Harry Potter and the New Snobbery

I have to admit that I'm not a fan of J.R.R. Tolkein, Commander James Kirk, Luke Skywalker or any of the other comic book heroes who have invaded the cultural marketplace in the last few decades. Does that make me a snob? 

So how come I love Glee?

Don’t confuse good taste with snobbery, folks. A mayvin doesn’t prejudge any book, movie or TV show; he gives them all an equal opportunity to bore him. Even if it’s only for five minutes—my Harry Potter limit.

I forced myself to sit through the first Harry Potter flick, but it wasn’t until this summer, when I found it sitting on my grandson's bookshelf, that I read the first few chapters of the novel. And discovered that it isn’t Bill Marantz who’s the snob but J.K. Rowling.

Unlike her life story, former welfare recipient Joanne Rowling’s blockbuster isn’t a rags-to-riches saga. It’s a gender-bending fairy tale with a spoiled stepbrother standing in for Cinderfella’s ugly stepsisters. Harry Potter doesn’t have to marry a prince; he is a prince. The thing that distinguishes the young Harry from the middle class multitude is his birthmark. The sign of the “wizard” (i.e. artist) is branded on his forehead.

The invisible mark of the “Muggles” (people who work for a living) is branded even more deeply on every member of his adoptive family. Lest any young reader be labouring under the illusion that there’s nothing wrong with being a productive member of society, the author paints them as crude, stupid, greedy, mean-spirited and obese. (In Ms. Rowling’s fairy tale world it’s apparently still politically correct to make fat people objects of derision.) 

In addition to making Harry’s uncle physically and morally repulsive Rowling sneers at him for taking pride in his work.

If she had made him a stockbroker, or moneylender, it might be easier to share her contempt But what’s so shameful about selling drills? In terms of usefulness, the drill is right up there with the wheel and the screw. Without drills modern industry would grind to a halt. Children’s books might have to be hand written by monks, and Ms. Rowling would have to walk to the bookstore to sign both copies. Her gifted brainchild might even have to give up wizardry and get an honest job—sweeping out stables—to support her.

Ironically J.K. Rowling is as much businesswoman as artist. Artists don’t use their gift to beat rival “wizards” to the pot of gold. A true artist doesn't think of his calling as a competition. Even an egomaniac like Pablo Picasso didn’t think he had to paint better pictures than Henri Mattisse. As much as he enjoyed his wealth and fame Picasso didn’t build a “cubist franchise” and milk it dry. He was constantly pushing the envelope of his craft.

The anonymous creator of the drill was more of a wizard/artist than Harry Potter, or his female alter ego, who keeps selling the same product in a different package. Like most snobs, Ms. Rowling would do well to stop looking down her nose and look in the mirror.

Up The Amazon Without a Paddle

A decade ago the former editor of The Jewish Post gave my debut novel, Christmas Eve Can Kill You, an extremely gratifying review. Unfortunately the late Matt Bellan’s words did not go to the ear of the Almighty but were written on the wind. After a short burst of enthusiasm from local book buyers my “hilarious, readable murder mystery” fell off the radar and I couldn’t give it away. (I tried handing out copies at the Polo Park Mall, in a Santa hat and beard, and a security guard stopped me.) But you can’t keep a good thriller down, right?

Someone said the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing and expect a different result. Well, I haven’t done exactly the same thing—the new edition of Christmas Eve Can Kill You, published by Outskirts Press, has a nicer cover, no typos and is POD (Print On Demand). If sales fall short of expectations (and prayers) I won’t end up with a truckload of copies sitting in my garage.

Still, according to my marketing guru, even attractive books don’t sell themselves—I have to create a “buzz”.  So I surfed up the Amazon, in search of buzzers, and found the following invitation at the bottom of my book’s web page: “Mystery Readers Café: Come On In And Join The Conversation!”  So I did.

And had the welcome mat pulled out from under me. 

When a stranger arrives in a community that worships the ground Stieg Larsson no longer walks on he should tread softly—and carry an olive branch. Ferdinand bulled his way in bearing a crown of thorns and planted it on Larsson’s headstone. He also hit the “insert product link” too often to suit his fellow mystery lovers, one of whom—after downloading a free “sample” to her kindle—posted a one star customer review (“only because there isn’t a no star option”) to offset the five glowing reviews posted by “the author’s friends and relatives”. Next day “Mystery Girl” apparently had an attack of conscience. Perhaps Amazon deleted the libellous review but we will give her the benefit of the doubt.

Which is more than her cyber friends were prepared to give yours truly. They had no excuse to push the “report abuse” button—my messages weren’t abusive just “abrasive”—so they hit the “ignore this customer” icon. I tried to play nice—fulsomely praising mediocre mysteries written by other Café patrons—but it was too little too late. The Chef finally asked me to email her and when I did informed me that she’d been inundated by emails urging her to “get this %$^# guy out of here!”

So I took the hint.

And pulled another trick out of my marketing guru’s bag.

Say hello to the The Jewish Post's new columnist.