J.K. Rowling
SPOILER ALERT, American kids have no clue what a "philosopher" is, unless they grew up in the Eighties and played Atari.
The Dursleys live on 4 Privet Drive in Surrey, England. The narrator insists this family is "perfectly normal," so they must indeed be so. The clan's head is a drill-selling walrus named Vernon, and his wife Petunia is a bitter cow. Their young son Dudley is thus developing into a cow-walrus. One evening, a wise old wizard known as Albus Dumbledore drops a year-old baby boy at their door.
Ten years later, the baby boy is now just a boy, Harry Potter, wild dark hair covering his head and round glasses covering his eyes, banished to the space beneath the stairs. For Harry's eleventh birthday, he and the Dursleys head to a cottage, where soon a hairy giant named Hagrid arrives, bearing a cake, a letter and a revelation: THE KID IS A WIZARD. The letter is from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland, welcoming Harry into the fold for the first of what will surely be seven wonderful years of education and edification. Several of these letters have been sent to the Dursley residence, but Harry had no idea, since Uncle Vernon's been intercepting the boy's mail.
Not only is Harry a wizard, he's a legendary one, celebrated for surviving a Killing Curse cast by the dark wizard Lord Voldemort when still a mere baby. The attack left him with a nickname ("The Boy Who Lived") and a forehead scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
Hagrid takes Harry to Diagon Alley to stock up on supplies, including two must-haves: a wand and a pet owl. (Owls are carrier pigeons for magical beings, basically.) Everywhere they go, patrons are awed. Well, except for the goblin-run Gringotts, England's one and only wizard bank, where Harry discovers his parents left him a tidy stash of galleons.
While picking out a robe, Harry meets a blond snot named Draco Malfoy. Draco's parents served under Lord Voldemort, although they avoided prison by claiming bewitchment. Add in his unkind words for Hagrid, and Harry susses the truth pretty quick--this Malfoy boy is trouble.
The big day arrives, and the Dursleys are so excited to be rid of Harry (even if only temporarily) they drop him off at Kings Cross Station, and then just speed off. The Hogwarts Express is due to depart from Platform 9 3/4, but Harry is totally lost. He finally cracks the mystery by eavesdropping on a family of gingers who pass through the pillar between 9 and 10 as though it were made of pudding. Harry winds up sharing a compartment with one of those copper tops, fellow first-year Ron Weasley. Ron can't believe his eyes, it's the Harry Potter! The boys bond quickly, despite interruptions from another newbie, Hermione Granger (whose tact is apparently tangled up in her bushy hair) and Draco Malfoy reappears, imploring Harry to choose better company than a second-hand, third-rate Weasley.
Upon arrival at Hogwarts, every student gathers in the Great Hall. Greeting them is the headmaster, none other than Albus Dumbledore, a grandfatherly sort with a beard worthy of several limericks. Once pleasantries are dispensed, the real show begins: the sorting ceremony! One by one, each new student takes a seat on a stool, places the Sorting Hat upon their noggins, and waits for it to announce which of the four Houses they will represent: Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. Harry, Ron and Hermione all wind up in Gryffindor. Draco Malfoy, as is family custom, is sent to Slytherin.
Classes are pretty cool, except for Potions, taught by Severus Snape. The head of Slytherin House treats Harry poorly off rip, making snide references to the youngster's "celebrity." Luckily the head of Gryffindor House, Minerva McGonagall, is a super bad-ass broad whose hobbies include turning into a cat and making students feel welcome in her Transfiguration class.
Harry's a naturally gifted broom boy, so he's a cinch for Quidditch, which is basically flying lacrosse (with unisex squads, to boot).
The going is smooth till news spreads of an attempted break-in at Gringotts, which is kinda beserkers considering that rather than guards and alarms, that place has spells and dragons. The Draco/Harry beef is heating up to Joe Budden/Saigon levels, with the insufferable Malfoy challenging Harry to a midnight duel outside of the school that he clearly has no intention of actually attending, but Harry not only dumbly heads out, he takes Ron and Hermione with him. Once they realize they've been tricked, the trio race back to Hogwarts to avoid detection and detention. They find themselves in a forbidden corridor, where a three-headed dog stands guard over a trapdoor.
Weird, but school is a place for learning, not wondering why freakish animals share space with young children. Ron and Hermione spar in class over a levitation spell. She's a bit of a know-it-all, see, and not terribly patient with a less-gifted peer like young Weasley. Things go from Green Day to Rancid when she overhears him in the halls venting to Harry. Hermione rushes to the girls loo for a good cry. Bad idea. The boys accidentally lock a loose dungeon troll in the bathroom with her, but who should save the day but Ron, using the very same levitation spell he and Hermione bickered over earlier.
(And at that moment Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger became the least surprising love story in 20th century English literature.)
Wizards get Christmas presents, some much cooler than others. Witness, Harry's Invisibility Cloak (donor anonymous). Does as tin says, but why isn't he more suspicious?
Harry can't help but share his curiosity about the dog with noted animal enthusiast Hagrid, who unintentionally lets loose with the name Nicolas Flamel. Harry is intrigued; he's heard that name before, but where? On the back of a Chocolate Frog Card, of course! CFCs are baseball cards, but for wizards and witches. Flamel doesn't have one, because he's not a wizard, he's an alchemist, who's worked closely with one Albus Dumbledore. Research further shows Flamel to be the creator of the Philosopher's Stone, a ridiculous rock with the Midas touch and the fountain's taste.
Harry determines the dog is guarding this Stone, and that Severus Snape is after it for his own use. Proving such a bold statement is difficult, what with distractions such as Quidditch and saving Hagrid's bacon, of which much exists. The big guy can't hide his glee over winning a dragon egg in a card game at the Hog's Head pub. Why, it's like someone knew how much he'd always wanted his own dragon, and suspected if they helped him become sufficiently blotto, he'd blurt out top-secret information like how to get past the three-headed dog and access the trapdoor leading to the Philosopher's Stone.
Harry, Ron and Hermione race to the forbidden corridor, where the dog sleeps soundly. He stirs as they attempt to lift the trapdoor, but Hagrid had given them a flute for such an occasion.
Reaching the Philosopher's Stone requires passing a series of challenges, including a game of Wizard Chess (the pieces move of their own accord, y'all) that gives a glimpse of Ron's bravery, and a logic puzzle that would baffle most magic folk--but not ones raised by Muggles, i.e., Harry and Hermione. Harry reaches the end alone, but the teacher awaiting him there is not Snape, but Professor Quirrell, Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, unique for the purple turban he wears at seemingly all times. He unwraps it in front of Harry, revealing the face of Lord Voldemort jutting out from the back of his head.
Harry winds up with the Stone (which Dumbledore in his infinite wisdom subsequently destroys) and Voldemort vamooses from Quirrell and passes though Harry, knocking the poor kid out. Dumbledore visits The Boy Who Lived Yet Again in the Hogwarts infirmary, and tells Harry about the sacrifice that his mother made on the night she and Harry's father were murdered by Voldemort. Lily Potter's decision to take the curse intended for her infant son created a shield over Harry, one that the loveless Voldemort did not take into consideration...an oversight which left him on the verge of total destruction.
The power of love, in other words.
Joanne Rowling took five years to produce the book that begat a billion dollar empire. It's bittersweet to consider none of it might have happened had Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone been released under the name "Joanne Rowling." At the insistence of publishers concerned over alienating potential boy readers, Rowling dropped her first name in favor of two initials (one of which she had to borrow). Hypothetical, then: would the seven Potters still comprise the highest-selling book series of all-time had the author not used the more androgynous sounding handle?
I will shock no one, man or monkey, when I say that The Philosopher's Stone falls well short of great literature. These are fantasy-adventure tales with intricate plots and layers of subtext, written with admirable competence. Dahl is a common comparison point, and while Rowling's wit isn't quite that dry, she does create a general buoyancy that assists the plot in getting from one island to the next, making for an absorbing read.
Rowling's true stroke of genius was to place the world of Harry Potter in our world. Rowling's wizards live among us, alongside us, have a (probably) insulting name for us. With just a few pointed wands and words, they can hide entire buildings from our view. The idea of this secret world carrying on under our noses, it's a grandest hope and a greatest fear all at once.
(Watch out for snakes!)
Director-Chris Columbus
Writer-Steve Kloves
How many billions would have gone unspent by male moviegoers who bristled at watching a film based on a series of books written by a woman, then?
In 1997, English film producer David Heyman's secretary recommended the first Harry Potter for a potential adaptation. The man behind The Stöned Age disliked the title, but loved the book. Rowling sold the film rights for the first four Potter books for a million pounds, which is on the short list for bargain of the century.
She didn't want to work directly on any of the scripts--what with her own blockbuster series still ongoing and all--but she did assume an advisory role. Her only demand was a reasonable one: keep the main cast of actors British.
The director, writer and composer had no such restriction. Chris Columbus made film for the whole family that fairly printed money, so getting him was a major coup. John Williams doing the score? No mercy, whatsoever. This movie was out for blood and bone.
And then there's Steve Kloves, who…The Fabulous Baker Boys, huh? Well, don't be sad, we'll always have meatloaf.
In just over two and a half hours, Columbus and Kloves conspired to fill the screen with as much of Rowling's book as possible, omitting and changing very little. Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone (or Sorcerer's Stone, depending on location) was released in theaters just as book #4 debuted in bookstores. It was then as it is now, a light-hearted (airy), cute (cutesy) adaptation of an above-average children's book.
In speaking of the actors, I speak first of the worst. Richard Griffiths and Fiona Shaw play the Dursleys, a Muggle couple who treat their nephew almost as well as Verizon treats their customers. Both actors are so over the top, it's impossible for me to take much joy in how much I detest their characters. Even their comeuppance(s) will just leave me frustrated somehow, like punching a couch cushion.
Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid, oh how I would have loved Brian Blessed in the role, but Coltrane really nails the character's essence: lovable, big-hearted to a fault, definitely one of those types who is far more affected by the death of a single animal than of fifty people.
Richard Harris was in failing health, and while some viewers might find his Dumbledore underwhelming as a result of this unfortunate fact, I always preferred my Headmaster gentle and soft-spoken. So I'm all about Richard Harris.
Someone else I'm also all about? Maggie Smith, who blesses our lives as Minerva McGonagall, half-cat half-amazin'. There might be a parallel universe where Maggie Smith's acting career is interchangeable with that of Pia Zadora, but thankfully we are not living in that universe. I would listen to the woman recite the answers of a True-False Quiz.
Very few people knew back then knew the true role of Severus Snape, but considerably more suspected Alan Rickman would steal his fair share of scenes, if not entire films. Rickman in the first Potter is just getting started.
Then we have the kids, the child actors. Lucky them, poor them. Eyes of the world, hundreds of millions of dollars. Daniel Radcliffe did not have to be anything in the lead role but passable. Don't be rigid and don't mumble, I mean it won't land ya a BAFTA but Harrison Ford's never won one, so who cares. Despite a few physical issues (ahem), Radcliffe made for an adorable little savior, kinda like a Funko figure but you can't keep him in the box 'cause there's laws against that.
You couldn't keep li'l Rupert Grint in a box; he'd eat his way out. If the sight of him double-fisting chicken legs didn't make you a Ron Weasley fan, I dunno what to say. What about getting a concussion during a chess match? Come on!
The responsibility of embodying my personal favorite character from the book went to Emma "Love 'Em and Leave 'Em" Watson. Oh, little Emma. So much I'd like to tell you, much of it having nothing to do with Harry Potter or indeed, with acting. Of the main trio, Emma was the biggest fan of the books (and of books in general, a passion that persists to this day) and the internal pressure to do justice to the brilliant little witch is evident on her face in almost every scene she's in.
Despicable mite Draco Malfoy was the role Tom Felton was born to play, since I can recall him in legitimately nothing else before or since. Every time I see this smug prick in a flick, I want to knock him out, roll his body up in a carpet and throw the carpet off a bridge.
Imagine if Steven Spielberg had landed the gig…okay ,now stop. He wanted to turn Philosopher's Stone into an animated film with Haley Joel Osmont voicing Harry. Better you should imagine what Return of the Jedi could have been.
Even a negative review would have to admit the movie looks gorgeous. The special effects fails are few, and John Williams' score (which earned him his 41st Oscar nod) never gets old. What you expect is what you get--puppets on strings racing across rooms, peeking around corners. There is one truly timeless piece, "Hedwig's Theme," a beautiful bit of music that is synonymous with the very name "Harry Potter," while simultaneously sounding like the backdrop to the best Super Nintendo game that never was.
(And it ain't even a top 5 JW score. Magic is cool, but space is cooler.)
This is absolutely a kiddie movie. It has occasional issues with pacing, editing and tone. But damn if I don't want to immerse myself into the world it portrays, every time.
BETTER IN YOUR HEAD?
Any person who prefers any Harry Potter movie to its source novel is the sort of person who could screw up a ham on white.
The preposterous feasts in the Great Hall are amazing; seeing good food will always beat out imagining good food. But take a moment like the revelation that there's a dungeon troll on the loose. Quirrell's announcement is a fucking meme. In the book, it's still amusing, but otherwise drastically different. Subtlety, you're so much more than just my favorite word with a silent "B."
Let's pick some nits. Or rather I'll pick some nits, you sit back and say, "That's some mighty fine nit-pickin', girl."
Book Harry's eyes are green, while Daniel Radcliffe's are blue. Colored contact lenses were tried out, to the irritation of the young boy's peepers. Rowling OK'ed the color change, for a reason that rhymes with "five hot honey ditches." Hermione's large front teeth don't make the transition either, since little Emma couldn't handle prosthetic chompers.
Ron Weasley, book version, is a tall, gangly, freckled redhead. Rupert Grint is, well, a redhead.
Finally, Rowling's Snape is a greasy-haired, hook-nosed man with diabolical facial growth. Alan Rickman is a dashing gentleman with a voice made out of caramel and sex. This is gonna become a problem in the future, huh, movie?
No Peeves? No problem at all. I guess it's the fact I'm an 80s Baby, but I don't need no poltergeist hanging around.
MIND THE GAP
Snakes can't wink.
Magic has few limitations, so to make for plausible action, Rowling shows wizards and witches being quite incompetent quite a lot.
Even people who've never read a book or watched a movie with the name "Harry Potter" in it have taken a Sorting Quiz. Hufflepuffers are loyal and friendly, Gryffindorians are brave and passionate, Ravenclawses are intellectual and curious, and Slytherinians are cunning and ambitious. Each house contains eggs both good and bad, but students from other houses quick to demean Slytherin for being narrow-minded and prejudiced are perhaps the most unsuitable for consumption.
Quidditch is a game clearly invented by someone who cares not a single whit about sport. Each goal scored is worth ten points, and the match ends when the Seeker catches the Golden Snitch. Catching the Snitch is worth 150 points, meaning that a team can wind up with it, yet lose. That's…dumb.
Rowling has been accused of fat shaming, or even (and this is apparently a thing) "nuclear family shaming" via her portrayal of the Dursleys. How silly. The lesson here is clear, and it's not "hetero families are bad," but rather, "a person can go far with love and support." So try don't be a bitter, selfish, grudge-carrying schmuck to your sister's kid, Petunia.
(You want intolerance, just check the Gringotts goblins. They're worse than the friggin' Ferengi in Star Trek.)
McGonagall says "sorted," I hear "salted." Then I wonder how wizards make pretzels.
"Before we begin...I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Oddiment! Tweak!"
The above is an example of what writers do when we want to masturbate but really, really need to keep writing.)
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