"Good night, Prince of Elfhame," Wren says as [Oak] is led from the room. He manages a single glance back. Her gaze locks with his, and he can feel the frisson of something between them. Something that might be terrible, but that he wants more of all the same.
Forgive me, I tried.
I tried to so fucking hard to love this book, this duology, but ultimately, heartbreakingly, that vicious, scheming, ethereal love that was so abundant in the Folk of Airtrilogy was sorely missing from Suren and Oak's story. And my gods that hurts me in a way I believe all devoted readers can understand, the story guzzlers who rely on the fantasy of fiction to act as their lifeblood more than any plasma possibly could. There isn't a cell in my body that doesn't cry out for tales of the impossible, and unfortunately, in the case of this double-edged sojourn back into the perniciously beautiful lands of Elfhame, they remain in keening despair.
There's a weight at my brow, nudging it downwards in the curl of a question: why did this fail me? What went wrong? Is there more here than I'm seeing?
And the answers can only be: because it did and that's okay. Nothing and everything. Maybe and maybe not.
Two contrary answers for two books, both sides of the narrative blade, and a cut as blunt as ever I've felt.
In short? This sucks and I'm not happy about it.
And once again, I find myself immobilised at that reviewing crossroads, where the need to write something tugs insistently, if only for remembrance sake, to look back on and note how I felt at the time, but concurrently there's the more nagging part that doesn't know how to put those feelings into words because the prickle of emptiness pervades. Which is an unnecessarily verbose way of saying: I'm not feeling a whole bunch of anything, and I'm not sure I want to force myself to for the sake of a review, but reviewing's kind of what I do, so... should I squeeze out some words anyway?
I could talk about the joy of Holly Black using this duology to expand the lands of Elfhame, and how every moment spent in Wren's forest or the gelid halls of her spicular castle were a pleasure to the senses.
I could make note of how I knew in my gut that flipping the narrative in book two from Suren to Oak would ultimately leave the story lacking a necessary bite.
I could speak of how every glimpse of Jude and Cardan was a boon, and how their every interaction outshines everyone lucky enough to be in their orbit.
I could call attention to the fact that there are tentacles in this book, and no, I wasn't happy about it, and from now on I'd really appreciate a trigger warning for any and all watery critters' existence in all my future reading endeavours.
I could wax lyrical over the side characters of this tale: Hyacinthe and Tiernan - I need their book like I need serotonin; Mother Marrow - tricksy little fucker, I'd very much like to know her deal; Jack of the Lakes - be still my kelpie-crushing heart, I demand to see him get taken the fuck down by some petulant nixie who'll steal his heart and eat it ... in a romantic way.
I could, I could, I could.
But I don't think I will.
I think that's enough.
And as much as I'm a vocal supporter of all forms of reviews (the good, the bad, and the ugly but not cruel), I'd rather the ones who loved this duology, who left Elfhame once again with a feeling of fulfilment and wonder were writing the reviews and beckoning future visitors to Elfhame with their enthusiasm.
Just this once.
Because I do love this glistering, hideous world Holly Black's created with the whole of my rotten heart, and to be welcomed inside it once again is always a pleasure and an implore I'll answer without a second thought.
"What if I am too much? If I need too much?" [Wren] asks, her voice very low.
[Oak] takes a deep breath, his smile gone. "I'm not good. I'm not kind. Maybe I am not even safe. But whatever you want from me, I will give you."
For a moment, they stare at each other. He can see the tension in her body. But her eyes are clear and bright and open. She nods, a slow smile growing on her lips.
[...]
"Then I'll have to marry you, Prince Oak of the Greenbriar line," Wren says, with a sharp-toothed smile. "Just to make you suffer."
And to the duology's credit, I will give it these two irrefutable things:
1) I left it with a smile - that last scene was a thing of soft beauty.
2) The hope for more - Jude and Cardan in the Undersea. It'll be like The Bachelorette but even more beastly and with probably more stabbings.
Truly, if Holly Black doesn't give us the brat king and his knife wife queen the chance to observe the feral fae vying for Nicasia's webbed hand, it'll be a godsdamned crime.
So, what I'm taking from this is... Galadriel got dick-natized by Sauron and his Northern accent, plus a claw-machine diamond ring, and that's why the Hobbits had to go through all that terrible, life-altering shit which for sure gave them PTSD for the rest of their vertically challenged lives?
Uh, okay.
This stinks of the patriarchy; I think the showrunners might need to open a perfectly rounded window and let some adaptive screenwriting air in.
...
I blame Peter Jackson for every last molecule of this.
...
And a bit Tolkien for not passing the Bechdel Test even a tiny amount, and giving his few and far between female characters the depth of a slice of Lembas Bread - physical, not taste; those suckers sound delicious.
I can't believe this is getting a season three, but then again, Amazon's foie gras-ed so much moolah down its neck, maybe I can believe it.
Sighhhhhhhhhh.
At least Wheel of Time's still out there delivering the quality goods, and with season three coming out mid March I can forget all about Galadriel's romance drama and focus entirely on my ever-growing crush on Rosamund Pike and Lan Mandragoran's spectacular abs.
Firstly, this looks fucking incredible, and I'm going to spend the interim between now and actually seeing it, hoping it's not all trailer and very little movie.
The universe has to give me the goods if I beg, right?
But most importantly, is this... are we... could this be the start of a vampire renaissance?
It kicked off with the new Interview with the Vampire series, which is... well, I won't start because I've basically gotten to the point where given the chance I'll recite sonnets about the way the light flits through Lestat's golden tresses with every glorious hair toss. And I'm not sure I'm ready to embarrass myself quite that liberally on the immortal internet. ... Not yet. But the impetus to do so does stem from the show being beyond incredible ➡ Fang one.
Also stalking the halls of the theatre is Robert Eggers' Nosferatu, which I'm hearing good to great things about ➡ Fang two.
And now for the big one, the one that's got me all in my feels because I don't know how bloody well to feel about it: my beloved Buffy is getting a reboot with Smidge at the helm and Whedon out on his arse. Two incredibly encouraging things because a) do the show without SMG and we riot, and b) Whedon's a misogynistic arsehole who may have created one of the greatest fantasy tv shows in history, which does make me nervous for the quality of the show, but goddamn I don't want his creepy ass anywhere near it. ... But I also don't know if I want it all! ➡ Fang three.
...
Y'see why I'm of the mind that the fang gang is making a comeback? A... reVamp, you might say - not apologising for that ever.
And if Sinners is anything to go by, it's gonna real pretty, and real bloody, and real damn dark.
The rewatch where I accidentally consume all the romance in the month of romance, a month I give zero fucks about, coupled up or not, and I'm the opposite of mad about it:
Attempting to trick my brain into believing Polin's season didn't suck historical balls.
...
And it kind of worked?
As in, I don't hate it anymore, but I still think it was a poor season with too many plots overlapping at once, and what looked shockingly like a slashed budget (how that's even possible when the show's one of Netflix's biggest cash cows).
Penelope deserved so much better.
She deserved everything.
...
That was a lot of italicising, so I guess I'm still pretty pissed off, but I'm going to stem all that rage into manifesting Benedict's season into one of the best yet because my cinnamon roll bisexual babygirl art king will not be shortchanged.
I'm been rooting for this marshmallow since day one, and Netflix will rue the day they deny me!
I've said it before and I'll most likely say it again: the movie is nowhere near as good as the book and you should definitely read the book because IT'S PERFECT.
But the movie does have its charms, one of which being the almost preternatural casting of Lucy Hale as Lucy Hutton. I mean, ffs, even their initials match, this was a match made in movie heaven. And she actually crushes it as Lucy, the perfect Shortcake to take an unholy bite out of grumpy but oh so squishy inside, Joshua Templeman, a book boyfriend for the ages.
Look, it's not the best, but Jameela Jamil as some sort of rom-com Clarence with most excellent hair is something I feel everyone should have on their bucket list.
I can live with this not getting a second season. I can. I don't necessarily like it, but I can live with it, because it's kind of a perfect little mini-series that doesn't need the visual payoff of seeing these two insufferably adorable insomniacs get together.
It's enough knowing they could and it would be really lovely, but also if they didn't, the writing allowed their actual partners to hold up as just as viable other halves.
That's rare. Normally we're inundated with "the one before the one" being a jackass, or romantically lazy, or a straight up toxic monster. And I hate it. It makes me question the MCs character; why would they be with someone so laughably wrong and not be able to see it? Are they stupid or so gaslit they couldn't see a red flag if it bopped them on the nose?
I want this kind of romance, where there are options (but not really), good options, and it makes that final call all the more heart-tugging.
You may have noticed a frog theme running through the monthlies this February, and there's no real reason other than frogs are awesome, I like them a lot, look at their cute, dumb little faces.
They look so peeved to be dressed up, it's too bloody cute.
Picture this: Twenty year old, art school baby me decides to take a short course in second year on creating art from nature and ends up down a rabbit hole of Wonderlandian depths on the anthropomorphism of trees.
It was the best course I took during my stay at university (my best grade, too), and opened up a world of thought I previously felt but didn't have an output for all those creatures and beings that looked, and still look back at me when I stare too long at the ridges and twists and folds of woodland.
Or anything, really.
It's called Pareidolia, and though it's been found as a trait in monkeys, it's predominantly a human tendency; the man in the moon being a prime example.
I see faces and critters in the tiles of my bathroom floor, in the distortion of tea stains, and yes, in the clouds.
But most of all in nature, and it's probably why I find trees having such a long history of sentience in fiction such an appealing trope.
This isn't actually my preferred way of reading/watching them, however, I'm actually far more fond of a wood, a forest, a biome to have a collective sentience that isn't verbal but a hummed presence. Be it menacing, primordial, magical, I'm endlessly drawn to the feeling of standing within a cathedral of trees and feeling... small, young, outwitted.
They've been here so much longer than us, how could they possibly be silent and unknowing?
The fantasist in me knows the answer, and these authors and their living forests do, too:
It took me a year and a half, and a month into Acute Laryngitis to finally watch this.
And it probably only happened because my family told me, explicitly and loudly, to go and sit my exhausted arse down and watch the bloody movie I've been excited about since its announcement and too chicken shit to actually watch.
...
Thank you, fam, even if you were really pushy about it!
I can't explain why it took me this long, other than adaptations of things I love - and I do love the graphic novel, so very fucking much - always fill me with this feeling of terrified anticipation.
What if it's good but not great? What if they fuck it up entirely? What if wrecks my life in the best possible way and I cannot recover? That last one's rare, but it can happen (see:Fincher's, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Perfect adaptation), and it always makes me stressy.
And Nimona means a lot to me, it's one of those graphic novels that always takes pride of place on my recommend list because it's so damn funny and weird and full of heart, and manages to explore the full gamut of the queer experience whilst taking the time to celebrate it without solely focusing on trauma.
Plus, Nimona has these chonky little legs that I've been been obsessed with since I saw the cover and it only grew worse the more time I spent watching them flit around on their knights-in-arms quest for chaos and redemption.
And I really didn't want to see them get taken to pieces by the increasingly lacklustre animation industry - this isn't shade to the artists, it's to the big wigs with all the money who won't shell out for quality storytelling.
Thus, eighteen months of being a cowardly muppet and it turns out I had absolutely nothing to worry about. Not the change in style, which was a huge concern because I love ND Stevenson's illustrations (still kinda confused why we couldn't have their OG style, it would have been fucking adorable), but actually, the frenzied mashup of various styles really lent itself to the world-building, which I really liked being updated to Mediaeval Modern. Totally fit the vibe.
Because this is, quite honestly, a near perfect adaptation.
It hit all the right chapter notes whilst making me laugh and flinch and guffaw in surprise (more of a squack than a guffaw in my voiceless state) over things I'd forgotten, things I was waiting for, and a few welcome surprises.
The soundtrack slapped in all its anachronistic but actually not anachronistic at all glory.
And best of all, it kept its heart firmly and steadfastly exactly where it needed to be, no deviations; and when it comes to queer storytelling, especially in times like these where queer people's liberties are being torn away from them, we need movies like Nimona. Movies of resistance and joy, and deep, unflinching hurt that needs telling.
My favourite part though? Very best of all?
It didn't make me sob the way the graphic novel did, instead it made me hopeful, and it times like these that's an act rebellion in itself.
In the inimitable words of my darling joy-monster, Nimona:
It is my sworn duty as an honorary witch (self-proclaimed, but hell, there's no way they wouldn't have dunked my weird ass during the trials) to amend this list:
And also a life-ruiner when you're a preteen and you realise being a witch isn't a real thing.
Devastating.
🔮 Circe, turning patriarchal lemons into an island of man-free bliss
I've only got Madeline Miller's retelling to go by, but hot damn, Circe got one hell of a raw deal (like 99% of women in Greek mythology). I mean, sure, she turned one mean girl into a bloodthirsty sea monster.
This is specifically seasons 1-3 Willow, when she was a sweetheart brainiac, and before the arrogance and magic addiction crap took over and ruined her entirely.
I mean, sure, the show sucks but I have certain fondness for it, and Regina is a hugggeee part of that.
I'd eat one of her poison apples, fully aware I'd kick the bucket straight afterwards.
...
Because she's the hot kind of evil.
The step on your throat and say thank you kind of evil.
The "I can't blame you for trying to murder that little shit of a stepdaughter who ruined your life, I'd've done exactly the same, wanna make out?" kind of evil.
When a woman can physically stop your heart from beating using just her mind, and raise an undead army whilst looking like Titian's, Woman with a Mirror, you take a fucking knee.
Uh, there isn't exactly a lot to say, other than this was straight up ridiculous and fun as hell, and I will absolutely be watching it multiple times, on repeat, again and again.
Falling in love from opposing sides of a monster filled hell pit?
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