Humour redeems teen film,
Touches of humour help redeem youth fantasy
Idon’t particularly subscribe to the idea that this young generation is more entitled than any other, but if you wanted to go looking for some subtle proof, you could do worse than picking apart their most popular entertainments.
The tentpole young adult books and movies (and books that get turned into movies) share a few trends, but most particularly they like to follow a hero who is secretly special: Someone who lives an otherwise normal life until a mystical hidden world is revealed — a hidden world in which they, naturally, play a crucial part. They don’t have to spend some 10,000 hours becoming a magical saviour genius, they don’t even really have to give up anything beyond the life they already thought was so boring, it’s just mysterious stranger, moment of awakening, chosen one. Harry Potter, Twilight’s Bella, Percy Jackson: These are less heroes’ journeys than heroes’ Sunday errands.
The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones, which emphatically does not buck this or any other trend in YA fiction, might be particularly bad for this, insomuch as its hero, Clary Fray (Lily Collins), doesn’t even really need training or anything, she just needs some magical block on her memory to fade and let her true talents shine through. It’s a trust fund of kick-ass magical powers.
As with most trust fund stories, this one begins in Brooklyn, because no child fantasizes about discovering their uniqueness in Kansas City.
When Clary starts seeing some mysterious symbols and Jace, an angelically cheek-boned albeit apparently murderous boy (the professionally handsome Jamie Campbell Bower), she suspects something’s up. Once her mom disappears and that boy shows up to save her from a demon-dog, she’s plunged into a world of mystical blah blah, etc., you know the drill.
Her particular caste of do-gooders is the Shadowhunters, a bunch of half-angelic beings tasked with fighting demons and watching over the “mundanes,” which I swear is actually what they call humans, I guess because “boring poo-poo stupidheads” might be a touch on the nose.
They are searching for a cup given to them by their angel founder some years ago, one of the mortal instruments mentioned in the title. There is a bad guy who also wants it. Guess who is the key to finding it?
Though the plot is territory well trod enough to warrant a toll road, the little details of the film are … well, mostly filled in with a kind of perfunctory zeal, with just enough world to try to make this a franchise.
Her particular caste of do-gooders is the Shadowhunters, a bunch of half-angelic beings tasked with fighting demons and watching over the “mundanes,” which I swear is actually what they call humans, I guess because “boring poo-poo stupidheads” might be a touch on the nose. They are searching for a cup given to them by their angel founder some years ago, one of the mortal instruments mentioned in the title. There is a bad guy who also wants it. Guess who is the key to finding it?
Though the plot is territory well tread enough to warrant a toll road, the little details of the film are … well, mostly filled in with a kind of perfunctory zeal, with just enough world to try to make this a franchise. The Shadowhunters look like sallow goths, all black leather and tribal-ish tattoos (actually mystical runes, apparently) contrasting against pale skin, and they inhabit an appropriately gothic world: Beyond the demons, there are vampires and werewolves and warlocks, although in a plot point that has meta-metaphoric undertones, they apparently enjoy an entente cordiale with the other fairy-tale creatures. (They live among all your other favourite franchises, they’re not trying to replace them.)
There is naturally a love triangle with Clary opposite the hypotenuse, although to the film’s credit it treats it with a bit more humour than is usual here. Simon (Robert Sheehan), the boy who has been carrying a torch for Clary through her mundane life, is a bit of warm drip, but Campbell Bower actually brings a punkishly droll side to his handsome brooder, a worldly side to match his ethereal good looks. That he can crack the odd smile while forcing through dialogue like, “You wouldn’t believe if my told you” and other assorted magical world clichés speaks to a charm that might be better suited in a slightly more imaginative world.
If there’s anything that redeems City of Bones, it’s these short little bits of humour — there’s also a decent joke about Bach being a Shadowhunter, his tattoos peeking out of the edges of his portrait — that indicate a refreshing lack of selfseriousness. That actually seems like an important corollary to the message that you’re special and someone will show you that someday: If you’re going to be that perfunctory, at least don’t be grave.