, at least in comparison to the rest of the series. It has its share of other flaws, of course. The way the eponymous train job goes down is questionable at best; and I've rarely watched this episode with somebody new to the series without them commenting on the ridiculousness of Niska's accent. But the biggest problems all come from needing to reintroduce the characters and settings in a single hour without covering too much old ground. Beyond the stagnation aspect already mentioned, it results in some heavy-handed dialog, and I'd even call the melodrama of the dilemma Mal finds himself in a consequence of this fact; as it allows him to show his true colors as a good guy in an episode where we see the depths to which he's willing to go to stay floating.

But, when all is said and done, it's still Firefly, and it's still largely brilliant. From Mal distracting the man in the bar at the beginning to drugged up Jayne, it keeps the series' heart alive; and Mal kicking Crow into the engine is just as effective as his shooting of Dobson in Serenity. We even do get the teensiest bit of advancement with the introduction Hands of Blue. As such, there are far less pleasant ways to spend 45 minutes of your time.

Hopefully this was a bit easier to get through than the beast that was my coverage of Serenity. I'm thinking it's a bit too terse, but I figure virtually anybody reading this has seen the episodes, so an elaborate recap isn't really required. Besides, I want to save my energy for episodes that I really like. We've got Bushwhacked in the way first, though, which may be my least favorite episode. In any case, we'll get to that and why in the near-future (possibly yet tonight!).

And, once again, if you want to see professional commentary on the series, check out Alan Sepinwall's awesome blog on Hitfix. His thoughts on Serenity can be found here, and his post on this very episode will be up tomorrow.

Videogames Storytelling and the Problem with Plot Twists

This has been brewing for awhile, but I'm still not quite sure how to say anything on the topic coherently. Let me start by saying I don't require the games I play to be narrative driven. I've sunk more time than I care to think about into Borderlands since it came out last October, and the biggest drive in that game is to gain levels and pick up loot. It's good clean fun built around the random positive reenforcement that we love so much. When games do try and compel progression through narrative, though, I like that narrative to be able to stand on its own merits, preferably with writing that doesn't make me cringe. Unfortunately, this seems to be too tall an order for many game creators. This is largely because videogame writers don't seem to know terribly well how to handle what I will generically call "twists" for now -- i.e. those plot elements that shift the immediate focus of the action or the meaning of those actions that have already occurred.

Prime example: towards the end of April, I picked up Assassin's Creed 2 -- nearly universally lauded as one of the best games of 2009 -- on the cheap and started playing through it. The first half of the game is quite enjoyable. I didn't even mind the "ancestral memory" conceit used to link the games in the series. The story (technically the story-within-the-story, but the main plot for all intents and purposes) is a simple but relatively compelling one of revenge against those who have unjustly wronged your family. It felt good saving the city of Florence from these corrupt men. Moving on from there, things start to get a little bit less enjoyable plot-wise as you move on to unravel the larger conspiracy that said men were pawns in, but the city of Venice is even more fun to explore than Florence, so it works out alright for the most part. All the while, there are opportunities to unlock secrets about the larger story surrounding the game -- the historical and modern activities of the Assassins (proper noun) and the Templars in which Ezio, the effective protagonist, is not a part.

This background information is generally pretty ridiculous. It involves elaborate plots and partnerships, not to mention ancient aliens (and alien-human hybrids!). One of the major failings is an attempt to assign roles in this conflict, particularly among the Templar, to far too many historical figures. If a historical figure has ever been vilified in any medium, whether it's Hitler or Edison, they were secretly a Templar. Anybody whom the game creators thought was a Pretty Cool Dude, be it Dante or Tesla or Machiavelli, was secretly a friend of the Assassins. It's unnecessary, distracting, and ridiculous; but it's also entirely optional and thus tolerable...until the last hour or so of the game.

Suddenly, in a major "twist", the alien relics show up within the main plot of the game. And then you have to kill the (evil, Templar-colluding) Pope, who bears another of these relics. And then you find a message recorded and left by the super-powerful-but-now-extinct aliens (whom ancient man thought to be gods) about how the sun is going to blow up someday, so screw your petty conflicts. It's ridiculous, it comes out of nowhere, and it leaves you saying, just like it does the sub-protagonist, "What the ****!?". I have no use for twists of this sort in any sort of story. If it doesn't make sense within the context of what we've been told or shown. If there have been no details to suggest that something is happening other than what we've been led to believe. If the mechanism that instigates the revelation requires supernatural origins. If the entire point is to cause surprise or speculation rather than concern or curiosity...leave it be.

Unfortunately, this is mighty common in videogames, including those that have story as a primary component and not just a generic motivator. I've been slowly working my way through Tales of Vesperia the last several months; and I can't help dropping it for awhile every few weeks because of the absurdity of its plot. The character interactions are mostly pretty great, and the first large story arc -- setting out to retrieve a stolen artifact necessary for the survival of your hometown -- is, again, straightforward and effective, even if I ran into plenty of problems with annoyingly "creative" words made up for the game (as always, xkcd proves right). After that first arc concluded, though, I realized that they were intentionally keeping everything about the workings of the setting as nebulously defined as possible so that they could make up as much crap as they wanted to to prolong the story. Pretty much every single major shift in the plot for the last 20-30 hours has begun/ended with the "genius mage" character going "oh snap! these magical crystal thingamabobs we've all relied on for basic survival for centuries are reacting in some weird way that nobody has ever documented before or thought to be a remote possibility! But now that I've observed it once I understand it completely and can say conclusively that we need to go do X next!" Either that, or some ancient, wizened creature says "puny mortals. you cannot comprehend what's really happening...unless you go do Z, in which case, yeah, you can comprehend it just fine. So...yeah, go do Z." It's ridiculous and makes it legitimately hard to play the game at times.

Even games from the same series or writer can use plot twists exceedingly well in one entry an quite poorly in the next. I complain about its popularity a lot, but Final Fantasy VII is a great game that has a handful of twists, all of which work. None of them seem too far-fetched (even if at least one is borderline traumatic in its surprise), and all work to make the eventual revelation about Cloud's real past and his relationship with Sephiroth make sense. Final Fantasy IX, on the other hand, doesn't handle its twists nearly so well. Whether it's Zidane's origin or the final boss, once you get past the second disk, the big twists all come out of thin air. Hell, as much as I love it, Mass Effect 2 even slips a little bit with the final encounter. I'm willing to overlook that as it makes a certain (if small) amount of sense based on what we know at that point, not to mention the fact that nobody makes any real claim to understanding beyond conjecture what was happening.

That really touches on the key thing. If a twist happens after it has been telegraphed, whether it's through subtle hints that take on greater meaning after the event or more obvious foreshadowing, that's good use of a twist. If a twist happens and there is no prior evidence to explain what happened or to make us think that such an event might happen, but the next portion of the plot is (at least in part) dedicated to illuminating the twist -- to seeing the characters come to understand why their world has suddenly changed and what that means, then that's a good use of the twist. However, if a twist occurs out of nowhere and somebody, instead, immediately comprehends the significance and cause of the event based entirely on knowledge which the audience didn't even know might exist, that's poor use of a twist.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't something that just happens in videogames. I'm still upset with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for this sort of sloppy story telling. It just seems to be more readily accepted in videogames, and it shouldn't be. People have been using games to tell legitimate stories for 20 years or more now. We shouldn't allow the overly-frilly drivel that passes for plot in most of our games today. I'm not demanding narratives that are going to blow my mind. I'm not even demanding narratives that are universally complex and multi-faceted. I'm asking for one simple thing: If you're not willing to take the time to make sure everything makes sense, keep it simple. Moreover, realize that if the characters are ever spending less time in a state of shock or confusion than the audience, you're probably doing something wrong.

Thinking Critically About Firefly: Serenity (Episode 1)

Serenity is a great pilot episode for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it's just a damn entertaining episode. More important, though, it shows us that Whedon and friends knew exactly who these characters were from day one. For better or worse, that means that there's a lot to recognize in the episode in terms of setting up of characters, style, and conflicts. As such, this is going to be a long post, possibly longer than the double that the episode length already demands. So, let's get going and start at the very beginning.

The opening sequence, the ending of the Battle of Serenity Valley, is a bit of a red herring -- its scale and its style are unlike anything else the series has to offer. I'd call this a blessing, ultimately, as the scene shows that the effects budget can in no way support this kind of high action, large scale, future combat; but it serves its primary purpose well in showing a Mal who is ultimately not the same Captain Reynolds we know and love and letting us see clearly what is responsible for the change that takes place.

The Mal we see here is an optimist. He believes that the just nature of his cause will see him through to victory if he, and his men, can remain dedicated to it. I know many people who have missed this, but he also shows himself to be a man of faith, not only in his rhetoric about angles and "The Hot Place", but also in a very important shot of him kissing the cross around his neck. The Battle of Serenity Valley is responsible for Mal's loss of faith, but not just in God, who failed him in time of need, despite all of his efforts to follow what he saw as the right path. The battle is also responsible for Mal's loss of faith in human institutions, even if he manages to maintain belief in human individuals. His superiors in the Independents abandoned him, too, even though everything seemed to be going so right. The result is a Mal who only trusts himself and his crew. The scene also establishes many of the most beloved elements of the Mal who is, though: chiefly the ability to command the loyalty of those around him.

I remember watching this episode for the first time, I was intrigued after that first scene; but the scene that follows -- the deep space salvage on the destroyed cargo ship -- was what made me fairly certain I'd love this series. There were two reasons: first, the introduction of Wosh and the universally adored dinosaurs. Second, the Crybaby. Wosh lived up to expectations, but the Crybaby has always remained a marker of what could have been. The absolute cleverness of it as a cheap, low tech, but effective tool gave me high hopes for other ways that these Desperate Men would find their way out of tricky situations. For better or worse, though, it was, at least in part, one of a kind. Certainly, we got plenty of other glimpses of how the collective creativity of the crew helped them get out of tough scrapes, but none of them excited me as much as the Crybaby did on that first viewing.

One final side-note about this scene: I really don't like the Jayne, "Let's moon 'em" shot (or line). I get that it's supposed to be his brief character establishing moment, much like Wosh's dinosaurs or Kaylee's getting stuck in the engine room; but it doesn't work for me. It may be the way in which it's inserted into the rest of the footage, but I've never been a fan.

From here we get our first brief glimpse of one of the two major types of scenes that take up most of the series: on-ship interaction between the crew. And the bits of dialog here are pitch perfect for setting up much of what's to come in this regard. We see Mal keeping the crew somewhat in the dark -- ostensibly to keep them from worrying. We see Kaylee being incurably cheerful. We see Wosh struggling with the fact that Zoe will always be as loyal to Mal as she is to him. The scene that follows, on Persephone, gives us an equally brief glimpse at the other sort of major sequence: on-the-job interactions. The conversation with Badger shows us the calm, controlled nature of Mal's interaction with those not of his crew; and it shows the good-luck bad-luck balance that defines so much of the lives of the crew of the Serenity. It also serves to establish the character of Book and to show the living conditions of the huddled masses, even on a "civilized" planet like Persephone.

Final notes on the Persephone scene: In his readiness to deal with Patience, we see the extent to which Mal is willing to risk himself to preserve the lifestyle of himself and his crew. We get some great Mal and Zoe banter back on the ship. Finally, we have our first of many instances of incredibly poorly pronounced Chinese. Look forward to those.

As we greet the new passengers, we get a nice, slightly misleading introduction to Simon, our first shots of Mal and Inara fighting and of Kaylee fawning over Simon, and a blunt portrayal of Mal's discomfort with religion (contrasted with his insistence on respect and decency). Again, lots of setting up of group dynamics happening, and all of it done well. The old relationships feel believably old and the new ones seem like they're developing naturally. All tied in we get a nice little bit of universe establishment around the dinner table so we know what the deal is with all of these colonies. Following dinner, we get a Book-Inara scene that could have been incredibly painful as we establish their mutual fascination with Mal (one borderline romantic, one purely personal). If I were just to read the script here, it would seem incredibly forced -- the epitome of telling instead of showing -- but Mal has been so firmly established as fitting their descriptions of him, and Morena Baccarin and Ron Glass have a very nice chemistry together as the two outsiders on the ship, that the scene works rather nicely and sets the stage well for the many future conversations between the two.

Leading into the end of the first half of this double episode, we finally get to the start of the series' major source of tension: Simon and River's flight from the Alliance (which adds urgency to Mal and company's own desire to stay out of the spotlight). The reveal is built into a great scene in which we see Book's willingness to punch out the law-man who shoots Kaylee (the first sign that he's been more than a Shepard at some point in his life), Zoe's willingness to pull a gun to keep Jayne in line (the first sign that he's been trouble before and will be again), the depths to which Simon is willing to sink to stay away from the feds (though we don't yet know why), and the crew's intense protectiveness of Kaylee (who represents all of their innocence to some degree or another). Finally, we get to that great would-be-end of the first episode, Mal's mighty, confused, "huh".

This is all followed in the beginning of the second half by a lot of mildly unfortunate telling about River. In her current state, and in the current confines, there's no good way for them to establish River's brilliance and athleticism, so Simon needs to tell us all about it along with how she was taken and, presumably, experimented on and the lengths he went to to save her. It's handled gently, as a loving brother speaking tenderly of the little sister he's sacrificed everything to protect. Because of this, it works better than it might have; though I'm not convinced that his speech needed to be so long. After all of this and the crew debate as to the proper course of action, we get a nice Jayne scene as he interrogates Lawrence Dobson, the Alliance law-man, and is made an offer we can't tell if he'll refuse. This is quickly followed by our first brief encounter with Reavers -- the cannibalistic bogeymen who will pop up from time to time throughout the rest of the show's run.

As we find out that Kaylee is okay, coupled with a hilarious if evil prank on Simon by Mal, the episode kicks into gear for its remainder as the deal with Patience is finalized and the job on Whitefall begins. We see Mal doing his best to be reasonable and fair, looking to avoid trouble and get paid and still going through with the job even when he knows that there's an ambush in store. Cleverness again comes into play as Mal, Zoe, and Jayne prepare for the job, not only disarming trap but turning it around (and making it look like Jayne may have taken law-man Dobson up on his offer). Speaking of Dobson, he's broken free, beating Book more than necessary in the process and abducting River. Trouble aplenty brewing now!

As the deal with Patience goes south as predicted, Mal, Zoe, and Jayne all show their skills. They kill Patience's men while leaving her alive and claiming their payment (and leaving the supplies, as originally agreed). Simon manages to briefly get the upper hand on Dobson as he desperately struggles to continue protecting his sister, and the Reavers show back up as the crew prepares to flee the planet. Mal, Zoe, and Jayne arrive back at the ship, distracting Simon and letting Dobson reclaim his prize. Now deadly serious, Mal shows his willingness to do what's necessary and defuses the Dobson situation with a single bullet as he boards. Wosh, an injured Kaylee, and Book, who once again shows he's more than he seems, work in coordination to pull off an elaborate maneuver, a Crazy Ivan, and escape the Reaver's clutches. Sweet victory!

Finally, a nice bit of falling action as Inara and Book get more chance to talk about the unique facets of life on Serenity and Mal convinces Simon that the best way to keep his sister safe is to stay on as medic and the first episode of Firefly is over. It's a damn shame that Fox didn't air this episode first, even as a two-parter, as it's the best introduction to the series I can possibly imagine. I feel like I may have delved too deeply into synopsis here, but there was a lot of setup to do, both for me and the episode. Future reviews ought to be shorter and focus more on specifics (along with a brief plot overview). Unfortunately, the next two episodes aren't quite up to snuff. I don't particularly dislike The Train Job or Bushwhacked, but I'd probably put them both in my bottom five episodes. We'll power through those, though, and get to the delightful second disk, which gives us Shindig, Jaynestown, and Our Mrs. Reynolds, over the course of the next week or two. Thanks for reading.