Movie Maven

Finding a bathroom in Harvard Square is proving more difficult than usual. The restaurants are closed to anyone not willing to buy alcohol and the coffee shops are full of wizards.

It's 10:30 on Friday July 20, 2007. There's an hour and a half to go until what is considered D-Day by many: the release of the final Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

I have been here since 7:30 p.m. Harvard Square has been turned into "Hogwarts Square" for the night. In the early evening Harry Potter-themed bands played in Harvard Yard (Draco and the Malfoys, for example, who periodically scream things like 'party like you're evil.') I sat and devoured Qdoba with a few cohorts on the steps of the Harvard library, viewing the melee of devoted fans, pointing out exceptionally well-done costumes (my favorite being a high-school aged girl dressed as a giant golden snitch.) It was a beautiful day with blue skies and a gentle breeze, not humid as is customary for Boston in July. At the foot of the steps small children in capes pretended to curse each other with sticks. A couple below us made out, the girl wearing a witch's hat.

The stores are open late to accept the throngs of costumed people milling around. A candy shop off Mass. Ave. has been turned into "Honeydukes," the magical sweet shop Harry and his friends frequent. While people were wandering in the Harvard Coop earlier, getting wrist-bands and meandering through the shelves, the place is now locked tight, and a security sentinel guards the door like one of Hogwarts' suits of armor.

People are lined up around the block at 10:30, the smart ones bringing lawn chairs and coolers full of snacks to keep themselves sated. My copy will be arriving tomorrow, courtesy of Mother Maven who pre-ordered it for me. So I am free to walk about. I peruse the line and drop in on conversations. A group of college guys my age are dressed to the nines as a quidditch team. One of them has a cricket back emblazoned with the word "Ravenclaw". They're discussing at length the million-dollar question: Will Harry Potter survive? The guy carrying the cricket bat thinks not, but one of his friends believes that J.K Rowling could not be so cruel as to kill off their hero. "I mean, come on, it's a kid's book," he says.

Speaking of costumes, one of the most intriguing things about these gatherings is how people like to dress for the occasion. There are the people who simply wear a wizard's hat, or a cloak, or perhaps carry a kitchen broom. Then there are the people who go all-out, with the robes, and the wigs and the hats and the wands, and the trademark lightening-shaped scar etched in eye-liner on their foreheads. There's a small contingency of Goths, the girls with their dark hair in their pasty faces, looking very much like Severus Snape in drag. I'm still not sure if they were there for Harry Potter, or if that's just how they dress. And finally, my dubious favorite, a cacophony of teenage and young-adult girls who decided that the best way to dress for Harry Potter was to dress like a slutty boarding school wench. There are more tiny plaid skirts and knee-high socks here than at a themed frat-party at BU.

By 10:30 the place is packed, and lines stretch around the block. The Curious George shop apparently has rented red spotlights that sway over the store. The roads around the square have been closed down, to allow the throngs to spill into the street. There's singing and laughing and fervent discussions of characters and plot-twists and complicated spells. It's something like a block party that has erupted here. Except instead of neighbors, Mass Ave. is covered with people from all over the city (and probably the suburbs,) brought together by the shared love of a fantasy series. A series originally made popular in the most organic way: by the excited whisperings of school children. I'm suddenly struck by the fact that a book made known by simple word-of-mouth could become the PR powerhouse that it is today.

Suddenly I hear an amplified voice. Two guys running along the Harry Potter lines are shouting through a bull horn, spouting supposed Potter secrets that were revealed online. I can't hear what they're saying, however, as the crowd erupts in boos and shouts of rage. Suddenly a sweet, round-faced girl breaks out of line and goes chasing after the two guys, to general cheering. I waver between amusement and consternation that there are people who are so willing to spoil every one's fun.

With the two boys chased off, and the clock nearing 12, the tension seems to grow. There are the usual suspects in Harvard Square: the guy who plays Goo Goo Dolls covers, the bearded man with no shoes who uses giant puppets to tout the benefits of legalizing marijuana. The card sharp who asks if anyone can find the Queen. But though they are a normal part of Harvard Square's funky vibe, it seems like they too are a part of the carnival. Because that's what it's like: a carnival, simultaneously a PR stunt and a natural community gathering; genuine love and the shilling of a publishing company.

So there we are in this carnival, and as the clock strikes 12, and the sentinels throw open the doors, there arises a hue and cry, a cheering that goes on for minutes. A cry that is probably similar to the cries of people who waited upon the docks more than a hundred years ago, waiting for the next installment of Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop and famously shouting to the sailors, "Is Little Nell dead?!"

I have since finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in a weekend reading spree that remained almost completely unbroken, save for sleep, food and bathroom breaks. I usually only review films on this site, but I think I can make an exception for the boy wizard who has been a part of my life for almost ten years (I liked the books before they were cool). So my review will follow over the next few days, completely awash with spoilers. But I have a feeling that when I look back on my experiences as witness to the making of a classic I will not only remember the plot points and character developments. I will remember the spirit, the soul of the Harry Potter phenomenon. The sheer energy and will that made adults leap out of bed, don their wizard's caps and rock out to "wizard rock" in the middle of venerable Harvard Yard.

You may have heard this awhile back, but director/writer Joss Whedon (my love, my soulmate) has snapped. In the wake of the horrific (and caught on tape) "honor-killing" of 17-year-old Dua Khalil Aswad, Whedon went on the venerable fan site Whedonesque to discuss what he sees, from the dusty streets of Iraq, to the tragic wasteland of modern horror "torture" films. About his viewing of the grainy cell phone video, in which Aswad's battered face was "nothing but red," and his shock at seeing the same sadistic bent in the recent horror flick Captivity. It was possibly the most compassionate and fiery speech about violence against women I have ever heard, a voice calling out for our global culture to look at itself and ask why there is still the agreement that there is something inherently "wrong" with the female sex.

It’s no longer enough to shake our heads and make concerned grimaces at the news. True enlightened activism is the only thing that can save humanity from itself. I’ve always had a bent towards apocalyptic fiction, and I’m beginning to understand why. I look and I see the earth in flames. Her face was nothing but red.

I count Whedon as one of the precious few male filmmakers (besides, perhaps, Quentin Tarantino) who shows women not as sex objects or victims, but whole beings, simultaneously human and goddess-like. And his call for true action seems to have been heard. A handful of activists have begun an arts anthology, who's profits will benefit Equality Now. The blog, and how you can help is here.

To the chagrin and consternation of my boyfriend, I am enraptured by period pieces. Specifically anything British. I may just have spent two hours in ecstasy at a Live Free or Die Hard screening, but a good bodice-ripping adaptation of Austen or Bronte also has the ability to put a sparkle in my eye and spring in my step. Due to the fact that Hollywood has pretty much given up on any original screenplays, there's a new slew of period adaptations, biopics, remakes, etc. etc. Perhaps the granddaddy of them all is Jane Austen's masterpiece Pride and Prejudice. There's the quintessential BBC version, starring that hunka hunka burnin love Colin Firth, the uneven but satisfying Keira Knightly version, the modernized (and adapted) Bridget Jones' Diary, a new fictionalized biopic of Austen's life Becoming Jane, set to open this year, and an adaptation of The Jane Austen Book Club.