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The Golden Compass Can’t Find its Soul




In 2001 there was a little movie released, you may have heard of it…it was called Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. It made a shit-ton of money, and spawned a still expanding franchise. As always, when the film industry makes a successful movie, everyone else tries to decipher the formula so that they can have a juggernaut too. In this case, the thought process was: “Harry Potter is based off of a children’s novel. If I make an adaptation of a children’s novel, I will also become more rich.”

Unfortunately for the financiers of Hollywood, none of these attempts to ride the Children’s Literature Film bandwagon was especially successful. The Narnia movies probably did the best, but even those didn’t make much of an impact. Most were total disasters, like the Series of Unfortunate Events movie, or the horrible slew of live-action Dr. Seuss movies. (Let’s never talk about those…) Unfortunately for me, one of these attempts was based on a book series very near and dear to me, His Dark Materials.

Yes, I speak of 2007’s The Golden Compass, the film that pleased no one, but managed to piss quite a few people off. It didn’t piss me off, though, I must confess. (And I’m no stranger to rage at the horrible-ness of adaptations.) It probably did worse than that… It made me feel nothing. I guess there was some confusion. 

As an adaptation, The Golden Compass hit all the checkboxes of plot, but, somewhere along the way, it was separated from its soul and spent two hours wandering the multiverse trying to find it.

I’ve never been one to research all the drama behind the scenes of productions. Even if that drama made them what they are, I’ve always been a proponent of the idea that you can only judge what’s on the screen in front of you. But even a cursory glance at the film’s Wikipedia page makes it quite clear that it went through a good deal of both Development Hell and Executive Meddling. And the seams really show.

Case in point, The Magisterium. Also known as “The Church,” though you would never know that from watching this movie. This very, very thinly veiled take on the Roman Catholic Church (the veil is made out of saran wrap) has always been the one thing that has made the book series controversial. No doubt the powers that be were aware of this and, well, they seemed to have chickened out—and midway through the production, too. They studiously purged all explicit mentions of religion, or god, and made damn sure none of the imagery looked remotely Catholic, or even Christian, except when it did. For example, the “district office of the Magisterium” in Trollesund is clearly and unambiguously a church.


There were no reference to sin, but they apparently couldn’t avoid the term “heresy”. I counted one reference to The Authority, but if you don’t know HDM, it could easily just have been “the authority” of the Magisterium that was being disobeyed.

So the Magisterium just seem like a bunch of old dudes who like to harm children because, like… vague science reasons? Dust means that people will think to disobey, which okay. But there’s not any clear sense that their legitimacy is based on anything other than control freak-ness and the fact that Derek Jacobi and Christopher Lee are there looking EVHUL. More evil in many ways than the Church of the books, because we have scenes of these old dudes sitting in dark rooms and plotting and stuff. 

Yeah, Christopher Lee is in this film for a hot minute, sitting in a chair and looking evil. There’s some serious thespian cred here. They got Kathy Bates to be the voice of a jackrabbit for two lines.

The end result is that the religious themes are too whitewashed to please the fanbase of the book series, who tend to be the secularist type, but is vaguely anti-religious enough to upset those of the religious, especially the Catholic, persuasion.

Definitely not a church.

Book snobs were also less than impressed with some of the major structural changes that were made to the plot. And I’m not talking about the fact that Mrs. Coulter is blonde. No one gave a fuck about that. I’m talking about the truncated ending, and the willy-nilly flop of the order of events in the final act.

Famously, the movie ends just before the climax of the novel, where Lyra finds her father in the north only to have him betray her by murdering her friend Roger to open a way between the universes. It’s kind of heavy. And it also contains the culmination of Lyra’s character arc in this novel. I imagine it was thought best to avoid such a downer ending, so the film cuts off just as Lyra is flying off in the airship with a speech full of smiles and hope.

Is it just me, or does that seem a little cruel?

There was also a major change made to the order of two major plot events; the attack on Bolvangar by the coalition Lyra put together, and the events in Svalbard where she helps Iorek Byrnison reclaim the throne of the Ice Bears. The only motive I can think of is that they wanted the climactic battle to be closer to the end. (Oh course, they wouldn’t have this problem if they kept the original climax from the source material, but whatever….) While it always annoys me when adaptations make these kinds of massive structural changes, it didn’t need to necessarily break the movie like it did. There’s no reason the events couldn’t have happened in the opposite order; one didn’t cause the other or anything, but the story as it is in Northern Lights followed in an organic and clear manner, while the one in The Golden Compass did not.

This is ultimately an effect of the devotion to the checkboxes. Combined with a devotion to a sub 2-hour run-time, I suppose. Every plot point and twist has to be hit, but there’s no time to allow them to develop or breathe, so you end up with little more than a sequence of stuff happening. Mrs. Coulter takes Lyra to London and they get their hair did, but then, suddenly, and with no progression, Mrs. Coulter becomes terrifying and Lyra decides to run away. Then the Gyptians rescue her and they’re off to the North because that’s where the missing kids are. Oh look, it’s Serafina Pekkala, and she comes bearing exposition.

Hey, Lyra. What’s good?

The interlude in the Ice Bear Kingdom might be the best example of this. Iorek, it must be said, may be the best developed minor character, and it’s easy to root for him in his fight with Ragnar Sturlusson, (they changed the name from the book, but it’s not especially important). But the context,  the significance of this for the bears, is not really discernible. There is a passing mention to how Ragnar wants a daemon, and that he’s a usurper, and he looks sufficiently ridiculous sitting on a throne, but a viewer unfamiliar with the source material would have little reason to appreciate how important it is that he had a throne inside of a palace to sit on  in the first place, or understand how Iorek being restored would change this.

Then, as soon as the single combat is over (did you know you can slap a bear’s jaw off his face and there will be no blood at all?) the plot just drops any follow-up so that Lyra can ride off on Iorek’s back to Bolvangar.

It’s just one thing after another, with very little indication ever about why something is important or how the audience may have earned the information that’s just baldly stated. (Did you know the witches have a prophecy about Lyra?)

The Exposition Train is speeding out of the station at the same clip as an unarmored bear running across the tundra for the whole movie. It begins in the opening narration, where the film rather awkwardly gives away key pieces of world building, like the nature of daemons and the existence of parallel universes. The film, it seems, has little confidence in the world building of the source material, or in its own ability to exposit without resorting to people explaining things to each other that they should already know.

I mentioned a few paragraphs up that I quite liked the character of Iorek Byrnison and how he was introduced, but he was really the only character I was entirely satisfied with. Nicole Kidman’s performance as Mrs. Coulter didn’t exactly do it for me. I can appreciate how difficult a character this would be to portray. She has the otherworldly ability to charm and enchant everyone. Kidman’s performance is trying a little too hard to make this happen. At first I thought it was a bit too sexual, but I’m not sure about that anymore. I think it’s a general lack of subtlety. It’s not entirely her fault either, since the script needs her to be suddenly evil and violent atmore than one point. She slaps her own daemon around. Which… okay. She ends up more creepy than charming. And her voice is weird and breathy.

Lyra’s inconsistency of character is all the writing. She’s alternately kind of a jerk and super empathetic, with nothing happening to justify the transition. Lyra is just a kid, and kids are naturally selfish and impulsive, so when she’s spitting plum stones at people for lolz I guess I can deal, but then she is so full of empathy for Iorek and you’re not sure where the progression is. There is some effort to develop her bullshitting superpower that will one day save free will, but, especially since her time with Mrs. Coulter is reduced to a hair salon montage, we get little sense of the way her arc unfolds: by expanding her experience of the world and providing her with ways of judging people past their superficial qualities and her snobby, rather sexist, lens.

The other performances are nothing to write home about. Sam Elliott was perfectly cast as Lee Scoresby, but was given little to do. Eva Green as Serafina Pekkala didn’t really have a chance because the script just had her randomly appearing at odd moments. I think she was trying to be intense and nice at the same time?

In general, I’m quite glad this movie never spawned a sequel. I cringe at even the thought of The Amber Spyglass getting this treatment. It’s an odd mixture of narrative cowardice and plot overreach that tried to do everything, without seeming to understand what it wanted to say.

Images courtesy of New Line Cinemas

Julia is a Managing Editor at The Fandomentals with far too many hobbies and complex emotions. She may or may not be an actual Martell.



If You Only Read One Star Wars Novel, Make it Lost Stars



If you aren’t reading the New Extended Canon (EC) Star Wars novels, you’re really missing out.  Ever since my friend Rachel got me hooked on the EC, I’ve made it a goal to get everyone I know hooked as well. The characters are excellent, the stories diverse and nuanced, and the themes and messages deep, thoughtful, and relevant. They aren’t fluff or filler; they’re necessary elements of the Star Wars franchise that expand upon and fill out what we only get to see briefly in the films (ask me about that later, I have a piece planned). Claudia Gray’s Lost Stars is the example par excellence of what EC Star Wars is all about.

Lost Stars was published in 2015, so I’m admittedly behind the game in getting this review out. However, because of how exemplary this novel is for the EC and how great a novel it is on its own merits, it’s worth talking about now. Especially given how, ah, divisive The Last Jedi has been for the fandom. Spanning the entirety of the Original Trilogy (OT) and then some, Lost Stars offers a unique perspective on the events of the OT: that of an Imperial officer and an Imperial defector to the Rebellion. Even if you hate the Sequel Trilogy with a passion, you really don’t want to miss Lost Stars.

A Brief (Spoiler Free) Rundown

The reign of the Galactic Empire has reached the Outer Rim planet of Jelucan, where aristocratic Thane Kyrell and rural villager Ciena Ree bond over their love of flying. Enrolling at the Imperial Academy together to become fighter pilots for the glorious Empire is nothing less than a dream come true for the both of them. But Thane sours on the dream when he sees firsthand the horrific tactics the Empire uses to maintain its ironclad rule.

Bitter and disillusioned, Thane joins the fledgling Rebellion—putting Ciena in an unbearable position to choose between her loyalty to the Empire and her love for the man she’s known since childhood.

Now on opposite sides of the war, will these friends turned foes find a way to be together, or will duty tear them—and the galaxy—apart?

The Good Stuff

Full confession: I love Claudia Gray. Her novels exhibit a level of artistry in writing characters and themes that take me aback every time. Her prose manages to be both highly evocative and approachable to a broad range of reading levels. She’s a master of subtle yet plausible fanservice. Characters we love from the OT—like Luke, Han, Leia, and even side characters like Mon Mothma and Admiral Ackbar—enter our protagonists’ sphere in ways that make sense and never linger beyond what’s reasonable.

Her worldbuilding is likewise excellent. She writes the Star Wars universe as well as any other of the EC writers I’ve read, but what I love most is her attention to cultural details. Creating convincing alien species and cultures takes a lot of skill. Remembering to also provide cultural differentiation for human settlements takes an equal amount of skill, and not every writer remembers to do that. Gray makes cultural differences more than about dress, appearance, physiology, or large-scale religious differences. Small details like mourning rituals, formal declarations of loyalty, and a special practice for carrying on the memory of a dead twin add to the sense of realism of her characters and their cultural heritage.

As was true in Leia: Princess of Alderaan, her pacing is slower than most YA novels, but that doesn’t mean there’s no action. She writes action sequences well; the finale is damn near cinematic. At the same time, the vast majority of her tension occurs within the characters. Gray knows how to use third person intimate to its best effect. The juxtaposition of different viewpoints on the same event is especially effective for character development and maximum tragic irony.

Whether it’s divided loyalties, internal versus external honor, duty versus love, ideals versus reality, or cynicism versus faith, Gray knows how to write internal conflict superbly well. She’s especially good at writing characters whose sense of duty is at odds with their ideals or inhibits their emotional vulnerability. (Basically, she knows dutiful princesses inside and out.) She crafts interactions where misunderstanding makes tragic sense without feeling forced or needlessly complicated.

Her skill in this regard is on full display with Ciena and Thane in Lost Stars. They’re not just literally star-crossed lovers on opposite sides of a war (though they are that). Ciena and Thane are the kind of people who start out believing that they know everything about what the other thinks and feels. They can predict each other’s moves with uncanny precision one moment but still misunderstand the motives and goals of the other the next. Because no matter how much we know someone, they can still surprise us. It’s a delicate balance, and Gray handles it deftly.

Gray also excels at writing interesting secondary characters with only a paragraph or two. Lohgarra—a mom friend Wookiee Thane co-pilots for—is one of my favorite secondary characters and her page time might be somewhere around 10 pages. Ciena’s former roommate at the Imperial Academy Jude is a delight, and Nash Windrider, one of Thane’s former roommates, has one of the most fascinating character arcs in the whole book.

On the aesthetic side, the cynic/idealist is one of my favorite romantic pairings. Plus, Lost Stars is basically an entire novel of angst and mutual pining, which I am a huge fan of when done well (and this is done really well).

“They mirrored each other, almost touching but forever apart.” (p. 545)

That’s it. That’s the book.

It’s an honest love story, one with powerful connection and loyalty on the one hand but with the potential for devastating misunderstanding on the other. True, most people don’t know what it feels like to possibly be the person to shoot down your best friend/lover’s plan in battle, but we all know what it means to fear hurting someone we love because of a difference of opinion. The stakes are higher for Thane and Ciena, but that just makes the story that much more gripping.

Lost Stars shows us that there are as many reasons to be a part of the Empire as there are to be a part of the Rebellion. It isn’t all black and white. Not everyone who joined up with Leia and co. did so because they believed in the ideals of the New Republic. Not every Imperial joined up to coldly exploit the galaxy. Cynics can be Rebels; idealists can be Imperials. Not every Alderaanian approved of the Organas.

When watching the OT and PT, it can be easy to think that the tyranny and corruption at the heart of the Empire was always obvious to everyone. But it wasn’t, and Lost Stars tackles that thorny issue head on. We see that for many, the Empire felt like a necessary corrective to the chaos of the Clone Wars. It brought a sense of stability, of ‘law and order’ that at first appeared healthy and safe. Before the depth of Palpatine’s depravity became widely known, the Empire offered a measure of freedom, advancement, and a sense of purpose for those from back water planets, ‘low’ birth, or chaotic homes.

Staying within the Empire isn’t so clear cut either. Through Ciena’s eyes, we see a wide range of explanations for staying from true belief, to a cultural commitment to loyalty, a desire to fix what’s broken, and a sense of responsibility for those under her command. Some of these reasons are more sympathetic than others, but the larger truth behind them is that not everyone within the Empire is a hateful monster.

It can take a long time for the rot at the core of an apple to infect the outer flesh and in the meantime, a lot of well-meaning, good people can be tempted to bite into it, only to get sick. We might initially be tempted to think we’re a Thane, but most of us are more like Ciena than we’d care to admit. Ciena’s self-delusion and slowly unfolding sense of betrayal is mesmerizing in its honesty. The moment she meets Palpatine is heavy, terrifying, and raw because we sympathize with her. We, too, could have and have been that person who didn’t believe they were serving something truly horrible until it looks them in the face (especially if we’re someone who has any degree of privilege in our current society).

Lost Stars also highlights the many paths to doubt and disillusionment and that one’s reaction to those feelings isn’t always the same. Ciena didn’t see the atrocities Thane did first hand, but neither did Thane have to experience the personal betrayals Ciena did. And neither of them were native Alderaanians like Nash Windrider, an Imperial officer who witnessed the destruction of his planet from the ‘other side.’ With these three characters and others, we see that coping takes many forms, some healthier than others. Sometimes people double down on their original beliefs. Others seek a way out through defection and still others through self-harm and suicide. We also see just how much one’s culture and family history can shape one’s perspective on the same situation.

Gray tackles some of the most pressing questions that face us today when it comes to systemic oppression and injustice. Do all good people go bad in a corrupt system? What is the best pathway to change? When do we abandon a corrupt system and when do we try to change it from within? Is disloyalty to a corrupt system different from the disloyalty of that system to the people it’s meant to take care of? How? To what degree is responsibility for systemic injustice shared at every level and what ought to be reserved for those in positions of more power? Should we take motivations into account when condemning those who participated in a corrupt system?

The answers to these questions are complicated, and Gray never lets us simplify them.

At the same time, she never justifies her characters’ behavior or beliefs for the sake of “moral ambiguity.” It’s one of her other great skills: her ability to present her characters without judgment yet while still maintaining a moral center to the story. She’s willing to write them honestly and in a nuanced way without leather-pantsing. There’s no need to caricature the Empire, Imperials can be human and wrong at the same time. In fact, they’re more pitiable and tragic for their humanity. You can feel sorry for them and even empathize with them while still condemning the choices and desire for consequences. She never shies away from calling it like it is…

“I was so dedicated to honor that I became a war criminal.” (p.540)

…but that doesn’t make her characters any less real or honest. Gray generates sympathy and pathos without ever justifying the horrors committed in the Empire’s name. It’s truly remarkable and one of the most nuanced pieces of storytelling I’ve read in years.

Gray never shies away from depicting the human cost of war either. For all who have complained that the OT didn’t deal enough with the casualties of war and the losses inflicted and suffered on both sides, this is your book. We can get so focused on Alderaan (justifiably so) that we forget that the Death Star would have been a similarly traumatic event for the Imperial officers. They, too, lost friends, loved ones, and colleagues. The scale is different, of course, but the grief and trauma isn’t. We can acknowledge the trauma of both situations without equating their actions.

That’s the beating heart of Lost Stars, the story beneath the doomed romance of Thane and Ciena. We can acknowledge the pain, suffering, trauma, and even the differing motivations of those who ideologically disagree with us without justifying or excusing the horrific acts committed by them and the system they participate in. We can humanize without moral equivalence. I can see and validate your grief without that meaning I agree with you or what you’ve done. It’s a difficult balance to maintain, admittedly. And one that’s getting harder to do in our culture of extremes. But it’s a necessary nuance if we’re ever going to fix our fractured society. We have to humanize the other side because otherwise, we’re at risk of losing what we stand for.

Finally, I have to say that I appreciate that Gray includes neuroatypical and disabled characters. These types of diversity tend to get overlooked in the very necessary desire for queer and racial representation. She has that, too, yet she doesn’t forget the marginalizations others might. She brings it all to the characters she writes and so seamlessly that I want to point to her when I hear people complain about diversity being ‘unnatural.’

Potential Drawbacks

At 550 pages, this book is a commitment, I grant you. However, Gray’s style is so readable and the story so gripping that the time flies. I read it in two days while also doing my normal level of other work. Plus, it’s totally worth it.

Final Score: 10/10

Lost Stars is must read for SW fans of all ages, even ones who hate the Sequels, even ones who are more into the OT and Legends. It’s the best that EC has to offer, in my opinion, and what I’d recommend to people who want to read EC novels if they’re not looking for specific character driven novels like Leia, Ahsoka, Rose, or Luke.

Images courtesy of Disney Lucasfilm Press

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Book Review: Villains Don’t Date Heroes! by Mia Archer




When a friend I’ve known for years suggested I read this book, I knew I was in for a treat of absolute weirdness. Her taste is a little odd, and when she recommended this based on the level of campiness, I knew I had to give it a shot.

Villains Don’t Date Heroes! (Yes, the exclamation is included in the title) focuses on Night Terror, the best supervillain in the city who is bored of her job. She has terrorized the town to the best of her ability, and we find her during a bank robbery that she is only conducting out of tedium. As she goes about robbing the bank, we are introduced to Fialux, the new superhero in town. Not only is she able to take down Night Terror, but she has her head over heels in love from first glance.

Night Terror knows she can’t get back to her general treachery with Fialux around, so she begins to plot ways to take her down. But when Night Terror has to come to terms with her past and how her expulsion from college is impacting her present, does she find something larger brewing? And how, in all of this, does a crush on Fialux fit in?

Now, I judge books differently by who they are written by and how they come to end up in my Kindle Library. Was this traditionally published, self-published, or published by small press? How does the piece I am reviewing fit into the author’s larger body of work? I do this because not every book gets the same amount of revision and eyes on it, so I do hold traditionally published books to a higher standard, and I give a little slack to independent publishers. When I started to dig a little deeper into what this author writes, I found almost the exact same story line. Over and over again, a geek falls for a cool girl. One of them is in the closet. A kiss changes everything. Will they risk it all for true love (or as true of love as you can be in at 17)?

Villains don’t date Heroes! is different. It’s Archer’s first foray into superheroine drama, and for that, I do give her credit for venturing beyond her typical story. But upon reading the synopsis more closely on Amazon, I found that this book had been previously written under a different pen name, and that pen name brought up a steamier variety of book. A peruse through some of the Amazon reviews also stated that maybe this was a third rewrite under a third pen name. Either way, this has been published in three different versions under three different pen names.

This book is decidedly campy, but not in an effective way. Even in the inanest of romance novels there is a thinly veiled plot over the pining and general frivolity. But in this, we are told Night Terror is bored. We are told Night Terror is attracted to Fialux. We are told how brilliant and capable Night Terror is, only to watch her fail over and over. We are told a lot of this story (what story there is amongst the gloating and rewriting).

But the writing isn’t the only problem. We only get any actual conversations between Fialux and Night Terror halfway through the book. Before that, it is Night Terror mooning over how attractive Fialux is, being thrown in jail, tinkering around, and brooding over how she was kicked out of college. There isn’t much here to be upset with, because there isn’t much story.

And there are major problems with the basic premise. If Night Terror is the greatest supervillain in the city, why is she bored? If she wants to take over the world, why is she just terrorizing this one city? Shouldn’t she be moving on to the larger state or country? Why does she spend so much of the novel harboring anger at her old college professor? As the story goes on, one realizes that very little of it makes any sense.

Look, I’m not here to tell you what to do, but this is the third time this mess has been published, and honestly, if you want an anti-hero story, or a villain story, or just a superhero story, go read anything in the Superheroine series by YLVA Publishing. I’ve reviewed a couple of the titles, and both are works of classic literature in comparison to this mess. Save yourself the time, energy and frustration, and go read something else.

Images Courtesy of Amazon Digital Services LLC

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Dealing with Trauma and Characters Improves Wild Magic




Image courtesy of Simon and Schuster

First published in 1992, Tamora Pierce’s Wild Magic starts a new series. It takes place several years after the end of Lioness Rampant and carries the readers further into the world of Tortall. We meet new characters, become reacquainted with old ones, and see them face new struggles. It’s also the series that I started reading Pierce’s work with, so I am indescribably fond. Pierce has grown immeasurably in the four years since the conclusion of her first quartet. Partly because of the choice of characters, and partly time wearing it’s inevitable journey forward. Whatever the cause Wild Magic marks a new beginning, for both the readers and the characters within.

Spoilers for Wild Magic and all four books in The Song of the Lioness Quartet. Content warnings for character death and temporary insanity.

What Happened?

Wild Magic begins with Daine, our new protagonist. She’s a thirteen year old bastard orphan, making her way to Tortall with Onua – who buys horses for the Queens Riders. In the years since Lioness Rampant, Thayet created a new branch of the army which allows women to fight. On the way to Tortall, Daine and Onua encounter stormwings (half human half metal bird monsters), spidrens (half human half spider monsters), and a strange hawk who is also a sorcerer called ‘Numair’. Once they arrive at Corus, Numair tells Daine that she has wild magic, which allows her to talk to animals and to heal them. We see Tortall under siege by monsters called immortals who’ve returned to the mortal realms after being locked in the divine realm centuries ago. Diane studies with Numair and helps Onua train the Riders.

As they head to the summer training camp, Pirate’s Swoop, Alanna and George’s Barony they encounter other problems. They meet Griffins, sea lions, and Daine learns to heal. She also tells Onua and Numair how bandits killed her mother and grandfather. She also tells about how she lost her humanity hunting said bandits with the local wolf pack. Cloud, her pony and constant companion, reminded her she was human, but Daine ran from her old town and couldn’t go back.

Once they arrive at Pirate’s Swoop, Carthaki raiders attack them. They want to kidnap Thayet and her two oldest children as leverage against Jonathan so that Carthak can conquer Tortall. The Riders, George’s people, a dragon, a kraken, and the animals working with Daine rebuff the invadors. The dragon dies and the book ends with Daine finding her baby and preparing to raise her.

Character Choice

One of the things that Pierce does wonderfully in this book and novel is that she gives us characters with more diverse backgrounds. The central characters from her previous series generally all came from places of privilege. Even George was the King of the Thieves, and high in that underground hierarchy. Wild Magic is centered around characters that come from different places, and Pierce also manages to balance her characters much better than she has done previously.

Evin and Miri and Gender Equality

One of the things that Pierce does almost immediately better is in who her character’s friends are. Until Woman who Rides Like a Man, Alanna didn’t have female friends. Admittedly, she was disguised as a boy for most of that time, but it doesn’t really reflect female friendships very well. From the beginning Daine is different in that respect. Once she arrives at Corus, she befriends both Evin Larse and Miri, both Rider trainees, and both from different walks of life. Miri is the daughter of fishers, and is only learning to not fear horses. Given the fact that the Riders are a cavalry based organization, Daine helps immensely with this. Evin Larse is the son of Players, which are wandering actors and entertainers.

Miri even implicitly references what Pierce has done by including her and Evin in the story. When she approaches Daine, where she had been sitting all alone, she asks if Daine was a Trainee. Daine says no, but that she’ll be helping with the ponies. Miri says, “Good—we need more girls. There are two many boys.” (105). While it is both a commentary on how stories need more female protagonists in general, it also speaks to Pierce’s novel.

Alanna’s female friendships were late in the series, and more peripheral than the close bonds she had with romantic partners. With Daine, Pierce is deliberately trying to surround her with characters that make up for that. Daine has male friends yes, Numair, Sarge, and Evin. But she also has Onua, Alanna, Thayet, and Miri, and dozens of others. It’s not just one woman making friends with men anymore, it a story about a young woman making friends with many different people—animal or human, male or female. It shows how Pierce has grown in just four years.

Overtures in Race

Another thing that Pierce does which shows her slow improvement is how she deals with race. She’s attempting to have a more balanced world, not just one that is your typical white fantasy world. It’s still not perfect, given that there are only seven people of color in the entire novel, and five of them are unnamed. One of the named people is Hakim, a Bazhir from Woman Who Rides Like a Man. He appears on the journey to Corus, a sergeant in the Kings Own. He helps Alanna and Daine fight of the spidrens.

The other character of color in the novel is Sarge. He is one of the three who teach the Queens Riders. He also escaped slavery before coming to Tortall. It’s in part a very stereotypical story, but Sarge is one of the more important new characters. He treats Daine with respect, and helps her learn to make her authority with the trainees. A particularly idiotic trainee had been flirting with Daine instead of listening to her. Sarge intervened on her behalf. He shamed the trainee for both flirting with a Daine and for being unkind to the pony he was supposed to be grooming.

When Daine goes to talk with him afterwards, feeling awkward. Sarge reassures her, and they share what I would describe as a genuinely sweet moment. It’s a moment of solidarity between the two of them. In some ways it mirrors how people from different oppressed groups band together.

Pierce hasn’t fixed all her mistakes, and the book isn’t saying landmark things about race. It doesn’t include many people of color, and most of the ones that do appear are solely window dressing in the background. However, it’s an improvement on her previous handling of race, and is progress.

Daine as Protagonist

Intersectionality is one of the touchstones of third-wave feminism, though it wasn’t unheard of in second-wave feminism. Diane is very much a intersectional character. She’s a female, orphan, refugee, and a bastard in a world where that still matters. Snowsdale, the village that she was born and raised in is implied to be very conservative. Considering Daine’s reaction—almost tears—when she was asked if she wanted to wear pants instead of skirts, it’s not very subtle. She says that the priests and the headman wouldn’t approve, despite not three minutes ago wanting to wear anything other than skirts because of the discomfort.

She initially refuses a book Numair gave her on animal anatomy because she didn’t feel that she deserved it. When she meets Thayet, who she’d thought was a normal person beforehand, she explodes. “Odd’s bobs, this is a strange place! Knights who say call ’em by their first name and wizards who light tinder and queens that run around dressed like real people—” (103-4). When she meets Jonathan, he asks about her father, because she can sense when immortals attack because of her wild magic.But Daine doesn’t know who her father is, so she can’t help.

When entering Tortall, Daine thinks that she’ll get a fresh start, where her entire identity won’t be wound up in her bastardy. Every aspect of her character reflects the different intersections of oppression that Daine experienced. Pierce she shows how discrimination affects Daine as she immerses herself in this new country. During the skirt incident she thinks, “it hit her, really hit her, that she was free of Snowsdale, what could they do to her now?” (110). It doesn’t change everything, but she’s in a place where not everyone will judge her only on her background.

Recovery from Trauma

One of the more important lessons of Wild Magic is about how people handle trauma, and about how people help others.

Kuri’s Monologue

Kuri Tailor is the woman who outfits Daine with pants and shirts. As mentioned above, Daine has some lingering issues about Snowsdale, and Kuri comforts her. “Forget them. …You’re ours, now. …But here life’s what you make it. Who you used to be doesn’t matter. Look at Sarge—he was a slave, once. Onua was beaten by her husband and left to die. Her Majesty and Buri had to flee Saraine. Do you catch my drift?” (112).

This is one of the more thematically important passages of the novel. The novel as a whole is the process of dealing with trauma and recovering from it. One of the most important things that you can hear when you’re trying to recover is that others have done it. Doubly so when those people are there to help you on your path as well. Kuri telling Daine about Sarge’s and Onua’s and Thayet and Buri’s pasts shows her that these successful people struggled. They overcame things that are incredibly difficult to overcome. They survived, and they thrived. That promise, that you can remake yourself, and become someone who isn’t defined by your trauma is essential to hear on the road to recovery.

This is the thesis of the novel yes, but Pierce again shows how it isn’t easy with how Daine handles her twin traumas.

Daine and Grief

Daine is a thirteen year old girl who lost her entire family except a pony less than a year ago. That sort of thing leaves scars, and it’s scars that Pierce allows Daine to show. She’s barely able to mention her family in the first few chapters. When she mentions them afterwards, it’s liable to wind up causing her to snap at other people.

The first time it happens is when she’s meeting Numair, not the hawk he was shape-shifted into for the first time. Numair is incredulous that she doesn’t have the Gift, and Daine explodes. Onua tells Numair that her mother kept testing Daine for the Gift, and that she died recently.  Though it’s not a direct mention of her mother, it’s close enough to spark emotions in someone grieving. Also the Gift was a source of tension between her and her mother beforehand, so that also is a factor.

The second major time this happens is when Numair lights a fire with his Gift. Daine’s shock is apparent, and Numair teases her for a moment about needing rituals to cause fire to burn back home. Considering the bandits burnt her home to the ground, Daine stalks off.

Onua told her early on that you need to speak about things, to bleed the poison off the bad memories. Daine eventually does this with her family, talking about them to Onua and Numair, though keeping her other trauma hidden from them until later. Daine feels guilty for having fun, for teasing Numair back and for befriending Onua. Eventually, she realizes that guilt is not what her family would want, and it eases those outbursts of grief.

As before though, it doesn’t go away forever, the pain of losing her family lingers around Daine for the rest of the series.

Daine and Mental Illness

The Good Aspects

While mental illness isn’t precisely the right term for Daine’s experiences hunting the bandits, it’s the closest allegory. She hunted down the bandits who killed her family with the local wolf pack. In return, her village hunted her, for weeks, tried to kill her because of what she’d done. Daine describes it as loosing her humanity. Numair, when told about this, theorizes that her magical bond with animals overwhelms her when near a group of animals. He puts a shield between her magic and her core self, which prevents such a relapse.

However, this only happens halfway through the book. During the first half, Daine discovers going too deep in the lessons Numar gives her will bring out the ‘madness’ again. Because of this, she starts faking her way through the lessons and being very touchy, more so than with her grief earlier. It’s a very good representation of one way that people try to deal with trauma. Daine tries to bottle it all up, tries to pretend that not thinking about it will just make it disappear. It’s a decent representation of that facet of trauma, and it fits with Daine’s character.

The Bad Aspects

But, there is one aspect of this representation that is less appealing. Daine is visited at various times in her dreams by a badger. He gives her advice and tells her he knows her father. He is the one that finally compels her to tell her story to Onua and Numair. At one point he tells her that, “The madness was to teach you something. You should mind the lesson.” (30). These two lines are the opposite of helpful, and the opposite of feminist. Trauma and mental illness are not something that should be handled in this way.

In a fantasy world, there is the possibility that gods try to teach mankind lessons through trials. This was not the case with Daine here. I find it likely that this line of the badger’s is part of why she didn’t tell anyone until so late. She felt she deserved it and if it was a lesson, she should be able to figure out how to solve it on her own. That was counterproductive to the point, and prevents her from healing.


Overall, Wild Magic is a story that has ultimately a feminist takeaway. It’s a story about how a community of people comes together to heal. It’s a story about how there is more than one kind of person. There may be some rough patches and throw away lines, and there are places where Pierce could have pushed more. But whenever I read the epilogue I’m reminded of why this story matters.

Daine starts the story as an orphan, and she ends the story taking in another orphan. After a debate between Thayet, Alanna, George, Numair, and Onua as to where Daine should go and ultimately live, Pierce puts it best. “Daine looked at these unusual people who had become friends, and laughed. ‘It’s fair funny,’ she explained. ‘I’ve gone from having no home to having too many!’ The Lioness smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Welcome to Tortall,’ she said.” (362).

That welcome extends not only to Daine, but to the reader, and it’s a fitting end to the first chapter of Daine’s story.


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