Is anyone still thinking about Harry Potter?
For the better part of the seven elapsed years since the release of the eighth and final installment in the film franchise centered on The Boy Who Lived, I have not been. But obviously, the franchise still has plenty of ardent followers — the ones who are lining up for the midnight premiere of Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, who have propelled Harry Potter and the Cursed Child to dizzyingly successful heights in London and on Broadway, and who continue to fuel J.K. Rowling’s seemingly endless world construction on part-fan-site-part-universe-expansion Pottermore. I, however, have fallen out of the loop.
In 2011, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2 entranced me. When it released, I was fourteen, about to begin high school, and nearing the tail end of a childhood that transpired very much in the midst of the Harry Potter phenomenon. To say that I was anything less than engulfed by the franchise for a majority of my youth would be an understatement. When Deathly Hallows - Part 2 released, I hailed it as a crowning achievement, an epic culmination of more than a decade’s worth of cinematic storytelling. I was swept away by the eventfulness and nostalgia of the moment. J.K. Rowling’s beloved book series may have come to a close four years prior (an event I was equally affected by), but her characters had lived on in a vivid, visceral sense thanks to the film franchise, which always remained true to the spirit and the narrative of its source novels. Upon the release of the final film, all of that joy, that practical childhood dependence on characters whom I felt I’d grown up alongside, was on the verge of dissipating, and I could not help but be deeply affected by the moment.
At the time, I called that film great, but I no longer consider it to be. Sure, it’s shockingly effective at performing its assigned duty: bringing to a satisfying close the disparate storylines of dozens of beloved characters. The film cannot, however, escape the reality of what it is: the second half of the seventh part of a much larger story. Treated as a standalone experience, Deathly Hallows - Part 2 falls comparatively flat, as it (understandably) relies on threads and relationships that were constructed over the course of the seven lengthy films that preceded it.
By this point, it has likely become apparent that I have started thinking about Harry Potter again. I didn’t stop out of boredom with or frayed love for the franchise; I’ll always hold Rowling’s witches and wizards near and dear to my heart, as I’m sure will a plurality of my age-grouped peers. My life, however, moved on, and I didn’t remain closely attentive to Rowling’s ever-evolving magical universe once the core book and film franchises had both reached their satisfying ends.
And yet here I am, seven years on, thinking about Harry Potter. It was inevitable, I suppose. My latest mental jaunt into the world of witchcraft and wizardry comes thanks to a pair of recent, out-of-order viewings of films from the franchise: the Half-Blood Prince and, most recently, the Prisoner of Azkaban. After viewing these two films, one an emotional connective tissue, the other a singular, striking fantasy film, I found myself finally able to articulate just why Azkaban outclasses the rest of its pack, and then rushed home to do it. Ah, Harry, your magic continually recaptures those bold enough to think they’ve moved on.
Watching the Half-Blood Prince for what I believe to be the first time since the film released in 2009 was a bit of an emotional ride. The film rekindles many of the franchise’s continuing plot and relationship threads, and reframes them atop the emotional templates of its rather mature sixteen-year-old main characters. Anyone sharing my level of ingrained investment in the lives of Harry, Ron and Hermione (and there are a lot of us) would likely find it nigh impossible to revisit the film while avoiding emotional affectedness. But, like in the Deathly Hallows - Part 2, much of that effect relies on knowledge of series events that have already transpired, and that are to come. Probably more so than any other film in the franchise, the Half-Blood Prince is a connecting chapter, a bridge between the youthful escapades that came before it (and that arguably ended with the Goblet of Fire’s murderous climax), and the grand, gritty, emotional finale that viewers knew was to come. The Half-Blood Prince is in no sense a compelling standalone product.
The same cannot be said for the Prisoner of Azkaban. Alfonso Cuarón’s 2004 adaptation of the series’ cherished third novel is frequently cited as the best of the cinematic bunch, a sentiment that child-me tended to agree with, at least until the release of the gut-wrenching, slam-bang finale.
Now, I seek to argue not just for the merit of the point that Azkaban is the best of the Harry Potter film franchise, but for the fact that Azkaban stands tall and apart from its peers as a genuinely great standalone film.
The film opens with Harry’s repeated attempts at spellcasting under his blankets, to the great suspicion of his Uncle Vernon. This scene alone is an amusing representation of teenage rebellion refracted through the lens of the wizarding world. What follows is one of the more whimsical, emotionally-charged childhood runaway sequences in film history — though perhaps an argument can be made that this claim is unfair, given that most films are too constrained by their diegetic universes to depict the fervorous hatred of a child toward his abusive extended family members in the form of an inflated aunt who ends up billowing through the skies of Little Whinging.
And thus we’re off, with Cuarón bringing the imagination of J.K. Rowling to colorfully vivid cinematic life with his depictions of the memorable Night Bus and the detail-packed wizardry of the Leaky Cauldron. Here, Harry’s filmic world feels richer than ever before.
The true genius of Azkaban, though, lies not in its delightful whimsy, but in its profoundly affecting thematic subtext. As Harry soars over the lakes surrounding Hogwarts on the back of Buckbeak the Hippogriff, it’s tough not to be swept away by the magical joy of the moment: Harry’s brief, complete escape from the dark forces that so frequently suffocate his day-to-day existence is visually enamoring and immersive, thanks in part to magnificent CGI work that has somehow held up through all these years, withstanding the test of time in a day and age when even the most modern computer generated creations in film often feel hollow and lifeless.
What’s most remarkable about Azkaban is the ease with which Cuarón evokes such reactions in viewers without relying on the series’ baggage. The director, with due help from screenwriter Steve Kloves, crafts a startingly effective, self-contained exploration of weighty themes like fear, family, and savage anger. Cuarón’s talent as a visual filmmaker is evidenced by the icily effective, blood-curdling Dementor sequences. In the particularly memorable Dementor encounter aboard the Hogwarts Express, Cuarón flexes his visual might to create what is quite possibly the most genuinely horrific imagery ever to make it into a PG-rated “children’s” film.
All of this visual panache is in the service of Cuarón’s exploration of fear. The concept of the Dementors as the physical embodiment of fear can be attributed to Rowling, but the suggestion that fear is best conquered not by trivializing the feeling but by refusing its domination on the strength of other, equally complicated emotions is depicted on-screen with tense, ultimately cheer-inducing elegance.
Meanwhile, as Professor Lupin schools Harry on how to address his deepest fears, Sirius Black, with concise effectiveness, shows Harry the strength of familial love through a collection of brief, touching encounters toward the film’s tail-end. Hermione also steps forward to provide the support of a true friend in the face of Harry’s terrifying, world-shattering revelations, literally — in a particularly brilliant sequence — relieving Harry of the perceived invisibility that accompanies the hopelessness of his grief. This is powerful stuff, and its effectiveness lies not with past or future events, but with the story transpiring entirely within the bounds of the Prisoner of Azkaban. The film opens with a confined Harry hiding his interests under his sheets, and ends with him soaring through the sky, enraptured by the liberation he feels thanks to the wisdom he has gained and the people he has learned from. It’s a beautiful narrative arc with a clear start and end, and one that could conceivably be watched in isolation from the rest of the series while still providing satisfaction for its viewer.
Sure, there are plenty of connections to what has come before and what is still to come in the story — such is the nature of the third installment in a series of seven. But Cuarón’s sure-handed touch ensures that most of these outside connections feel like winks toward attentive, invested viewers, rather than necessary ingredients in a fulfilling viewing experience. Take, for instance, the decidedly testy behavior of Severus Snape during the film; he’s particularly wound-up and aggressive, even by typical Snape standards, a detail which could easily fly over the head of a viewer checking in for this installment only. However, the tidbit carries recognizably deeper implications regarding Snape’s strained relationship with Lupin and Sirius Black, traits that come into serious play in later installments, but which are treated more as Easter eggs here by the coy Cuarón.
Without the intervention of the visionary Cuarón, Harry Potter would still go down in history as a franchise that captured the love and attention of an entire generation for more than a decade, which is itself no small feat. But thanks to the visionary director, the series has another factor ensuring its continued remembrance: it gave birth to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, which is, by any cinematic standards, and based entirely upon its own merit, a truly great film.
So, all of us childhood Potter acolytes — whether claiming to be over the series, or still feverishly refreshing Pottermore to see if Rowling has divulged any new information regarding Ron and Hermione’s children, Dumbledore’s sexuality, or Buckbeak’s whereabouts — can rest easy knowing that Harry is safely ingrained in the annals of muggle history.
An abridged version of this essay ran in The Pacific Northwest Inlander. You can find that version by clicking here.
For the better part of the seven elapsed years since the release of the eighth and final installment in the film franchise centered on The Boy Who Lived, I have not been. But obviously, the franchise still has plenty of ardent followers — the ones who are lining up for the midnight premiere of Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, who have propelled Harry Potter and the Cursed Child to dizzyingly successful heights in London and on Broadway, and who continue to fuel J.K. Rowling’s seemingly endless world construction on part-fan-site-part-universe-expansion Pottermore. I, however, have fallen out of the loop.
In 2011, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2 entranced me. When it released, I was fourteen, about to begin high school, and nearing the tail end of a childhood that transpired very much in the midst of the Harry Potter phenomenon. To say that I was anything less than engulfed by the franchise for a majority of my youth would be an understatement. When Deathly Hallows - Part 2 released, I hailed it as a crowning achievement, an epic culmination of more than a decade’s worth of cinematic storytelling. I was swept away by the eventfulness and nostalgia of the moment. J.K. Rowling’s beloved book series may have come to a close four years prior (an event I was equally affected by), but her characters had lived on in a vivid, visceral sense thanks to the film franchise, which always remained true to the spirit and the narrative of its source novels. Upon the release of the final film, all of that joy, that practical childhood dependence on characters whom I felt I’d grown up alongside, was on the verge of dissipating, and I could not help but be deeply affected by the moment.
At the time, I called that film great, but I no longer consider it to be. Sure, it’s shockingly effective at performing its assigned duty: bringing to a satisfying close the disparate storylines of dozens of beloved characters. The film cannot, however, escape the reality of what it is: the second half of the seventh part of a much larger story. Treated as a standalone experience, Deathly Hallows - Part 2 falls comparatively flat, as it (understandably) relies on threads and relationships that were constructed over the course of the seven lengthy films that preceded it.
By this point, it has likely become apparent that I have started thinking about Harry Potter again. I didn’t stop out of boredom with or frayed love for the franchise; I’ll always hold Rowling’s witches and wizards near and dear to my heart, as I’m sure will a plurality of my age-grouped peers. My life, however, moved on, and I didn’t remain closely attentive to Rowling’s ever-evolving magical universe once the core book and film franchises had both reached their satisfying ends.
And yet here I am, seven years on, thinking about Harry Potter. It was inevitable, I suppose. My latest mental jaunt into the world of witchcraft and wizardry comes thanks to a pair of recent, out-of-order viewings of films from the franchise: the Half-Blood Prince and, most recently, the Prisoner of Azkaban. After viewing these two films, one an emotional connective tissue, the other a singular, striking fantasy film, I found myself finally able to articulate just why Azkaban outclasses the rest of its pack, and then rushed home to do it. Ah, Harry, your magic continually recaptures those bold enough to think they’ve moved on.
Watching the Half-Blood Prince for what I believe to be the first time since the film released in 2009 was a bit of an emotional ride. The film rekindles many of the franchise’s continuing plot and relationship threads, and reframes them atop the emotional templates of its rather mature sixteen-year-old main characters. Anyone sharing my level of ingrained investment in the lives of Harry, Ron and Hermione (and there are a lot of us) would likely find it nigh impossible to revisit the film while avoiding emotional affectedness. But, like in the Deathly Hallows - Part 2, much of that effect relies on knowledge of series events that have already transpired, and that are to come. Probably more so than any other film in the franchise, the Half-Blood Prince is a connecting chapter, a bridge between the youthful escapades that came before it (and that arguably ended with the Goblet of Fire’s murderous climax), and the grand, gritty, emotional finale that viewers knew was to come. The Half-Blood Prince is in no sense a compelling standalone product.
The same cannot be said for the Prisoner of Azkaban. Alfonso Cuarón’s 2004 adaptation of the series’ cherished third novel is frequently cited as the best of the cinematic bunch, a sentiment that child-me tended to agree with, at least until the release of the gut-wrenching, slam-bang finale.
Now, I seek to argue not just for the merit of the point that Azkaban is the best of the Harry Potter film franchise, but for the fact that Azkaban stands tall and apart from its peers as a genuinely great standalone film.
The film opens with Harry’s repeated attempts at spellcasting under his blankets, to the great suspicion of his Uncle Vernon. This scene alone is an amusing representation of teenage rebellion refracted through the lens of the wizarding world. What follows is one of the more whimsical, emotionally-charged childhood runaway sequences in film history — though perhaps an argument can be made that this claim is unfair, given that most films are too constrained by their diegetic universes to depict the fervorous hatred of a child toward his abusive extended family members in the form of an inflated aunt who ends up billowing through the skies of Little Whinging.
And thus we’re off, with Cuarón bringing the imagination of J.K. Rowling to colorfully vivid cinematic life with his depictions of the memorable Night Bus and the detail-packed wizardry of the Leaky Cauldron. Here, Harry’s filmic world feels richer than ever before.
The true genius of Azkaban, though, lies not in its delightful whimsy, but in its profoundly affecting thematic subtext. As Harry soars over the lakes surrounding Hogwarts on the back of Buckbeak the Hippogriff, it’s tough not to be swept away by the magical joy of the moment: Harry’s brief, complete escape from the dark forces that so frequently suffocate his day-to-day existence is visually enamoring and immersive, thanks in part to magnificent CGI work that has somehow held up through all these years, withstanding the test of time in a day and age when even the most modern computer generated creations in film often feel hollow and lifeless.
What’s most remarkable about Azkaban is the ease with which Cuarón evokes such reactions in viewers without relying on the series’ baggage. The director, with due help from screenwriter Steve Kloves, crafts a startingly effective, self-contained exploration of weighty themes like fear, family, and savage anger. Cuarón’s talent as a visual filmmaker is evidenced by the icily effective, blood-curdling Dementor sequences. In the particularly memorable Dementor encounter aboard the Hogwarts Express, Cuarón flexes his visual might to create what is quite possibly the most genuinely horrific imagery ever to make it into a PG-rated “children’s” film.
All of this visual panache is in the service of Cuarón’s exploration of fear. The concept of the Dementors as the physical embodiment of fear can be attributed to Rowling, but the suggestion that fear is best conquered not by trivializing the feeling but by refusing its domination on the strength of other, equally complicated emotions is depicted on-screen with tense, ultimately cheer-inducing elegance.
Meanwhile, as Professor Lupin schools Harry on how to address his deepest fears, Sirius Black, with concise effectiveness, shows Harry the strength of familial love through a collection of brief, touching encounters toward the film’s tail-end. Hermione also steps forward to provide the support of a true friend in the face of Harry’s terrifying, world-shattering revelations, literally — in a particularly brilliant sequence — relieving Harry of the perceived invisibility that accompanies the hopelessness of his grief. This is powerful stuff, and its effectiveness lies not with past or future events, but with the story transpiring entirely within the bounds of the Prisoner of Azkaban. The film opens with a confined Harry hiding his interests under his sheets, and ends with him soaring through the sky, enraptured by the liberation he feels thanks to the wisdom he has gained and the people he has learned from. It’s a beautiful narrative arc with a clear start and end, and one that could conceivably be watched in isolation from the rest of the series while still providing satisfaction for its viewer.
Sure, there are plenty of connections to what has come before and what is still to come in the story — such is the nature of the third installment in a series of seven. But Cuarón’s sure-handed touch ensures that most of these outside connections feel like winks toward attentive, invested viewers, rather than necessary ingredients in a fulfilling viewing experience. Take, for instance, the decidedly testy behavior of Severus Snape during the film; he’s particularly wound-up and aggressive, even by typical Snape standards, a detail which could easily fly over the head of a viewer checking in for this installment only. However, the tidbit carries recognizably deeper implications regarding Snape’s strained relationship with Lupin and Sirius Black, traits that come into serious play in later installments, but which are treated more as Easter eggs here by the coy Cuarón.
Without the intervention of the visionary Cuarón, Harry Potter would still go down in history as a franchise that captured the love and attention of an entire generation for more than a decade, which is itself no small feat. But thanks to the visionary director, the series has another factor ensuring its continued remembrance: it gave birth to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, which is, by any cinematic standards, and based entirely upon its own merit, a truly great film.
So, all of us childhood Potter acolytes — whether claiming to be over the series, or still feverishly refreshing Pottermore to see if Rowling has divulged any new information regarding Ron and Hermione’s children, Dumbledore’s sexuality, or Buckbeak’s whereabouts — can rest easy knowing that Harry is safely ingrained in the annals of muggle history.
An abridged version of this essay ran in The Pacific Northwest Inlander. You can find that version by clicking here.
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