Yes, I saw this on Monday, but it's taken me all week to come to terms with the fact that my childhood is over, hence the late post.
The final instalment of the Harry Potter series hit cinemas a week ago, and as an avid reader of the books, and genuine fan of the films, I was excited. In fact, I was delirious with excitement. I can't adequately express what these books have meant to me, and the bearing they’ve had on my childhood. They were my childhood. I remember my Year 4 teacher reading us the Philosopher’s Stone at around the time of release of Prisoner of Azkaban, and it wouldn’t matter that the bell had rung at 3:30 to signify the end of the day – we were going nowhere until she had finished the chapter. We were transfixed on the words emanating from her lips; we were hooked. (I might add, my poor mother waited every day out in the playground until well past 4 o’clock for me to finally dash from the classroom and make my way home. Bless her cottons.) I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was that captivated my nine year old self, but whatever it was, it triggered the beginning of an eleven year obsession.
I know to some people this will make me sound like a loser, but I don’t care!
When I turned eleven, I waited and waited and waited for my letter from Hogwarts to arrive by owl. Don’t get me wrong, I did, of course, know that the chances of that happening were astronomically slim, nay, impossible – believe it or not, I was bright enough to tell the difference between fantasy and reality – but I didn’t care. Such was the magic of those books that I could push to one side that voice of reason, suspend my beliefs and will that letter from Dumbledore to arrive. Of course, it didn’t. And I was, secretly, quite gutted.
But, those books kept the magic of Hogwarts alive for me, even if I couldn’t experience it first-hand. I settled to reading all of Hermione’s lines aloud, and prancing round with a pencil for a wand, a dressing gown for a robe, and my poor unfortunate sisters acting as substitutes for trolls/boggarts/Dementors. I lived the stories of Harry Potter for myself. And it was great.
The release of the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was a sad, sad day – not least because that very day was my first day at my first ever job, and rather than spending it utterly absorbed in JK’s magic, I had to spend it learning how to use a till, and dealing with snobby, pissed-off customers. But anyway, I tore away from work as quickly as possible (such a dedicated associate, I know) and read and read and read until there was no more. And something surprising happened. As I turned that final page, read those final words, I didn’t feel that gut-wrenching ache I had expected. I was bloody miserable, don’t get me wrong, but the ending was so neat, so satisfying that although I knew there would be no more books, it was okay. And besides, I still had the films! It was easier to accept that there would be no more books, because I still had to the chance to see it all re-enacted on the big screen.
So, then. The films. I know it’s impossible to expect the filmmakers to incorporate every single detail from the books, and I know that sacrifices have to be made in order to stick to a watchable film length. But still … As much as I love the films (and I do, truly) I’ve always felt that they’re lacking in something. There’s some spark, some (excuse the pun/cheese/cliché) magical quality that JK invokes in her writing that always failed to truly resonate on the big screen. I couldn’t tell you what it is exactly, but I’m pretty sure any hardcore fan of the books would notice it, too.
But, I think when not compared to the books they’re really actually very good. The cast are strong, the acting has gone from strength to strength, and the screenwriters have done a bloody good job of bringing all those rich characters to life. I do think, though, that I had not read the books before seeing the films, I would be a teeny bit lost with the plot. There is so much that’s taken as a given, so many elements of the plot that aren’t properly explained, and because I’ve read the books so thoroughly, I notice all those things, and it bugs me. (Also, I shall never forgive Alfonso Cuarón for what he did to Prisoner of Azkaban – my favourite book in the series, and the worst of the 8 films. Sigh.)
Unfortunately, Deathly Hallows Part 2 was no different. Before I elaborate, I’d like to just point out that I did, ultimately, LOVE the film. I thought it was simply beautiful, moving in all the right places, with an equal amount of laughs, and visually stunning. But my expectations were far too high, and so it was always going to be difficult for the film to meet them. It all felt rather rushed, and so much detail was left out; my two main issues were the total lack of Dumbledore’s backstory, and the one, fleeting mention of Lupin’s son, whose existence had, up until that point, never been acknowledged, and was subsequently never mentioned ever again. Had I not read the books so thoroughly, I fear I would’ve been slightly lost.
So. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. A magical, awe-inspiring, visually stunning send off to the saga, which just fell short of perfection.
It won’t, of course, stop me from seeing it until Odeon ticket prices burn a hole in my bank balance.
