Book The Ninety-Fifth

Harry Potter and the goblet of fire by JK Rowling

Alright, have I told you my theory on why some people just need editors?

I usually use as my example David E Kelly: Kelly does great, quirky dramas about freaks surrounded by normal situations, bouncing off the average people and trying to get by. The first few seasons of Ally McBeal, the first seasons of Bostons Public and Legal respectively, and so forth. Then, after the ratings come in, the network execs back off, and let Kelly have free reign, and it all goes to arse surprisingly quickly. No longer is it one quirky lawyer (or teacher or doctor) being charming and weird, it is a circus of freaks shouting rapid-fire monologues at each other. Not necessarily a bad way to kill an hour, but annoying and self-referential, and simply lacking the appeal that it originally had.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is where JK Rowling finally stopped having to bow to editorial pressure.

I mean, look at the Quidditch world cup. In previous books, Rowling has wasted several pages at a time with unnecessary emphasis on this nonsense. But in Goblet of Fire, the first one hundred and forty pages are dedicated to it.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some nice moments in this book, and it finally (eventually) starts being about a schoolboy fighting a dark wizard, instead of being about a schoolboy being a schoolboy, which is refreshing, but it is overlong and has too much irrelevant bollocks padding it out.

That having been said, I did like how quickly and banally Edward from Twilight was killed. Of course, then I realised that a) I know James Pattinson played Cedric Diggory in the Harry Potter films, and b) I know who James Pattinson is, and c) I know who Edward from Twilight is. So my one moment of true happiness in reading this book was ruined by the realisation (or reminder) that all my rantings about Harry Potter being a kid’s book is errant hypocrisy because I am a fourteen year old girl…

Right, now to enjoy the last few days of my holiday before I go back to school, where, doubtlessly, those Year 12 harridans await with more of these monstrosities…


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