The Hunger Games

Warning: Here be spoilers. Not major ones, but spoilers nonetheless.

I had an interesting discussion with a friend about the "appropriateness" of The Hunger Games for its intended audience-- teens. She railed against the violence, the suffering, the idea that adolescents should read about kids killing other kids. "If they're going to read stuff like this, I'd rather they read stories about the Holocaust," she said. "At least they're learning history. At least that's real."

I didn't really understand this point, and told her so. Kids reading The Hunger Games know it's fantasy, that it never happened, and most likely never will happen. The Holocaust, on the other hand, is a lesson on how evil people really can be. Facts are definitely scarier than fiction here.

I don't like talking about something I haven't read, so of course, after this conversation I had to read the book in order to see what I had been theoretically defending. The Hunger Games, it turns out, isn't about kids killing kids. That's what happens, but that's not what it's about. It's about keeping your humanity in the face of this horror, as expressed by Peeta, "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not," a sentiment he is able to uphold throughout the ordeal. We see it when Katniss forms an alliance with Rue, when she covers Rue's body in flowers, when she takes the approach to hide from the others rather than hunt them.

In fact, the book is full of examples of human kindness and loyalty: Gale and Katniss providing for their families at great risk to themselves, with Gale continuing to care for the Everdeens in Katniss's absence; Peeta feeding a starving Katniss and saving her life; Thresh sparing Katniss in gratitude for her care of Rue; and of course, Katniss's ultimate act of courage and sacrifice, by volunteering to take Prim's place at the Reaping. Even the fact that Haymitch is driven to alcoholism by his victory in the 50th Hunger Games shows that brutality destroys humanity, and that there is no "victory," not even for the victor, in the Hunger Games. That's what I, as an adult reader, took away from The Hunger Games.

The question remains, though: Why do kids read these books? At the ages of 12-16, kids aren't often known for their ability to discern theme and symbolism from a novel. These are skills they are just learning in high school English. Why would they want to read a story about a post-apocalyptic world where horrors are unleashed against children their own age? Why doesn't it give them nightmares?

While The Hunger Games takes the idea further, I think kids read it for the same reason younger children read The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. They are attracted to stories where teens can take care of themselves, where they can even do better than the adults around them. It gives them a sense of power in a world where, in reality, adults have the control. I sure as a heck wouldn't let my kids run around solving mysteries like the Drews and the Hardys do, and in the real world, Nancy, Joe and Frank would likely get killed. But it's not surprising that kids like to read about other kids who can take care of themselves and succeed where adults fail.

Another attraction in The Hunger Games is the interpersonal angle. Go past the family relationships, past Katniss's resourcefulness and courage, and it becomes a love story. What teenage girl wouldn't want boys like Peeta and Gale in love with them? What are her feelings for each of them? Who should she end up with? (Obviously I've only read the first book-- Catching Fire and Mockingjay have long waiting lists at the library.) Even the secondary characters show caring, affection, and kindness. Madge gives Katniss the mockingjay pin. Mr. Mellark brings Katniss cookies before she leaves for the Capitol. Cinna gives Katniss both hope and courage. Even Haymitch does his part, giving his tributes a fighting chance by making them worthy of sponsors. 


Yes, it is a violent book. Twenty-two children die, forced into combat by a government determined to show its citizens that their lives, literally, are in the government’s hands. Life in the districts is a struggle for survival. But the over-arching theme of The Hunger Games is humanity in the face of brutality. A little girl saving an older girl she hardly knows; the older girl trying to return the favour, and grief-struck by her failure. A woman mourning the loss of a husband. The love of a pet. The love of two sisters. Love, in spite of all attempts to repress it, in spite of all attempts to hold oneself back because the pain of loss will be too great. Love, self-sacrifice, and bravery lie at the heart of The Hunger Games.  And these are values kids can never read about enough.

Twilight Revisited

Way back in 2009, I wrote a little review of the Twilight series, sparked by hearing that Stephen King had trashed Stephenie Meyer personally. Lo and behold, today the issue raised its head on Facebook, the place where controversies are immortal.

One of my friends posted a picture of Mr. King, with the following quotation: "Harry Potter is all about confronting fears, finding inner strength, and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend." My friend's comment was, "Well said, Mr. King!"

The comment has validity; Twilight can definitely be classified as a "modern gothic romance," and certainly romance, almost universally told from the woman's point of view (see Part II of Breaking Dawn for an exception to that rule), is about relationships. I would say I am in 80% agreement with Mr. King's opinion. However, I didn't enter into the Facebook fray to argue the 20% I disagreed with, but to argue the merits of making such a comment in the first place (note that all Facebook comments have been edited for relevance, grammar, spelling, and punctuation, but not sentence structure):

It's not that I disagree with Mr. King, ultimately... but I wish he wouldn't say it anyway, because he gets his back up when people trash his genre, so why is he trashing the romance genre? If you don't like it, don't read it. Praise Rowling and keep your mouth shut about Meyer. If you don't have anything nice to say... Okay, I think I made my point.

Well, I thought I did... but a friend of my friend quickly responded:

He's not trashing the romance genre. He's trashing one specific author. For good reason too. She's a horrid writer.

To which the original poster added:

I've read the Twilight books, to see what the fuss was about, and the writing style did leave much to be desired. And I found Bella to be a whiny girl who placed way too much importance on liking, getting and being with Edward. Then there's the whole messing up of vampire lore that pissed me off lol.

(At least she's laughing about it.)

I guess it's the nature of Facebook; I had to respond:

Whether the books are good or bad is completely beside the point. I think it's undignified behaviour. In his book On Writing, Mr. King expends some effort to defend his own books from those who trash them as "just horror novels" with no redeeming value. He should give other writers the same courtesy by keeping his mouth shut. He's not a literary critic and no one asked for his opinion. I used to have tremendous respect for the man, but his attacks on Meyer, simply because he doesn't like her books, is obnoxious. Does he trash every bad book out there? No. He took a shot because she had the chutzpah to be successful with something HE deems to be unworthy.

Response:

All he's doing is commenting on his thoughts of one book vs. another. I think you're taking it a step too far. He's not calling for a book ban here. 

Counter-response:

If he limited his remarks to the books, I wouldn't mind so much. I don't disagree with this comment. But he also called Meyer a "terrible writer," which might be his opinion and he is entitled to it... but what purpose does the comment serve other than drawing attention to himself? When you insult a writer (or singer, or painter), you insult every fan they have, too. Really, it's just not classy behaviour.

And that, for me is the crux of it. Book reviewing is non-fiction genre of its own, and King is a novel-writer, not a literary critic. As a fellow novelist, he should leave her alone. It seems to me that he resents Meyer's success. Obviously it's not jealousy, or he'd trash Rowling worse. He seems to be expressing the opinion, "If I don't like it, no one should."

And this, of course, is pure arrogance. I have had many, many people (some related by blood) tell me how "bad" the Harry Potter series is. This never fails to annoy me. People don't have to like it. To my consternation, I find that most of friends find Shakespeare boring too. But by refusing to try to understand why others like it, one sets oneself up as a literary snob. The message I unfailing receive about "liking" Harry Potter is, "How can anyone like such junk?"

Well, millions do. As millions love Meyer's works. Is it evil? Immoral? Wrong? No. Even assuming that the books are, objectively, "bad," bad taste is not evil or immoral or wrong. We don't judge character based on personal taste. 

While I did write, "No one asked his opinion," about King's reaction to Meyer, of course that's not true. If you want to know what King thinks of Meyer, you can read the full, unedited, and slightly-less-unflattering version here. The real kicker is, the quotation above isn't even Stephen King; it's someone named Robin Browne, quoted by Andrew Futral. Snopes it if you don't believe me. And of course I have my opinion too; the link is above. However, lecturing the public on what makes worthy reading is best done during English class, where such opinions have academic merit. Otherwise, I'm happy to stick to safer subjects.  What do you think of the weather we're having, eh?

Summer Memories

This post is dedicated to my blogger buddy Lori of According to Gus, who is travelling the continental U.S. for the next six months, accompanied by her husband, sister, and of course, Gus. They are currently in Colorado.

What idiots come into a resort town at 6:00 on a July 4 long weekend without reservations?

Being Canadians, we didn't even realize what day it was. But as we passed motel after motel proudly flashing their "No Vacancy" signs at us, we managed to figure it out. The next town was a good couple hundred miles away, and there was about as much chance of finding a motel room there as here. Besides, it was getting too late for highway driving. For the first time in years of travel, we were stuck in the car with nowhere to go.

We had left Denver sometime that afternoon, driving through the Loveland Pass into Glenwood Springs. My parents tell me the scenery was breathtaking, but I don't remember. I was reading a book, as always. Apparently, while driving through the Redwood Forest in California, my parents tried to get me to appreciate the surrounding beauty; my only reply was, "If you've seen one tree, you've seen them all."

We were in the middle of our 1973 summer vacation: my parents, my brother, who was 16, my sister, 13, and me, 7 and nine tenths. We always travelled by the seat of our pants, never making reservations because we wanted to do things at our own speed and not be tied down to commitments. This time we misjudged the situation.

Picture courtesy of Wikipedia

Glenwood Springs is a pretty little town, set in the mountains of Colorado, Ignoring the "No Vacancy" signs, we went in to motel after motel, trying to find a cancelled reservation or even an empty couch. Finally, we stopped at the last motel in town; it too was full, but my dad pleaded with the manager. "Do you at least know of somewhere else we might try?"

He though a minute. "Well, there's the Brettelberg Lodge," he said. "It's a ski resort in the mountains. I could call and see if the manager is there. They might be able to take you."

The manager of the Brettelberg Lodge was there, and he said it was no problem for us to come up. My dad asked how far it was, and the motel man said, "Oh, not very. About eighteen miles." He gave directions, and we figured we could make it in twenty minutes.

With directions in hand, we started off for the Lodge. It was almost seven, and already dusk as the sun went behind the mountains. The eighteen miles turned out to be eighteen miles straight up; the directions took us on a long, winding mountain road, and we went about thirty miles an hour all the way. Dad kept saying, "If I'd known the road was like this, I wouldn't have come," and Ma kept answering, "What choice did we have?" For once the back seat was quiet. We sensed our parents' combined nervousness, and no one wanted to get yelled at.

It was pitch dark when we arrived. The manager was waiting for us. He welcomed us and took us up to our room. "If you need anything, just let us know," he said, and went back to his suite.

We opened the door and snapped on the light. It was huge room, with a couch, two chests of drawers, and a desk. There was something missing.

"Where are the beds?"

Where indeed. My brother, always the joker, said , "You have to pay extra for beds." The mystery was solved when we noticed the walls had handles, one set about three feet above another. Pull the handles, out come the beds. Removing the cushions from couch revealed a hide-a-bed as well. The place excelled in hiding its beds.

We had planned on going back into town for dinner, but the unlit mountain road ended that idea. This wasn't really a problem, as my mother always had about 37 bags of food, so we had peanut butter sandwiches with canned peaches for dessert. There was no T.V., so we listened to the radio and read. Once we got bored of that, all we could do was go to bed.

Bed was a problem. I wanted the top bunk. My parents didn't like the top bunk to begin with, and they were sure I'd fall out and break a leg. But I was determined. Of course I got my way, as everyone was too tired to fight with me. Afterwards, when the lights were out and everyone slept, I lay awake in my hard-won territory, afraid to move for fear I'd fall off the edge.

Brettelberg Lodge

The sun woke us early in the morning. The view was stunning. The lodge was ringed with mountains and overlooked a green valley. A little way from the Lodge was a smaller building that looked like it might be a restaurant. We packed up our bags, and went down to investigate.

While our parents loaded the car, my sister and brother went to check out the restaurant. As for me, I forgot about food. I forgot about waking up in the middle of the night, terrified until I realized that I was still in the bed. There, in the mountains of Colorado, was the most beautiful sight I'd seen all trip, beautiful enough to make me forget The Bobbsey Twins and all their adventures.

He bounded up, tail wagging, and I threw my arms around him. He was all white, and licked my face. The manager came out, and told us the dog was a year old, just a puppy. What would a ski resort be without its own St. Bernard?

"Ma, can I take him home?" I begged.

"No, but you can stay here with him."

Sister and brother reappeared. "Well, it's a restaurant, but we can't eat there."

"It's not open?"

"It's still under construction."

We laughed. The manager said, "Yes, we hope to have it finished by the time we open for the season."

It dawned on us. The lack of other guests. The silence. The time of year. My dad asked in wonderment, "You mean you opened up just for us?"

"Well, we're only open for business from November to April. Ski season."

"We didn't realize. You really saved our lives last night."

The manager laughed. "What's the big deal? I was here anyway."

"Thanks for letting us come up."

"You're welcome."

The manager and Dad shook hands. My sister pried me off the dog. We set out on the road again. And when we stopped in town for breakfast, we called ahead to make reservations.

And The Wall Came Tumbling Down

I ran into an old acquaintance last week, someone I hadn't seen since he and his family had moved to Israel a few years ago. I asked about his wife and kids, told him to send my love, and he asked, "Aren't you on Facebook?"

No, I told him. Facebook makes me nervous.  Too many privacy issues.

He snorted.  "Get over it.  Move into the 21st century."

A week later I caved. And don't think I didn't get teased about it.

It wasn't just the encounter with Yoni, though it was certainly the final push over the cliff.  It wasn't a sudden decision, though I did just get up one morning and do it. I had been thinking about it for a few months. Friends had been asking me join for years (in fact, I had four friend requests waiting the minute I showed my face). My main reservation, as I said, was the privacy issues. Facebook is notorious for letting people see information that you would rather keep private, as well as sharing info with advertisers and other third parties. I set my privacy settings to the highest, yet a friend using a fake page was able to see my profile, my interests, everything but my wall, because there are two sets of settings and I only saw one. That bothers me; had I not figured out how to fix it, my e-mail address would have been accessible to strangers and spammers. Canada has insisted that Facebook comply with Canadian privacy standards, but I don't think they really have. And if you truly want to be frightened off Facebook, just read this article at TechRepublic.com.

Yet in spite of my better judgement, there I am.  As one old friend re-connecting wrote on my wall, "Peer pressure does it again!!!"  And it was immediately clear to me what makes Facebook the addictive waste of time it is.

First, you are hit with an enormous number of friend suggestions, at least in the beginning. As I said, there were four people waiting for me to join. The minute I accepted their requests, suggestions poured in.  Current friends, old friends, family... although so far I haven't "friended" anyone I couldn't have found by calling  someone I'm already in touch with. I did search a few people whom I can't find through existing relationships, but either they are not on Facebook, or they have names like John Smith, with hundreds of matches.  You need at least a city of residence to narrow it down.  Still, after the first day, I went to bed with 30 friends (and woke up with 31). That's probably pathetic by FB standards, but it was still kind of cool.

Second, there is an insane amount of information to sift through. The "news feed" shows you everything that's been posted by anyone, even non-friends, to every friend's page-- and whatever your friends have posted everywhere as well. If you have hundreds of friends, that's a lot of shit in one day. And you can unwittingly add to this by putting too much information on your profile. I figured if I'm doing this, I'm doing it right, and listed my favourite books, TV shows, movies, and the only sports team I care about, the Toronto Blue Jays. Suddenly, my news feed is covered in promos for True Blood, In Treatment, and announcements from the Blue Jay’s management, not to mention all the dogs needing foster homes from an animal rescue site. (There's a way to turn that off, I just have to do it.)  All this extraneous unwanted stuff almost made me miss the fact that my friend got a new wig.

Finally, there is the social element (duh).  Facebook is clearly trying to take over all communication on the Web. I have a number of friends who communicate almost exclusively through Facebook. An e-mail sent to one of them might not get answered for days. There's on-line chat to replace MSN, messaging to replace e-mail, and of course, constant status updates on everyone's walls. Plus the games. I'm not going near the games. I waste enough time in my day as it is.

This post took much longer to write than it should have because every minute or two, something happened on Facebook.  I couldn't write; I was too busy discussing a friend's upcoming trip to the bakery with her and three other people (one of whom I don't even know), while messaging someone else at the same time. And don't forget the updates.  "Bozo the Clown has accepted your friend request."  "You are now friends with Bozo the Clown and two other people."  Personal comments on the wall.  Articles in the news feed to pique your interest.  A reminder of a friend's birthday (thank you FB, it's now in my real calendar, so I can remind myself next year).

The public nature of the platform is scary. Obviously I don't care if people know I like the Blue Jays. By all means let's moan about the weather, or share a funny video from YouTube. However, there are certain things I won't be sharing.  You won't see status updates every five minutes. You won't see pictures of my kids. I won't tell you about all the jobs I apply for and don't get.  I won't swear on someone's wall, where everyone can see it (I'll save that for private messaging, e-mail, and real life).  And it won't supplant the long, chatty e-mails to my penpal in London (hmmm, should check to see if she's on Facebook....)

I've never been shy, as my long-time friends will attest (cue "remember when she...?" stories).  I still enjoy public speaking, I still love socializing and being evil and all those fun things. If I was still 20, I bet I'd have a million pictures up, and live my life in the public eye without a second thought.  But I try for a little discretion in my old age (trying doesn't mean succeeding, mind you).  We should all know by now that some things can come back to bite us; just ask Kimberly Swann and Ray Lam. It seems obvious not to tell the world that your job is "boring," or put pictures of yourself being stupid on the Internet, but Facebook gives the illusion that you're just talking to friends.  You think no one's going to tell, but really, you've told on yourself.  Careers have been ruined, or failed to get off the ground; employers now routinely check Facebook pages before calling for an interview. And while I can decide how much I want to show, if my sister elects to put up a naked baby picture of me and tag it with my name, there's not much I can do.

The Spouse has told me, "Just have fun with it!" and I intend to. I'll just assume that everything I put up will be seen by all 500 million users, and act accordingly.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I see I have a message waiting.

Winter Weather

Here's an opinion for you. Winter sucks.

I've lived in northern climes all my life. In fact, I grew up somewhere considerably colder than where I live now.  In my younger years, I could stand outside in -20 without a coat and chat with friends. I started wearing sandals in April, even if there was still snow on the ground.

Now I'm old. Technically I'm middle-aged, but I feel old. When hanging around the dog park, I'm shivering and bundled in a coat, while other people wear sweaters. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" they ask, while I look at them like the grumpy old woman I've become.

It's not just the cold, it's the snow.  Snow removal here sucks, much like winter itself. The city, in its infinite bureaucratic wisdom, clears the one-way street just north of ours before they clean our two-way street.  Complete snow clearance after a major storm can take up to six days.

We just had a major storm, at least two feet of snow, lots of traffic snarl-ups, and the sidewalks are impassable. I get snow in my boots, I can't walk the dog, I feel boxed in, and I get even grumpier. I want to go where's there no snow and the temperature is at least 70.

"Florida," says the Spouse.  We're 20 years from retirement age (and 40 years from retirement), but he's dreaming of Boca. I don't mind Boca, but I hate southern Florida in general. The I-95 from Boca to Miami is the ugliest stretch of highway in America, nothing by jai alai parlours and graffitied warehouses.  A vacation-- great, no problem.  Buying a condo and becoming snowbirds, not so much.  Besides, we're still too young.

So I'm stuck in the cold and the snow. I don't ski. I don't skate. My kids play in the back yard with the dog, but that's the sum total of winter activities. The dog loves the snow. Today he dug up a dead frozen squirrel. Our middle child was traumatised. So was I. Spring can't come soon enough.

Tell the Truth, Pay the Price

Christie Blatchford at
the book signing

Last night I went to a book-signing for Christie Blatchford's Helpless, a book about how the residents of Caledonia, a pretty rural area near Hamilton, Ontario, have lived in a state of near-siege since 2006, perpetuated by aboriginal protesters unhappy about real estate developments they feel encroach on their lands.

Helpless puts forth the thesis that the government of Ontario and the Ontario Provincial Police failed the citizens of Caledonia by pursuing a two-pronged approach to the situation: appeasement of the protesters, and the refusal to protect and uphold the rights of non-aboriginal citizens. The OPP, with the blessing of Queen's Park, seat of the Ontario legislature, stuck to a policy of non-interference even as the natives grew more brazen and aggressive, and the protests spread from the disputed land to town itself.  Citizens and landowners of Caledonia (and others just passing through) were subject to harrassment, intimidation, and acts of vandalism and outright violence, while the OPP stood by and let it happen.  The book details the abandonment of the rule of law, or, more accurately, how the law was unjustly applied to some residents of Caledonia, but not others. Aboriginals protested with impunity and non-natives were arrested for flying the Canadian flag, or anything else the OPP deemed "provocative" or "confrontational."  Blatchford believes that the blame does not lie with the rank-and-file members of the OPP, many of whom were distressed by their inability to act; the hands-off directives came from Commissioners Gwen Boniface and Julian Fantino, who, ironically, is now the member of Parliament for Vaughn, the riding which includes Caledonia.

Blatchford has a no-nonsense, tell-the-facts-exactly-as-they-are style; her loyalty is to the truth, not some bigger political agenda. But by showing the actions of the native protesters to be both violent and illegal,  Blatchford breaks the rules of political correctness; naturally, this ruffles feathers. On November 12, members of the Anti-Racist Association at the University of Waterloo managed to shut down her speech, and organizer Dan Kellar claimed that Blatchford had, in the past, "glorified" neo-Nazi Ernst Zundel, then compared her to Julius Streicher.

I've long been a fan of Blatchford, and I was not very happy to hear her slandered. I wanted to know what Blatchford herself had to say.  So I popped off the following e-mail:

Dear Ms. Blatchford:

I am sitting with a cup of coffee at my kitchen table reading about how a few yahoos with opinions contrary to yours managed to curb free speech at the University of Waterloo. One of these individuals accuses you of anti-Semitism, stating that “older members of the ARA [Anti-Racist Association] remember her ‘glorifying’ neo-Nazi Ernst Zundel” (National Post, page A6, second column).

I will confess that I am not currently a subscriber to the Globe and Mail, but I was many years ago, and I always enjoyed your writing. You didn’t strike me as a racist or Nazi sympathizer, but perhaps I missed something. I was quite annoyed to read about your mistreatment, and would like to know how you will respond to this accusation. I suspect, if anything, you supported Zundel’s right to free speech, which is a legitimate view, rather supporting his actual views, which are repellent. And perhaps this man is just out and out lying. Really, what I would like to know, as a long-time fan of your writing, is, what the hell is he talking about?

I received the following reply, in Blatchford's succinct, to-the-point tone:

He's a liar, period. I'm a Zionist, if anything, and all I ever would have defended about Zundel was his right to speak, and I don't remember even doing that.

Thanks for the note.

C

I thought as much.



Anyone who thinks Blatchford is a racist hasn't read the book.  She openly acknowledges that many injustices, from the glacial pace of aboriginal land claims to the residential school scandal, have plagued Canada's aboriginal community for decades, if not centuries, and that these issues "are one way or another in the background of everything that occurred in Caledonia." In other words, the members of the Six Nations (and other native groups in Canada) have justified grievances. These grievances, however, do not give them free license to terrorize their neighbours; people have a right to live in peace and security, and they rely on the government to provide this protection under the rule of law.  The book is not anti-aboriginal; it is a condemnation of the Orwellian situation in Caledonia, where in principle all are equal in the eyes of the law, but in practice some are more equal than others.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One

In the world of Potter fans, I'm no Emerson Spartz, Melissa Anelli,, or Steve Vander Ark.  However, I've become known in our circle of friends as the Potter fanatic.  One daughter has a Ravenclaw scarf and hat, knitted by a loving grandmother.  My other daughter had her second annual Harry Potter Sleepover this summer, complete with cauldron cakes, licorice wands, pumpkin pasties, Bernie Botts Every Flavour Beans, and a game or two of quidditch.  The seven-book series, plus its companion books (Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them, Quidditch Through The Ages, The Tales of Beedle the Bard) and even a few books of commentary, occupy a place of honour in my bedroom.  We have multiple copies of each book, softcover, hardcover, adult cover.  I actually won myself a copy of Deathly Hallows by calling into a trivia show.  (I mean, really, "What was the name of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers in each book?"  That's the Potter trivia equivalent of "What is H20 more commonly known as?"  The only trick is remembering that in Book Four it's Barty Crouch Jr. masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody, and not really Mad-Eye himself.)  In a fit of boredom one day, I even wrote my own 43-question trivia quiz on the first six books.  I tried to think up non-plot-related questions, so the answers couldn't be looked up easily.  For example, Cornelius Fudge replaced Millicent Bagnold as Minister for Magic, but even I don't remember which book drops that little tidbit into our laps.

So I'm pretty well-versed in the Harry Potter canon, have the plots down to the minutiae, understand character, motivation, theme, and even the bit of symbolism that Rowling sneaks in here and there.  But, unsurprisingly, I'm not a big fan of the movies.