Book: Stardust by Neil Gaiman

Neil Gaiman

I found The Ocean at the End of the Lane lyrical and moving so got this from the library when I saw Neil Gaiman’s name on the cover and didn’t look at the title till I got it home. Oh no, I thought, because I had tried to watch the movie and thought it clichéd and dull, with terribly uninteresting characterisation and a storyline that achieved the extraordinary feat of being bland, formulaic and unbelievable at the same time. Not to mention totally wasting the talents of Claire Danes.

Stardust

In Stardust, Gaiman, like the magpies he writes about, randomly purloins bits and bobs from all over the place, in his case, from other better fantasy writers (C. S. Lewis and J. R. R.Tolkien), in a ‘this might be good in my book’ way, cobbles them together like an inexpert seamstress (ending up with a badly darned sock of a book – well, I never met a magpie who was good at sewing), while failing to reinvent or develop them in any worthwhile manner. You don’t get a sense that there’s any thought behind his (or rather his take on other people’s) ideas whereas with Lewis and Tolkien’s worlds, you know and believe that there’s a whole mythology (or religion) underpinning them. Here, there’s a thin veneer, gold leaf (or rather gold-coloured leaf) over plastic. Scratch the surface and you get more surface. Gaiman’s novel is like an old-style Hollywood backlot – with only facades and no actual buildings, let alone any foundations. No depth. I assumed at first that this was because it was written for children although I think children actually deserve better.

Elijah Wood as Frodo

It takes so much and gives nothing back – a quest (ok that’s in everything); ‘Think of it as a fellowship’ - hmm, sounds familiar; talking trees - ditto; a witch queen; dwarves who mine and are silversmiths of great skill; a reluctant wanderer (‘Adventures are all very well in their place, he thought, but there’s a lot to be said for regular meals and freedom from pain’ – remind you of any hobbit in particular?) None of this is expressed with any originality or flair.

The plot is derivative and unexciting and the characters at worst extremely irritating (think a book full of Tom Bombadils), at best uninvolving. The whole thing is fantasy-lite. I was prepared to think that the film-makers had done a poor job in adapting the book but that simply isn’t so. What’s incredible is that anyone thought it was worth turning this slight, shallow tale into a movie. My advice is to go read The Ocean at the End of the Lane instead.