There may be one or two inhabitants of desert islands or Tibetan monasteries who do not know who the
halfblood prince is, or which well-known
Potter character dies in this movie, and it’s a matter of honour and Britsh reserve as much as common decency to let them discover for themselves. However, if you had forgotten, you will be able to refresh your memory this summer in cinemas up and down the land.
The Potter oevre continues to unfold reliably, with a few touches of fun but no major revelations or amazements this time out. Each separate film is a fresh pearl on the string, or whatever Stockhausen said about tone rows, so as well as consistency it needs development and individual colouring sufficient to stand up alone.
In these terms, this film is a bit flatter in tone than some of the series, but will probably not disappoint any but the most diehard Potterholics. One problem is that the climax of this movie, involving death of said famous Potter character, is clearly a set-up for the next outing. In years to come when all six, or seven, films are shown back to back, this will not be a problem. For now it leaves a slightly awkward taste in the mouth. The kids are great, and apparently the Vatican, after a slightly false start branding HP as Satanic Propaganda has now decided he is a Good Thing after all. The Obamas agree. Who wouldn’t? This week we are potion making, so, potion-making fans, you’re in for a particular treat.
The kids, of all ages, are brilliant.
Hogwarts is lumbering, however, through embarrased fumbling UK adolescence. As the wand work gets ever more ingenious and competent, our chums become more spotty and sweaty — a unique kind of bottled up, so embarrassed and, well, British, that it should keep the colonials chuckling as they stare in horror at the sheer repressed gormlessness of it all. Some bonkeroid neocon think tanks believe the Caucasian population of Europe is dooomed. One reason non-Caucasians are breeding so voracoiusly, if they are, is that, unlike the middle class Brits, they acquire the skill to ask a girl out before the age of 40.
So, Hogwarts ain’t no Casino Royale. Buffy at the same age would have the lot of them for breakfast. But you probably knew that.
The darkness quotient is sufficient unto the day thereof, but probably a tad lighter than last time out. We in our local fleapit, were delighted by a little voice among us at the end of some serious CGI fireworks in a cave piping up and saying “is the scary bit over now?” Even at the tender age of seven, she obviously understands how the genre works. There are a few genuine laughs on screen, too. It’s all very good natured.
Whilst not exactly Christian propaganda à la Narnia, the conceptual and imaginative framework within which the story works continues to be almost entirely Western Christian love, sacrifice and atonement theology. Indeed we learn during this film that there is officially more power in the blood of Harry Potter than in the blood of Albus Dumbledore. Eat your heart out, Billy Graham. The marque is far from exhausted, however, and a big finish will be along in one, or perhaps two, movies’ time. I can’t wait but, sadly, I and several million others will have to.
Potter world is now going to hell in a handcart. It really is. The benign old buffers who used to scoff custard creams in the Ministry of Magic have lost it, and Dumbledore’s body lies a mould’ring in the grave — actually it doesn’t moulder, it kinda glows, obviously. Things are falling apart, the centre cannot hold. On the streets there's a purge of mudbloods. The Dark Mark fills the horizon, Black wispy Satanic candyfloss on speed zaps through darkened skies. It smokes like the rear end of my Morris 1100 used to when the big ends were going. Death Eaters loiter around the mouth of the Dartford Tunnel splatting owls.
Through the pallid dystopia created by Lord Voldemort and his dark chums trek Harry, Hermione and Ron like hobbits who wandered onto the wrong set. They camp out in a wee Canvas tent like my old dad had in the scouts, seeking Horcruxes to zap. That’s pretty much it, apart from assorted bangs and whistles, a few snakes snapping away like angry crocs, and a hooligan gang modeled on Adam and the ants. Dobby the House Elf provides the only emotional relief, blasted at the end.
I doubt that this particular movie will turn out to be many people’s Pick of the Potters. Not quite enough happens, and as the characters age, the school adventure fun has gone. The plot is all characterisation, setting up the characters for the final showdown. It’s really only starters for a main course to be served up next year — Deathly Hallows part 2.
It may be the final countdown, but that’s only a warm-up act for a rumble in the jungle that will make Armageddon look like a Sunday School outing. The elderly should bring earplugs. The young should clutch transitional objects and therapy buddies. Everyone, pack spare underwear. Forget Ali/ Frazier — this is Potter/ Voldemort, and the Dark Lord is already mooching around, his slitty little nose twitching at the smell of blood... Harry Potter is coming of age. And not just Harry. The New York Daily News tells us, in the real world, that Emma Watson kisses like an animal. “What kind of animal?” we may wonder, indiscreetly. An Anteater? A Slow Loris? a Manatee? Watch this space. 4 stars out of 5.
