•
Rating: When we talk about Harry Potter, we always risk reaching those kinds of paradoxical situations, so beloved by Debaser, where evaluations, opinions, and exchanges of ideas quickly turn into colossal and ridiculously absurd debates worthy of an article on nonciclopedia.
But, since I'm the reviewer and in this case, the first step must be taken by me, I will throw a stone into the pond with a somewhat biased statement, which is that anyone who did not appreciate, or worse, deeply hated the J.K. Rowling saga is an immense idiot. With the only excuse being the generation that was not able to grow alongside this gigantic cultural phenomenon, as my generation did.
Born at the stroke of 1990, grown halfway between the old and new millennium, watching today's new generations grow, the comparison with the kid I used to be is almost always spontaneous, along with thousands of questions: what differentiates the children of today from those of yesterday? What are their fears, their dreams, their paths towards growth made of? What teaches them to dream, to have fun, to live?
In the generation of progress, we learned that our mothers no longer had time to tell us fairy tales before going to sleep, that our fathers were little more than ghosts because for survival, more and more alienating and tiring jobs were required, while the previous generations were left further and further behind compared to the progress that imposed an increasingly fast lifestyle. Stories were no longer told around the fire, television was what kept us company during lunches and dinners. We no longer played outdoors since it only took a few coins to buy a console and disappear from the real world. We found ourselves together less and less often, with fewer things to share and fewer ways to do so. The void of an infamous transitional age that few could fill.
A lone mother from Edinburgh managed to do it, who during a train ride invented a story capable of captivating an entire generation. I still remember when I was given my first volume of the saga: they got it completely wrong, and I started with the third book "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," but it was love at first sight anyway, and it wasn't long before I literally devoured the first and second volumes, eager to know how the story would continue. And suddenly, a shy elementary school kid had something to share with hundreds of his peers, perhaps discovering a passion for reading, and realizing that during the day, it was possible to do something else besides eating junk food and watching TV. We would argue over which character was the best or the most charismatic villain, and real gatherings were organized to celebrate the release of the first film adaptations, while at the same time making new friendships, new discoveries, new experiences. All in the healthiest and simplest way possible, through sharing what ultimately belonged to everyone.
When I read "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," most likely all this euphoria had reached its peak: it arrived by mail for my sixteenth birthday, and it represented the perfect story for those about to leave "The Age of Innocence" to enter the monstrous world of maturity. The darkest, the most violent, the most fluid, yet also the densest in content and suspense, with an ending that literally leaves you breathless, even surpassing the otherwise good fifth chapter; a book light years away from the calmness (some might say naivety) of the first books, with a narrative style finally mature and communicative, absolutely incomparable with what its ridiculous film version represents. The seventh and final chapter, the dull "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," written hastily and translated even worse, couldn’t hold up to its predecessor, and when the story finally reached completion, the magic perhaps had faded. Some even think that the seventh book was written along with the first chapter, and therefore, still unripe stylistically. Maybe. The fact remains that "The Half-Blood Prince" is a real bomb for those who love fantasy literature and are not afraid to look in the mirror and maybe feel a bit like a kid. And in times like these, where you see 12-year-old girls walking the streets dressed like prostitutes (and perhaps know "Twilight" by heart...), tell me if there wouldn’t be a bit of need for it!
Loading comments slowly
