Hi everyone! Instead of a written review this week, I have something special to share. I was fortunate enough to guest star on my sister-in-law Brooke Bove’s podcast Lawterature, and the episode is out today. We talk about the YA novel The Fascinators by Andrew Eliopulos and LGBTQIA issues, as well as other random things like Teen Girl Squad and The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. Check it out at one of the links below! And follow Lawterature for more fun discussions on literature and law.
NOTE: As of this writing, Noelle Stevenson uses any personal pronouns, so this article will refer to Stevenson with he/him, she/her, and they/them pronouns.
Ever since it was announced in February that Disney was closing Blue Sky Studios—which they acquired in their purchase of Twentieth Century Fox—and was canceling the animated film adaptation of Noelle Stevenson’s webcomic-turned-graphic novel Nimona, I haven’t been able to put the series out of my mind. It is one of my favorites, and in my disappointment over the movie news, I thought I would revisit the comic.
What began as a webcomic and senior thesis at Maryland Institute College of Art became a bestselling graphic novel (published by the HarperCollins imprint Quill Tree Books in 2015) and earned Stevenson an Eisner Award, a Cybils Award, and a Cartoonist Studio Prize. The story follows a young shapeshifter named Nimona, who shows up in the secret hideout of the villainous Ballister Blackheart one day and insists on becoming his sidekick. Together they antagonize the Institution of Law Enforcement and Heroics, the governing body of do-gooders that Blackheart once belonged to. Amidst all of their exploits, Nimona and Blackheart uncover the corruption at the heart of the Institution and work together to take them down and expose the truth. However, their mission isn’t easy, especially with Sir Ambrosius Goldenloin, Blackheart’s ex-boyfriend, attempting to foil their plans at the Director of the Institution’s bidding. Goldenloin’s constant interloping tests Nimona’s already tenuous promise to Blackheart not to murder anyone; and when her lust for vengeance threatens their friendship, Blackheart begins to wonder who exactly he’s taken on as a sidekick.
Thematically, Nimona’s narrative lays the groundwork for some of Stevenson’s later projects—namely, Netflix’s She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018-2020)—in its exploration of the grey areas of good and evil and its challenging of stereotypical notions of gender. While the form she typically presents herself in is that of a teenage girl, as a shapeshifter, Nimona can transform into any living creature within a matter of seconds. Her powers of fluidity and identity construction are a threat to the Institution, which is itself a representation of a heteronormative, hegemonic patriarchal structure. This is clear in the Director’s plan to kill Nimona for the danger she poses as a “monster”/queer figure and as a young woman. It is also clear from the Director’s secret plan to expel Blackheart from the Institution because she disapproved of his relationship with Goldenloin and because she “didn’t see” him as a hero. In Blackheart and Goldenloin, former friends/boyfriends on two different paths, Stevenson gives their fans a sweet queer relationship (albeit one that is not explored in such depths as some of his other ones, that I won’t spoil here); and the epilogue hints at an optimistic future for the pair and Nimona.
In addition to the narrative, the artwork is beautiful in its simplicity and its movement. The cuteness of the character design belies the darker, more complex story in a way that creates deeply emotional moments for the reader that will stick with you. I discovered Nimona on Tumblr the same way many others did, nearly a decade ago, and was enchanted with it immediately. Along with other webcomic creators like Danielle Corsetto and Jeph Jacques, Stevenson was one I followed regularly and religiously. I was very lucky to meet Stevenson at Flame Con in NYC in 2018, and he could not have been kinder. She signed my copy of Nimona and drew a little shark and a heart in it, and it was so meaningful to have such a great interaction with a queer writer/artist whom I admire so much.
If you like stories of science and schemes, frenemies and fantasy, and queers and quests, Nimona is the tale for you. I also highly recommend Stevenson’s other projects, including She-Ra (available on Netflix) and the comic Lumberjanes, which is reportedly being turned into an animated film and television series for HBO Max. For more information on Noelle Stevenson, you can visit her twitter here.
(originally posted 19 March 2021)
*Note: There are light spoilers in this review, but nothing is said that cannot be surmised by the blurb on the dustjacket of the book*
“What’s the point of living if you only do it how others want you to?”
This is one of the themes at the center of The House in the Cerulean Sea (Tor Books, 2020), the first of two books released in 2020 from Lambda Literary Award-winning author TJ Klune. Klune’s YA novel introduces the reader to Linus Baker, a kind-hearted 40-year-old with thinning hair and a few extra pounds around the middle. Linus spends his days as a case worker assessing magical orphanages for DICOMY, the Department in Charge of Magical Youth, and his nights at home listening to records with his cat, Calliope. Linus’s habit of doing everything by the book—specifically, the DICOMY’s RULES AND REGULATIONS—lands him a special, classified level four assignment from DICOMY’s Extremely Upper Management to spend a month at the secluded and mysterious Marsyas Island Orphanage, run by the charmingly enigmatic Arthur Parnassus. Though Marsyas Island appears to be the real-life version of the sandy-beached blue ocean on Linus’s faded desktop mousepad at work, he soon realizes that the place and its inhabitants are so much more than he ever could have expected.
At its core, The House in the Cerulean Sea is a story of love. Klune illustrates how powerful familial love can be when fostered in such a warm environment as the one created in Arthur’s home. Arthur and his children—the devilishly delightful Lucy; the sensitive, introverted Sal; the optimistic Chauncey; the tough-but-sweet Talia; the pragmatic Phee; and the curious Theodore—open the rigid case worker’s heart to possibilities Linus thought unimaginable, and help him realize the difference between living and existing. The narrative shines when Linus and Arthur are helping the children—and each other—through their emotional trauma. In a poignant scene when Sal—who has been shuffled around to more orphanages than any of the other children, and fears Linus’s visit will lead to another displacement—finally invites Linus to appraise his room for the DICOMY evaluation, the two have a touching conversation about feeling small and how it’s okay to allow oneself to take up space. Through this and other moments of vulnerability, Klune also illustrates the wonderful audacity of self-acceptance.
While the language of the novel can come off a bit twee at times—do not turn Linus’s use of the phrase “oh dear” into a drinking game, you will lose—the book generates an aura of genuine goodness that will warm you from the inside out. Part of this goodness can be attributed to the easy romance between Linus and Arthur. Klune’s bio emphasizes the author’s belief in the importance of having “accurate, positive queer representation in stories,” and it is more than refreshing to read a queer narrative that isn’t centered on coming out or anti-LGBTQIA discrimination or violence. Klune creates characters who are admirable, complex, and relatable. By the end of the novel, it’s hard not to feel like a member of the family at Marsyas Island Orphanage.
The House in the Cerulean Sea is an enchanting, uplifting fantasy that offers readers a welcome escape from the turmoil of reality. While there have not been any announcements about a sequel, fans of Cerulean Sea will enjoy the equally-heartening The Extraordinaries. For more information on these and Klune’s other works, visit the author’s website here.
From Mary Shelley’s 1818 classic Frankenstein to Shirley Jackson’s 1959 novel The Haunting of Hill House and beyond, gothic horror novels have captivated readers for generations with their use of the mysterious, the supernatural, the psychological, and the grotesque. Mexican Gothic (Del Rey, 2020) by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and What Big Teeth (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2021) by Rose Szabo continue the legacy of their literary ancestors while adding their own unique twists and turns on gothic tropes.
Set in Mexico in the 1950s, Mexican Gothic begins with the young socialite Noemí Taboada receiving a curious letter from her cousin Catalina, who is newly married and living in the remote countryside town of El Triunfo. At the behest of her worried father, Noemí reluctantly agrees to visit her cousin in exchange for her father’s permission to enroll in a master’s degree program in anthropology. Upon arrival at High Place, the mansion where Catalina lives with her blond-haired, blue-eyed English husband, Virgil Doyle, and his family, it is easy for Noemí to see why her cousin might be feeling so frantic. The mansion is in a state of disrepair, with mold growing on the walls and rooms vacant under cover of dusty sheets. There is no electricity, only candles and oil lamps, adding to the dreariness of the place. The ouroboros, a symbol depicting a snake eating its own tail, is unnervingly visible everywhere in the home’s décor. Outside, an adjacent cemetery is perpetually thick with fog, and an abandoned silver mine is a physical reminder of the Doyle family’s fading fortune.
With the exception of Virgil’s introspective cousin, Francis, the family is somehow even less welcoming than the house: Francis’s mother Florence is immediately cold to her, policing Noemí’s actions and her time spent with Catalina; Howard, Virgil’s father and the aged and ailing family patriarch, comments on Noemí’s dark skin and is expressly clear in his interest in eugenics; and Virgil oscillates between being congenial and callous. It isn’t long before Noemí is having nightmares and wondering if the things Catalina wrote in her letter were true.
While the prose of What Big Teeth differs because of its target audience—it is a work of young adult fiction—the narrative style shares similarities with Mexican Gothic. After an incident at her boarding school, Eleanor Zarrin returns to her home in a remote town in Maine, with little memory of the family she hasn’t seen or heard from in years. The Zarrin family is an eclectic menagerie of supernatural creatures, to say the least, who are simultaneously welcoming and terrifying to Eleanor. After a tragic event leaves the Zarrins broken, Eleanor finds purpose in putting her family back together and working through their grief. However, things go awry and their situation goes from bad to worse. To say more would be to give away the secrets of the house and the family who inhabit it—and this is not a novel you want spoiled for you.
The influence of works like Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw and Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper is evident in both novels, and readers will delight in the slow unraveling of the mysteries at the center of each narrative. While Mexican Gothic is slightly better-paced, the twists in What Big Teeth are less opaque. However, both novels offer satisfying revelations and resolutions, and will stay with you long after you turn the last page.
For more information on Moreno-Garcia and Szabo, and for additional information and examples of gothic horror, visit the links below.