SurLaLune Book Club: A Tale Dark and Grimm by Adam Gidwitz

So this past weekend my precocious reader niece, age 8 and a few months, was in town. We read about three quarters of A Tale Dark and Grimm by Adam Gidwitz out loud together. (I did most of the reading actually while she listened.) I hadn't read it before and grabbed it off the shelf in a last minute attempt to find something to read together having not planned ahead. At Christmas I had given her the boxed set of The Enchanted Forest Chronicles fromwhich we read the first book together. She reads at college level and understands a great deal--she read all of Harry Potter and Percy Jackson through at least once over a year ago. That is to give you an idea of what her reading experience is. I was still a little concerned as I read it to her. Are you sure you won't have nightmares? I kept asking. She didn't and I myself was fascinated by the book. It incorporates several lesser known Grimms tales, including a Robber Bridegroom, if that gives you any idea of content. There is beheading, self-mutilation, murder, and several other things...

This book was scheduled for a March SurLaLune Book Club read but I put the book club on hold as my head has swum with German, Italian, French and such the last few months. I am bringing it back because, well, now I have read the book and want to know what you think.

So on April 24th I will start a discussion for this book. And if all goes well, I still plan a book club reading of My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: Forty New Fairy Tales now scheduled for May.

Please read A Tale Dark and Grimm. I am fascinated to know what you think, especially any parents. It doesn't shy away from controversy, especially here in the U.S. where our fairy tales are sanitized. That said, it is not a heavy or long read. Most of you will finish it in 2-3 hours. I think that was about how long it took to read most of it out loud. If you are a fan of the original tales, told slightly slant, this is a book for you. It is also a great jumping off point into the Grimms themselves.

And yet I wonder about this as a classroom read. Yes, the teachers are loving it and the students overall seem to be eating it up, but it will upset several parents and freak out a few children. Most of them see much worse on television these days (not that I think that is acceptable) but this is definitely not simple or sweet...

Poem of the Day: When I Wore Red Shoes by Eliza Cook

When I Wore Red Shoes
by Eliza Cook

“WHEN I wore red shoes!” Ah me!
Simple as the words may be,
Yet these simple words can bring
The peacock feather of Time’s wing,
And flutter it before my eyes
In all its vivid pristine dyes.
What were Cinderella’s slippers
To my pair of fairy trippers?
No heart gives such ecstatic thumps
In spur-deck’d boots or perfum’d pumps,
As mine did when I strutted out
To show my fine red shoes about,
Most truly then my tiny toes
Walk’d in a path “couleur de rose,”
As, marching forth, I sought the street,
My head fill’d, choke-full, with my feet.
Proud and happy thing was I,
Amid the world’s enchanted views;
When hair and sash-ends used to fly,
And I wore red shoes.

How they used to flit and shine
O’er the chalky zig-zag line,
As with Taglioni tread
I moved where “Hop Scotch” maps were-spread!
How rich their contrast as they plied
In kicks on Pincher’s jetty side;
Till “tantrums” made it hard to trace
Which were the reddest, shoes or face!
Oh, Pincher! Pincher! it was you
That shared the scolding and “to-do,”
When I had join’d their strings to deck
Your dear, old apoplectic neck.
Sock and buskin—out upon them!
Let the crook-back Richards don them:
I remember wearing socks
That gave severer tragic shocks;
That won a fame by no means fickle—
A fame I stood no chance to lose;
When I acted “Little Pickle”
Stamping in red shoes.

Mentors dubb’d me “stupid child,”
Idle, careless, rude, and wild;
As they labour’d to instil
Mystic hornpipe and quadrille.
How I used to fling and flout
Through “Ladies’ Chain” to “put them out;”
And took vast pains to “balancez”
In any but the proper way!
Red shoes, red shoes, what heavy raps,
Under the name of “gentle taps,”
Fell on your bright, morocco skins
To punish my provoking sins!
Who cared? Not I. Next moment found
Me where the ball and rope went round;
And sermons, scoldings, slaps, and school,
Were soon immersed in Lethe’s pool.
I’ll own my steps were sometimes pestered,
But nothing left the gall or bruise;
The thorn might wound, but never fester’d,
When I wore red shoes.

The Roman in his sandall’d pride,
Gazing upon the Tiber’s tide,
Ne’er met such glory in his way
As I on some “spring, showery day,”
When splashing through the puddle flood
Into a paradise of mud;
Till some intrusive voice was heard
With startling tone and angry word;
Exclaiming “Mercy! who would choose
Such place to walk—look at your shoes!”
Red shoes, how well ye served to fling
In “Hunt the Slipper’s” fairy ring!
When “blouzed and thump’d” on head and legs,
I fear’d no “Miss Amelia Skeggs;”
But scream’d and shouted, clutch’d and claw’d,
Uncheck’d, unruly, and unawed;
And bounced about like “my man John,”
With one shoe off and one shoe on.
What though a tear might sometimes fall,
And dim the lustre of their hues;
It form’d a rainbow, after all,
Dissolving round red shoes.

Bed shoes, red shoes, ye bore me well
Through ferny copse and greenwood dell;
When I career’d in childhood’s day
“Over the hills and far away.”
Now ye went boldly dashing through
The russet heath still charged with dew;
Now in the orchard ye would be
Climbing the fine, old cherry-tree;
Now ye would tramp the grass about,
To find the scatter’d filberts out;
And now beneath broad boughs ye stopp’d,
To see if plums or pears had dropp’d.
Anon, ye scamper’d hard and fast
After the blue moth flitting past;
Keeping the chase with restless might,
Till quickset barrier check’d your flight.
Red shoes, red shoes, ye come in dreams,
When fond and busy Fancy teems:
Ye fill Life’s simplest page I own,
But Memory has turn’d it down.
Ye come with “old familiar faces”—
Ye come with all I cared to lose:
I wake—and count the empty places
Since I wore red shoes.

from Poems (1840) by Eliza Cook

This poem predates H. C. Andersen's story, The Red Shoes, but many of the sentiments are similar that I thought I would share this one as a tribute to Andersen's tale. Of course, this poem is more wistful and much more sympathetic to a child who loved her red shoes.

Hailee Steinfeld In Sleeping Beauty

From Hailee Steinfeld In Sleeping Beauty: Starlet Attached To Fairy Tale Revision:

Hailee Steinfeld is about to become a princess. On film, of course.

The Oscar-nominated "True Grit" star is attached to a revisionist reimagining of the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty, Deadline reports, slotted to the play the princess once the spec script is snatched up by a producer. Told from the princess' point of view, the script offers a sweetened "Inception" type plot, requiring her to find her way out of the dream world that she has been cast into.

This would be the second big role Steinfeld has grabbed since her breakout turn as fast talking, revenge-seeking Mattie Ross in the Coen Brothers' hit western.

Little Mermaid Film May Be On Hold

Christine emailed me a few weeks(!) ago about a Little Mermaid film in development.  (See Joe Wright Making Live Action Little Mermaid and Fairy Tale Trend Reveals Female Sex Threat; A Comprehensive Guide to Fairy Tales in the Works.) It's been in my queue to learn more about I'm busy eating, sleeping and eating upcoming SurLaLune books.

Then I saw this news from this week. From Joe Wright Says He’ll Wait Until Fairy Tale Fad Is Over Before Tackling ‘The Little Mermaid’:

In case you haven’t noticed, Hollywood has fairy tale fever. “Red Riding Hood” hit theaters last month, and that’s just the start of a forthcoming onslaught that will include “Jack The Giant Killer,” “Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters,” “Snow White And The Huntsman,” Tarsem Singh‘s Snow White film and just last week a Sleeping Beauty movie was packaged with Hailee Steinfeld in the lead. As you may have forgotten, “Hanna” director Joe Wright was eyeing his own fairy tale-based movie but he may put it off for now.

Speaking to press at WonderCon where he was promoting his upcoming teenage assassin flick, the always candid Wright didn’t hold back about his personal attachment to the project—but he’s been put off by the deluge of similarly themed films. “I’d really love to do that cause it’s a very personal project for me,” Wright said. “My father was a puppeteer and he did a puppet show of ‘The Little Mermaid’ and it was always my favorite show. I used to sit and watch it thousands and thousands of times. Unfortunately since we put it into development there’s suddenly been this weird &*%# onslaught of fairy tale adaptations that wasn’t happening even when we were doing ‘Hanna.’ I wish I’d done it a few years ago actually. I’m fairly sure that I will do it one day because I kind of need to do it. It’s in my head and I feel like I know the film. But I might not do it for a few years, I might wait until everyone’s done.”

Now I'm not a big Little Mermaid fan, but I admit this one makes me sad. I'd love to see this one developed and soon. And is anyone else fascinated by Hanna? My husband is. I know there has been buzz about how it has fairy tale qualities, but I don't know much about it beyond that...

Collins lands lead in Snow White

From Collins lands lead in Snow White:

Lily Collins, the actress daughter of musician Phil, has landed the lead role in a new film version of Snow White.

The 22-year-old, who starred in the award-winning flick The Blind Side, will appear alongside Julia Roberts and Social Network star Armie Hammer in the as-yet untitled movie, Variety reports.

The film - which is due to start production next month - will be directed by Tarsem Singh, who recently worked on the new action movie Immortals.

Julia is set to play the evil queen, while Armie will star as Prince Andrew Alcott.

Surrey-born Lily starred alongside Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side, the 2009 film that netted Sandra an Oscar for best actress.

Poem of the Day: Old Story Books by Eliza Cook

Old Story Books
by Eliza Cook

Old Story Books! Old Story Books! we owe ye much, old friends,
Bright-colour’d threads in Memory’s warp, of which Death holds the ends.
Who can forget ye! who can spurn the ministers of joy
That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy?
I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat
Fail’d to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen pet.
A “promised story” was enough—I turn’d, with eager smile,
To learn about the naughty “pig that would not mount the stile.”

There was a spot in days of yore whereon I used to stand,
With mighty question in my head and penny in my hand;
Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up a goodly show;
And “story books,” upon a string, appear’d in brilliant row.
What should I have? The peppermint was incense in my nose;
But I had heard of “hero Jack,” who slew his giant foes:
My lonely coin was balanced long before the tempting stall,
‘Twixt book and bull’s-eye—but, forsooth! “Jack” got it after all.

Talk of your “vellum, gold emboss’d,” “morocco,” “roan,” and “calf,’
The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by half;
And as to pictures—well we know that never one was made,
Like that where “Bluebeard “swings aloft his wife-destroying blade.
“Hume’s England”—pshaw! what history of battles, states, and men,
Can vie with Memoirs all about “sweet little Jenny Wren?”
And what are all the wonders that e’er struck a nation dumb,
To those recorded as perform’d by “Master Thomas Thumb?”

Miss “Riding Hood,” poor luckless child! my heart grew big with dread,
When the grim “wolf,” in grandmamma’s best bonnet show’d his head;
I shudder’d when, in innocence, she meekly peep’d beneath,
And made remarks about “great eyes,” and wonder’d at “great teeth.”
And then the “House that Jack built,” and the “Bean-stalk Jack cut down,”
And “Jack’s eleven brothers,” on their travels of renown;
And “Jack,” whose crack’d and plaster’d head insured him lyric fame
These, these, methinks, make “vulgar Jack” a rather classic name.

Fair “Valentine,” I loved him well; but better still the bear
That hugg’d his brother in her arms with tenderness and care.
I linger’d spell-bound o’er the page, though eventide wore late;
And left my supper all untouch’d, to fathom “Orson’s” fate.
Then “Robin with his merry men,” a noble band were they;
We’ll never see the like again, go hunting where we may.
In Lincoln garb, with bow and barb, rapt Fancy bore me on,
Through Sherwood’s dewy forest paths close after “Little John.”

“Miss Cinderella” and her “shoe” kept long their reigning powers,
Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours;
And “Sinbad,” wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track;
And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back.
And, oh! that tale—the matchless tale, that made me dream at night
Of “Crusoe’s “shaggy robe of fur, and “Friday’s “death-spurr’d flight;
Nay, still I read it, and again in sleep will come to me
The savage dancers on the sand—the raft upon the sea.

Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I doubt if “Season’s Feast”
Provides a dish that pleases more than “Beauty and the Beast;”
I doubt if all the ledger leaves that bear a sterling sum,
Yield happiness like those that told of “Master Homer’s plum.”
Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I never pass ye by
Without a sort of furtive glance—right loving, though ‘tis sly;
And fair suspicion may arise, that yet my spirit cleaves
To dear “Old Mother Hubbard’s Dog” and “All Baba’s Thieves.”

from Poems (1840) by Eliza Cook

A Fairy Tale by Amy Lowell

Briar Rose by Arthur Rackham

A Fairy Tale
by Amy Lowell

On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.

The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.

from A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass by Amy Lowell
(1874-1925)