Historical fiction and fairy tale - how well do they gel?

I've been wanting to try Gregory Maguire's books for a while. His trademark seems to be to offer new takes on old stories, which is a genre I'm interested in; he wrote the novel Wicked on which the hit musical about the Wicked Witch of the West is based (I've seen the musical and very much enjoyed it, though not so much for the story as for the great songs). However, not having read The Wizard of Oz (yet - I will get to it), I was more curious about Maguire's version of famous fairy tales, such as Cinderella and Snow White. In the end I bought Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister, but as I was not immediately hooked by the first pages, it has been standing in my bookcase for quite some time. Now I've finally read it, and I'm glad I did - it's well-written, and the narrative flows at a pleasant pace, making it a good "lunch read". To my mind, though, it works better as historical fiction than as a version of the Cinderella story.

The book opens with an old woman encountering children in the street telling each other the tale of Cinderella and her ugly stepsisters. This stirs memories in the old woman of her own past, and she wonders whether her family's story can have inspired the tale. Here's the thing, though: this set-up makes the ugly stepsisters part of a folksy tradition, and I'm not so sure they are. Neither in the Perrault version nor in the Grimm version of Cinderella are the stepsisters ugly, though Perrault points out that Cinderella is prettier. The brothers Grimm even contrast the sisters' good looks with their cold and nasty hearts. Though Disney didn't invent the ugly stepsister-part of the story - they are ugly, say, in British pantomime, and mostly played by men in drag -  the animated film certainly popularised the notion. It's ironic that Disney then ditched the concept in the live-action remake and bragged about how poking fun at ugliness didn't seem appropriate "in this day and age".

Anyway, ugly stepsisters abound in other fairy tales, and Cinderella is one of the most popular fairy tales around, so it's not too much of a stretch to imagine a Disney-esque version making the rounds in the 17th century. Just thought I'd point out that if you want to make an argument against the whole "ugly - bad, beautiful - good" notion, Cinderella may not be the best starting point.

After this prologue, the novel tells the story of the old woman's past and that of her family. It's seen mainly through the eyes of Iris, the younger of two sisters who, along with their mother, arrive in 17th-century Haarlem after having been driven out of their village in England when a flood, which their dead father was supposed to be able to prevent, ruined the crops. Iris is plain, her older sister Ruth is seemingly simple and their mother Margarethe unscrupulous. They are destitute, and Margarethe's grandfather (she is of Dutch origin), to whom they wanted to turn for help, turns out to be dead. Luckily, they find work at the studio of a painter, Schoonmaker, whose picture of Iris drives home how plain she is and undermines her confidence. In time, they are taken on as servants in the home of a wealthy merchant, whose daughter Clara is in need of companionship. Clara is shy in company and never leaves the house, sheltered as she is by her anxious mother.

For the longest time, the story hardly resembles Cinderella at all. Clara, who is the Cinderella character, has the upper hand at first - she is the spoilt brat rather than Iris and Ruth. When she eventually retreats into the kitchen she does so voluntarily, and it is she who jokingly starts calling herself Cinderling and Cinderella, though Margarethe isn't slow to adopt the usage in a suitably spiteful way. It isn't until there is talk of a ball, held in honour of Marie de Medici no less and a godson of hers, that the references to the Cinderella story start popping up. Until then, the novel is more focused on the girls' lives in a time of great painting - Iris has a painter's eye and is fascinated by Schoonmaker's art - and tulip speculation. It is interesting in its own right, but I did feel slightly cheated. It was as if Maguire really wanted to write a novel about 17th-century Haarlem and forced some resemblance of Cinderella onto the story because his readers have come to expect that kind of thing from him.     

But then the family are financially hit by the tulip crash, in no small part through the fault of Margarethe, and hope to have their fortune miraculously restored by the ball. That is, Margarethe hopes - the rest of the household just humours her. Iris is convinced that she has no earthly chance of catching any princeling's eye (and anyway she's in love with another man, believing her love to be unrequited), and therefore persuades the luminously beautiful Clara to attend the ball secretly. From then on, things get properly Cinderella-like, with slippers (though not in glass) and all.

Some of my concerns did disappear, at least partly, by the end of the book, not least because of a clever twist that made sense of the novel's title. But I'm not entirely convinced that historical fiction and fairy tale mix well, at least not in this instance. The stepmother and stepsisters are (unsurprisingly) the characters that interest me most in the original story, and on paper it seems a good idea to explore their motives further in a more "realistic" setting than a made-up fairy-land. But Maguire's versions of the characters didn't quite satisfy me. Margarethe is consistently wicked, but she's not clever enough to become a fascinating monster, and she doesn't care for her own daughters in the way I, at least, imagine Cinderella's stepmother should (seeing as jealousy on behalf of her daughters furnishes the fairy-tale version with a solid motive for hating her stepdaughter). I've always liked that there are two stepsisters, but only one prince, which can lead to all kinds of possible family dynamics, from downright rivalry and squabbling to a calmly thought-out plan A - plan B strategy, where perhaps one of the sisters cares for the Prince a great deal while the other doesn't care a button and is prepared to support her sister's prior claim. By sidelining Ruth I thought Maguire had opted for a cop-out solution, but Ruth plays an important part of the story in the end, so I guess I can't complain. Iris is a strong protagonist, a generally good egg without being too perfect - it would be unnatural if she didn't resent Clara from time to time.

My main problem with the novel is Clara. Maguire hasn't just flipped the coin and made her bad and Iris good, for which I'm thankful - I get irritated when revisionist takes on fairy tales go down that road. Clara is capable of acting nobly when push comes to shove and cares about her stepsisters in her way. But consciously or unconsciously, she's a pain. I think we're meant to feel sorry for her and the hardships she has to face by being so beautiful she attracts every man's eye. Maybe I'm just catty, but I have a hard time buying the whole "beauty can be a curse" argument. I'm sure it's not always easy to be breathtakingly beautiful, but I believe most of us would be prepared to take the problems on board along with all the privileges a stunning face (and figure) ensure. Clara's self-pity grates, and it's a mystery to me why Iris, who suffers a great deal from her (partly imagined) ugliness, doesn't punch the girl in the face.

The original Cinderella can be perceived as a bit of a ninny, but for us as readers (or audience) to root for a Cinders she does need to be good. Disney's live-action version of Cinderella may have been completely unnecessary, but they did make the right choice, in my opinion, when they hammered in the "have courage and be kind" message. Kindness and endurance are Cinderella's trump cards, and if she doesn't display enough of these characteristics she risks coming across as either a sly piece, unpleasantly abrasive or, as in Clara's case, someone in love with her own victim status. 

All the same, I liked the novel, and I'll be checking out Maguire's Mirror, Mirror. However, I'll try to get more into the historical novel-vibe with that one, and not expect to find anything approaching my favourite versions of Snow White or the Evil Queen in it.

Disney plays it safe with Raya - but it's a good game

The first thing people seem to ask in reviews of Disney's latest animated film, Raya and the Last Dragon, is "Is it worth paying extra for?". The deal is that if you pay for "premier access" to the film, you can watch it now on Disney + (providing you have a subscription, that is). If, however, you wait until June, all you need is the Disney + subscription in order to watch it for free as part of the package. The US price for premier access is 30 dollars: here in Sweden, it's 250 Swedish crowns, which is about the same, and approximately what you pay in Sweden for two cinema tickets (admittedly expensive ones, probably with 3D thrown in). So, yes, it's pricey, but from our point of view not that pricey.

As you can guess, I paid, feeling a right mug for not being able to wait for the "free" release. But - somewhat to my surprise - to me it ended up being worth it. After the film, I didn't feel like I'd wasted my money. Instead I thought "Yeah, this was good, and I needed it now". So yes, providing you're not short of cash, and providing you love Disney films, I'd say it's worth paying extra.

That's not to say I thought the film was perfect. Though it was better than I expected from some of the trailers, it didn't live up to my most fervid hopes. The positives first: this film felt like there was a lot of thought and feeling put into it. Frozen 2 and Wreck-It Ralph 2 - Ralph Breaks the Internet seem very lazy in comparison. Whereas the world of the enchanted forest in Frozen 2 felt incoherent and cobbled together ("giants are cool, that water horse thingy is cool, Samis-or-something-like-them are cool, a fire lizard isn't really a thing in Scandinavian folklore but who cares"), the world of the five kingdoms that used to be Kumandra hangs together and is really quite fascinating. Hopefully the films gains enough of a following to spark a spinoff animated TV series like, for instance, Tangled and Big Hero 6, because these settings have a lot of potential for further adventures. 

The animation is gorgeous. The story is effective. The message isn't only the old one of "we should overcome our prejudices and get along with each other blah blah" but delves a little deeper into the matter of trust - it makes a case for daring to trust your fellow men, while also acknowledging that it isn't always a good idea. I can get behind that. The side characters are charming (I was not wholly convinced by the over-capable "con baby", but she has an important plot function) and the comic relief the dragon Sisu provided didn't grate on me. Also, she had some real insight to contribute, which was nice.

On the flip side, I didn't care that much about Raya, the heroine. In fairness, she is given a plausible motivation and isn't just "kick-ass". Her goal is to reassemble the Dragon Gem, a magic artefact which was broken six years before in a tussle between the five tribes, releasing an age-old menacing force called the Druun in the process, which turns people - including Raya's father - into stone. The good news is that if the Druun can be defeated, everyone turned into stone will come back to life. Raya partly blames herself for the catastrophe, because she trusted a girl from a different tribe who betrayed her, so it's understandable she's glum and hard to come close to, but it also makes her less fun to be around than, say, Rapunzel.

Once she's teamed up with Sisu, Raya only has to get all the pieces of the broken gem, but that's easier said than done. Each enemy tribe/land - Tail, Talon, Spine and Fang (the lands are named after a river in the shape of a dragon - Raya is from Heart) - have a piece of it and guard it fiercely. In each place Raya goes, she and Sisu more or less inadvertently pick up a companion: a business-savvy young boy, the aforementioned baby and her band of trained thieving monkeys and a fearsome warrior with a soft heart. They have all lost their families to the Druun. I appreciated that there wasn't any time wasted with Raya feeling bad about having had prejudices against Tail, Talon and Spine people - she and the side cast just got on with bonding without much fuss. Then they come to Fang, and things become a little more complicated.

I've slid back into mainly positives, so let me come to my major gripe: the new formula for Disney animated films has, regrettably, stuck, and each time it's reiterated it gets harder to get out of. This means, firstly, that there's no romance. Disney's line when it comes to animated films is not so much politically correct as politically safe. They do not want to offend anyone. By setting their film in an East-Asian fantasy world, they've got the diversity thing sorted. (Though mark my words, people will try to be offended nevertheless and find something they can call "disrespectful" - good luck with that.) By making Raya - and her antagonist Namaari - women with warrior skills, Disney can beat the "girl power" drum a bit. Raya isn't allowed a male love interest, because it would (or so Disney thinks) annoy feminists to see her go weak at the knees over some man. And she can't fall for Namaari either, because that would be too bold (there were apparently people who boycotted Onward because a female side character made a passing reference to her girlfriend). Honestly, why aren't Disney heroines allowed any love lives anymore? (Except in the case of Anna and Kristoff, and let's face it - was he a pushover in Frozen 2 or what?) This is supposed to be escapism!

And finally, the new Disney formula means that there is no interesting villain. I'm not sure why it would be so contentious to reintroduce a Disney villain in the classic mould. Is it because if he's a man and too elegant and silky, some bright spark will think he's "queer-coded"? (This has actually happened with Scar and Jafar - Jafar's bid for Jasmine and the deleted scene where Scar hits on Nala notwithstanding.) But maybe I shouldn't see political motives behind every corner. For whatever reason, the whole concept of the Druun is almost an affront to a villain-loving heart. I mean, a mindless, soulless, faceless force, taking the form of vaguely animal-shaped ominous clouds? Are they kidding?

Raya and the Last Dragon is a very good film. In a way, it's a return to form for Disney animation. But I can't help thinking that Disney sets itself rather narrow parameters within which to work the company magic. The Dream Factory isn't out of the woods yet.

Who cares about the post-apocalypse? Gimme a love triangle

I very nearly didn't read The Second Sleep by Robert Harris at all. Once I started, I nearly gave up at the 100-page mark, but decided to continue for just a bit longer. And it's a good thing I did, because it's thereabouts this book turns into a really good read with the Harris trademarks of gripping writing and colourful side characters (the hero is seldom the main attraction in Harris books).

Seeing as I've mostly had good experiences with Harris's novels, with the odd exception - I hugely enjoyed the Cicero trilogy Imperium, Lustrum and Dictator, was gripped by An Officer and a Spy and had a good time with The Ghost, Conclave and Archangel, though the latter was pretty silly - one could wonder why I was so reluctant to try The Second Sleep. The answer is mainly its genre, or sub-genre rather: the Post-Apocalyptic Tale. Novels (and films/TV series) of this type usually contain two of my least favourite things in fiction: extreme bleakness and moralising. Readable though Harris is, he hasn't been above lecturing in the past, so I had grave misgivings.

The Post-Apocalyptic Tale usually sets out to do two things: one, to show you how dark the future could be if we're unlucky, and two, to tell you in a cautionary-tale-way how the world could risk ending up in that state. There are PATs that are more interested in how human beings act in times of extreme crisis and how far we are prepared to go for survival, but although that's better than pontificating about how The Evil Of Mankind will lead us to dire straits, it's still not really my kind of thing. As for causes for the catastrophe, it's usually greed, or hubris (i.e. scientists getting carried away), or a combination of both. Mad scientists come up with, say, grade A Artificial Intelligence, unscrupulous (of course) corporations find unethical ways to market it, and wham: it's the rise of the machines. Oh, and sometimes we get an anti-war message worked in somewhere.

The Second Sleep does put a somewhat different spin on the PAT from the start. The beginning of the novel reads as if it's set in the Middle Ages, with maybe a puzzling early-modern touch or two. Christopher Fairfax, the hero, is a cleric sent out to the middle of nowhere by his bishop in order to conduct the funeral service for a reclusive parish priest who has died in what appears to be a tragic accident. At the dead priest's house, Fairfax finds proof of the "heresy" of diving too deep into the past. Father Lacy turns out to have been an "antiquarian". Only, the artefacts he uncovered - including an iPhone - are clearly from our age.

Look, I'm sorry if this is a spoiler, but the revelation takes place on page 29, so it's not that much of a rug pull. Besides, you will probably already have heard (if not, you have now) that the novel isn't an ordinary Medieval Mystery. I didn't find the conceit that fascinating - why would the post-apocalyptic world take on a Medieval pattern when most of the knowledge of the "real" Middle Ages has been lost for centuries? - but it does enable Harris to write an almost-historical novel without having to bother about involuntary anachronisms. Still, the problem remained that I wasn't too fussed about finding out what had happened to our modern world. Props to Harris for not setting the book in a too-bleak future; after a long period of misery, things settled down, and people are poor but they get by. However, the mystery set up - how did we get from iPhones to this? - looked all too much like the excuse for a lecture on our modern ways.

The thing about Harris's novels, though, is that it's seldom the grand solution to a mystery that makes them enjoyable: the end revelations are often something of an anti-climax. It's the hero's journey towards finding answers that is thrilling, especially if he meets interesting characters along the way. In this instance, the Quest for the Truth proves to be a bigger MacGuffin than ever. What makes the plot pick up pace is instead Fairfax getting mixed up with the local gentry - well, sort of. While digging for clues about Father Lacy's death, he becomes friendly with the widowed and attractive Lady Durston who, while appearing very genteel, is actually a woman of modest background who has married into rank and (comparative, but diminishing) wealth. She is now reluctantly contemplating another marriage, to rough self-made man Captain Hancock who is a most insistent suitor. When Fairfax shows up as a third wheel, Hancock is none to pleased. Fairfax, on the other hand, though he's meant to be celibate (he's already had a hard time keeping his distance from the parsonage housekeeper's pretty niece), can't help thinking Hancock a very poor match for Lady Durston.

It's this love triangle that kept me interested, not the speculations about what happened to the "ancients" (us). What's more, when Lady Durston and Fairfax are obliged to confide in Hancock, he becomes a surprising ally, as he's all too eager to find out the secrets of the "ancients" and has zero problem with the "heresy" angle. From this moment on, the novel takes on the Captain's own energy and canters along at a cracking pace.

So though the beginning was slow and the novel felt like it fizzled out at the end, the middle was good enough to make it a pleasant read overall. Post-Apocalyptic Wisdom-wise, though... I don't know. Harris makes some neat points about how much of our modern-day stuff isn't built to last - one reason the Church got such an edge in his post-apocalyptic world was that the stone churches stood firm and became a refuge while modern office towers crumbled. The whole depiction of the Church, however, makes it hard to take Harris's vision of a possible future seriously. Why would it revert to its Medieval form with some early-modern add-ons? Why suddenly strive to be a power factor, and re-impose celibacy on its clergymen? It's not a very likely scenario. There are other movements in our modern-day society that I would have thought would be more obvious candidates to be depicted as enemies of progress and technology. I could easily imagine them being interested in keeping the kind of society Harris describes undeveloped for, as they believe, the greater good of mankind. But I guess wily bishops make more interesting villains.