As a side project to our  American Gods Reread, I thought it would be interesting to take a look at all the various songs quoted and referenced throughout the novel. Every epic adventure deserves an epic soundtrack, after all, and Neil Gaiman knows a thing or two about great music, so: whenever a song pops up in the text, I’ll be here to discuss each track in the context of the novel and theorize wildly about the connections between song and story.

For the most part, I’m planning to stick with songs that actually appear in the book, but as we progress with the reread I’ll be keeping an ear out for tunes that fit too well to be ignored, and I’m hoping you’ll help me out with suggestions in the comments: if there’s a song or artist that needs to be added to the list, let me know! By the end of the novel, we’ll hopefully have created a divinely inspired mega-mix worthy of Wednesday himself, featuring everything from rock and roll and the blues to show tunes and karaoke standards….

As with the reread, all page numbers mentioned correspond to American Gods: The Tenth Anniversary Edition (Author’s Preferred Text) and there are spoilers below the fold. Please feel free to pump up the volume.

Chapter 19:

“The Way You Look Tonight,” performed by Fred Astaire (Page 487)

Mr. Nancy sings two songs after sweet-talking the barman into breaking out the karaoke machine; the kitschy Tom Jones signature tune “What’s New Pussycat” (written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David) and “The Way You Look Tonight,” first performed by Fred Astaire in the 1936 Astaire/Rogers classic Swing Time. Not to give short shrift to “What’s New Pussycat?”—I’m sure watching Nancy belting out the lyrics and charming the crowd would be a joy to behold (and given Anansi’s earlier story about teasing Tiger, the song selection could be a winking reference to the god’s favorite adversary), but it’s his “moving, tuneful” rendition of the Jerome Kern classic that gets the audience cheering and clapping.

Both of Nancy’s picks are feel-good, happy songs, but while “What’s New Pussycat?” is silly and flirty and effervescent, I’d argue that there’s something more substantial and meaningful to “The Way You Look Tonight,” a song that turns a simple compliment into a meditation on the power of a happy memory to sustain us in darker, lonelier times….

Swing Time is a musical comedy in which Astaire and Rogers play temporarily star-crossed lovers, and the scene above demonstrates both the light comedic tone of the film and the more serious romantic overtones: Ginger Rogers, annoyed and upset in the beginning of the scene, is utterly captivated and transformed by Astaire’s heartfelt love song. “The Way You Look Tonight” won the 1936 Oscar for Best Original Song and became an instant classic—at the height of the Great Depression, both the song and the movie in which it appeared gave people an opportunity to escape from harsh reality into a world of romance and glamor, to transport themselves to a happier place. The fact that Mr. Nancy chooses this song to help get his mojo flowing again—a song that’s all about making other people feel good—just ratchets up his already considerable appeal, in my book.

“Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood,” The Animals (Page 488)

As much as I’m torn between Nina Simone’s original version of the song and The Animals’ cover, I can’t quite picture Shadow imitating Simone’s jazzier phrasing; belting out his own take on Eric Burdon’s raspy, blues-inflected rock and roll seems more believable.

In any case, as I mentioned over in the reread post, allowing himself to be pushed up onstage and to perform seems like another step forward for Shadow, now that he’s finally learned how to be alive and started coming into his own. So it’s fitting that the karaoke track he chooses to sing is basically a song about being alive: occasionally getting angry, being joyful, feeling worried and regretful sometimes, but trying to be a good person. It’s about dealing with the ups and downs of life, and reacting to the different emotions involved—not being stoic, keeping your head down, and staying quiet, as Shadow did for so long. For Shadow, it’s a song of triumph, of no longer being “a big, solid, man-shaped hole in the world,” and embracing the business of living.

Chapter 20:

“Closer To Fine,” Indigo Girls

Samantha Black Crow’s fondness for the Indigo Girls is made clear from her closing time routine at the coffee shop, as she puts on a CD and catches herself singing and dancing along to the music. Since there’s no mention of a specific song or album, I’m going to “Closer to Fine,” probably the duo’s best-known song (certainly the one I’m most familiar with, from growing up in 90s). Given the lyrics about not taking life too seriously and not tying yourself down to one set of answers, dogma, or belief, I think Sam would find it appropriate. And maybe even dance-worthy.

Postscript:

“American Tune,” Paul Simon

Now that we’re down to the final pages of American Gods, I feel as if I’d be remiss not to include these final two songs, both of which seem to reflect so much of the overall tone of the novel, at least for me. Paul Simon’s “American Tune” provides an echo of Shadow’s mood following the climactic events of the final chapters—tired, confused, having been through so much, but ultimately all right, as he takes a break from his homeland (telling himself that there’s nothing to go back for, but knowing at the same time that it’s not true).

Even the singer’s “And I dreamed I was dying” and vision of the Statue of Liberty resonate with the events of the book, although the tone of Simon’s song is more searching and somber than the final scene of the novel. Despite the notes of sadness and uncertainty, I think the sense of carrying on, in spite of trauma and loss, speaks not only to Shadow’s experience but to American experience in general, in many ways. “American Tune” is based on a hymn by J.S. Bach, and it still feels like a hymn in some sense, conveying the feeling that even though we lose our way, a sense of hope remains.

“Beyond Belief,” Elvis Costello & the Attractions

As I mentioned back in my very first installment of this Mix Tape series, Neil Gaiman named his protagonist “Shadow” after an Elvis Costello song. I was so delighted when I came upon that fact, not just because I’m a huge Elvis Costello fan (though I am), but because ever since my first reading of American Gods, I’ve had “Beyond Belief” in mind as the perfect theme song for the book. (I went with the odd map visual above because it’s the only video I could find which features the album version of the song, but you can check out a fabulous 1983 live performance here).

Without being too on-the-nose, Costello’s idiosyncratic lyrics give a sense of intrigue and secrets, conflict, maybe even a femme fatale in the mix, and the line “But I know there’s not a hope in Hades” offers a convenient mythological link. Plus, I can never hear the lyric “You’ll never be alone in the bone orchard” without thinking of Shadow’s dream about the “Bone Orchard,” a phrase Low Key/Loki was fond of using. And of course, the idea of being “beyond belief” neatly encapsulates the events of the novel for me—everything that happens is beyond belief, and yet the trick with both gods, myths, culture heroes and good fiction is that they make us believe in spite of ourselves.

So this is my choice for the official theme song of American Gods, bookending our epic soundtrack neatly between Elvis Costello tracks, with a lot of strange and wonderful music in between. Of course, it’s a totally subjective choice—if you have a different song in mind, let’s hear it! I’ll be back in two weeks with some sort of all-encompassing Mega Mix covering the novel as a whole, so if you have any song suggestions for earlier chapters or general bonus tracks, just let me know….

Bridget McGovern is the non-fiction editor of Tor.com. If she had a voice like Nina Simone’s, she’d sing “Go to Hell” at karaoke every night of the week.

Welcome to the final installment of our ongoing American Gods Reread, a rambling literary road trip through Neil Gaiman’s Hugo, Nebula, and Locus Award-winning novel (soon to be an HBO series). In our previous installments, we’ve following the adventures and misadventures of Shadow Moon and his employer, the enigmatic Mr. Wednesday, through a landscape both familiar and deeply strange. Having reached the end of the novel, we thought we’d share some concluding thoughts on the world of American Gods and take a look at Gaiman’s 2004 novella “The Monarch of The Glen,” which picks up with Shadow in the north of Scotland, about two years after the events of the book…

As always, please be aware that there will be spoilers in the post and comments.

“The Monarch of The Glen”: An American Gods Novella

First published in 2004, “The Monarch of the Glen” appears in Neil Gaiman’s 2006 collection Fragile Things. The collection also includes an earlier story, “Keepsakes and Treasures: A Love Story,” featuring Smith and Mr. Alice, characters from London’s dark underbelly who travel to the wilds of Scotland in this novella, and get more than they bargain for in their dealings with the big American tourist from the local hotel.

Hired as extra security for a weekend party at an isolated castle, Shadow finds himself at the center of an ancient battle between men and monsters…but it’s not at all clear who the real monsters are. With some help from Jennie, the barmaid/hulder who’s taken a shine to him, Shadow upsets the balance of power, leaving the door open for the return of the old gods, kept in an anguished holding pattern for so long.

Bridget:

It’s been awhile since I’d read “The Monarch of the Glen,” and it’s interesting returning to it after spending so much time discussing American Gods, chapter by chapter. Even beyond the obvious links between the two (in terms of sharing the same world and the same protagonist), there’s just so much that’s familiar, here. There’s the eccentric, seemingly benign old man who turns out to be a child-killer (although Doctor Gaskell is a much nastier, more disturbing specimen than Hinzelmann was). There are the protective female characters who aid and defend Shadow in his hour of need (Jennie and Grendel’s Mother). As a potential romantic interest for Shadow, there’s even a bit of the old Laura dynamic in play: Laura and Shadow were star-crossed thanks to the pesky divide between the dead and the living, while Jennie, as a hulder, can only love a mortal man…and Shadow isn’t a mortal man.

“TMotG” tells us a bit about what Shadow is not, in fact: Shadow says he’s not a monster; Wednesday tells him he’s not a hero, since he came back from the dead; Jennie tells him that he’s not a man. So, what is he, exactly? Well, this is where his birth name is officially revealed: Balder Moon; the ancient Norse gods, appearing in his dreams, greet him with cries of “Hail sun-bringer! Hail Baldur!” Baldur was, after all, the god of summer sun and light, and the story takes place during the summer months (albeit a chilly, Scottish Highlands-style summer). He doesn’t really exhibit any obviously god-like powers, beyond his propensity for dream-visions and impressive (but not necessarily supernatural) physical strength, but if he’s not a hero and he’s not a man, “god” does seem like the obvious choice in terms of defining his post-resurrection status.

Speaking of definitions and categorizations, I profoundly enjoy the way the novella plays with the concept of “monsters,” from Shadow’s first exchange with Gaskell to Grendel and his mother, then in Smith’s invocation of the Sawney Beane clan, in some risqué gossiping between party guests—all throughout the story, the word “monster” is bandied about at every turn, up through the main event in which Shadow is forced to fight Grendel. The battle is supposed to be more of a ritual than anything else—a way of showcasing and cementing humanity’s continued dominance over monsters, myth, and superstition, in which Grendel represents the latter and Shadow has been forced to take on the role of the hero. Except that the hero isn’t that different than the monster in the eyes of the rich and powerful elite who gather first to watch, and then to join in, savagely clubbing both “hero” and “monster” to death with orgiastic glee.

If you’ve read “Keepsakes and Treasures,” you’ll know that Smith probably qualifies as a monster, in the sense that he’s a cheerfully amoral killer with a penchant for pedophlia. Jennie might qualify, as a hulder, creatures who were blamed for causing madness and luring men to their doom. Certainly no one’s going to defend Gaskell against the charge (and why bother, since he seems to delight in calling himself a monster, repeatedly?) The party guests themselves become monstrous as they devolve into bloodlust and barbarity, but Smith’s reference to The Difficulty of Being at the end of the story also puts one in mind of Jean Cocteau’s use of the phrase “sacred monsters” to define celebrities, who he described as our modern stand-ins for Olympian deities: flawed, just like us, but richer, more attractive, more self-indulgent.

As in American Gods, there’s no clear line between good guys and bad guys in “The Monarch of the Glen.” Mr. Alice tells Shadow that the yearly battle between “us versus them” comes down to the triumph of knights over dragons, giant-killers over ogres, men over monsters…but the story turns fairy tale logic on its head, causing the reader to question the wisdom of whether humanity really deserves to win…and whether such a battle is really necessary, at all. And of course, Mr. Alice’s mistake is assuming that Shadow is one of “us” and not one of “them”—it’s possible that Shadow is a little of both, but he plays by an entirely different set of rules (“Chess, not checkers. Go, not chess,” as Wednesday would say).

Finally, I love the final paragraph, so ripe with possibility: it leaves the reader wondering not only what adventures await Shadow as he returns to America, but also what’s going to happen in the U.K., now that the ancient ritual has been broken and the old Viking gods (and who knows what else—ogres, giants, and dragons?) are no longer being kept at bay.

Emily:

It strikes me that Shadow being Baldur sort of makes sense in regard to how other charaters view him—outside of flat out antagonists, people just like Shadow. Most of them don’t even seem to know why. Wednesday needed to keep him out of the way in the novel because he attracted too much attention, but having him nearby was always good for the old con man when he had to interact with others. And that works with Baldur in mythology. He was just darn likable. Frigga got nearly every living thing on earth to weep for him when he died (and that also seems to work in regard to how women tend to reach out to him whenever he’s in danger). It just sort of works.

It’s also funny watching Shadow now that he is used to this life between humanity and divinity. He’s become the world-weary sort of guy that things just happen to, and he’s aware that there’s not much to be done about it. He’s determined to have some say in how he himself is used, but we’re not getting that confusion anymore that we saw at the start of the book. What distinguishes Shadow from so many figures around him is this insistence on creating his own destiny, which is perhaps his most American trait, funnily enough.

Again, setting plays such an important role in the tale. Though some time has passed, we’re still getting a story that takes places during the summer, the final season in the novel as well, suggesting not only Shadow’s summer-god status, but the era of his life he is currently in. However, we’re in Scotland, which means that there’s a beautiful bleakness to this summer. There’s also a sense of emptiness, solitude made mostly clear because of where he is staying, and while it seems that Shadow might be looking for settings like these to try and stay out of the way, I remember the first time I read this novella it sort of made me sad. And that hotel always struck me with an eerie Twilight Zone vibe regardless.

It makes sense to fold fairy tales and legend into this world of gods, and to allow it to become part of the belief commentary that American Gods created. The suggestion that Shadow’s dealings with this world might be changing the game in a big way seems like a pretty good hint as to what might come up for him in the future—we get the sense that things have been wrong with these patterns for a long time, and have been wrong everywhere; Wednesday and Loki’s war is just a symptom of a bigger problem. Is Shadow’s role as a “sun-bringer” meant in a much more literal fashion, then? Is he here to enlighten people, to give them a different option for their future simply in leading through example? Only time will tell.

Concluding Thoughts

Bridget:

I’ll try to keep this relatively short—even after three months, I could go on and on about all the minutiae of American Gods. And I’m sure that the next time I revisit it, I’ll find connections I haven’t yet made and catch allusions that went right by me during this reread—for me, that’s part of the beauty of the book. I saw that someone commented last week about a friend who complained that there’s so much build-up to the ultimate battle between the gods, and then it all gets defused at the last minute, and I’ve definitely heard similar things from people over the years—that the journey through the novel is more fun or more satisfying than the destination.

For me, though, Shadow’s story presents a version of the classic hero’s journey filtered through the tradition of the hard-boiled detective along the lines of Philip Marlowe—a smart, sensitive, philosophical guy who plays things close to the vest, who’s not uncomfortable around crooks and con men but plays chess and reads poetry (or in Shadow’s case, checkers and Herodotus).

Throughout this reread, I’ve notice the noirish elements in certain scenes more and more, from the opening scenes in prison to Shadow’s first encounter with (undead) Laura, up through the last chapter where he channels Humphrey Bogart while saying goodbye to Sam Black Crow. Shadow’s moral code, his gnawing desire to get to the truth, the moral ambiguities and sense of conspiracy driving the plot along—you might not notice on the first read, but Gaiman used a detective story as the backbone of the novel. And as someone who loves Chandler, Cain, Hammett and rest of that shadowy pantheon of crime writers, the way the various plotlines are resolved make perfect sense, in that context. If you’re expecting an epic fantasy resolution—in which, I imagine, Shadow would make peace with Wednesday somehow and bring Laura back to life (which does seem like a possibility, up to the end of Chapter 18)—you’re going to be disappointed, but I don’t see that as the book’s failing.

The hero’s journey is part of the story, but it’s not the blueprint for American Gods, which follows a more complex map of layered influences: it’s a mystery, a road trip narrative, a nexus of history and myth and different folkloric traditions, and an attempt to explore America as an idea (or rather, an immense collection of ideas and beliefs and ideologies). Moreover, all of these aspects serve to drive home deeper thematic questions about belief and history and legend, and why stories are powerful and important and need to be recycled and replenished, like any valuable resource….

I think that American Gods can certainly be read once and enjoyed for its plot, characters, and because it’s clever and extremely well-written, but I do think that it’s a novel that reveals itself to be richer and more intricate and more thought-provoking the more closely you read it, as all the details are illuminated and come into focus. So thanks for coming along for the ride, this time—I hope you got out as much out of it as we did! And now I feel fully prepared for HBO to start up the series, which we’ve all been waiting so patiently for. Any day now….

Emily:

I was much younger when I read this book for the first time, so in some ways it felt like reading a completely different novel. Not a better or worse one, just a different one. The morality all over seemed a lot grayer, and I found myself relating to more of the characters this time around. I maintain that reading and rereading is kind of like listening to favorite music that you haven’t picked up in a while—you’ll find all sort of things that you never noticed, but more than anything, you’ll remember yourself when you first listened to it. It often works better than pure recollection, looking back on who you were the last time you read a certain book. So as American Gods is a road trip that encourages discovery, I had my own sort of journey, thinking about why certain passages of the book affected me the way they did the first time around, why some aspects move me more now and others move me less. I do wonder if anyone else experiences the same sort of thing on rereading….

As for our hero, I’m anxious to see what comes next for Shadow in the sequel Gaiman has promised us. After reading “The Monarch of the Glen” again, it strikes me that Shadow is something of a wild card to everyone around him—he cares about doing what’s right, but what’s right and what’s good aren’t always the same thing. And the ways that people expect him to react are often completely at odds with his actual reactions. All of those big machines he’s stopped, from wars to rituals, there has to wind up being a consequence for that. I wonder too if Shadow is meant to spend his life wandering, or if he has a place in all of this, something that he can become a part of.

The other day I was talking to a friend about how so many fantasy authors seem to write books that help them work through their own ideas about faith. C.S. Lewis did the same, so did Madeleine L’Engle and Connie Willis, and countless other fantasy authors. I talked a little bit about this earlier, about how Gaiman seemed to be getting his thoughts down in American Gods, making his own case for a certain kind of belief, rather than a specific vote for any religious doctrine. It does make me wonder what about the fantasy genre encourages that specific type of exploration, and how these various novels would stack up against each other if you tried comparing them. I think the reason why American Gods sits so well with me on that front is that I don’t feel preached to, and more importantly, Gaiman’s view on these things makes the very act of belief something magical. I think that most fictional texts dealing with faith could use a nice dose of that—the magic of believing, which is really what magic is in the end.

A note on the “Shadow meets Jesus” scene in the appendix of the Author’s Preferred Text version: it’s really good that it’s not in the book proper. It’s a great scene, but it does feel like it belongs in a different novel. Maybe later on in Shadow’s life, when he returns to America. But the suggestions in this bit of extra text are just great. I found it interesting that Jesus’ appearance is tanned rather than non-white the way true historical Jesus would be, but that’s probably due to his depiction in overall American culture. The image of him in comfortable clothes sporting a beard and baseball cap put me bizarrely in mind of a young Steven Spielberg and now the image won’t leave me.

That’s a wrap—well, almost. Next week we’ll have a mega-version of the American Gods Mix Tape for all your listening needs! Plus, as Emily mentioned, the Appendix to the Tenth Anniversary Edition of the novel contains a short scene originally intended to be included in Chapter 15, in which Shadow meets Jesus—they hang out, drink some wine—check it out, if you’re interested (or just for the sake of being a completist). And even though we’ve come to the end of American Gods, there’s still plenty of great stuff coming up in our ongoing Neil Gaiman reread, from some individual posts on children’s picture books over the next few weeks to Tim Callahan’s Sandman Reread, starting in January! In the meantime, happy Thanksgiving to everybody who’s celebrating tomorrow, and happy regular Thursday to everyone else—cheers!

Bridget McGovern is the non-fiction editor of Tor.com. She wanted to call this post “The Monster at the End of this Reread,” but couldn’t handle the resulting mental image of Shadow grappling with Grover.

Emily Asher-Perrin is winging her way toward Chicago as we speak, where there will be turkey (and mead?)

If you’re familiar with Neil Gaiman’s work, then you know that music tends to play an important part in his writing, both on and off the page. This is certainly the case with American Gods, a road trip novel with its own offbeat, colorful soundtrack. When we started our American Gods Reread a few months ago, I decided to keep track of each song mentioned or alluded to in the novel, to see how the music fit in with the events of each week’s chapters. Along the way, I added in some song choices of my own, where they seemed to fit in—in part because it’s fun to think ahead to the HBO series (currently expected to debut in late 2013 or early 2014) and what the show’s soundtrack might be like—I, for one, already have my heart set on a theme song….

The songs below range from classical music to classic rock, pop songs to power ballads, show tunes to traditional folk melodies, and each song plays a part in the larger narrative—I’m still surprised by how much the musical references can inform and illuminate one’s reading of the text, once you start paying attention. I’ve covered each song in relative depth, chapter by chapter, but without further ado, here’s the complete American Gods Mega-Mix, for your listening enjoyment!

Please note that all page numbers correspond to American Gods: The Tenth Anniversary Edition (Author’s Preferred Text); any songs without page numbers are my own additions. And of course there are spoilers for the novel, below.

Chapters 1 & 2

“Nottamun Town” (Page 23): Thanks to one of our commenters, CHip137, who caught this rather sneaky reference: Gaiman borrows the name of this surreal and haunting folk song as the location for Jack’s Crocodile Bar. The song’s lyrics mirror Shadow’s confusion as his world is suddenly, but irrevocably, turned upside down….

“Walkin’ After Midnight,” Patsy Cline (Pages 24, 32): Patsy Cline’s classic tune of lost love and longing plays twice at Jack’s, possibly foreshadowing the return of Laura, who will soon pay a late night visit to her grieving husband.

“Iko Iko,” The Dixie Cups (Pages 29-30): A Mardi Gras standard, the lyrics about a confrontation between two New Orleans “tribes” might foreshadow the war that Wednesday is setting into motion; the allusion to Mardi Gras and Lent, just as Shadow and Wednesday seal their pact with meat and mead, also seems significant.

“Who Loves the Sun,” The Velvet Underground (Page 36): Mad Sweeney plays this song on the jukebox at Jack’s; later that night, he accidentally gives Shadow the sun-coin, which brings Laura back to life, throwing Wednesday’s carefully laid plans out of whack.

“The Fool on the Hill,” The Beatles (Page 41):

The first of several references to The Beatles in American Gods, Shadow hears the song in a gas station bathroom on his way to Laura’s funeral; could be a reference to Wednesday, who plays the fool to con people, or possibly to Shadow himself—the big, quiet guy who’s much smarter than he looks at first glance?

“Shadow and Jimmy,” Was (Not Was); (cowritten by Elvis Costello & David Was): According to Neil Gaiman, this song (called “a chilly tale of two strange fish” by Elvis Costello) furnished him with a name for the novel’s protagonist, Shadow Moon.

Chapter 3 & 4

“Heartbreak Hotel,” Elvis Presley and “Immigrant Song,” Led Zeppelin: No songs are specifically referenced in Chapter 3, but given Shadow’s dark night of the soul at the Motel America (before and after being visited by his dead wife), and the violent Viking interlude at chapter’s end, it seemed like an ideal time to slip some Elvis and Led Zeppelin into the mix.

“Midnight Special,” Traditional song, (Page 65): The chorus of this folk song, thought to have originated with prisoners in the American South, starts off the fourth chapter, in which the midnight sister, Zorya Polunochnaya, plucks the moon from the sky and gives it to Shadow for protection.

“A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” Bob Dylan, (Page 67):

In keeping with all the references to “the coming storm” in the novel, Dylan’s vision of horrors (bloody branches, bleeding hammers, wolves, etc.) is one that grim Odin himself would have to appreciate, as he and Shadow drive to meet Czernobog in Chicago.

Night On Bald Mountain, Modest Mussorgsky/Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov: While the Disney version of the Slavonic “black god” has more to do with Satanic imagery than the original mythology suggests, the “Chernabog” of Fantasia is still pretty impressive, even if the chain-smoking, hammer-toting Czernobog we meet in the novel might not see the resemblance.

“I Have the Moon,” The Magnetic Fields: A fitting song for Shadow and Laura, in their current predicament: Laura has the sun-coin, Shadow has his silver moon-dollar, she’s dead (but still around), he’s alive (but arguably dead inside)—they’re about as star-crossed as lovers can get; they basically have their own solar system of dysfunction.

Chapter 5 & 6

“Sweet Home Chicago,” performed by The Blues Brothers: Okay: we’ve got two con men, one recently released from prison, tooling around Illinois on a mission from god? The first ten pages of this chapter, in which Shadow and Wednesday suavely commit a felony, might as well be The Blues Brothers with bank robbery in place of musical numbers and Czernobog instead of Cab Calloway. Or maybe not, but it’s a great song, regardless!

Boléro, Maurice Ravel, (Page 107): Produced by a player piano at The House on the Rock, Ravel’s Boléro is the first of several classical pieces of music wheezed out by a variety of mechanical devices during Shadow and Wednesday’s visit, lending an air of gravity to its kitschy collection of oddities.

Danse macabre, Camille Saint-Saëns, (Pages 109-110): Based on an old French superstition, Danse macabre was originally paired with a poem relating the antics of Death as he summons the dead from their graves, bidding them to dance as he fiddles until dawn. Gaiman later worked the legend into The Graveyard Book, and this version by Béla Fleck was recorded for the audiobook.

“Octopus’s Garden,” The Beatles, (Page 111):

Another great song by the Beatles; given the multiple references to the band in this novel, I’d argue that they’re treated like deities belonging to a kind of pop culture pantheon along with Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and other iconic figures. This video certainly helps the argument, capturing the kind of hysterical, orgiastic worship the Fab Four inspired in fans at the height of Beatlemania.

The Blue Danube, Johann Strauss II, (Page 115): Played as The World’s Largest Carousel revolves majestically, like a prayer wheel, transporting Shadow and the gods behind the scenes for Wednesday’s summit.

The Emperor Waltz, Johann Strauss II, (Page 125): Written to commemorate a toast of friendship between Austrian emperor Franz Josef and Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II, the Emperor Waltz celebrates friendship and political accord between world leaders, making it an interesting (or possibly ironic) choice as Wednesday plays the politician, sweet-talking the old gods into declaring war.

“(Don’t Fear) The Reaper,” Blue Öyster Cult: A bonus track in honor of Laura Moon, newly minted (and highly effective) undead killing machine; her drive to protect Shadow is as touching as it is terrifying as she makes short work of the men who’ve abducted and interrogated him.

Chapters 7 through 11

“TV Eye,” The Stooges:

What better song to capture the utter creepiness of the scene in which Lucy Ricardo propositions Shadow from a motel room television? As with the Lucy encounter, aggression and sex and voyeurism are all mangled together in the lyrics and the raw feel of the song, as Iggy grunts and growls like an escaped maniac channeling Howling Wolf.

“Cat People (Putting Out Fire),” David Bowie: I imagine that Bast would appreciate the slinky intensity of this Bowie/Giorgio Moroder collaboration, the title song for the movie Cat People (1982).

“Sally MacLennane,” The Pogues: We could easily make a separate mix tape of songs to accompany Mad Sweeney’s wake. This was my first choice, but there were some excellent suggestions: commenter Sittemio suggested “The Body of an American,” an equally magnificent Pogues song; another commenter, Crumley, mentioned the Dropkick Murphys’ “Your Spirit’s Alive” along with the Flogging Molly songs “Us of Lesser Gods”and “Speed of Darkness,” and hummingrose nominated “The Night Pat Murphy Died” by The Great Big Sea —all of which seem like wonderful additions to any proper Jameson-fueled leprechaun wake.

“Little Drummer Boy,” Performed by Grace Jones (Page 208): This holiday classic provides the festive soundtrack to Shadow and Wednesday’s Christmas lunch (featuring Wednesday’s favorite two-man con games and a casual waitress seduction on the side).

“Tango Till They’re Sore,” Tom Waits (Page 231):

Chapter 10 kicks off with a quote from the chorus: “I’ll tell you all my secrets/But I lie about my past/So send me off to bed for evermore” —and of course, this sentiment applies to nearly everyone in Lakeside, from Shadow and Hinzelmann to the friendly townspeople who turn a blind eye to the dark secret at the heart of their community.

“Winter Wonderland,” performed by Darlene Love (Page 233): Shadow starts humming this, “[a]n old song his mother had loved,” just as he starts to realize that walking into Lakeside in dangerously low temperatures might have been a huge mistake. Throughout the novel, when Shadow’s faced with danger or the unknown, he seems to habitually think back to memories of his mother for comfort; through his memories, she becomes a rather strong presence in her own right.

“Help!” The Beatles (Page 234): We’ve had a McCartney song and a Ringo song, but when faced with mortal peril, Shadow finds himself channeling this John Lennon tune, appropriately enough. If The Beatles are pop culture deities, does humming along to “Help!” count as a prayer? Luckily for poor, freezing Shadow, it seems to work like one….

“One Last Hope,” from Disney’s Hercules, performed by Danny DeVito (Page 247): Margie Olsen’s son Leon is enthralled by this movie (“an animated satyr stomping and shouting his way across the screen”) when Shadow stops by to introduce himself. I’d love to read it as a clue about whether Shadow is actually a hero, a demigod destined to do great things, like Hercules or Cuchulain, but it may just be an very sly bit of cleverness on Gaiman’s part…

“Viva Las Vegas,” Elvis Presley:

Given Shadow and Wednesday’s side trip to Sin City, I couldn’t resist including this ultimate paean to Vegas and its siren song promising good times, fast women, and the chance to win or lose a fortune with every passing minute. “Viva Las Vegas” is a weirdly intense song, for something that seems so silly and campy at first glance—the language invoking fire, stakes, burning, and devils always seemed intentionally dark and ritualistic to me, albeit in the campiest possible way….

“Why Can’t He Be You,” Patsy Cline (Page 252): In Las Vegas, among the gods and the Elvis impersonators, a Muzak version of this song plays, “almost subliminally.” It’s an interesting choice in a place where almost everything is meant to represent something else—a castle, a pyramid, Paris, New York, Real Elvis—perhaps the song is included as a comment on trying to replace something real with something not-quite-real, a concept which might apply to any number of characters and situations in the book (Shadow, Wednesday, Laura, Lakeside, and so on).

“San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair),” Scott McKenzie, (Page 269): When Wednesday, annoyed with Shadow for stirring up trouble (albeit in his dreams), announces that they’re heading to San Francisco, he snaps, “The flowers in your hair are optional” before hanging up. You’ve gotta love a sarcastic reference to the ultimate flower-powered hippie anthem coming from the guy who lives for battle, gore, and blood sacrifice.

“Marie Laveau,” Dr. Hook & The Medicine Show/“Marie Laveau,” Oscar “Papa” Celestin: Two different songs based in the legends surrounding famed Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau, who appears as the Widow Paris in the interlude at the end of Chapter 11.

“Litanie des Saints,” Dr. John:

A song which celebrates the Voodoo tradition of New Orleans and pays tribute to the staying power of the deities mentioned, including Papa Legba (Ellegua), Oshun, Obatala, Shango, and Baron, most of whom originated in West Africa, as part of the Yoruba religion. Most of the gods referenced here would have been familiar to Wututu/Mama Zouzou, though perhaps in different incarnations.

Chapters 12 & 13

“Indian Reservation (The Lament of the Cherokee Reservation Indian),” Paul Revere & the Raiders: Technically speaking, Shadow and Wednesday meet up with Whiskey Jack and Apple Johnny on Lakota land, not Cherokee; then again, Samantha Black Crow and Margie Olsen are both half Cherokee—all things considered, this song seemed like a good fit in light of the visit at the reservation and Shadow’s conversation with Whiskey Jack a bit further on in the book.

“The Lord’s Been Good to Me,” from Disney’s Johnny Appleseed: This version of John Chapman’s life is pretty much what you’d expect from a 1948 Disney cartoon—he’s best friends with a cartoon skunk, he doesn’t have a dead wife whose passing causes him to go crazy, there are some catchy tunes, and at the end a folksy angel collects him to go plant apple trees in heaven.

“Dark Am I Yet Lovely,” Sinead O’Connor/“Material Girl,” Madonna (referenced in the Interlude, pages 328-334): Bilquis’s fervent recitation of the Biblical Song of Songs (interpreted here by Sinead O’Connor) overlaps with The Technical Boy’s snide, sadistic parody of “Material Girl” in this chapter, playing off of one another in interesting ways. The contrast between the two brings the old god’s authenticity and wisdom and the new god’s soulless, empty rhetoric into stark relief.

“Old Friends,” written by Stephen Sondheim (Page 339):

Chapter 13 opens with a quote from “Old Friends,” one of the signature songs from Sondheim’s Merrily We Roll Along. While it might seem like a positive, upbeat song, it’s actually rather sad in the context of the show, as the old friends in question do their best to console one another and pretend that things are fine, even as their relationships falter and implode. In the book, Shadow undergoes a traumatic series of events, building up and getting worse as the chapter moves forward, and it’s full of characters who could be defined as “old friends” of either Shadow or “Mike Ainsel,” making the opening quote seem grimly perfect by chapter’s end.

“Where Everybody Knows Your Name,” Gary Portnoy: The theme song to Cheers, which Shadow is watching when the opposition break in with a live feed of Wednesday’s assassination. Ironically, his safety depended on living in a town where nobody knew his real name; walking into a bar and hearing a familiar voice yell “Shadow” was the beginning of the end of his stay in Lakeside.

“Cabaret,” Liza Minnelli (from Cabaret): Only tangentially referenced via a bumper sticker that Shadow remembers fondly (reading “Life is a Cabernet”), but it’s an interesting connection. “Cabaret” is a song about seizing life by the horns sung by a character who can only function when she’s playing a part. As characters, Shadow and Sally Bowles don’t have much in common, but in different ways, they’re both avoiding life, or at least failing to be active participants in reality. But at least for Shadow, that’s all about to change.

Chapters 14, 15, and 16

“In the Dark With You,” Greg Brown (Page 375): In his acknowledgments at the end of American Gods, Neil Gaiman credits two specific albums without which “it would have been a different book.” One is The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs, and the other is Dream Café by Greg Brown, and of course a verse from the second song on that latter album serves as an epigraph to Chapter 14. And of course, in the sense of being lost, searching, uncertain, this is probably the darkest chapter in the book, between the death of Wednesday and Shadow’s vigil on the tree.

“Magic Bus,” The Who: Picturing Czernobog, Nancy, and Wednesday chugging all over the country in 1970 VW bus like a bunch of Not-At-All-Merry Pranksters just makes me so happy, from the minute Czernobog sees their new ride and says, “So what happens when the police pull us over, looking for the hippies, and the dope? Eh? We are not here to ride the magic bus. We are to blend in.”

“Hang Me, Oh Hang Me,” Traditional song, performed by Dave Van Ronk, (Page 408):

A verse from this song begins Chapter 15, as Shadow hangs from the world tree, in relative comfort at first, then in increasing pain which gives way to unbearable agony. Originally, I posted The Grateful Dead’s more mellow take on the song, “I’ve Been All Around This World,” so thanks very much to commenter Hal_Incandenza, who provided me with a link to the Dave Van Ronk version, which is a much better fit.

“Death is Not the End,” Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: Nick Cave’s brilliant reworking of a Bob Dylan song; the imagery here just seems so perfectly in tune with the events of the novel at this point, from the darkness and uncertainty and violence to the “tree of life,” that I had to include it on the mix.

Chapters 17 & 18

“Cold Wind to Valhalla,” Jethro Tull: No specific songs are mentioned in Chapter 17, but given the epic battle about to start and the first death dedicated to Odin (by Loki), “Cold Wind to Valhalla” seems like an excellent fit. Ian Anderson’s lyrics even include the line “We’re getting a bit short on heroes lately”—and with Shadow out of the picture throughout this chapter, the feeling is particularly apt.

“The Ballad of Sam Bass,” Traditional folk song: Technically, Gaiman quotes the commentary on this song, and not the song itself, at the start of Chapter 18, to underscore the distinction between truth, reality, and metaphor, and the idea that “none of this is happening…never a word of it is literally true, although it all happened.” And yet the song itself gives us an idea of what poetry gives us, in place of fact, and how it can turn a young outlaw into a legend (or even a culture hero).

“Thunderbird,” Quiet Riot: Sure, the title might be a bit on-the-nose, but in an awesome power ballad-y way, the song encapsulates Shadow’s connection with the thunderbird, and his realization that eagle stones aren’t a simple magical solution to his problems, but a violent act of sacrifice that he’s unwilling to consider. The elegiac tone also seems fitting for a chapter that is full of goodbyes, from Shadow’s final confrontation with Wednesday to his last moments with Laura—it’s a song about mourning and moving on, which Shadow is finally able to do after the storm has finally passed.

“City of Dreams,” Talking Heads:

This song fits so well thematically with the novel as a whole that it could go anywhere in the mix, but I included once we’d reached Whiskey Jack’s explanation of how America works on a spiritual level (avocados and wild rice and all). The lyrics should certainly resonate with fans of Whiskey Jack, the buffalo man, and American Gods as a whole.

Chapters 19, 20, and Postscript

“What’s New Pussycat,” Tom Jones (Page 487): Mr. Nancy’s first karaoke selection; I’m sure watching Nancy belting out the lyrics and charming the crowd would be a joy to behold (and given Anansi’s earlier story about teasing Tiger, the song selection could be a winking reference to the old trickster god’s favorite adversary).

“The Way You Look Tonight,” performed by Fred Astaire (Page 487): Nancy’s “moving, tuneful” rendition of the Jerome Kern classic gets his audience cheering and clapping. The fact that he chooses this particular song to help get his mojo flowing again—a song that’s all about making other people feel good—just ratchets up his already considerable appeal, in my book.

“Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood,” The Animals (Page 488)

Allowing himself to be pushed up onstage and to perform is a big step for Shadow, so it’s fitting that the karaoke track he chooses to sing is basically a song about being alive: occasionally getting angry, being joyful, feeling worried and regretful sometimes, but trying to be a good person. It’s about dealing with the ups and downs of life, and reacting to the different emotions involved—not being stoic, keeping your head down, and staying quiet, as he did for so long. For Shadow, it’s a song of triumph, of no longer being “a big, solid, man-shaped hole in the world,” and embracing the business of living.

“Closer To Fine,” Indigo Girls: Samantha Black Crow’s fondness for the Indigo Girls is made clear from her closing time routine at the coffee shop, as she puts on a CD an sings and dances along to the music. Since there’s no mention of a specific song or album, I’m going to “Closer to Fine,” probably the duo’s best-known song—given the lyrics about not taking life too seriously and not tying yourself down to one set of answers, dogma, or belief, I think Sam would find it appropriate. And maybe even dance-worthy.

“American Tune,” Paul Simon: In many ways, “American Tune” provides an echo of Shadow’s mood following the climactic events of the final chapters—tired, confused, having been through so much, but ultimately all right, as he takes a break from his homeland (telling himself that there’s nothing to go back for, but knowing at the same time that it’s not true). Despite the notes of sadness and uncertainty, the song’s focus on carrying on, in spite of trauma and loss, gives the sense that hope remains, after all.

“Beyond Belief,” Elvis Costello & the Attractions

Last, but not least: if I had to pick a single, all-encompassing theme song for American Gods, “Beyond Belief” would be it. Without being too on-the-nose, Costello’s idiosyncratic lyrics give a sense of intrigue and secrets, conflict, maybe even a femme fatale in the mix, and the line “But I know there’s not a hope in Hades” offers a convenient mythological link. Plus, I can never hear the lyric “You’ll never be alone in the bone orchard” without thinking of Shadow’s dream about the “Bone Orchard,” a phrase Low Key/Loki was fond of using. The song even mentions an “Alice” (through a two-way looking glass), which puts me in mind of “The Monarch of the Glen.” Any echoes between the song and the world of the novel are completely coincidental, of course, and yet the idea of being “beyond belief” neatly encapsulates the events of American Gods, for me—everything that happens is beyond belief, and yet the trick with both gods, myths, culture heroes and good fiction is that they make us believe in spite of ourselves.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She no longer has the strength to fight the earworms; it’s like Dune in her head right now. Well, Dune with less sand and more guys named Elvis.

Four years ago around this time, I wrote a post about some of my favorite bizarro holiday specials to help ring in our very first Tor.com Cthulhumas/Life Day/Krampusnacht/Solstice celebration. While a lot has changed since 2008, my abiding love of strange and unusual holiday-inspired lunacy is as strong as ever, so please enjoy this updated guide to some classic (or should-be classic) yuletide entertainment….

First off, I should admit that I’m a sucker for a lot of holiday standards, from The Grinch and Peanuts to Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman. I adore both White Christmas and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, but there’s also a lot of schmaltzy, badly-written nonsense floating around out there like so much stale, crusty fruitcake this time of year…and when the usual holiday fare starts wearing thin, it’s time to mix things up a bit.

The following movies and TV specials are amazing because they find new ways of celebrating the holiday spirit, with all its weird traditions and potentially awkward moments and unmeetable expectations. It’s not about irony or snark or subversion—it’s about making your own odd, goofy, wonderful kind of holiday cheer, wherever you can find it…

Scrooged (1988): There are so many ways in which a late-80s update of A Christmas Carol could have gone horribly wrong, and yet Bill Murray is indescribably brilliant as viciously cynical TV exec Frank Cross, out to score holiday ratings with his tacky, exploitative live production of the Dickens classic (meta!). Murray’s trademark sarcasm and deadpan retorts make him the most entertaining incarnation of Scrooge ever, but when his smarmy yuppie facade finally cracks…well, let’s just say that the end of this movie gets me every time. By the time Murray and the rest of the cast (including Karen Allen, Carol Kane, Bobcat Goldthwait, David Johansen and Robert Mitchum) start singing along to “Put A Little Love In Your Heart,” I defy you not to get a little teary (in a good way!) One of the greatest holiday movies of all time, in my book.

Christmas At Pee-Wee’s Playhouse (1988): In which Grace Jones arrives in a giant box and performs the only rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy” I’ll ever truly love. Plus, Pee-Wee teaches Little Richard how to ice skate, Charo performs “Feliz Navidad” with robot accompaniment, and Zsa Zsa Gabor appears as “Princess Zsa Zsa” and SO MUCH MORE. A hyper-affectionate throwback to the campy holiday TV extravaganzas of the 60s and 70s, Pee-Wee’s Christmas special is a total bizarre, sparkly delight with a heart of gold (and you can actually watch the whole thing here, thanks to the magic of YouTube! Just try not to read the comments. Ever.)

The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus (1985): I’ve already written about this amazingly bizarre and wonderful special at length, but I really can’t say enough good things about this puppety lovechild of L. Frank Baum and Rankin & Bass. It’s dark and weird and there are elves, wind demons, and a battle that involves a Santa-hating dragon…not to mention the fact that the plot centers on a council of immortal beings trying to decide whether to let Santa join them, or let him die of old age. (Spoiler: he doesn’t die, but it’s not like there aren’t people on the fence, for awhile). In short, not your usual, relentlessly cheery holiday fare, but it’s beautifully made, the design is stunning, and it’s certainly an original, fascinating take on the legend of Santa Claus through the lens of myth and fantasy.

The Year Without A Santa Claus (1974): While there’s nothing else quite as intensely strange as The Life & Adventures of Santa Claus in the Rankin/Bass holiday canon, this little doozy certainly has its moments. You have to love any premise kicked off by a whiny, chronically depressed Santa who just doesn’t give a damn about Christmas anymore. Plus, the Heat Miser and Snow Miser are the catchiest duo to ever hit holiday animation, deep-seated mommy-issues and all; if you need a quick fix, you can catch their classic, campy little number above. In the end, though, the film delivers a fun twist on the Santa story, thanks to the irrepressible Mrs. Claus, who helps her husband rediscover the Christmas spirit and saves the day. It’s also a nice change of pace to see Mrs. Claus taking the reins (with an assist from Mother Nature, no less!)—she’s a smart, sassy holiday heroine, and there really aren’t as many of those as there should be.

Community: The show has had two fantastic Christmas-themed episodes to date; the first, “Abed’s Uncontrollable Christmas,” is a smart, warped take on stop-motion animated holiday classics, combining group therapy and psychodrama with a fantasy land full of whimsical talking toys. The second is simply one of my favorite TV episodes of all time: “Regional Holiday Music” starts off as a goofy parody of Glee, but builds into an exploration of why the holidays are important and meaningful, as an opportunity to celebrate with the people you love, on your own terms.

It comes as close to a cliché sitcom-y resolution as Community is ever likely to get, but that happy ending has been more than earned by the fact that the show deals honestly with the reality that the holidays can be a dark time for some people, and all the forced holiday cheer in the world can’t compete with a little sincerity between friends. And I haven’t even mentioned the songs, which are all glorious and amazing—my favorite is probably Annie’s creepy, brilliant pseudo-seduction of Jeff (above), which deconstructs the infantilized Betty Boop-style appeal of a song like “Santa Baby” in the most hilarious way possible….

A Muppet Family Christmas (1987): Not to knock the outstanding Muppet Christmas Carol, but this has always been my favorite Muppet holiday special, bringing together all of the characters from Sesame Street, The Muppet Show, and Fraggle Rock for some loosely plotted, rollicking Christmas merrymaking. The basic premise starts off with Fozzy invading his mother’s farm with the rest of the Muppet Show crew, just as she’s trying to leave for a vacation in Malibu. Meanwhile, Miss Piggy is stuck at photo shoot and spends most of the special running late for various reasons, while the house fills up with unexpected guests, carolers and assorted monsters. In the midst of all the chaos and singing and mild dysfunction, of course, a wonderful time is had by all, and we even get a cameo of Jim Henson himself at the very end, as all the Muppets sing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” It’s really not to be missed.

Phineas and Ferb Christmas Vacation! (2009): Even if you’ve never seen the show, I’d still highly recommend this special, which manages to showcase the writers’ trademark ingenuity in terms of plotting, ridiculously clever dialogue and references and all the show’s usual features and in-jokes while creating a truly delightful, heartwarming celebration of the holidays. The plot’s a little too complicated to some up here, but it’s silly and light, and yet somehow manages to be more touching than it has any right to be. Also, the special guest star who voices Santa? Clancy Brown. Not a bad starting point if you’ve been hearing good things about the series, and a seasonal must-see if you’re already a fan (or if you just love ridiculously clever, warm holiday enterainment).

The Venture Bros.: The Season One episode “A Very Venture Christmas” starts off with a brilliant pastiche of every Christmas special cliché ever and ends with a visit from the Krampus. There’s also a bomb planted in a miniature Nativity scene. I don’t even want to say anything more. It’s just ridiculous, and amazing. Krampus!

Futurama: Even casual Futurama fans will probably already be familiar with the fact that a psychotic Robot Santa terrorizes the Planet Express gang every Xmas (in the future, of course, the holiday is pronounced “eks-mas”). The character was introduced in the first season’s “Xmas Story” (which ends with a rousing rendition of “Santa Claus Is Gunning You Down”), and returns in the third season episode “A Tale of Two Santas,” which also features Kwanzaabot, mistaken robo-idenitity, and Dr. Zoidberg pretending to be Jesus. Robot Santa also features in the fifth season’s “Futurama Holiday Spectacular” and Bender’s Big Score. Sure, in the future, Santa might be feared across the galaxy as a soulless killing machine—but nothing brings people closer than huddling indoors to escape his holiday wrath, so at least there’s something to look forward to….

Will Vinton’s Claymation Christmas Celebration (1987): This slice of strange but enjoyable holiday cheer features an odd array of claymation characters, from the California Raisins to a snarky duo of comic-relief dinosaurs. Admittedly, it’s kind of trippy, in that Very Special 80s way. Say what you want about the 1980s—it was a strange decade, especially on the television front—but knock back a few glasses of eggnog and see if you can turn your back on the spectacle of talking dinosaurs and giant anthropomorphized raisins soulfully singing Christmas carols. Maybe not a full-on classic, but call it a fruity palate cleanser between marathon reruns of A Christmas Story and It’s A Wonderful Life.

The Star Wars Holiday Special (1978): Of course this makes the list, every year, forever. In terms of sheer campy absurdity, the notoriously ridiculous Star Wars Holiday Special is a perennial contender for the What. The Hell. Were They Thinking? Award. From the Boba Fett cartoon to the sight of an elderly Wookiee visibly aroused by the disco stylings of Diahann Carroll to Bea Arthur serenading the Mos Eisley cantina, the Special is a tragic experiment in messy kitsch which continues to wreak havoc in the back alleys of our pop culture consciousness. While it has never been released—in fact, George Lucas has reportedly stated, “If I had the time and a sledgehammer, I would track down every copy of that show and smash it”—the SWHS is surprisingly easy to hunt down if you use The Force. And know how to perform a Google search. It should be noted (as a public service) that the gang from RiffTrax provide the kind of snarky commentary that might be the only way to make it through all two hours with your sanity intact. However you want to go about it, if it’s weirdness you’re after, you won’t be disappointed. Scarred, possibly. Deeply traumatized? Most definitely. But not disappointed.

So, those are my oddball recommendations—if the Island of Misfit Toys had its own cable channel, I imagine it would have a lot in common with this particular lineup…maybe with some bonus Gremlins and Blackadder’s Christmas Carol (or even Santa Claus: The Movie) thrown in for good (?) measure. But I can’t be the only one who likes to mix it up every year—share some of your own favorites in the comments, and however you end up spending the holidays this year, I hope they’re warm, wonderful, and highly entertaining!

Bridget McGovern is the non-fiction editor of Tor.com. She can’t believe she’s missed out on Pee Wee’s Christmas Special all these years, and is making up for lost time. You can never have enough wigs and glitter around, this time of year…

Tina Fey and the writers of 30 Rock have never been shy about letting their geek flag fly, both in extended parodies and homages and in delightfully random, obscure references peppered throughout the rapid-fire dialogue. Liz Lemon’s affection for/obsession with Star Wars, for example, is undeniable—as she insists to Jack in a recent episode, “I am not some kind of nerdery slut—I like Star Wars!”—and not since Spaced has a show featured quite so many jokes about Leia, Jedi, Sith Lords, and Admiral Ackbar.

Liz’s deep-seated fan loyalties aside, the show itself has always played the field when it comes to nerdery, gleefully getting down and dirty with everything from Batman and Lost to Ghostbusters and Game of Thrones. So in honor of the series’ finale this Thursday, here are some of our absolute favorite geeky references from all seven seasons of 30 Rock:

“I AM A JEDI!!!” (Pilot episode): In the show’s very first episode, new studio head Jack Donaghy insists on adding eccentric movie star Tracy Jordan to the cast of Liz Lemon’s floundering comedy show. When Liz objects that Tracy is completely crazy, there’s a brilliant smash cut to Tracy in his underwear, wielding a red lightsaber and repeatedly yelling “I AM A JEDI!” while running through traffic, effectively setting us up for seven seasons of absurd antics and non sequiturs (as well as all the aforementioned Star Wars references to come…). Of course, the gag was loosely parodying the similarly bizarre behavior of Martin Lawrence ten years earlier, but it’s still funny enough to get a great callback this season thanks to Oscar-winner Octavia Spencer (who showed that she can swing a crazy lightsaber with the best of them).

“Werewolf Bar Mitzvah,” (S2, Ep. 2): Tracy is having marital problems, and his wife Angie drops off a box of his stuff…including his gold record for the novelty party song “Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.” Cue flashback to six seconds of the gloriously cheesy video/“Thriller” rip-off and the catchiest monster-themed Bar Mitzvah song you will ever hear. The song was written by genius/rapper/future Spider-Man Donald Glover (who wrote for 30 Rock before starring on Community), and Glover actually provided most of the vocals for the extended version—the parts where Tracy’s talking to his producer? That’s actually Glover as the producer, plus Glover’s Tracy Morgan impression. Neat, huh?

Carrie Fisher guest stars/“Rosemary’s Baby,” (S2, Ep. 4): Over seven seasons, Liz Lemon’s Princess Leia obsession has been well documented: she’s worn her Leia costume, proudly and repeatedly, on multiple Halloweens and in an attempt to get out of jury duty; she once gave a baby version to Jack’s infant daughter, Liddy, and even got married wearing full Leia regalia. And at this early point in the series, the show was averaging at least one Star Wars reference per episode, so Carrie Fisher’s appearance as Liz’s childhood idol was a perfect fit, and a major triumph—as is the episode itself. Fisher is enjoyably brassy and manic as Rosemary Harris, a trailblazing comedy writer whose career inspired a younger Liz, even as it becomes painfully clear that she’s a raving nutjob. As Liz finally escapes her clutches (and her sketchy apartment in “Little Chechnya”), Rosemary tries to stop her, pleading, “Help me, Liz Lemon! You’re my only hope!” BOOM. Well played, 30 Rock—well played.

“You used Ghostbusters for evil!” (S2, Ep. 14): Liz’s long-distance relationship with boyfriend Floyd DeBarber is starting to fall apart, and when she finally confronts him with her suspicions about another woman, he uses his “partner meeting with Peter Venkman” as an excuse to put the conversation on hold and supposedly take the first flight back to Cleveland. Later, Liz runs into Floyd hiding out in Central Park, and realizes that he’s just been lying to her and that there’s no Peter Venkman—as the pieces fall into place she gasps, “You used Ghostbusters for evil!” It may not be the ultimate betrayal, but taking Dr. Peter Venkman’s name in vain certainly spells the end for Liz and Floyd. And just for the record, this episode also gets points for the very quick (but hilarious) flashback to Liz playing D&D in her wild and crazy college days, pictured above.

Kenneth takes on Teen Witch, (S3, Ep. 7): Kenneth the Page has actually had a lot to say about witches over the years, in the course of doling out tidbits of homespun advice and anecdotes that straddle the line between odd and downright disturbing. Describing his confidence in entering a pig eating contest, Kenneth tells Jack, “I knew I could win that contest. I once ate an entire witch. A pig was nothing.” In another episode, when Jack instructs him to crush his corporate rival, Kenneth responds, “But I’ve never crushed anyone before, except for accused witches!” Kenneth also believes in the legend of “the Hill Witch,” an ancient crone who eats people’s brains, which he uses to terrify Tracy into adopting a healthier diet. And yet, when forced to fill in for TGS’s warm-up comic, Kenneth delivers an impressive performance of the “Top That” rap from 1989’s Teen Witch, to the utter delight of 80s nerds everywhere, making us wish we could go back and watch the entire movie through Kenneth’s warped, witch-fearing eyes…(Totally unrelated: this episode also features an appearance by a pre-Game of Thrones Peter Dinklage, in case anyone needs fodder for their steamy Tyrion Lannister/Liz Lemon fanfic.)

Space makes you inspired/crazy: Season 3 contains “Apollo Apollo,” an unabashed 30 Rock love letter to the concept of space exploration, revealing that just the idea of going into space was a significant driving force for both Jack and Tracy during their childhoods, regardless of their substantially different backgrounds. “Apollo” does a hilarious job of mixing the brazen wonder of space travel with the cynical disdain of adulthood. Tracy wants to travel in space, but he also wants to kill an Ewok. Jack agrees to talk to his friends at NASA—but has none because they’re “a bunch of nerds…” (Then Adam West actually shows up in the middle of all this, but can’t stay long because “the Penguin’s in town.”) In the end, both Jack and Tracy fulfill their desires. Tracy is fooled into thinking he’s been sent into space, while Jack finds the lunar module toy he loved as a child.

Liz’s own love of space (and astronauts! She calls her idealized man “Astronaut Mike Dexter”) is dampened in season 4 episode “The Moms,” when it is revealed that Liz’s mom turned down a marriage proposal from Buzz Aldrin. Wondering why, Liz goes to meet Buzz, who turns out to be a nonsense-spouting crazy person. (He doesn’t believe in doors. He flipped a Saab. He once woke up in the Air and Space Museum with a revolver!) He’s calm and sober now, but he admits he would have been an awful father to her and awful husband to her mom. Aldrin offers Liz an olive branch, however, asking “Would you like to yell at the moon with Buzz Aldrin?”

Wouldn’t we all?

The marriage between Muppets and Tina Fey: The aforementioned “Apollo Apollo” episode is really a tour-de-force of nerdery, as it also reveals that Kenneth sees people as Muppets who occasionally break out into song. One season later, we actually learn why this is (aside from his general otherworldliness) when Kenneth happens to pass in front of an HD camera—he himself is a Muppet!

The alliance between The Muppets and 30 Rock becomes even more obvious when you look at the show overall. Kermit (who Liz reveals was her childhood crush) shows up at the eulogy for Jack’s mom in “My Whole Life is Thunder.” Another recent episode played on a running joke that Jenna’s go-to replacement is Miss Piggy. Sesame Street even did a 30 Rock parody on its own show, and Tina Fey is showing up in the next Muppets movie! The love runs deep between Jim Henson and 30 Rock. It’s not hard to understand why.

“Klaus and Greta” (S4, Ep. 9): James Franco has a secret. A very soft, non-speaking secret. In season 4 episode “Klaus and Greta,” Jenna is tapped by James Franco to be his fake girlfriend in public in order to cover up his relationship (and common law marriage!) with Kimiko, a Japanese body pillow. Jenna doesn’t care, and jumps eagerly at the chance to be publicly associated with Franco.

While at first the prospect of Franco’s pillow-relationship is treated as a mental disorder, both Liz and Jenna eventually accept that Franco is perfectly happy and accept Kimiko as a real person. (Each in their own way, that is: Jenna genuinely falls for Franco and gets jealous and envious of Kimiko, while Liz decides to be more outgoing, eventually falling into a three-way with Franco and the pillow.) Franco prefers the fiction that exists between him and Kimiko and forcing him into normative roles visibly pains him. The episode acknowledges it as weird, but isn’t condescending about Franco’s choice (perhaps in opposition to this New York Times article) which results in an inclusive atmosphere that most geeks often strive to create in their own lives.

Liz Lemon: Mutant and proud? (S4, Ep. 16): Liz has hit a new low: her latest attempt at dating—using the personal section of the Kraft Foods website (“K-date”)—isn’t going so well. Then she sees Floyd, her ex, on The Today Show with his new fiancée. To top it all off, Jack tells her that she can’t be part of his secret club for handsome pranksters, the Silver Panthers. As he leaves her office, she yells after him, “I don’t care—I’ll start my own group! Rejection from society is what created the X-Men!” Sigh. We’ve all been there, Lemon. It’s a funny line, made even better by the fact that two seasons later, Liz starts dating adorable “little elf prince” Criss Chros, played by James Marsden, aka Cyclops/Scott Summers in the X-Men movies. Now married and the proud adoptive parents of twins (as of the most recent episode), Liz and Criss are one of our favorite TV super-couples: two oddballs who’ve successfully joined forces because of, not in spite of, their quirks. We think Professor X would approve.

A bunch of random Lost jokes: For an NBC show, 30 Rock made a surprising number of references to ABC’s Lost while it was on the air (and even afterward). Not only were Liz, the writers, Tracy, and guest star Jerry Seinfeld dedicated fans, but there’s a running joke in which NBC page/resident bumpkin Kenneth is caught dramatically addressing Lost’s mysterious “Jacob.” The gag plays into the writers’ habit of hinting that Kenneth may be much older than he seems (or possibly even immortal), and the absurdity of the joke has only been enhanced by the decision to keep it going well after Lost’s not-so-satisfying conclusion. And in addition to one “Jacob” reference so far in the final season, Lost alum Rebecca Mader (she played Charlotte) made a recent cameo as a nymphomaniac-virgin-widow interested in Jack. So that was fun.

“The Tuxedo Begins” (S6, Ep. 8): In this extended Batman parody, Jack gets mugged, sending him on a crusade to make New York safer for incredibly wealthy millionaire playboy-types. Meanwhile, Liz gets so fed up with the rudeness of everyday New Yorkers that she attempts to turn the tables by dressing in a crazy old lady costume and scaring her fellow subway-riders into good behavior. But soon, Liz is out of control, terrifying the average citizen to get whatever she wants, armed with a gym bag full of stinky clothes and some pretty authentic-sounding subway gibberish. Jack hasn’t left the building or changes out of his tuxedo since the mugging, and in the end, the two find themselves in a classic Batman-style rooftop showdown, with Jack’s formal Bruce Wayne facing down Liz’s deranged, Joker-esque villain. Oh, and along the way, Tracy mentions that the first time he was mugged, he stayed home for a week wearing ”a Chewbacca costume made from used hair extensions”—just in case you like your Batman parodies served up with a weird side of Star Wars.

The Colonizers of Malaar (S6, Ep. 12): TGS’s writers decide to avoid New York’s rowdy St. Patrick’s Day festivities by hiding out in the office (“because we all have faces people naturally want to punch”) and playing an epic, Settlers of Catan-style board game called The Colonizers of Malaar. Jack, facing a crisis of confidence in his career as a cut-throat uber-exec, wanders down and gets caught up in the game, but his experience and well-honed instincts get him nowhere in Malaar (literally—he’s trapped in a barren desert with a dying yak). Seeking guidance, he finds a kind of warped inspiration in the story of St. Patrick (“His only worldly possession was…no snakes.”), and returns to 30 Rock with a new focus, restored confidence, and a triumphant, game-winning strategy.  As much as the show is poking fun at the game (from the makers of Goblet Quest and Virginity Keep), as with all of these references, there’s far more affection than mockery involved, and it’s no coincidence that writer/actor John Lutz—whose character spends the game inexplicably obsessed with collecting fancy beads “for the pirate ball”—is a huge Settlers of Catan fan in real life.

Various shout outs to Game of Thrones: As in the case of Lost, it’s clear that there are some serious GoT/GRRM fans behind the scenes at 30 Rock. So far we’ve noted at least three references in the show: one involved a shot of Tracy’s crony Grizz putting down his book in shock and revealing a major spoiler about Ned Stark. Another showed the “reward board” Liz set up for her boyfriend Criss: the second chore listed reads, “Referring to me as Khaleesi” (Criss earned himself a gold star!). But the most developed reference came in the form of the 3D internet company “Xaro,” which Jack acquires for NBC. As it turns out, Xaro was created by an internet billionaire who’s been carrying a torch for Liz since college; as he explains during an awkward attempt at seducing her, he named the company in honor of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, “the rich merchant prince who wishes to acquaint himself with the mother of dragons.” The same episode, “Leap Day,” also features an Avatar reference, a frakking awesome D&D room with a table that rises out of the floor, a living Ewok in a glass case, and Liz’s lyrics to the song played by the Cantina Band in Star Wars (“Figrin D’an the kloo horn man…he’s from Clak’dor VII!”), so if you’re ever in the mood for a weird, buffet-style smorgasbord of fandoms, check it out.

“Pokémon-ing,” (S7, Ep. 3): In the episode titled “Stride of Pride,” Jack is casually dating a bevy of beautiful women, including the much younger socialite Pizzarina Sbarro. Rather than tying himself down to one partner, he tells Liz he’s modeling his love life after The Great Escape, creating a perfect team of women to fit all his various needs. He soon realizes that Zarina is employing the same strategy, but as she tells him, “My generation calls it Pokémon-ing. You gotta catch ‘em all.” And while Jack is temporarily taken aback to find that he fulfills the “Father Figure” role in Zarina’s dream team (it doesn’t help that she has to explain her references to him: “Jack, the plural form of Pokémon is Pokémon”), it could be worse. Apparently the five other “classic boyfriend archetypes” include the Mean Wall Street Guy, the Perfect Head of Hair, the Filthy Hippy, Someone To Make Her Parents Angry, and (best/worst of all), the Sex Idiot (in this case, swimmer Ryan Lochte). We like to think of Lochte the Sex Idiot as the Pikachu of the group.

Lemon’s miscellaneous catchphrases: One of the things we’ll miss most of all, now that the show is ending is Liz’s habit of blurting out ridiculous exclamations of surprise, frustration, or disbelief—from “Blërg” and “I want to go to there” to “nerds!”, “nerf herder” (of course), and our favorite, “…by the hammer of Thor!” Effective, if not strictly eloquent, Liz’s dorky outbursts have become catchphrases in their own right without wearing out their welcome, perhaps because there’s just something inherently likeable about the fact that her brain is a crazy Jell-O mold of fun-sounding gibberish studded with random pop culture references. We can totally relate to that.

As we approach 30 Rock’s grand finale, it seems like the writers have actually stepped up the geeky synergy over the course of the last few episodes—in spite of her attempts at proclaiming herself a Star Wars purist, Liz ended up in Harry Potter jail (it seems inevitable, in hindsight). Last week’s show featured an episode-spanning parody of Willy Wonka (it was titled “A Goon’s Deed In A Weary World”), and we’re sure there will be plenty of weirdness and hilarity packed into tomorrow’s hour-long farewell episode. In the meantime, we’d love to hear about your favorite jokes, gags, and geeky references from the series, so have at it, nerf herders!

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She loves Elaine Stritch, night cheese, and White Haven, PA, and would like to one day visit The Smiling Irish Bastard Hall of Fame.

Chris Lough is the production manager of Tor.com and is being such a non-pillow right now.

When people talk about the mainstreaming of geek culture, the evolution of George R. R. Martin’s hugely popular Song of Ice and Fire series into the pop culture juggernaut that is HBO’s Game of Thrones is invariably noted as a sterling example of the mainstreaming trend. As always, I’m happy to see the fantasy genre making a splash and drawing new fans and new readers in—but as with any adaption, there’s bound to be a divide between two fan factions: those who’ve read the original books, and those who haven’t.

[Note: Spoilers for the books through A Storm of Swords are at least hinted at below, so proceed with caution!]

I’ve been utterly delighted to see how popular the show has become with most of my friends and family members—some of whom have started reading the books, in between seasons. Most of them, however, have not picked up the novels, and that’s okay. Would I like them to read the books? Sure. But it’s not about me. It doesn’t make their enjoyment of the show any more or less valid or genuine than mine is…but it does sometimes make it difficult to discuss the show without sounding like a crazy person. Right? Maybe it’s just me.

My problem is that when I find myself in an in-depth discussion of the series with friends who haven’t read the books, I sometimes hear myself morphing, Jekyll and Hyde-style, into the Comic Book Store Guy from The Simpsons. It’s like there’s just enough of a divide between the Westeros of the books and the HBO version to bring out the terrible, know-it-all, detail-obsessed dork that lurks in the hearts of the most seemingly normal and well-adjusted fans. One minute, you’re having a pleasant chat about the joys of Joffrey-slapping or whatever, doing your level best to politely avoid spoilers, and the next minute you feel like you’re shifting from Smeagol the Totally Mellow, Non-Psychotic Hobbit into a sputtering, muttering, sweaty, wild-eyed pop cultural Gollum choking over some relatively minor detail, all because people who haven’t read the books are going to have an inherently different way of interpreting the series than people who have.

And while it’s important to never to unleash the beast on the poor, unsuspecting folks who think that Asha Greyjoy’s name is “Yara” and who have to put up with all the creepy whispering about weddings that we Book People have been doing just out of earshot since last season, I think that now might be a good time to exorcise of few of the petty, nitpicky demons howling in the nerdy abyss between us and them. These are just a few of the weird sticking points I’ve personally run into over the past year or two while discussing the series with people who haven’t delved into the novels—maybe some of you have tripped over the same conversational stumbling blocks; maybe you’ve encountered entirely different obstacles; maybe you just think I’m nuts (totally possible). But since this is a safe space for rampant geeking out, I’m going to get to it, starting with my pettiest gripe of all:

There is no character named “Khaleesi.”

I try to let this one go, but I just can’t: “Khaleesi” is a Dothraki title—not the character’s name, you guys. Her name is Daenerys. Daenerys “Stormborn” Targaryen—Mother of Dragons, if you’re nasty. And yet, in my experience, people who’ve approached her story through the show only often tend to refer to her as “Khaleesi,” used as a proper name. I know they say it ALL THE TIME on the show (looking at you, Ser Jorah), but anyone who thinks that’s the character’s name just isn’t paying attention. And maybe it’s because I work on a site dedicated to SF/F, but it comes up way more often than it should—I even met a woman at New York Comic Con who claimed to be cosplaying as “Khaleesi from Game of Thrones.” And you know what? Good for her—she looked great, and I totally applaud her enthusiasm. I just wish people would start getting Dany’s name right; hasn’t she been through enough, people?

Again, I know it’s rather petty and that, given what a fantastic job HBO has done in terms of bringing the books to life, I have no right to complain, but again—sometimes you just can’t control the goofy triggers that threaten to wake your inner nerd-dragon. The Khaleesi issue sticks in my craw, for whatever reason, as a pet peeve, but most of my problems bridging the conversational gap between books-plus-show fandom and adaptation-only fandom are more complex, having more to do with changes and new characters introduced in the series. Taken at face value by viewers experiencing the story for the first time, these variations and revisions complicate the expectations of readers who think they know these characters and what’s in store for them (at least to some to degree)—and it can make for some stilted exchanges (and occasionally give rise to an ill-advised impulse to start lecturing) when worlds collide.

Talisa Maegyr: Not to be trusted?

Several of my (non-ASoIaF-reading) friends and family members have become devoted fans of Lady Talisa over the last season, and so I keep finding myself in conversations in which she’s held up as a (if not the) shining example of a strong, well-balanced female character. And I am all for strong, well-balanced female characters, believe me…I just can’t seem to summon up the same sense of boundless good will and adulation toward Talisa, partially because of what happens in A Storm of Swords and partially because George R. R. Martin has irreparably damaged my ability to trust new characters over the course of five books (not a complaint, for the record!).

Clearly, the show has give us more of Robb Stark’s story and POV than the books did, and in keeping with his expanded storyline, they apparently decided to ditch the pretty non-entity that was Jeyne Westerling. GRRM created the character of Lady T. for the series, and HBO cast Oona Chaplin in the role (she’s the granddaughter of Charlie Chaplin/great-granddaughter of Eugene O’Neill, for all you film, theater, and random trivia-loving fans out there). Chaplin is certainly a charismatic presence, and yet it’s taken me awhile to get used to the character and start thinking of her as real part of the story; for the first few episodes she appeared in, I couldn’t help thinking of her in terms of “Jeyne Westerling’s sassy Valyrian stand-in” or just “Sexy Medieval Nurse” (which, admittedly, sounds like something from the clearance rack at a low rent Halloween store).

Now that I’ve had some time to adjust, Talisa has grown on me (again, I think Chaplin’s done a great job in the role), but I can’t fully get on board with the hyper-enthusiastic Talisa Appreciation Society many of my friends have happily subscribed to. I wouldn’t go so far as to call her a Mary Sue—a term that’s both overused and just isn’t a proper fit, here—but so far, she does seem to exude a kind of Mary Sue-ish, too-good-to-be-true-ish vibe, at least to me. Maybe my expectations have become a bit warped thanks to…well, everything that happens in the novels (seriously: pick a page at random, and there’s probably some sort of treachery afoot), but fellow readers: do we trust her?

Talisa is basically tailor-made to be Robb Stark’s own personal version of a manic pixie dream girl—so instead of pursuing quirky, lighthearted adventures, she’s more into high-minded ideals, healing the wounded, and abandoning the trappings of nobility in favor of honorable pursuits and the accompanying moral high ground (Fact: the moral high ground is like catnip to Stark men). I’m as intrigued as the next fan to find out what happens next with Robb and Talisa, but I just can’t bring myself to buy into the character…or get too attached. People who haven’t read the books might not understand my reticence—but I have a feeling they’re in for some unspeakably traumatic surprises, this season.

Shae is…not quite what I expected.

In the same vein as Talisa, it’s taken me a little time to adjust to the show’s version of Shae. And again, it’s not that I think the actress (Sibel Kekilli) isn’t doing a very good job—her ability to move between a fierce defensiveness and touching warmth in the same scene is particularly impressive. But the character tends to be kind of humorless and intense in a way that’s fundamentally different from the Shae of the novels, who never took anything Tyrion said seriously. In the books, Shae might pout sometimes, but she spent plenty of time joking around and laughed often, and I understood the basis of their relationship to be tied to the fact that her lighthearted, mocking good humor was irresistible to Tyrion.

Tyrion uses humor as a defense mechanism, but he also wields it as a weapon, utilizing his quick wit to turn the tables against those who fail to take him seriously or treat him with any semblance of consideration or respect. In the books, I feel like Shae took a similar stance toward the world at large: a powerless figure scoffing at the pompous and powerful, rather than quaking or despairing. On the show, Shae is more guarded and standoffish—it’s still believable, but their relationship loses some of the charm, and (looking ahead) Shae’s eventual betrayal packs less of a devastating punch, at least for me, without that connection between them: the only person laughing with Tyrion, not at him, ultimately sells him out…and turns him into an object of supreme ridicule.

I suspect that Shae’s humor was borrowed and bundled into the character of Ros, another character created for the show (though technically originating from the books, where she was mentioned only as “the red-headed whore;” Ros is also given elements of Alayaya’s story from A Clash of Kings). Ros is quick-witted and generally easygoing where Shae is prickly and passionate–I’m assuming Martin and the other powers that be wanted to differentiate as much as possible between these two characters, lest casual viewers get their prostitutes all mixed up, or something. It makes no appreciable difference for people watching the show with no book-inspired expectation, but for me it changes the tenor of the Tyrion/Shae relationship quite a bit—and lord knows humor is a precious enough commodity around Westeros, as it is….

The softening (or at least humanizing) of Tywin Lannister.

Damn you, Charles Dance. Heading up a family filled with disturbingly charming sociopaths, you’ve managed to make me like the one character in Martin’s world that I knew was pure, unmitigated evil—and now most of my friends will never truly understand The Real Tywin Lannister. By which I mean the Tywin of the novels, who has earned a place of honor in the Right Bastard Hall of Fame—he’s like a less-sympathetic Darth Vader mixed with the dad from The Great Santini mixed with a particularly ill-tempered pit viper.

But on the show, Tywin’s taken a liking to Arya Stark (without knowing that she is, in fact, a Stark), and even his suspicions about her background and political sympathies don’t stop him from taking her under his wing during his sojourn at Harrenhal. He takes her on as a servant, talks and shares food with her, and quickly recognizes her intelligence…he’s arguably nicer to Arya than anyone’s been since her father died, and I AM NOT MADE OF STONE. Dance is still magnificently frigid and calculating in his dealings with his children and his other underlings, but he’s a far cry from the hateful, brilliant, merciless monster I’d come to expect from the books, so again—while I appreciate the change as an interesting development from the original text, it can be difficult to talk about Tywin with people uninitiated into his total bastard-dom.

Similarly, I think people watching the show without any previous exposure to Cersei Lannister (played by Lena Headey) are getting a slightly kinder view of an extremely complex character. Obviously, Cersei eventually gets her own POV chapters in the series (beginning in A Feast for Crows), but even then, she’s certainly not winning Miss Congeniality any time soon—she’s always cultivated more of a bitter, boozy Real Housewives of Westeros vibe. In all seriousness, she’s an incredibly strong, angry, frustrated character with many, many faults, but so far the show has mainly played up two of Cersei’s major facets: her almost militantly maternalistic devotion to her children and her proto-feminist frustration at being merely a pawn in a man’s world. She remains deeply flawed and antagonistic, but overall she’s being positioned on the show as a distinctly more sympathetic character: a mother lion protecting her cubs, a tormented rebel soul at odds with the system—while still being harsh and abusive toward Sansa, Tyrion, and her assorted underlings.

On the bright side, I’d argue that this somewhat revamped characterization of the Lannisters (both Tywin and Cersei) all ties back into the exact quality that makes Martin’s writing so appealing—his project of toying with the reader’s emotions, gleefully muddling heroes and villains, setting up repellent characters that one instantly despises and then showing you their point of view, forcing you to reconsider everything and learn to love them against your will. His backstories are consistently shifting, the facts rearranging themselves from chapter to chapter, book to book until you realize that (much like Jon Snow) you know nothing about what happened in the past, and even the present is tricky and uncertain at best. So getting yet another version of events, through the show, actually fits in remarkable neatly with the way narrative is approached in Martin’s books—it’s just another slightly different retelling of the facts, with a few new perspectives. Some details only hinted at before get expanded, while some threads disappear, and it’s impossible to tell whether they’ve been cut out, or simply remain unseen in the weave of the new pattern.

And of course, in the end, great storytelling is all that matters, right? After all, one rabid viewer’s beloved Lady Talisa is another’s Sultry Replacement Jeyne. Like the song says, you say Yara, and I say Asha; you say Khaleesi, I say Daenerys, so I’ll continue to do my best to muzzle my annoying, nerd-splaining impulse as much as possible as we start the new season. Whether you’ve read the books or not, I think we can all agree that there’s a certain tiny, angry blonde who needs to stop wandering around Qarth insisting to anyone that will listen that she’s the Mother of Dragons all the time. Because WE GET IT. We got it the first million times. Honey, we miss Drogo, too, but it is time to find yourself a stable plotline and settle down!

In the meantime, we Book People will be over here, muttering to ourselves about how you better beware of creepy, gold-toothed gigolos in your very near future. Or who knows? Maybe not. The one thing I’m sure of is that March 31^st better get here in a hurry.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. In some circles she is known as the Auntie of Dragons.

As the movie adaptation of Max Brooks’s blockbuster novel approaches—it’s finally due out in U.S. theaters this Friday—I’m keeping an open mind. The movie might be great, or it might be just mediocre, and there’s a decent chance it’ll stink on ice. But the one thing I’m not expecting is for it to be very much like the book on which it’s based.

The complaint I’ve been hearing most about the trailer is how the filmmakers have changed the zombies from shambling, Romero-esque undead hordes to an unstoppable swarm of speedy power-zombies. Personally, I’m not much bothered by that change—faster zombies are probably a better fit for the movie they’ve produced, which looks like a pretty conventional action movie.

It’s true that in writing World War Z, Brooks was inspired by George Romero’s zombies—but he was also inspired (perhaps even more directly) by the work of author/historian Studs Terkel.

Terkel’s oral histories—and particularly his Pulitzer Prize-winning The Good War: An Oral History of World War II—provided the interview-style format that, for me, is the heart and soul of World War Z. What sets the book apart is its structure and its scope, as the unnamed narrator gently prods his subjects to share their experiences, recounting their lives before, during, and after the war.

In the upcoming movie, Brad Pitt plays Gerry Lane, a UN employee trying to save the world (and his immediate family) from the international zombie scourge. Gerry Lane does not exist in the book—there is no single, main protagonist in the book, and while that choice may make it easier to spin a simpler, unfragmented narrative, it also means losing the richness of Brooks’s vision: the many varied, competing, complementary voices and perspectives that lend an added depth and realness to the fiction.

Taking its cue from Terkel’s work, World War Z relates—but does not limit itself to—the triumphs of the war: the battles won, the individual tales of bravery and resilience, figures who inspired when spirits were at their lowest, moments of hope in the face of unfathomable horror and darkness. It is also a record of what was lost in the struggle: the mistakes and hideous compromises that were made, the times when our humanity failed, when common decency broke down in the face of terror, and when survival came at a horrific price. While celebrating the courage and strength of humanity, World War Z also captures the devastating scope of loss and sacrifice on an international scale by weaving together the different stories, disparate worldviews and opinions, each story intimate and yet larger than itself.

Without the multiplicity of perspectives, it’s hard to see the difference between the premise of this new movie and a dozen or more other disaster films like The Day After Tomorrow or 2012, and hey—that’s not the end of the world (even when it is. See: 2012). Sometimes a big, blockbuster-y apocalyptic action thriller can be pretty (even perversely) fun—and maybe this film will incorporate some of the moral complexity and raise some of the same troubling questions as the novel did, and maybe it won’t. But while we’re waiting, let’s take a look back on a few of the characters and stories that helped make the book such a tour de force. It’s possible that some of them have found their way into the movie, in some form or other—but if you haven’t read World War Z lately (or at all), they’re certainly worth (re)visiting. Light spoilers for the book below:

World War Z concept art by Corlen Kruger

1 & 2: Colonel Christina Eliopolis and “Mets Fan”

Even among the many thrilling vignettes which comprise World War Z, this action-packed trek through the zombie-filled swamps of Louisiana is a masterpiece. Col. Eliopolis of the Civil Air Patrol crash-lands in the bayou, and makes her way to safety with the help of a tough-talking civilian Sky Watcher…who may or may not be a figment of her imagination. As a narrator, Eliopolis may be unreliable, but while the details of her experience may be in doubt due to trauma, shock, and psychological damage, the essential truth and emotional impact of the story remains—the ordeal of a soldier, drawing on her last reserves of strength and sanity in order to make it back to safety, whether the help and guidance she received was real or imagined.

3 & 4: Kondo Tatsumi and Sensei Tomonaga Ijiro

Before the war, Kondo Tatsumi was a sullen, socially awkward teenager who preferred to live his life almost entirely online. Finally forced to deal with reality when the internet stopped functioning, Tatsumi escapes from his zombie-infested apartment building by climbing floor-to-floor, salvaging a deadly WWII-era katana from an elderly (undead) neighbor along the way. He eventually encounters Tomonaga Ijiro, a hibakusha, or surviving victim of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Blinded by the atomic bomb blast in 1945, Sensei Ijiro lived as a gardener before fleeing into nature to avoid being seen as a burden as the undead began arriving. Instead of dying in the wild, however, he becomes a master of locating and dispatching the undead, using only his gardening shovel.

Tatsumi joins Ijiro in his quest to rid Japan of zombies: two unlikely warrior monks patiently hacking away with sword and shovel. Their stories, which start out separately before dovetailing, are equally riveting, and together they underscore how high tech modernity can benefit from the traditions and simplicity of the past, as intergenerational respect paves the way toward progress (a running theme throughout the book, in many places).

5: T. Sean Collins

A grizzled mercenary who worked private security at the outset of the Zombie War, Collins relates the unfortunate tale of his ridiculously wealthy unnamed employer, who sets up a compound on Long Island and invites the rich and famous to weather the zombie crisis under his roof, partying with their fellow celebrities while the rest of New York slides into chaos. He also insists on broadcasting a live feed of the drama and debauchery inside the mansion to the outside world, and the terrified populace soon comes calling, a panicked mob climbing the walls and tearing down the fortifications. The scene plays out like some bizarre mash-up of The Great Gatsby, the French Revolution, and bad slapstick—horror bordering on farce; Collins looks on with disgust and makes his exit, leaving his wealthy clients to fend (rather poorly) for themselves. Collins is a fun character—a gritty, amoral tough guy who finds himself in a situation that’s utterly, completely absurd—and Brooks gets in some nice satirical digs at reality TV and bogus celebrities as he paints a picture of society gone completely haywire.

6: Captain Chen of the Admiral Zheng He

Driven to desertion by the Chinese Government’s disastrous policies and refusal to adapt to the realities of zombie warfare, Captain Chen and the crew of the nuclear submarine Admiral Zheng He take desperate measures in order to preserve some vestige of Chinese civilization. After loading the Zheng with provisions and smuggling the families of the crew on board, the submarine goes rogue, diving to relative safety to wait out the crisis. Danger remains ever-present, however, as the seas swarm with reanimated dead and the Zheng is stalked by another sub from the Chinese fleet (which may or may not be helmed by Captain Chen’s son).

From 'Zombie' (Lucio Fulci, 1979)

The story of the Admiral Zheng He is fascinating from start to finish, from the tortured, idealistic patriotism of the Captain to the climactic ending, in which the acting Communist government is violently destroyed in order to save the remaining population. It’s a suspenseful thrill ride (with plenty of taut family drama), all contained within a single chapter of the book.

7: Jesika Hendricks

In Jesika’s story, we get the perspective of a child survivor of the Zombie War. She and her parents fled north when the U.S. shut down and closed itself off, leaving the population east of the Rocky Mountains to fend for itself. Because the living dead freeze solid in cold temperatures, many people packed up and headed toward Canada in order to escape the coming hordes…but they were completely unprepared for life in the wild. Illness and starvation ran rampant as all sense of community and civilization broke down. People became violent, almost feral, and eventually resorted to cannibalism.

As Jesika tells it, there’s no lurid sensationalism to the story—just sadness and grim acceptance at the things she’s seen, the darkness and panic of that time. It captures the horror and desperation of the situation with restraint and respect, as Jesika (now a naturalized Canadian citizen) works as part of the Wilderness Restoration Project, slowly and painstakingly clearing the land of debris, abandoned vehicles, and corpses left behind by those who didn’t survive the desperate northern exodus.

8: Terry Knox

The first and only Australian commander of the International Space Station, Knox stayed behind with several other crew members to operate the ISS after the rest of the team evacuated (when it became clear that no replacement astronauts would be sent, due to the fast-growing crisis on Earth). Remaining in space with dwindling supplies and resources, Knox and the others dedicated themselves to the maintenance of the ISS and the satellites most vital to the war effort—communications, navigation, etc.

Knox’s story plays out like “Space Oddity” in reverse, as he and the other astronauts monitor the events unfolding at home and do everything they can to try to aid their fellow humans, with no expectation of rescue or relief. This is one of my favorite survival vignettes in all of World War Z—Knox is such a charming, courageous, likeable character, and it’s hard not to love a story that could be summed up using the tagline “incredibly inspiring selfless heroics…in space!”

9: Roy Elliot

A famous Hollywood director before the war, Elliot decided to use his filmmaking skills to combat the syndrome known as ADS (officially “Asymptomatic Demise Syndrome,” sometimes referred to as “Apocalyptic Despair Syndrome”). People were dying at an alarming rate, suffering from a psychological disorder brought on by hopelessness and trauma; physically healthy, they would simply stop functioning, go to sleep and never wake up again. After learning of ADS and its crippling effects, Elliot frantically entreated the government to let him help, to no avail—so he enlisted his wife and son and began filming on his own. Using a digital video camera, they shot 96 hours of footage in the town of Claremont, CA, as three hundred college students made a heroic stand and successfully fought off thousands of zombies. Roy Elliot edited the footage into a film and began screening it at various camps and shelters, getting no immediate response. In the coming weeks, however, the film was recognized as a hugely valuable tool in raising morale and fending off ADS, and Elliot went on to direct a powerful series of propaganda films intended to raise the spirits of beleaguered Americans, helping to instill in them a newfound sense of hope.

World War Z poster by Tracie Ching

I love this nod to the importance of artists and the essential necessity of stories to humanity, and the idea that people need an escape from reality (especially when reality seems unrelentingly grim). Roy Elliot’s story clearly owes a debt to director Frank Capra and perhaps a bit to Sullivan’s Travels, and maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I couldn’t help but think about the fact that Brooks’s parents once co-starred in To Be or Not to Be, a movie about entertainers who use their talents to change history during World War II, which participates in the same tradition on a couple of different levels.

10: Darnell Hackworth (and Maisey the Dachshund)

Hackworth runs a retirement home for dogs who served in the U.S. Army’s K-9 Corps, and details the vital role that canines played in the war effort, sniffing out the undead, acting as decoys, etc. He also speaks of the close (and occasionally tragic) bond that formed between handlers and their canine partners, and the pathos is further driven home by the appearance of Maisey, an elderly miniature dachshund, who curls up on Hackworth’s lap as he discusses the sacrifices and bravery of the dogs, like Maisey, who helped clear the country from “Zack.” It may sound overly sentimental, but Hackworth’s impassioned interview certainly does not come off that way in the text (and for the record, we here at Tor.com love our real-life war dogs—particularly Sergeant Stubby, the most decorated dog of World War I). All I’m saying is that no matter how good or bad the movie turns out to be, everything’s better with warrior dachshunds in the trenches.

We’ll know in a few days whether any of these characters or storylines get a nod in the new film—or if maybe the writers have introduced some intriguing new angles of their own into the history of the Zombie War—but in the meantime, I highly recommend checking out the original book. And if you have your own set of favorite characters or stories you’d like to see in the big-screen version, let’s discuss in the comments…

Poster images by Masked Marauder and Tracie Ching via Blurppy.

World War Z concept art by Corlen Kruger.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She is also a little dubious about the fact that the movie is set in her hometown (Philadelphia), but filmed in Glasgow (Not Philadelphia). Scotland, I love you, but a haggis is not a cheesesteak.

Ever since the announcement that 20th Century Fox Lionsgate has optioned the TV and movie rights, I’ve been obsessing over the prospect of casting the series…and I know I’m not the only one. Of course, this is a game people have been playing since The Name of the Wind came out in 2007—Patrick Rothfuss even weighed in early on, tapping a few actors and actresses for different roles. Back in 2008, he pictured Natalie Portman as Denna, for example, Morena Baccarin as Fela, and Neil Patrick Harris as Bast. Far be it from me to disagree with the author, but let’s take a look at some other possibilities…

In many ways, these aren’t easy books to cast: Kvothe himself presents a bit of a problem since his story is split into several timelines (I can’t quite imagine that any adaptation would change the whole structure of the narrative. Or, I can imagine it, but I don’t want to). The roles of older and younger Kvothe would both require incredibly gifted actors who resemble one another to a relatively strong extent. On top of that (assuming the show focuses on the time just around his entrance into the University), younger Kvothe is theoretically in his early teens, but passing as several years older, for much of the story. But the actor playing him has to be old enough to get into some rather adult situations (cough, cough, Felurian, cough) sooner or later, so I think they’ll have to go with a young-looking actor in his early 20s. I’d anticipate a lot of flashbacks to Kvothe’s boyhood as well, so in reality, I’m guessing there will be at least three actors playing the character at different points. The producers should just construct a Bat-Signal for young ginger actors, at this point—they’re going to be seeing more redheads than a Weasley family reunion.

Of course, the fact that it’s a challenge just makes this more fun—I think I’ve finally lined up a pretty sold representation of my dream cast, below. Just to be clear, rather than factoring real world concerns like budget and the actors’ availability, I prefer to focus on acting abilities and finding the closest fit to my own mental impressions of each character. I’ve also chosen actors who are mainly from the UK because in my head, The Commonwealth falls into the odd groove of “probably kind of vaguely British” that has formed in my brain over years of reading/watching fantasy series. Maybe I’m completely off, of course, and the characters should all be speaking like they’re from Wisconsin, or France, or somewhere else entirely. All in all, I expect that mileage for some of these suggestions will vary wildly, so please chime in with your own casting picks and theories in the comments!

Kote (AKA, Older, World-Weary, Cut-Flower Kvothe)—Tom Hiddleston

There have been a lot of strong candidates for this role bandied about lately, and I absolutely agree that Kevin McKidd would do an amazing job as Kote/Kvothe. And as for Magneto Michael Fassbender, that guy should be allowed to do pretty much whatever he wants from now on. But Hiddleston has a playfulness that makes him the first choice, in my mind—the series will need to connect the adult Kvothe with the brash, charming, likeable boy in the past, and Hiddleston has a boyishness that would serve him well in that regard. Plus, he’s a hell of an actor, and it would be a pleasure to watch him navigate the complexities of being both Kote, the affable nobody, and Kvothe, the conflicted, misunderstood legend in his own time.

Kvothe: The Teen Years—Matthew Beard

This role is by far the most difficult to cast, and going with a relative unknown probably wouldn’t be a bad move on the studio’s part. The importance of finding a young actor talented and charismatic enough to carry the series can’t be overstated, and I don’t envy them the job. I changed my mind about 20 times in the course of writing this post—for awhile, I thought about nominating Nicholas Hoult, who seems to be everywhere right now, but it just wasn’t right. In the end, I settled on Matthew Beard (probably best known for his roles in the films An Education and Chatroom) because he comes closest to my mental image of Kvothe as a young adult. Of course, we’d have to reverse-Cumberbatch his hair from dark to true red first, but I think he has both the proper look and the proper intensity to be a contender…

Bast—Robert Sheehan

I realize that this might be a controversial choice, but while Sheehan is best known for the motor-mouth and goofball antics that allowed him to steal the show as Nathan in Misfits, I think he’d be amazing as the charming, slightly sinister Bast. Sheehan is fantastic at swinging between comic and dramatic extremes from one minute to the next, and he’s got the look right; I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see in the role of the shifty Fae princeling.

The Chronicler/Devan Lochees—Hugh Laurie

The role of Chronicler could be played a million different ways, and an actor like Hugh Laurie is capable of bringing a little bit of everything to the table: the gruffness of Dr. House, the foppishness of Bertie Wooster, and the skills of a brilliant, world-class comedian. Devan Lochees is a scholar, but he’s also travelled The Four Corners of Civilization by himself, so he’s got some grit to him, and I love the idea of the character being played by an actor who also writes, as Laurie does. It would be an interesting fit…

Ambrose Jakis—Harry Lloyd

Anyone who witnessed his turn as Viserys Targaryen on Game of Thrones knows that nobody plays a smug, spoiled, infuriating jackass quite like Harry Lloyd, and I mean that as a compliment. His sneer is a work of art.

Denna—Tatiana Maslany or Emilia Clarke

The biggest issue for me in casting Denna is that she has to be able to draw the audience in, the same way that Kvothe is drawn to her, inexorably. It’s not just a matter of being physically attractive—Denna has to be inherently likeable, which can be difficult when playing the unobtainable object of a protagonist’s desire. Given the nature of Denna and Kvothe’s friendship/tentative romance, it would be easy for her to come off as flaky or frustrating, which is why I think either Orphan Black’s Tatiana Maslany or Game of Thrones’ Emilia Clarke could fill the role admirably. Both are capable of projecting a warmth and humor that seems absolutely genuine—as well as shifting seamlessly between toughness to vulnerability. They’re both hugely appealing actresses who could do wonders with a potentially difficult character.

Master Elodin—Lee Pace

Lee Pace has quickly become of my favorite actors over the last few years due to his astounding range as a performer. Whether it’s quirky comedy (Pushing Daisies), tragic indie drama (Soldier’s Girl), stunning meta-fantasy (The Fall), or more mainstream roles like Scruffy Eyeliner Vampire in Twilight: Breaking Dawn or Sad, Unhelpful Elf King in The Hobbit, Pace brings something new and unexpected to every role. I think he’d be the perfect choice to bring Elodin’s mercurial eccentricities to life without sacrificing the darker, more haunted aspects of the Master Namer.

Elxa Dal—David Tennant

Do I really need to explain this one? I would also happily accept Tennant in the role of Elodin, but then I wouldn’t have gotten to use this picture. And that would have been a damn shame.

Simmon—William Moseley

Best known for playing Peter Pevensie in the Narnia films, Moseley would be an obvious fit for playing Kvothe’s sensitive, sandy-haired friend and drinking buddy.

Wilem—Elyes Gabel

Most people will recognize Elyes Gabel as Rakharo from Game of Thrones or his latest role in World War Z, but I saw him first in The Borgias (because I have a weakness for scenery-chewing and historical melodrama. I’m not proud). He’d bring plenty of charm to the role of the stoic, intelligent Wilem—the steady voice of reason in Kvothe’s life at The University.

Fela—Jessica Brown Findlay

Besides the fact that she’s clearly rather stunning, Downton Abbey’s Jessica Brown Findlay has a knack for playing young, intelligent, idealistic women—who better for the luminous and clever Fela?

Auri—Saoirse Ronan

Saoirse Ronan is a seriously gifted young actress, capable of bringing all manner of depth and shading to the role of the damaged, otherworldly Auri. I know that Evanna Lynch (who did a stellar job as Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter movies) is a popular favorite for this role, but after seeing Ronan’s performance in Hanna, I’d argue she’s the stronger choice: capable of balancing Auri’s delicate, ethereal quality with the fearful, feral survival instincts of someone slightly wild, maybe even slightly mad. In other words, she’d keep things from getting way too twee. And just in case the older, rather stark photo above doesn’t do her justice, check out this amazing, Pre-Raphaelite-inspired photo shoot from Vogue.

Devi—Dakota Blue Richards (or maybe Jenna-Louise Coleman?)

I can’t quite make up my mind on this one. Doctor Who’s Jenna-Louise Coleman would certainly be a natural fit for Devi: several years older than Kvothe, smart, flirtatious, driven, with a devious, mercenary nature beneath an innocent exterior. On the other hand, Richards (who made her debut as Lyra in The Golden Compass) might make an interesting foil for Kvothe—her youth and physical slightness underscoring our sense of Devi as a formidable woman used to being underestimated (by Kvothe and others), something she both resents and uses to her advantage. I think I would enjoy watching Dakota Blue Richards letting loose as the most feared gaelet in Imre.

Count Threpe—Jim Broadbent

Who doesn’t like Jim Broadbent?! He’d be a delightful fit as the good-hearted, music-loving Count Threpe, patron of the arts and devoted friend to young Kvothe.

BONUS ROUND: The Wise Man’s Fear

Maer Alveron—Richard Armitage

Looking ahead to the events of The Wise Man’s Fear, Richard Armitage would bring just the right amount of aristocratic gravitas and aloofness to the role of the enigmatic Maer.

Lady Meluan Lackless—Eva Green

Eva Green is beautiful, she’s got plenty of experience in the fantasy genre (The Golden Compass, Dark Shadows, Camelot, etc.), and she plays a very convincing femme fatale—all of which might come in handy in approaching the role of the mysterious Meluan Lackless.

Felurian—India Eisley

The up-and-coming India Eisley, the 19-year-old daughter of actress Olivia Hussey, made news when she was tapped to play the younger incarnation of Angelina Jolie in Disney’s Maleficent. I’m hoping/assuming that Fox will tone down much of the Felurian section of the novel for TV, which makes me feel slightly less guilty at casting someone so young-looking for a character described by Kvothe as a “primal lust goddess”—I’m aiming more for a PG-13, Manic Fairie Dream Girl territory. Get her some butterfly eye makeup and write in some extra clothing, and it’s hardly creepy at all, right? Maybe?

So, that’s all for now—maybe we can do another round focusing on more of the secondary characters and The Wise Man’s Fear at a later date. In the meantime, please have at it in the comments…

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She spent the last week wading through previously uncharted regions of Google Image Search, and what has been seen can never, ever be unseen.

George R. R. Martin’s contribution to the Dangerous Women anthology purports to be an official history of one of the darkest and bloodiest chapters in the annals of the Seven Kingdoms, detailing the events of the infamous civil war known as The Dance of the Dragons. Given the relative darkness and bloodiness of most of the historical snippets strewn like grisly breadcrumbs throughout the Song of Ice and Fire novels, fans of the series should know enough to brace themselves for a wild ride…and Martin does not fail to deliver.

Set almost 170 years before the events of A Game of Thrones (80 years before the Dunk and Egg stories), the tale begins with the death of the king, Viserys I Targaryen. Viserys had long declared that his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the only surviving child of his first marriage, would succeed him as heir to the Iron Throne. His second marriage had also produced children, however, including several adult sons, and upon his passing the newly widowed Queen claims the throne for her eldest son, Aegon. The stage is set for an epic war of succession between the two branches of House Targaryen, a conflict waged on land, sea, and in the air, as the competing royals turn their dragons against one another, bringing both dragons and the Targaryens themselves to the brink of extinction.

A note about spoilers: if you’ve been paying close attention to the novels, chances are you already know the outcome of the war, but I won’t reveal those kinds of story-specific details in this review—those who want a refresher on Targaryen history should check out this incredibly helpful timeline/family tree. Because the novella is set in the past, there are no spoilers for the series in the story itself, but you may want to stop reading before the comments if you’d like to avoid any speculation on how this story might relate to the plot of the books through A Dance With Dragons.

The first thing you might notice about this story is that it’s a bit of a departure from the novels and the Dunk and Egg stories in terms of voice. The full title actually reads “The Princess and The Queen, Or, The Blacks and The Greens: Being a History of the Causes, Origins, Battles, and Betrayals of the Most Tragic Bloodletting Known As the Dance of the Dragons, as set down by Archmaester Gyldayn of the Citadel of Oldtown ((here transcribed by George R. R. Martin)).” Martin seems to be having quite a good time inhabiting the stodgy, fussy voice of the Archmaester, who disdains the flowery and dramatic embroidering of poets, singers, and gossipmongers throughout the telling, yet somehow can’t seem to resist mentioning the kind of innuendos, rumors, and flourishes he claims to hold in such contempt, as a Serious Historian.

Martin had originally reported that the story appearing in this anthology would be the fourth installment of the Dunk and Egg series, with the rather intriguing working title of “The She-Wolves of Winterfell.” As much as I look forward to catching up with the further misadventures of Ser Duncan as soon as possible, I enjoyed “The Princess and the Queen” precisely because it presents a new facet into the world of Westeros and its history, and it’s an interesting change of pace from both the various POV characters who feature in the novels and the Dunk and Egg tales. In the books, we’ve gotten to know Daenerys as she’s grown from a frightened, abused, and isolated child to a warrior queen fighting to regain her throne. She believes herself to be the last Targaryen, and spending her life in exile has set her apart from both dynastic tradition and the family she never knew (except for her crazy brother—the less said about that guy, the better). We may not always agree with Dany’s decisions (or her taste in men), but we understand her and can sympathize with her.

In the Dunk and Egg stories, the earlier Targaryen royals are also humanized quite a bit through both the character of Egg and the eyes of Ser Duncan, the baseborn, brave, and often bewildered hedge knight who becomes entangled in the family’s affairs. Sure, they still practice incest and play with dragon eggs, and a spoiled royal sadist or a creepy sorcerer cousin might pop up once in a while at family reunions, but some of them are pretty okay, you know?

On the other hand, “The Princess and The Queen,” written as a history, is not particularly interested in humanizing Daenerys’s ancestors. Instead, it depicts the Targaryens as they were seen by the people they had conquered—remote, even magical figures, “rightly regarded as being closer to gods than the common run of men.” These characters are writ large: dragon-blooded titans plotting and clashing on a grand scale as the narrative swoops gleefully from high drama and intrigue to the basest folly and butchery. Both sides suffer horrific losses and stunning reversals of fortune, and time and time again we’re allowed to follow individual characters just long enough to get attached before some violent calamity befalls them. It should probably be noted that if you have problems with Very Bad Things happening to men, women, children, and dragons, lining up some potent unicorn chasers in advance might not be a bad idea. Be prepared for a body count that makes the end of Hamlet look like Care Bears on Ice.

In spite of the historical remove, fans of the series will recognize plenty of familiar names, themes, and situational parallels with the books. The Lannisters are rich and powerful, the Starks are grim and honorable, the Baratheons are proud and make trouble, the Greyjoys are belligerent and fickle, and some of the alliances made (or undone) during the Dance reflect the lines drawn during Robert’s Rebellion and the War of the Five Kings.  There are also some interesting mother/son relationships, particularly in the case of Rhaenyra and her sons. Here’s a fun bit of a trivia for you that shouldn’t come as either a spoiler or a surprise: even back in olden times, the headstrong sons of Westeros staunchly refuse to listen to their mothers (much to their detriment).

Beyond all these little bits of Westerosi history repeating, we also get our first real glimpse of dragon-centric warfare, along with the problem of finding able riders. Since dragons will only accept and bond with riders of Targaryen blood, the story chronicles the search for bastard-born “dragonseeds” to join the fray (with mixed results)—a subplot which clearly holds some potential relevance for Daenerys and her trio of dragons as events continue to unfold in the novels…

The name of the anthology is, of course, Dangerous Women, and this novella is very intentionally framed as a conflict between the two powerful female entities mentioned in its title: Rhaenyra and the Dowager Queen Alicent. The Queen sets events in motion by refusing to recognize Rhaenyra’s succession and conspiring to put her own son Aegon on the throne (in spite of the fact that he initially has no interest in being king), but after that, she recedes into the background. Rhaenyra takes a more active role—the story paints her as far more of a warrior than previous references have allowed. But while the Dance of the Dragons unfolds on the battlefield, it is strongly suggested that the true origins of the war began at a ball held long before the king’s death. Rhaenyra wore black, the Queen wore green, and as their rivalry grew their opposing factions divided themselves up accordingly (hence the second half of the title).

I’m not giving anything away by saying that Martin seems to be constantly undermining the idea that an attempt at an objective, factual history can ever really capture the truth at the heart of a story—implying that the truth lies somewhere in the messy personal motivations, relationships, and grudges that can only be understood by getting more intimately acquainted with the players than a formal history will allow. We know what happened, but we may not ever truly know why; as satisfying as the story is, since we’re not told what transpired at the ball, the entire tale retains a note of mystery (which feels right—if House Martin ever needs a motto, it should be “There’s Always More To The Story…”).

This shadowy central relationship aside, we’re also introduced to several other imposing female characters who hold their own throughout the narrative: Princess Rhaenys Targaryen (known as “The Queen Who Never Was”), Baela Targaryen, the teenaged dragonrider called Nettles, and Alys Rivers, a seer. All are secondary characters, but they make quite an impression even in the midst of all the macho posturing, chest-thumping, limb-hacking, and throne-stealing.

Finally, it’s interesting to note that the entire conflict revolves around the question of male primogeniture—a custom that was not necessarily the rule with the Targaryens as it had been with other rulers of Westeros. Up to this point in history, the Targaryens played by their own set of rules as conquerors: they continued the Valyrian practices of incest and polygamy, for example, frowned upon by the other great houses of the Seven Kingdoms. They saw themselves as exceptional—the blood of dragons—and perhaps that’s why King Viserys named his daughter as his heir, rather than his firstborn son, breaking with the accepted customs. The old laws, the law of the Andals, demanded a king, however, and while the issue is complex and riddled with competing political claims and personal self-interest, in many ways The Dance of the Dragons boils down to whether or not a woman can truly rule Westeros. As we await the next installment of the Song of Ice and Fire, that’s a question that remains exactly as potent—and as dangerous—as the Mother of Dragons herself.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She’s the kind of reader who gets really excited about mapping out the convoluted family trees of fictional characters, even when everyone is named “Aegon.” Just in case that wasn’t totally obvious.

For better or worse, the stereotype of the “Evil Brit” is certainly nothing new; Hollywood has been using classically trained actors to class up its films since the dawn of the talkies, recruiting many of its early stars from the British stage. I was surprised, however, when we began planning Magnificent Bastards week, just how many of my favorite male villains fit into the category of Charming-Yet-Menacing Aristocrat. And, while this isn’t necessarily true of my favorite female villains, most of my favorite bad guys have English accents. I can’t be the only one who feels this way: check out the list below and tell me if I’m wrong…

Now, some people might blame Disney movies for perpetuating this character type, and some folks (Eddie Izzard, for one) blame Star Wars and the Bond films for enshrining the character of the Fancy English Bastard in popular culture. Personally, I blame George Sanders. I grew up in love with old movies, and even if I hadn’t been obsessed with his appearances on Batman or as Shere Kahn in Disney’s The Jungle Book, there was no escaping Sanders’ perverse magnetism once I’d seen Rebecca and All About Eve.

Sanders is the prickly patron saint of a very specific subset of villainy: the epitome of the arch, cultured, imperious villain, whose influence can certainly be felt in the success of fan-idols-of-the-moment Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston (both of whom have managed to balance the haughty brusqueness of their best-known onscreen roles with humor and warm, fan-friendly charm off screen).

Of course, Sanders (like Hiddleston and Cumberbatch) doesn’t always appear as the villain—in fact, all of the actors listed below are all capable of portraying a dazzling range of character types and hitting all points on the old moral compass. But somehow, when good actors go rotten, we all win—so without further ado, here’s my list of actors who manage to commit all manner of felonious onscreen evil while maintaining both an aura of undeniable suavity (and a reliably impressive accent)…

Tim Curry…in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Legend, Muppet Treasure Island, FernGully: The Last Rainforest, etc.

When Curry was rehearsing for his first full-time stage role (which would eventually catapult him to stardom), he first performed Frank-N-Furter with a German, then an American accent before settling on the odd, upper-crusty accent that launched a million midnight screenings. Curry has said that his speech patterns in the film reflected a combination of Queen Elizabeth’s manner of speaking and his mother’s telephone voice. Whatever the origins, Curry has parlayed his highly recognizable, sonorous voice into a hugely successful career in movies, music, theater, and voice work, with all manner of interesting accents along the way (looking at you, Congo. Although maybe we should just agree to ignore Congo, for everyone’s sake).

While he’s played plenty of villains in his career, I’d argue that he’s at his most undeniably villainous as Darkness in Ridley Scott’s Legend (1985). As striking as the character is, visually—he looks like Satan somehow got stuck in Jeff Goldblum’s telepod with an unfortunate bull and an oversized lobster—it’s Curry’s voice that makes the character so memorable. Sure, Darkness put a hit out on some unicorns, then kidnapped Ferris Bueller’s girlfriend and gothed her out against her will…but every time he opens his mouth, rich, buttery, evil magic happens. He’s like the Barry White of hideous demonic creatures.

Tim Curry is always incredibly fun to watch, whether he’s playing a good guy or the embodiment of pure evil, a demented alien scientist, a scurvy pirate, or a jazzy, disembodied rainforest-hating spirit. He manages to make all of his villains unreasonably appealing, on some level…except , of course, for Pennywise the Clown. Proving once and for all that clowns are just plain irredeemable, and to be avoided at all costs.

Christopher Guest…in The Princess Bride.

As a kid, I loved both The Princess Bride and This Is Spinal Tap, but it took me a few years to make the connection between Count Rugen, the infamous Six-Fingered Man, and Tap’s lead guitarist/resident man-child, Nigel Tufnel. Once Guest began writing and directing his own movies in the mid-90s, his ability to completely lose himself in diverse characters became more and more apparent, but his status as a genius was already unassailable by then (at least for me). The fact that he is equally as convincing as a childlike, Gumby-loving, hilarious idiot one hand and an ice-cold, murderous arch-sadist on the other is really all you need to understand the force of his talent. Guest’s quiet, calculated turn as Rugen is brilliant: utterly twisted and sinister without ever being over the top, even when explaining the bizarre obsession with pain that is his “life’s work,” as he sucks an entire year of Westley’s life away. The performance is equal parts warped comedy and dead-eyed Sadean menace, making Count Rugen one of my favorite villains of all time.

Christopher Lee…in The Last Unicorn, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the Star Wars prequels, The Wicker Man, various Hammer Horror/Dracula movies, and so on and so forth.

Here’s what you need to know: Christopher Lee is FASCINATING. Seriously, go read up on him, if you haven’t before—he’s just an incredibly interesting human being, even beyond the scope of his long, illustrious, and eventful career. Best known for playing villains, Lee has always managed to bring additional dimensions to his darker characters. While he was initially typecast as the heavy in horror films following his success at Hammer Films, he broke out of the mold and moved on to more interesting roles after playing Mycroft Holmes in Billy Wilder’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970):

I’ve never been typecast since. Sure, I’ve played plenty of heavies, but as Anthony Hopkins says, “I don’t play villains, I play people.”

An extremely well-read and intelligent actor, Lee is known for the research and preparation he brings to a role, whether it be Dracula, a Bond villain, a treacherous wizard, or a sinister pagan lord. I first encountered his work in The Last Unicorn, a movie I was utterly and completely obsessed with as a child. I remember finding the doomed King Haggard rather frightening, but also deeply interesting and very sad—he was a far more complex villain than I was used to seeing in animated films (at least the ones aimed at children). His obsession and intensity resonated with me, long before I was old enough to read the book for myself. Never a one-note villain, Christopher Lee finds depths and shades into the darkness of his characters, turning villainy into high art.

Peter Cook…in Bedazzled.

Like Christopher Guest (his costar in The Princess Bride), Peter Cook only needed one role to elevate himself into my private pantheon of villainous weirdos. Cook plays the Devil, more casually known as George Spiggott, in Bedazzled, a comic revamp of the Faust legend for which Cook also wrote the screenplay. Admittedly, the movie may seem a bit dated now, more than four decades later, but Cook’s performance remains luminescent as he torments sad sack Stanley Moon (Dudley Moore) through a series of increasingly ridiculous set pieces; louche but likeable, his Satanic Majesty is a mischievous cad for the ages. His constant upstaging of Moon’s well-intentioned attempts at impressing his love interest drives the film, using Stanley’s best and worst impulses against him—here, in my favorite scene, he grants Stanley’s wish to be a rock star…only to swagger onstage and steal his thunder (and the object of Moon’s affection) as the most nihilistic, self-absorbed pop idol of all time:

Best. Devil. Ever.

Charles Dance…in The Golden Child, Last Action Hero, Game of Thrones, etc.

Even when Dance isn’t playing a villain, he’s often been cast in rather severe, humorless roles (Ali G Indahouse aside, of course). Perhaps that’s why it’s so delightful to watch him truly having fun with a role…especially when that role involves being an utter and diabolical bastard. His first line as postmodern meta-bad guy Benedict in 1993’s Last Action Hero, for example, is “If God was a villain, he would have been me.” He only gets more badass from there, gleefully shooting people and snarling zingers and having a fabulous time, and generally making us appreciate how boring movies would be without proper, gregarious, extroverted villains.

And then there’s the fact that he took the coldest and most hateable man in all of Westeros and made him fun to watch. In the books, Tywin is such a distant, epic figure that we only get close to him through his children’s eyes…and frankly, those glimpses don’t help to humanize or demystify him very much at all. On the series, Dance captures Tywin’s frigid demeanor and Machiavellian brilliance while still making him seem human, with a charm and intelligence that complicate—but don’t detract from—his coldness and cruelty. Tywin Lannister is a magnificent bastard in either medium, but Dance has made the character more intriguing than I would have thought possible.

Alan Rickman…in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and the Harry Potter series (although his villain status there is dubious, he certainly counts as a major antagonist throughout most of the series).

Was there any doubt that Rickman would make this list? I mean, there’s a reason that both Cumberbatch and Hiddleston are asked so often to bust out their Rickman impressions. From Die Hard onward, he’s carved out an iconic place for himself at the heart of pop culture using only his voice and his eyebrows—whether he’s playing a German terrorist or a romantic figure in a period drama or an irritated B-list actor with a wacky catchphrase, Rickman’s distinctive voice and ability to wield both gravity and sarcasm, as needed, with virtuoso skill make for compelling viewing.

Like most of the actors on this list, Rickman takes issue with attempts to pigeonhole him as a villain by trade, noting that the Sheriff of Nottingham in 1991’s Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves is the last “stock villain” he’s ever played. Even in the role of a stock villain, however, Rickman is absolutely brilliant—arguably the best thing about the movie, whether you’re a fan or not—and he won a London Film Critics’ Circle Award as well as a BAFTA for his performance as the manic, dastardly Sheriff. So perhaps it’s no wonder that Rickman’s turn as the more nuanced and ambiguous Severus Snape turned out to be one of the highlights of a series largely characterized by shrewd and fortuitous casting.

Snape is the most complex and nuanced major character in the series, and Rickman’s portrayal of a flawed, damaged, conflicted man is one of the emotional touchstones of the Harry Potter films. I honestly couldn’t care less about the Oscars…but the fact that Alan Rickman has never been nominated still sits badly with me. We should put together an award ceremony that’s actually relevant one day, and demand that every single presenter bring their best Rickman impression to the stage. At least it would be fun to watch, right?

In any case, that’s my own personal take on the Best of the Worst of a distinguished subset of Magnificent Bastard: sometimes suave and debonair, sometimes caustic and cunning, the strain lives on in newer stars like Hiddleston and Cumberbatch as well as a host of other established actors (the great Ian McShane, Anthony Hopkins, Jeremy Irons, and Mark Strong are all quite adept at playing compelling villains, as is Gary Oldman, of course).

And while I do enjoy this particular type of Hollywood villain, I also like a bit of variety in my bad guys—they don’t all have to be guys, for example. And as much as I love a testy aristocratic glowering down from the screen and proclaiming his pompous superiority to the world, I also wish these sorts of glorious opportunities for strutting and stealing all the best lines were more readibly available to a greater range of actors in genre films. Everyone should have a chance to have their Bastard flag fly, after all. I look forward to catching a glimpse of George Sanders’ magnificent style of malevolence in a more and more diverse array of amoral grimaces, quips, and eyerolls as Hollywood slowly catches up to the 21st century. The luminous (and rather smirky) Ruth Negga’s recent appearance on Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. might be the best thing that’s happened to the show so far, to cite just one example…I hope she’ll stick around to wreak some classy, classy havoc for many episodes to come. In any case, let’s hear about your favorite villains (past, present, and possibly future) in the comments!

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She grew up in Philadelphia, where everyone speaks exactly like the characters in The Philadelphia Story. Except not at all.

Okay, everybody—time to don some flannel, strap on your discman, and time travel back to the strange and magical world of 1990. For a brief, shining moment, Americans’ favorite pastime involved huddling around their giant TVs and bulky recording devices to find out what bizarre happenings would unfold each week in the town of Twin Peaks, Washington, and David Lynch was the reigning king of network television.

Sound crazy? It was. Also crazy? This bizarro version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” as performed by Twin Peaks cast members, including Agent Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan), recorded by KROQ radio DJs at the height of the show’s popularity.

If you haven’t seen Twin Peaks, it will make absolutely no sense whatsoever, but if you’re part of the cult that considers the series one of the best things to ever happen to television, then grab yourself some pie and hot coffee and enjoy this surreal tribute to all the quirky, morbid madness of a David Lynch Christmas…

So…um…happy holidays? For bonus credit, I hope you’re all breaking out your best creepy, Black Lodge-style backward dance moves, right about now. Or at least doing the Leland Palmer boogie. (Man, I miss this show.)

Several years ago around this time, I wrote a post about some of my favorite bizarro holiday specials to help ring in our very first Tor.com Cthulhumas/Life Day/Krampusnacht/Solstice celebration. While a lot has changed since 2008, my abiding love of strange and unusual holiday-inspired lunacy is as strong as ever, so please enjoy this updated guide to some classic (or should-be classic) yuletide entertainment….

First off, I should admit that I’m a sucker for a lot of holiday standards, from The Grinch and Peanuts to Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman. I adore both White Christmas and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, but there’s also a lot of schmaltzy, badly-written nonsense floating around out there like so much stale, crusty fruitcake this time of year…and when the usual holiday fare starts wearing thin, it’s time to mix things up a bit.

The following movies and TV specials are amazing because they find new ways of celebrating the holiday spirit, with all its weird traditions and potentially awkward moments and unmeetable expectations. It’s not about irony or snark or subversion—it’s about making your own odd, goofy, wonderful kind of holiday cheer, wherever you can find it…

Scrooged (1988)
There are so many ways in which a late-80s update of A Christmas Carol could have gone horribly wrong, and yet Bill Murray is indescribably brilliant as viciously cynical TV exec Frank Cross, out to score holiday ratings with his tacky, exploitative live production of the Dickens classic (meta!). Murray’s trademark sarcasm and deadpan retorts make him the most entertaining incarnation of Scrooge ever, but when his smarmy yuppie facade finally cracks…well, let’s just say that the end of this movie gets me every time. By the time Murray and the rest of the cast (including Karen Allen, Carol Kane, Bobcat Goldthwait, David Johansen and Robert Mitchum) start singing along to “Put A Little Love In Your Heart,” I defy you not to get a little teary (in a good way!) One of the greatest holiday movies of all time, in my book.

Christmas At Pee-Wee’s Playhouse (1988)
In which Grace Jones arrives in a giant box and performs the only rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy” I’ll ever truly love. Plus, Pee-Wee teaches Little Richard how to ice skate, Charo performs “Feliz Navidad” with robot accompaniment, and Zsa Zsa Gabor appears as “Princess Zsa Zsa” and SO MUCH MORE. A hyper-affectionate throwback to the campy holiday TV extravaganzas of the 60s and 70s, Pee-Wee’s Christmas special is a total bizarre, sparkly delight with a heart of gold (and you can actually watch the whole thing here, thanks to the magic of YouTube! Just try not to read the comments. Ever.)

The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus (1985)
I’ve already written about this amazingly bizarre and wonderful special at length, but I really can’t say enough good things about this puppety lovechild of L. Frank Baum and Rankin & Bass. It’s dark and weird and there are elves, wind demons, and a battle that involves a Santa-hating dragon…not to mention the fact that the plot centers on a council of immortal beings trying to decide whether to let Santa join them, or let him die of old age. (Spoiler: he doesn’t die, but it’s not like there aren’t people on the fence, for awhile). In short, not your usual, relentlessly cheery holiday fare, but it’s beautifully made, the design is stunning, and it’s certainly an original, fascinating take on the legend of Santa Claus through the lens of myth and fantasy.

The Year Without A Santa Claus (1974)
While there’s nothing else quite as intensely strange as The Life & Adventures of Santa Claus in the Rankin/Bass holiday canon, this little doozy certainly has its moments. You have to love any premise kicked off by a whiny, chronically depressed Santa who just doesn’t give a damn about Christmas anymore. Plus, the Heat Miser and Snow Miser are the catchiest duo to ever hit holiday animation, deep-seated mommy-issues and all; if you need a quick fix, you can catch their classic, campy little number above. In the end, though, the film delivers a fun twist on the Santa story, thanks to the irrepressible Mrs. Claus, who helps her husband rediscover the Christmas spirit and saves the day. It’s also a nice change of pace to see Mrs. Claus taking the reins (with an assist from Mother Nature, no less!)—she’s a smart, sassy holiday heroine, and there really aren’t as many of those as there should be.

Community
The show has had two fantastic Christmas-themed episodes to date; the first, “Abed’s Uncontrollable Christmas,” is a smart, warped take on stop-motion animated holiday classics, combining group therapy and psychodrama with a fantasy land full of whimsical talking toys. The second is simply one of my favorite TV episodes of all time: “Regional Holiday Music” starts off as a goofy parody of Glee, but builds into an exploration of why the holidays are important and meaningful, as an opportunity to celebrate with the people you love, on your own terms.

It comes as close to a cliché sitcom-y resolution as Community is ever likely to get, but that happy ending has been more than earned by the fact that the show deals honestly with the reality that the holidays can be a dark time for some people, and all the forced holiday cheer in the world can’t compete with a little sincerity between friends. And I haven’t even mentioned the songs, which are all glorious and amazing—my favorite is probably Annie’s creepy, brilliant pseudo-seduction of Jeff (above), which deconstructs the infantilized Betty Boop-style appeal of a song like “Santa Baby” in the most hilarious way possible….

A Muppet Family Christmas (1987)
Not to knock the outstanding Muppet Christmas Carol, but this has always been my favorite Muppet holiday special, bringing together all of the characters from Sesame Street, The Muppet Show, and Fraggle Rock for some loosely plotted, rollicking Christmas merrymaking. The basic premise starts off with Fozzy invading his mother’s farm with the rest of the Muppet Show crew, just as she’s trying to leave for a vacation in Malibu. Meanwhile, Miss Piggy is stuck at photo shoot and spends most of the special running late for various reasons, while the house fills up with unexpected guests, carolers and assorted monsters. In the midst of all the chaos and singing and mild dysfunction, of course, a wonderful time is had by all, and we even get a cameo of Jim Henson himself at the very end, as all the Muppets sing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” It’s really not to be missed.

Phineas and Ferb Christmas Vacation! (2009)
Even if you’ve never seen the show, I’d still highly recommend this special, which manages to showcase the writers’ trademark ingenuity in terms of plotting, ridiculously clever dialogue and references and all the show’s usual features and in-jokes while creating a truly delightful, heartwarming celebration of the holidays. The plot’s a little too complicated to some up here, but it’s silly and light, and yet somehow manages to be more touching than it has any right to be. Also, the special guest star who voices Santa? Clancy Brown. Not a bad starting point if you’ve been hearing good things about the series, and a seasonal must-see if you’re already a fan (or if you just love ridiculously clever, warm holiday enterainment).

The Venture Bros.
The Season One episode “A Very Venture Christmas” starts off with a brilliant pastiche of every Christmas special cliché ever and ends with a visit from the Krampus. There’s also a bomb planted in a miniature Nativity scene. I don’t even want to say anything more. It’s just ridiculous, and amazing. Krampus!

Futurama
Even casual Futurama fans will probably already be familiar with the fact that a psychotic Robot Santa terrorizes the Planet Express gang every Xmas (in the future, of course, the holiday is pronounced “eks-mas”). The character was introduced in the first season’s “Xmas Story” (which ends with a rousing rendition of “Santa Claus Is Gunning You Down”), and returns in the third season episode “A Tale of Two Santas,” which also features Kwanzaabot, mistaken robo-idenitity, and Dr. Zoidberg pretending to be Jesus. Robot Santa also features in the fifth season’s “Futurama Holiday Spectacular” and Bender’s Big Score. Sure, in the future, Santa might be feared across the galaxy as a soulless killing machine—but nothing brings people closer than huddling indoors to escape his holiday wrath, so at least there’s something to look forward to….

Will Vinton’s Claymation Christmas Celebration (1987)
This slice of strange but enjoyable holiday cheer features an odd array of claymation characters, from the California Raisins to a snarky duo of comic-relief dinosaurs. Admittedly, it’s kind of trippy, in that Very Special 80s way. Say what you want about the 1980s—it was a strange decade, especially on the television front—but knock back a few glasses of eggnog and see if you can turn your back on the spectacle of talking dinosaurs and giant anthropomorphized raisins soulfully singing Christmas carols. Maybe not a full-on classic, but call it a fruity palate cleanser between marathon reruns of A Christmas Story and It’s A Wonderful Life.

The Star Wars Holiday Special (1978)
Of course this makes the list, every year, forever. In terms of sheer campy absurdity, the notoriously ridiculous Star Wars Holiday Special is a perennial contender for the What. The Hell. Were They Thinking? Award. From the Boba Fett cartoon to the sight of an elderly Wookiee visibly aroused by the disco stylings of Diahann Carroll to Bea Arthur serenading the Mos Eisley cantina, the Special is a tragic experiment in messy kitsch which continues to wreak havoc in the back alleys of our pop culture consciousness. While it has never been released—in fact, George Lucas has reportedly stated, “If I had the time and a sledgehammer, I would track down every copy of that show and smash it”—the SWHS is surprisingly easy to hunt down if you use The Force. And know how to perform a Google search. It should be noted (as a public service) that the gang from RiffTrax provide the kind of snarky commentary that might be the only way to make it through all two hours with your sanity intact. However you want to go about it, if it’s weirdness you’re after, you won’t be disappointed. Scarred, possibly. Deeply traumatized? Most definitely. But not disappointed.

So, those are my oddball recommendations—if the Island of Misfit Toys had its own cable channel, I imagine it would have a lot in common with this particular lineup…maybe with some bonus Gremlins and Blackadder’s Christmas Carol (or even Santa Claus: The Movie) thrown in for good (?) measure. But I can’t be the only one who likes to mix it up every year—share some of your own favorites in the comments, and however you end up spending the holidays this year, I hope they’re warm, wonderful, and highly entertaining!

This post originally appeared on December 17, 2012

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She can’t believe she missed out on Pee Wee’s Christmas Special for so many years, and is making up for lost time. You can never have enough wigs and glitter around, this time of year…

Hearken unto me, little children. I grew up during the 1980s, when something called the Video Cassette Recorder was still the red hot, razor sharp, cutting-edge of technology. While it seems hard to believe nowadays, the bulky black rectangle, perched like a crude, mass-market facsimile of the Monolith from 2001 glowered ominously from the heights of our family entertainment center and was worshiped as a household god, which might be why my brother kept trying to feed it his Cheerios all the time (that did not end well). For me, the VCR was just a magical purveyor of Fraggle Rock and Cyndi Lauper videos; for my father, I now realize, it became a means of ruthlessly hunting down and capturing every single televised holiday special aired in the tri-state area between the late 70s and the mid-90s.

The amazing thing is that most of these tapes still survive to this day, having somehow escaped both the trauma of having soggy cereal dumped into the VCR and my manic Mystery Science Theater taping-sprees of yore (Hey! Joel said to keep circulating the tapes—if that meant recording a Gamera movie over some lesser sibling’s first baby steps, so be it. I have no regrets). The upshot of all this is that my siblings and I have had access to A LOT of really strange, Christmas-themed entertainment, and yet every year we return to one of our collective favorites: the 1985 Rankin/Bass adaptation of L. Frank Baum’s The Life & Adventures of Santa Claus, also known as The World’s Most Bizarre Animated Christmas Special…EVER.

If you’re not familiar with Baum’s take on the Santa Claus legend, here’s the deal (get ready): Claus, a mortal infant, is found by the great Ak, Master

Woodsman of the World, and raised by the immortals populating the magical Forest of Burzee, which include Fairies, Wood Nymphs, Gnomes, Elves, Imps, and (most awesomely) Wind Demons. His education includes a traumatizing jaunt through the human world, where he encounters war, poverty, child abuse and neglect, and general inhumanity, at which point Claus decides that he must venture forth from his charmed existence in order to bring some good into the depressing hellscape that is mortal life.

The rest of the book follows his transformation into the kindly, toy-dispensing Santa Claus we’re all familiar with, except in this version he has to fight the evil Awgwas (a sort of malevolent ogre/demon blend) with the help of all his wacky immortal buddies, culminating in an massive battle between the Great Ak and his minions and the forces of evil: Awgwas, Demons, Giants and, of course, Dragons. Because what Christmas story is complete without evil, Santa-hating dragons?

Even better than the random demon-and-dragon battle, though, is the fact that the entire story is framed by a plot device involving Claus’s impending death. The Rankin/Bass special begins with the Great Ak assembling a council of Immortals in order to decide whether Claus should be granted the Mantle of Immortality and continue bringing joy to the children of the world, OR whether they should, you know, just let him drop dead. Tonight. Got it, kids? Santa’s about to go to sleep AND NEVER WAKE UP. Yeah. Thanks, Rankin and Bass, for bringing the much-needed stench of death to the world of cheery holiday fun. Wow.

I really can’t describe how weird and amazing this special is, so all I can do is implore you to see for yourself, beginning with the clip below. Feel free to skip the first minute of the clip if you’re in some sort of weird hurry, but please, please, please check out the opening song, which combines creepy pseudo-Latin chanting with crazy puppet wind demons, and features catchy holiday lyrics like: “Ora e Sempre/ Today and Forever/ For ages and ages to come/ To the first cracking of Doom!!!” Not exactly “Frosty the Snowman,” is it? Doom? Wind demons? Chanting in Latin? These things alone should be enough to convince that you haven’t done Christmas right until you’ve done Christmas with L. Frank Frickin’ Baum (whose profound and awe-inspiring weirdness is overlooked far too often by the general population). This year, do yourself a favor and check out Baum’s book, the inspired Rankin/Bass production (which is as visually gorgeous as it is bizarrre), or some combination thereof; the holidays will never seem quite the same again…

This post originally appeared on Tor.com on December 19, 2008

Bridget McGovern is the non-fiction editor of Tor.com.

I’m honestly not sure what I can say about The Last Unicorn that hasn’t been said before—folks were proclaiming the book a classic almost as soon as it was published, and certainly before I was born. Ursula K. Le Guin has paid tribute to Peter S. Beagle’s “particular magic,” Madeleine L’Engle described him as “one of my favorite writers,” and countless other readers, writers, and reviewers have heaped such a formidable mountain of praise at his door that it almost seems futile to approach, from down in the valley, and try to carve out some new flourish or clamber conveniently onto some hitherto unexplored perspective.

But even great monuments have their road signs, billboards, and tourist brochures, their aggressively fluorescent arrows pointing helpfully toward sites that really shouldn’t be missed. So consider this post a roadside marker, a glossy pamphlet, a helpful map to a well-worn path that’s much-travelled for a reason: the world of The Last Unicorn is always worth visiting, and revisiting, even if you think you’ve seen it all before.

Note: Spoilers for the plot and ending of The Last Unicorn below.

For no particular reason that I can think of, looking back, I didn’t actually read the novel until I was in my late teens, although I’d been obsessed with the animated movie version well before I could read. As faithful as the movie is (Beagle himself adapted the screenplay, and I’ll actually be discussing the film in a separate post later this week), I’ve always felt that the experience of reading the novel is markedly different from that of watching the film.* As a devoted and unapologetic fan of both versions, I don’t necessarily privilege one above the other, but the movie embroiders upon the simple elegance of the original story with its spectacular animation, its cast of well-known actors, its memorable soundtrack—it’s a tale well and richly told, and captures much of what makes the book so beloved. What resists translation from page to screen is what might be termed the literary angels’ share—the subtlety of writing that continuously loops in on itself and turns the reader into an unconscious co-conspirator, an acolyte (and, every so often, a comedic straight man).

*I should probably note here that I have not read the comic series published by IDW, although all the glimpses of the artwork I’ve seen have been gorgeous—if you’ve read them, please share your impressions in the comments!

The plot itself is a relatively straightforward quest narrative. It begins with the unicorn, alone in her lilac wood, spending the long years of her immortal existence in quiet, untroubled solitude until one day she overhears a pair of hunters debating the existence of unicorns. Shocked at their assertion that she is the last of her kind, she sets out in search of the others, finding the world much changed after so many years apart from it. The people she encounters have a longing for magic, miracles, and legends of the past, but are no longer capable of recognizing true magic when it appears, preferring cheap trickery and illusions.

Out on the road, the unicorn is mistaken for a horse by men and sees no signs of her lost kin until she crosses paths with a rapturous, half-mad butterfly who recognizes her and names her, between reciting frantic snippets of songs, poetry, and jingles.* In a fleeting moment of clarity, he tells her that her people have been chased down by a creature called the Red Bull, and so she sets out again, only to find herself recognized and captured by a seedy hedge witch. Outfitted with a false horn (so that she may be seen by unknowing customers for what she truly is), the unicorn is put on display as part of Mommy Fortuna’s Midnight Carnival, a shabby collection of counterfeit monsters and one other true immortal creature: the harpy, Celaeno.

*Apparently, Beagle explains every reference, allusion, and in-joke woven into the Butterfly’s speech in “The Butterfly Decodex,” rumored to appear in his highly-anticipated collection The First Last Unicorn and Other Beginnings, due out on February 1st.

Finding an ally in the carnival’s would-be sorcerer, Schmendrick, the unicorn escapes (in one of the most harrowing and starkly, sadly beautiful passages in the novel) and returns to the road. Schmendrick tells her of the blighted country of King Haggard, where the monstrous Red Bull is rumored to dwell. He asks to join the quest, and—owing him her freedom—the unicorn agrees, although she already feels the cost of keeping company with a mortal, “the first spidery touch of sorrow on the inside of her skin.” The unicorn is not immune to human emotion or human weaknesses, although they are not natural to her, having kept herself apart from the world for so long, keeping watch over her forest and its creatures… In many ways, this is the heart of the story, beginning with this first shiver of sadness: how the unicorn changes, out in the world, no longer aloof and apart. It is not a straightforward lesson, and there is no glib, simplistic take-away moral at the end of the tale.

While there is a certain element of sadness and loss in the journey, however, it is counterbalanced with humor and liveliness—the tone of the book itself tends to veer between the heartbreakingly lyrical, disconcertingly insightful, and irreverently funny (much like the manic, poetry-spouting butterfly who sets the quest in motion—I’ve always thought of him as kind of a mascot for the novel as a whole).

As Schmendrick and the unicorn set out for Haggard’s kingdom, for example, we get a brief glimpse into the kooky marital problems of a pair of squabbling blue jays, right before Schmendrick gets drunk, offends the mayor of a nearby town with some unfortunate magical slapstick, and ends up kidnapped by a band of wanna-be, low-rent Merry Men under the dubious command of the self-aggrandizing Captain Cully, which is all pretty amusing. There’s something about Beagle’s use of offbeat, often anachronistic humor that strikes me as somehow intimate—it produces the same effect as, say, Groucho Marx turning to raise his eyebrows and address the audience, inviting you in on the joke.

As an extension of this humor, Beagle constantly plays with the reader’s sense of time and place in a hundred small ways. In spite of the quasi-medieval setting of the tale with its peasants, knights, and kings living in stony, witch-raised castles, he sprinkles in the oddest details: Haggard’s men-at-arms wear homemade armor sewn with bottle caps; elsewhere, a bored princeling flips through a magazine; Mommy Fortuna talks about her act as “show business,” and Cully invites Schmendrick to sit at his camp fire and “[h]ave a taco.” Moments like these don’t jolt you out of the story—they’re more like a gentle nudge in the ribs, reminding you that there’s much more going on under the cover of the classic quest narrative driving things forward.

It’s all part of the novel’s repeated questioning of what qualifies as “real” and what is legend or fantasy, and whether those categories are mutually exclusive. Part of the humor comes from the characters’ own awareness of the conventions of myth and folktales: you get the definite impression that these characters know their Joseph Campbell, especially when delivering lines like, “I know the birth of a hero when I see it….[h]ad it not been for the cats, I would have chanced the child, but they made it so obvious, so mythological.” Captain Cully—whose fondest dream is to have songs of his derring-do “field-recorded” and included in the Child Ballads—is something of an expert on the subject of myths, declaring Robin Hood to be “a classic example of the heroic folk heroes synthesized out of need. John Henry is another.” He is a mercenary fraud as a would-be folk hero, but he hopes to provide the tiny grain of reality around which a legend can grow, regardless of authenticity.

His companion, Molly Grue, argues that Cully has it backward, and only legends like Robin and Marion are truly real. A disappointed dreamer, Molly is world-weary, but not cynical enough that she cannot recognize the unicorn immediately for what she is, the embodiment of a hope that she had long ago given up on. Slipping away from Cully and his band of brigands, Molly joins the questing party (much to Schmendrick’s dismay) and begins to mellow and blossom in the presence of the unicorn as they venture into Haggard’s lands.

They soon reach the strangely prosperous town of Hagsgate, and learn that both the king and the townspeople have been cursed by the witch who built Haggard’s castle, towering at the edge of a cliff above the sea. While the castle stands, the town will thrive, and only a child of the town can destroy it—they suspect Haggard’s adopted heir, Prince Lír, of being the hero born to bring the witch’s curse to fruition (according to the usual signs and portents, of course), and try to bribe Schmendrick to murder the prince. Molly is horrified by the fact that the townfolk tried to murder Lír as a baby, to which Schmendrick characteristically replies:

Well, if they hadn’t, he couldn’t have grown up to be a prince. Haven’t you ever been in a fairy tale before? […] The hero has to make a prophecy come true, and the villain is the one who has to stop him—though in another kind of story, it’s more often the other way around. And a hero has to be in trouble from the moment of his birth, or he’s not a real hero. It’s a great relief to find out about Prince Lír. I’ve been waiting for this tale to turn up a leading man.

Leaving the town behind, our heroes encounter the Red Bull at last. The unicorn finds herself utterly powerless against the Bull, who drives her relentlessly toward Haggard’s castle. In an attempt to save her, Schmendrick is able to summon up true magic, although he cannot control it, and the unicorn awakes in the body of a young, mortal girl—a body she can feel dying all around her. In spite of the trauma, the three continue on to the castle and meet Haggard, grim and mistrustful, and Lír, who is soft, puppyish, and instantly infatuated with the strange young girl hastily introduced as the Lady Amalthea, Schmendrick’s, um, niece. (I do love that Schmendrick has a handy knowledge of Greek mythology to fall back on even when fumbling for a believable explanation for the presence of his suspiciously ethereal, newly-minted mortal companion…)

Both Haggard and Lír are instantly transfixed by Amalthea—Haggard suspects something of her unicorn nature, while Lír attempts every heroic deed in the book, from ogre-fighting to dragon-slaying to damsel-rescuing, in an attempt to get her attention. He turns himself into a mighty knight, but she does not notice him at all, too lost and confused in her new human body. Time passes, Molly and Schmendrick are no closer to discovering the whereabouts of the Bull or the missing unicorns, and Amalthea is so distraught and plagued by nightmares that she finally turns to Lír, falls in love, and begins to grow more and more human, gradually forgetting herself and her quest.

But of course, as Lír eventually points out, “Things must happen when it is time for them to happen. Quests may not be simply abandoned; prophecies must not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.” Molly gets a tip from a talking cat, Schmendrick performs a bit of trickery with some wine and a gossip-y skull, and suddenly everyone is running through the tunnels under the castle, toward the Bull’s lair.

Amalthea pleads with Schmendrick, telling him that she wants to stay mortal and marry Lír…but Lír knows that he has become a true hero, and as a hero he must see the quest through. And so the story plays out: the hero sacrifices himself for love, and his sacrifice changes everything. The magician finally comes into his own, one curse is broken, a prophecy is finally fulfilled, the Bull is defeated, Haggard falls, and the unicorns of the world are freed, streaming out of the sea and back to their forests, leaving only the last behind.

The unicorn stays for a moment: she revives Lír and then leaves him with Molly and Schmendrick on the beach, looking back only once. Their part in her story has ended, or vise versa, and Schmendrick insists that they must let her go: Lír is now king with great deeds in need of doing, and Molly and Schmendrick have their own story to follow. Is it a happy ending? Yes, but like everything else in this story, “happy” is neither clear-cut or simplistic—there has been death, and loss, and the unicorn will never be the same again, having learned love and then regret. Happy doesn’t mean that everyone gets everything they want, in the end, but their shared farewell means the start of other stories…life goes on, and spring has returned to the cursed lands, and we get the definite sense that there will ups and downs ahead and plenty of good humor to see people through both.

Somehow, after all the talk of myth and stories and what’s real and what’s not real, you feel somehow that in the end, you’ve been given something remarkably honest—a story that’s not about what’s true or not true, but one that accepts that there’s some truth scattered through almost everything, glinting beneath the deadly serious as well as the completely ridiculous, the patterns of literary conventions and the randomness of real life. This is in large part thanks to the metafictional playfulness of characters who gleefully deconstruct their own stories in the telling: Captain Cully, with his oddly academic approach to being a merry outlaw and his overtly practical approach to personal mythmaking, and certainly Schmendrick and Lír, with their canny awareness of the fairy tale unfolding beneath their feet, and their own respective roles to play. Just as they humanize the unicorn in the story, changing her, they transform her story itself, stretching out the stiff material of the lofty quest narrative into something more comfortable and familiar, loved and lived-in, but still beautiful and strange.

Over the course of this most recent reread of the novel, I’ve been thinking that it’s well and good to call a book a classic and give it a place of pride on your shelves and pick it up now and again when the mood strikes you, but there are certain books that should be shared and talked about far more often than they are. The Last Unicorn is not a difficult book—it is as smooth and graceful as its mythical protagonist, satisfying, resonant, self-contained, with hidden depths. It is a pleasure to read, even in its most bittersweet moments, and I wonder if, in some strange way, it gets overlooked at times because of its pleasurable nature.

Readers (and perhaps fantasy and science fiction readers more than most) love to discuss and champion challenging and complicated works—the hulking epics, the novels and series that require charts and glossaries and intricate timelines and family trees delineating generation upon generation’s worth of characters and world-building. I certainly do, at least—give me some decent intrigue and an impossibly large cast of characters and I’m swinging through fictional family trees like some kind of deranged literary Tarzan, gleefully penciling in notes along the way. I’m not suggesting that less is more, or that simpler fictions are innately superior to more complicated ones (or vise versa), but I do think that it can be easier to overlook a profound story told in simpler form.

A book like The Last Unicorn is not less significant because it is a pleasure—there is nothing remotely fluff-like about it, and if you read it closely and pay attention, you’ll be rewarded with the revelation of just how perfectly and subtly its form fits its meaning. It is a story about stories, the nature of reality, and how things can be both more and less than they seem, and as you read along you’ll find that its questions have become your own, that every choice that you make about how to feel and react and interpret is a part of the overall tale—not the simple quest that drives the plot, but the underlying story of what kind of world we live in, and what kind of people we really are.

So while I’m not sure I have anything new to say about the book, I still feel that it’s important to say this much, and to continue rereading and recommending it—for the journey, and because it is a thing of beauty, and poses the kind of questions that are always worth meditating upon.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, and thinks that somebody should take a cue from Lír and start a “Baby Heroes Rescued By Cats” tumblr right away. The internet will not be able to resist.

Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn, while sometimes categorized as YA, is generally hailed as a story for all ages. As much as I love the book, I didn’t read it until I was in college, so my initial introduction into Beagle’s world (like many fans my age, I suspect) came courtesy of the 1982 Rankin/Bass animated movie of the same name.

While I can’t speak to the experience of reading the novel as a child, I certainly believe that a story as beautifully crafted and enduring as this one will resonate with readers of various ages and experience. I’d argue that the movie also has plenty to recommend it to adult fantasy fans, and is far more advanced in its themes than the vast majority of animated children’s entertainment. And while it stays very true to the book in many ways, the film manages to foreground certain elements of the original story that give it a very powerful, very unique appeal for children. Don’t get me wrong: it’s kind of a strange film, but therein lies its magic. It speaks to younger viewers in a manner that very few films ever do.

So, full disclosure: when I was about four, somewhere between my Extreme Wizard of Oz phase and the beginning of my All Labyrinth, All the Time mania, I discovered The Last Unicorn and the rest of the world ceased to exist. To my mother’s understandable chagrin, I decided that I only ever wanted to wear pure white clothing (a perfect plan for an active four-year-old, obviously), and I switched my entire career path from “witch” over to “unicorn.” It…probably made sense at the time. The fact that there isn’t any surviving photographic evidence of this period in my life should just be chalked up to some kind of crazy miracle and never questioned, because yikes. It was bad.

Which is all to say that yes, my nostalgia for this movie is both longstanding and intense; it’s a film that’s stuck with me—I’ve watched it countless times over the years and bonded over it with high school friends and college roommates and even now with current coworkers. I know it’s not for everybody, and I wouldn’t expect someone who didn’t grow up with The Last Unicorn to have the same reaction to it as those who did. I don’t know if I’d feel such a strong connection to the movie if I saw it for the first time now, in my thirties—but looking back, it’s illuminating to delve into the reasons why it holds such a strong allure, particularly for younger viewers, and why it made such a powerful impact on me and so many other kids over the years.

Beginning on the most basic level, of course, there’s the look of the film: Rankin and Bass hired the Japanese studio Topcraft to provide the design work and animation for The Last Unicorn. Topcraft had produced hand-drawn animation for a number of Rankin/Bass titles in the seventies and early eighties (including The Hobbit and ThunderCats), and Topcraft artists would become the core of Hayao Miyazaki’s Studio Ghibli in 1985 following the success of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind.

From the gorgeous, sun-dappled forest of the opening scene, with its deep shadows and rays of light glinting through the trees to the spectacular opening credits sequence, based on the famed Unicorn Tapestries, the movie thoroughly captures the otherworldly beauty of the unicorn and her enchanted wood and the rough strangeness of the world beyond. The human characters look a bit awkward, ungainly, and almost stunted in comparison to the unicorn’s shimmering grace, as they should—it is, after all, her story.

The unicorn is voiced by Mia Farrow, heading up a stellar cast, and it’s remarkable how Farrow’s distinctive qualities as an actress come through so strongly in her voice—tremulous and almost girlish, but tempered with an impressive urgency and self-possession. Alan Arkin is an interesting choice for Schmendrick—Beagle complained that his performance was “flat,” and I can see that: in the book, the magician comes off as more mercurial than neurotic, but he also has a more substantial backstory and a bit more to do in the original version. Personally, I enjoy Arkin’s take on the character: earnest, self-deprecating, and occasionally sarcastic, with an easy, believable chemistry between Schmendrick and Molly Grue (brought to life with humor and passion by Tammy Grimes’ distinctive voicework).

Angela Lansbury seems to have a fantastic time playing the shabby witch Mommy Fortuna, shouting threats and cackling madly (I admittedly love Lansbury in anything, but especially as a villain or antagonist). Christopher Lee is absolutely brilliant as the tormented King Haggard—I’m just as awed by his performance today as I was when I was four, if not more so. His Haggard is so intense, and rather frightening—but just as in the book, he never comes off as an actual villain, but rather as tortured, unhappy, misguided to the point of madness. Jeff Bridges is appealingly sincere and boyish as Haggard’s adopted son, Prince Lír, although admittedly it can sometimes be a little odd rewatching the film in a post-Lebowski world and thinking, “The Dude is full-on singing a love song to a unicorn lady right now.” Well, technically, it’s a duet—and while neither Farrow or Bridges have the crazy range of an Idina Menzel, for example, their voices are pleasant and there’s a certain halting awkwardness that genuinely fits the characters and their tentative steps toward romance.

The rest of the characters are voiced by a collection of character actors and Rankin/Bass regulars: Paul Frees, Don Messick, Keenan Wynn, René Auberjonois, etc, and the mixture of British and American actors and accents has always struck me as rather interesting. The decision to include a diverse array of dialects (and not conform to the time-honored “fantasy accents are always vaguely British” model) certainly helps reinforce the book’s playful approach to its setting in time and place, blending together quasi-medieval trappings and modern slang and references (also reflected in the dialogue throughout the film).

On a similar note, the original score composed for the film by Jimmy Webb adds to this sense of displacement and strangeness, filled with an eloquent sense of longing, soaring orchestration and strains of rich melodic melancholy. The folk rock bank America perform several of Webb’s original songs (in addition to one song sung by Mia Farrow, plus the aforementioned duet between Farrow and Bridges)—it might not be to everyone’s taste, but as a kid who grew up on plenty of folk and classic rock (hell, I still think “A Horse With No Name” and “Sister Golden Hair” are pretty great), I’ve always found the soundtrack to be haunting and rather beautiful, and so different from the usual kids movie musical fare.

Then again, “deviating from stereotypical kids movie fare” pretty much describes most aspects of The Last Unicorn. Beagle himself wrote the screenplay, and was able to keep the original story—which I’ve summarized in detail in an earlier post—largely intact, with the exception of a few plot points. I’ve already mentioned Schmendrick’s backstory (in the book, he’s cursed with immortality until he can learn to be a great magician), and we also lose the interactions with townsfolk along the road to Haggard’s castle; Hagsgate is cut out entirely, along with the witch’s curse and Lír s origin story.

I’d also argue that some of the book’s humor doesn’t entirely translate, or comes off as more odd than funny on occasion. Scenes like the amorous talking tree that takes a shine to Schmendrick, or the initial interview with the kooky reanimated skeleton guarding the entrance to the Red Bull’s lair strike me as more menacing than was intended in spite of (or possible because of?) the attempt at lighthearted, wackity-schmackity musical cues. It’s really just a matter of tone—having read the book, I watch these scenes a little differently now then I did as a kid, when I just accepted the weirdness and rolled with it (a strategy I’d still heartily recommend to first-time viewers).

By necessity, the movie is more focused on the action, less generous with its asides and commentary, and the metafictional cleverness is toned down (though not lost entirely). The book weaves a story that frequently doubles in on itself and riffs brilliantly on the nature of stories and storytelling, while the film really drives home the personal experience of the unicorn and the changes she undergoes throughout her journey. I don’t mean to imply that her experience isn’t central to the novel—of course it is—but the book dwells on details about the unicorn (her great age, her inscrutable immortal nature, her knowledge of and reactions to the other beings that she encounters) that repeatedly set her at a certain distance. The reader understands from the first that the unicorn is, as an immortal, essentially enigmatic and alien, and that mortal beings are not meant to identify with her too directly.

In the movie, on the other hand, I’d argue that the audience, and particularly children, are able to relate to the unicorn and her plight from the first, precisely because of her isolation and the confusion she experiences. We are part of her world from the beginning, and rather than taking pains to tells us that the unicorn is something strange and ancient and unknowable, Farrow’s expressive performance draws us in…but the character retains a strangeness and a separateness that actually becomes a point of connection for small children, rather than distancing them.

The appeal of the unicorn—this particular unicorn—goes far beyond the realm of the sparkly neon flood of unicorn-laden imagery unleashed on young girls starting in the early 80s in the form of Lisa Frank Trapper Keepers and My Little Pony merchandise. She is aesthetically beautiful, yes—but not a cuddly object of adoration or a kind of spiritual power animal boldly trampling rainbows and frolicking somewhat inexplicably through the Milky Way (not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that). It’s just that this unicorn is not particularly happy or at ease at the start of her quest; in fact, she encounters reality much in the same way a young child might, making her way through a world that often seems strange, frightening, or hostile. She is self-contained but not unaware of (or immune to) the confusing and complex emotions of the people around her, with their esoteric and unfathomable moods, worries, disappointments, and self-delusions.

The mortals she encounters have drives and desires she simply doesn’t understand; they are preoccupied with their own mortality, with control over forces more powerful than themselves. There’s Haggard, obviously, with his obsessive need to possess unicorns, but also Mommy Fortuna’s fixation on the harpy as a deranged bid for immortality, or Captain Cully’s preoccupation with his own legend living on in song and story. Even her allies Schmendrick, Molly, and Lír are all arguably damaged (or at best, significantly unhappy or unfulfilled) in ways that even her magic can’t simply fix, and in knowing them and caring for them she inevitably comes to feel some of their sorrow, and learns the nature of regret—not that this empathy is seen as a bad thing in any way, but the story makes it very clear that friendship and other relationships can have emotional costs as well as rewards.

In some ways, it might be said that a young child is not all that different from an immortal creature, in his or her own mind. For a time, a child lives in her own world upon which other people, helpful or not, impede and intrude and expand and draw her out. When J.M. Barrie wrote “It is only the gay and innocent and heartless that can fly,” he captured the essence of childhood as a self-contained kingdom where the whims and wants and needs of others hold no dominion—a state rather similar to the unicorn’s untroubled existence in the lilac wood, before she learns that other unicorns have disappeared and feels compelled to go find them. The longer she spends in that world, entangled in obligations and the feelings and desires of others, the more of her innocence and heartlessness are worn away—and once she is turned into a mortal woman she is haunted by troubling dreams and memories where before there was a peaceful, uncomplicated emptiness.

The song that Farrow sings as the dream-haunted Lady Amalthea (“Now That I’m a Woman”) lends itself very well to a reading of The Last Unicorn as a story about moving from girlhood into adulthood, falling in love, and moving on, and I suppose that works, but it seems a little pat to me. This movie isn’t a simple love story, although that’s an aspect of it; I’d argue that it’s more about the gradual, sometimes painful, move away from the safety of a more isolated existence and toward empathy and socialization and obligations to other people—growing up, in other words. It’s a process that begins but doesn’t end in childhood, as the world and the people we meet change us in a million unexpected ways, for better or worse. And what I love about this movie is that it’s so honest about the fact that losing this sense of separateness is scary, and that it’s possible to move past pain and fear, but not to pretend that they don’t exist.

Even more impressive is that the movie isn’t interested in wrapping everything up in some hackneyed moral lesson at the end but in simply sharing a bit of wisdom, and reassurance that sacrificing the comfortable, insulated boundaries of your solitude can be worth the cost. Personally, I distrusted a preachy, hamfisted moral more than anything as a kid—I’ve never been a big fan of the smug and oversimplified approach to getting a point across (looking at you, Goofus & Gallant, my old nemeses…shakes fist). The Last Unicorn never talks down to its audience—it doesn’t tack on a speech at the end about how if you trust in the power of friendship and eat your vegetables, true love will magically conquer all. It’s a movie that’s very much about regret, as evinced by the final exchange between the unicorn and Schmendrick:

“I’m a little afraid to go home. I’ve been mortal, and some part of me is mortal yet; I am no longer like the others, for no unicorn was ever born who could regret, but now I do—I regret.”

“I am sorry I have done you evil and I cannot undo it…”

“No—unicorns are in the world again. No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy, save one—and I thank you for that part, too.”

There’s a note of melancholy here that is characteristic of the movie as a whole, and that tone is also part of the film’s fascination for young viewers, as children too young to know much of sorrow or regret encounter these emotions along with the character. The film’s beauty is inextricable from its more solemn depths, which can awaken in children a kind of wistfulness not fully understood, but deeply felt. It tells kids, in the gentlest and most reassuring possible way that one day they may have to relinquish their position at the center of their own small world and adapt to the chaos of a larger, louder, more random existence, in which the needs and expectations of others will become inextricably tangled up with your own. Things will be complicated and confusing and sometimes contradictory—and you will be okay, and you won’t be alone.

There are a million stories that paint black-and-white heroes and villains in cheery Technicolor tones, and promise a Happily Ever After to ease every ending. Some are great, and some are not, and the success of these tales is almost all in the quality of the telling; The Last Unicorn is not like any of these stories—it doesn’t look or sound or behave quite like anything else. Even if it weren’t so beautiful, or so beautifully told, it would still have the distinction of saying something to its audience that truly needs to be said, something useful and real and comforting. Something I’ll never get tired of hearing.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, which is a pretty great thing to be, if you can’t be a unicorn. So it all kinda worked out, eventually.

We’re just about six weeks out from the return of HBO’s Game of Thrones and all of the craziness that entails—but first, let’s talk about Valentine’s Day. Whichever historical version of St. Valentine you subscribe to, tradition is pretty clear about the fact that his life ended in violent martyrdom: beaten first with clubs and/or stones, and then beheaded. Sometime in the High Middle Ages, he became associated with the tradition of courtly love and romance, which is probably why we celebrate February 14^th with cards and chocolate and not a sackful of blunt instruments and nasty sharp things. (I mean, unless that’s your scene; I’m not here to judge.)

No matter how you slice it, any holiday that manages to combine unspeakable violence, sex, money, love, romance, religion, confusing historical vagaries, politics, legend, and at least one execution into something we celebrate by stuffing sweets into our faces is a Westerosi holiday in my book…

And so it’s time to strap in for a very special look at what we’ve learned so far about the ups and downs of Love, GRRM-style, from some of our favorite GoT couples. I mean, it can’t all end horribly…can it?

[Warning: spoilers through the end of season three of HBO’s Game of Thrones in the post below; possible spoilers for the books and upcoming seasons of the series in the comment section, so read at your own risk!]

Khaleesi’s Just Not That Into You: Ser Jorah and Daenerys

Poor Jorah. He insists that there is a beast inside every man, but lately it seems like his own inner beast is a very sad panda. Sure, he started out spying on Daenerys for Varys, but soon became her most loyal and fervent supporter, throwing away his chance to return to Westeros in order to protect her and stay by her side. Unfortunately, his feelings for her are unrequited in a big way, and now suddenly he’s being upstaged as an advisor by Ser Barristan and as a potential Drogo-replacement hunk by newcomer Daario Naharis. Will he continue to twist in the awkward wind of the Friendzone, where longing looks go to die, or will Ser Jorah finally decide that he’s tired of being just another roadie on Dany’s Blonde Ambition Tour through the lands across the Narrow Sea?

Daenerys and Daario Naharis: Smirking Gigolo, Ahoy!

We knew Daario was going to be trouble the minute we set eyes on him (and yes, that goes for both Original Flavor Daario and Scruffier Replacement Daario). Even without the flashy blue beard and gold tooth that he sports in the books, he’s the Tyroshi equivalent of Fonzie and James Dean rolled up into a bad boy burrito supreme, with bonus assassin skills. Plus he knows how to play to Daenerys’s particular set of turn-ons, which include sexy mercenaries, loyalty oaths, the severed heads of her enemies, and successful invasion plans.

Personally, I’m a fan of new Daario Michael Huisman’s previous work—he has a knack for making smarmy characters really fun to watch, and it will be interesting to see how this relationship plays out in the coming season—but part of me still wishes somebody would throw a wet blanket on all that smoldering (but probably ill-fated) sexual tension. Even the dragons are like, “Seriously, Dany? That guy is not to be trusted. Maybe you should just stay home with us and rent The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants instead. We’ll make popcorn and hang up the ‘No Jorahs Allowed’ sign, and…wait, where are you going?” Sigh.

The Newlyweds: Robb and Talisa

Too soon? It’s been over eight months since the Red Wedding episode aired, but I’m still not sure that’s enough time to get through all five stages of fictional character-related grief: denial, anger, freaking out about what happened to poor Grey Wind (WHY? We’ll never forget you, Grey Wind!!!), pretending to think about cancelling HBO, and finally, a kind of grim acceptance. I doubt there’s much of a silver lining, here, (certainly not for Talisa and Robb) but as long as you don’t spend Valentine’s Day weeping and/or slow dancing alone to “The Rains of Castamere,” let’s count that as a win.

Roslin and Edmure: The Young and the Clueless

Things started off so well for these two, but now everyone’s dead and Edmure is officially a hostage of the Freys. Awkward. Just because Walder Frey is the world’s worst wedding planner doesn’t mean the relationship is completely doomed, right? Maybe these two crazy kids can still make it work…somehow?

Next Season on The Bachelor: Walder Frey

Well. It seems that Lord Frey is suddenly…available. He’s got a fancy new title, and is apparently quite fertile. GET IN LINE, LADIES: This grizzled hunk of twisted, rancid, treacherous manmeat won’t be single for long.

Stannis and Melisandre: Is This Burning an Eternal Flame…or is This Just Creepy?

I guess these two won’t be making any more killer shadow-babies together, since apparently that would drain too much of Stannis’s vital essence (unless that’s just Mel’s way of saying she has a headache…forever). So now they get their kicks burning leeches and contemplating human sacrifice and generally weirding poor Davos out at every turn. Considering that their ambitions go beyond the purely political to the messianic in scope, Stannis and Mel seem to be operating on a completely different wavelength from other couples on the show. Factor in his wife, Selyse, and her crazy baggage, and we’re basically staring down the world’s most unappetizing all-you-can-eat buffet of dysfunction and creepiness this side of a Peter Greenaway film. Who knows how it will all pan out, but in the meantime, I’ll be over here with Davos wearing our happy, sparkly “Team Shireen” t-shirts.

Take A Walk On The Wildling Side: Jon and Ygritte

These two. They’re like the Sam and Diane of Westeros. Boy captures girl, boy lets girl escape, girl captures boy, boy pretends to be a traitor, there’s a crazy cave sex interlude, then they hang out with giants, boy refuses to kill an old man and escapes, but not before girl shoots him in the leg with an arrow: it’s a classic tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme, etc. They even have a delightful catchphrase that kind of makes me want to rip my ears off every time Ygritte drops yet another sassy truthbomb. I can’t wait until they work out their hilarious differences, move to the suburbs, have 2.5 kids and launch their own spinoff sitcom, which will basically be a quasi-medieval I Love Lucy but with fire and killing and a giant ice wall in place of Vitameatavegamin and bridge with Fred and Ethel Mertz. Let the wacky hijinks ensue…

Papa, Don’t Preach: Sam and Gilly

Finally! Sam and Gilly: you are too precious for this world. Two likeable, vulnerable characters from abusive, traumatic backgrounds, thrown together by circumstance, both have suffered horribly at the hands of their respective fathers (Randyll Tarly threatened to murder Sam if he did not take the black, while Gilly is one of Craster’s daughter/wives, impregnated by her father, then forced to give up the child when it turns out to be a son). Yet both of them remain hopeful and unembittered and kind—and after saving Gilly’s baby from both Craster and the White Walkers, they’re also both learning that they are stronger and more courageous than they thought possible. Also, remember that time that Gilly called Sam a wizard?! So great. I want nothing but good things for Sam, Gilly, and the baby they’re both hellbent on protecting. Don’t you dare break my heart again, Game of Thrones. Just don’t.

Bran and Meera: Puppy Love On the Run

He’s a warg. She’s a badass. Together they solve crimes! save the world? Another couple to root for, against the odds, although there hasn’t been much time to dwell on Bran’s crush during their frantic flight northward, between all the green dreams and White Walkers and warging and excessive Hoder-ing. I doubt the constant peril will lessen now that they’re beyond the Wall, but after all he’s been through, Bran deserves all the small moments of happiness he can get, even if they’re few and far between.

The Casual Dungeon Hookup: Theon and Random Ladies

Okay, real talk: Theon is an intensely unlikeable character, but even his staunchest critics have to wince at his latest predicament: crucified, flayed, hunted down, and tortured witless in a dank, lightless cell, his torment has been uncomfortable to watch on every level. So when two mysterious women appeared and released him from the rack whilst cooing sexy blather in his ear, every single fiber of your being was probably screaming “It’s a trap!” Admiral Ackbar-style, at top volume. Only viewers raised on a steady diet of Benny Hill reruns and paint thinner thought this scene was going to result in a Penthouse Forum letter, right?

And of course, the mysterious nubile wenches of doom are only there to shove Theon in front of the express train barreling irrevocably toward Castration Station. To quote his mystery torturer: “If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention.” It’s a pretty solid motto for the show overall, but probably not something you want to scrawl in a candygram anytime soon…

When Rebounds Take A Bad Bounce: Loras and Olyvar the Sexy Squire/Spy

We’ve all been there: your true love is murdered by a magical shadow-assassin, forcing your family to abruptly shift alliances, and you’re suddenly stuck back in King’s Landing (aka “the most terrible place there is”) while your grandmother plots to marry you off in the most strategically advantageous way possible. You finally hit it off with a cute guy who seems to understand you…and it turns out that he’s actually a prostitute on a mission to get all up in your business and go scurrying back to Littlefinger with any useful gossip. But hey, it could be worse—at least you’re not betrothed to a terrifying Lannister! Oh, wait…

He’s Actin’ Single, She’s Drinkin’ Doubles: Loras and Cersei

JUST LOOK AT THE HAPPY COUPLE. Their faces pretty much say it all. I mean, Loras has been planning his Barbie Dream Wedding since he was a boy. I wonder if Cersei’s a fan of gold and green brocade and fringed sleeves? This is so exciting and totally not the worst idea ever… (Guys, I feel so badly for both of them. SEND HELP).

Cersei and Jaime: Reunited and It Feels So…Good?

So, Jaime finally made it home to Cersei, but I sense trouble in twincest paradise ahead. Even beyond the fact that Cersei may have trouble adjusting to her brother’s mutilation and missing swordhand, there’s the problem of their son’s increasingly erratic behavior—something tells me that she’s in no mood for the whole “We Need To Talk About Kevin Joffrey” conversation that so desperately needs to happen.

Add in all the political and familial machinations and rivalries currently afoot at Lannister HQ, and I’d say a return to the carefree Forbidden Sexytimes of Yore is very much in doubt. Quite frankly, something about the way Cersei’s been sloshing around the Red Keep with a Big Gulp full of Dornish Red makes me think this season is going to feel a lot less like a V.C. Andrews novel and a lot closer to a King’s Landing Community Theater production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

The Masochism Tango: Joffrey and Margaery

I love Margaery Tyrell. I love her smirky plottyface and her crazy Highgarden couture, and more than anything, I love watching her play Joffrey like a cheap lute. Cooing over his crossbow in one of the creepier moments of the last season, batting her eyelashes and playing Bonnie to his psychotic Clyde, Nancy to his sadistic Sid, Natasha to his brutal Boris, she’s my favorite type of character in the world: a likeable femme fatale, gaming the system to her own advantage. It’s a pleasure to watch her work—if anyone has to be saddled with arch-creeper Joffrey, I’m glad that it’s someone who seems familiar with the care and feeding of sociopaths, and is smart enough to potentially turn the tables on the spoiled little tyrant. Good luck, lady.

It’s Hard Out There For an Imp: Tyrion and Shae

Tyrion has always been one of the most relatable characters in the series—the smart, funny, outcast with an actual moral compass, navigating his way through a sea of monsters, dullards, and sociopaths. He also has a depth and vulnerability that viewers/readers naturally identify with, and so we want things to work out for him—while recognizing that this is exactly the kind of hope that Game of Thrones loves to toy with and then grind gleefully into the dust without warning.

His relationship with Shae is under constant threat from both Tywin and Cersei, should they ever catch on, and then there’s the considerable internal strain and complications caused by his marriage to Sansa Stark. Sansa is helpless, Tyrion won’t run away with Shae, Shae won’t flee to safety without him, and so for now, everyone involved in this lopsided ménage-a-trois is stuck in miserable limbo until further notice. Sooner or later, something’s got to give… but in the meantime, let’s hope nothing cuts off their wine supply. They’re going to need it.

Are You There Gods? It’s Me, Sansa…

No, seriously—keep the wine coming. One day, Sansa’s busy planning her new life at Highgarden and dreamily embroidering “Mrs. Loras Tyrell” all over everything, and the next, she’s weepily married off to Tyrion, while Joffrey threatens and torments her throughout the wedding. And then, just when she’s starting to see Tyrion for the caring nurturer/potential ally he is, she finds out that his family orchestrated the Red Wedding, brutally killing her mother and brother (along with a lot of other people).

Oh, and just to top off this steaming pile of crap salad: Tywin won’t stop demanding that Tyrion consummate the marriage and secure an heir, in order to lock down the Lannisters’ claim to the North. I hereby salute, you, Tywin Lannister—there are some truly terrible matchmakers in the world, but you might be the first to deserve your own amendment protocol to the Geneva Convention. Please stop.

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma’am: Podrick Payne Is A Legend in the Making.

So at least somebody’s having fun. Enjoy it while you can, Pod, because the good times, they are fleeting…

Sigh. Maybe we’d all be better off hanging out with Grey Worm and the Unsullied (although that doesn’t exactly sound like a party, either). Whatever your plans this Valentine’s Day, just do your best to avoid shady dungeons, dangerous liaisons with blood relatives, treacherous squires, Walder Frey, and, well…never mind. I guess the idea that this show has anything encouraging to teach us about romantic relationships is probably ludicrous, but hey: it’s still less depressing than reality TV. (Well, except for Drag Race. Even the Queen of Thorns loves Drag Race).

In any case, have a happy, safe, non-treachery-filled Valentine’s Day, everybody!

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, and would one day like to be even half as sassy as Olenna Tyrell. Because damn.

Nicknames can be a mixed bag—sometimes they signal affection, admiration, or acceptance, and sometimes they’re a form of taunting, a devastating insult that lingers like a malicious ghost, inescapable. In the Song of Ice and Fire series, nicknames can be obvious, or ironic, affectionate or scathing, incredibly apt or impossibly unfair, but whether merited or misleading, such names often provide a window onto a deeper understanding of the characters that bear them.

In a world where people are so often not what they seem, where identities are changed, hidden, lost, and invented out of strategy or necessity, the names people pick up along the way are often far more telling than given names. Nicknames can point to the messy complexities hiding behind the public persona, the accepted version of events, the official history—they are stories to be unraveled, posing as punchlines: they tell all the truth, but tell it slant.

And, of course, they can be really fun: Martin is a master of the colorful sobriquet, from the mocking to the heroic to the unquestionably badass. His nicknames add an astounding amount of color to the already colorful world of ASoIaF, lending a touch of intrigue and old-timey razzle-dazzle to everyone from The Onion Knight to The Lightning Lord, not to mention the evocative power of names like The Blackfish, The Spider, and The Old Bear, or even Ser Not Appearing In This Show (which is our new nickname for Strong Belwas.)

BOLDNESS. Do not step to this.

As knightly nicknames go, it doesn’t get much more straightforward than Ser Barristan the Bold: he famously earned his moniker at the tender age of ten, competing as an undersized mystery knight against Prince Duncan Targaryen, who was much impressed with the boy’s courage (with good reason, as it eventually turned out). We’re told that Garlan Tyrell, on the other hand, became known as Garlan the Gallant as an untested, pudgy youngster, when his older brother Willas recognized the PR value of a chivalrous epithet and strategically gave him the name before anything less complimentary could stick. Happily, Garlan grew out of his awkward stage and lived up to the hype (and presumably Willas went unchallenged for Highgarden’s Best Older Brother Award that year, because what a guy, right?)

And then you have characters like Daenerys Targaryen, who collects titles, epithets, and honorifics like it’s going out of style—although to be fair, she also inherited quite a few. By birth she is Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; by marriage she is Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and as a conqueror she is Queen of Meereen; she’s also been called The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, The Silver Queen, Daughter of Death, Slayer of Lies, Mother/Mysha, and so on.

Just don't call her late for dinner.

Personally, as much as I enjoy all the pomp and circumstance involved in celebrating the fact that Dany wears only the Fanciest of Pants and Is Truly Not To Be Messed With, my favorite names in this series are the ones that aren’t calculated to impress as much as they are descriptive, names that capture an aspect of a character’s personality or history. Nicknames tend to highlight difference, focusing on particular elements that set the bearer apart, for good or for ill—and what’s fascinating to me is the way these characters deal with being marked as unusual or somehow extraordinary (whether that entails being a freak or pariah, or simply out of sync with the status quo, odd, an unknown quantity). For example, for all the mockery that Brienne endures from those who would style her “Brienne the Beauty,” the ridicule heaped on her appearance and manner only fuels her determination to seek honor as a true knight—whereas one character might bitterly accept such expressions of derision, someone else might defiantly embrace a similar insult, born out of fear or contempt, as a warped badge of honor.

The list below looks at just a few of the more memorable character nicknames currently in play in Game of Thrones and the Song of Ice and Fire series. Admittedly, some of these names resonate with me because they add intricate depth and shading to already complex characters, while some of them are on the list because they are simply too entertaining to not be on the list. I also want to be clear that this is not intended to be an exhaustive survey, by any means, and I hope you’ll add your own favorites in the comment thread below…

The Clegane Boys: The Mountain That Rides vs. The Hound

It’s interesting to compare the brothers’ nicknames: Gregor’s tells us, above all else, that he is LARGE. He’s a giant of a man, close to eight feet tall—a Goliath, a Collosus, a terrifying Brobdingnagian marvel in plate armor. We get it, loud and clear, but what’s more interesting is the idea of The Mountain as an inert, unfeeling mass hurtling toward you—something monstrous and unnatural and unknowable, which captures the essence of the character rather well.

Sandor, on the other hand, elicits both fear and sympathy in his role as the Hound. When he is introduced as Joffrey’s loyal henchman, he seems at least as vicious as his master, but (as with so many characters in this series) a much more complex and compelling personality comes to light as events unfold and we learn more about him. Abused, tormented, self-loathing, and relentlessly cynical, Sandor still exhibits more of a moral code and basic humanity (particularly toward the Stark girls) than most of the denizens in King’s Landing. He is capable of both pity and mercy in a hostile world that has shown him very little of either quality, which makes the Hound one of the most heartbreaking characters to follow, as he tries to become the master of his own fate.

The Queen of Thorns

I suppose that one could view Lady Olenna Tyrell’s nickname in a negative light, as mocking or judgmental, petty backlash against a woman known for speaking her mind without mincing words. And yet I can’t quite see it that way—Olenna is an incredibly formidable woman, too intelligent and too influential to be a target of bush-league name-calling. To me, the nickname reads as something between a wary compliment and a warning—she is, after all, a regal presence (even though she would have preferred to avoid playing the game of thrones altogether, thanks for nothing, Mace Lord Puff Fish). She certainly has no qualms about mixing it up with Tywin Lannister, much less Cersei, and generally getting her way—and besides getting some of the most entertaining lines in the books/show, she’s a legitimately dangerous, even deadly, opponent. As nicknames go, not only is this one incredibly apt, but she owns it—underestimate The Queen of Thorns at your own risk.

Kingslayer

The evolution of Jaime Lannister from his introduction as an amoral would-be-child murderer to a complex and legitimately heroic POV character (starting in A Storm of Swords) is arguably one of the series’ greatest accomplishments to date. Our understanding of his character is inextricably tied to his reputation as “The Kingslayer”—the truth behind the nickname reveals the heart of the character, and the more we learn about the events that earned him the name, the more terrible weight and meaning it acquires.

Jaime treasonously slew King Aerys at the foot of the Iron Throne, although he had sworn a sacred oath to protect the king as a member of the Kingsguard—for that reason, even those in rebellion against the Targaryens tend to look upon Jaime with disgust and horror. Once we’re given insight into Jaime’s side of the story—the King’s madness, his delight in torture and sadism, his insane plan to burn King’s Landing to the ground—we understand why he considers the murder his finest accomplishment. The name becomes something of a badge of honor, though he remains a pariah, resigned to being hated and misunderstood (something he shares with his brother, Tyrion.) Jaime is hardly an innocent, and he has certainly done terrible things (we’re not forgetting about you, Bran, I promise), but his status as “Kingslayer” serves as a constant reminder that nothing in Westeros is ever as black and white as it might seem.

The Imp

Tyrion’s nickname represents a perfect storm of derision, dismissal, condescension, and fear. The Imp is both not to be taken seriously and to be seriously mistrusted: as a dwarf, his physical appearance is generally interpreted as a sign that Tyrion is evil and/or inhuman, despite all evidence to the contrary. It is simultaneously a deeply mocking and deeply superstitious sobriquet, perfect for frightening the ignorant and powerless (or anyone else superstitious enough to believe in the existence of imps as supernatural or demonic beings) on one hand, and for belittling Tyrion in the eyes of the great and powerful and jaded, on the other. And then, of course, there’s the irony—at work on multiple levels—centered around the fact that at the same time nobles and smallfolk alike are demonizing Tyrion as some kind of unnatural creature, most people not only refuse to believe in the actual, literal monsters threatening the Seven Kingdoms, they also fail to see that there are far more savage, destructive entities on the loose within the walls of King’s Landing, hiding in plain sight (cut to crazy Joffrey smirking, twirling a crossbow…)

Littlefinger

It’s rather telling that Petyr Baelish’s sobriquet originated with a joke of Edmure Tully’s—his foster brother and social superior, but also a bit of a well-meaning dullard. The name reflects the scarcity of his family’s holdings on the smallest of the stony, barren Fingers in the Vale of Arryn, and in that sense, it is a constant reminder of his modest beginnings, the relative unimportance of his lineage, and his general inferiority among the aristocracy of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet Baelish has risen to astonishing heights of power and influence, and his success is due in large part to his habit of encouraging those around to underestimate him, to not take him seriously, to rely complacently on the niceties of social order while all the time he undermines it, plotting and reveling in the chaos he creates, unseen and largely unsuspected.

Arya Underfoot

I don’t think this nickname of Arya’s got very much play in the HBO series (if any), and yet it is the one name, out of all of her assorted pseudonyms and aliases (“Arya Horseface,” “Arry,” “Nymeria/Nan,” “Salty,” “Cat of the Canals,” etc., etc.), that never fails to hit me with a little gutpunch of sympathy every time it comes up. Even when used in exasperation by the servants and staff of Winterfell, it remains an expression of affection for the spirited little girl who is never where she is supposed to be, always wandering off, getting into mischief, and pestering everybody instead of behaving like a quiet little lady. There’s a certain irony about the fact that the girl who was constantly underfoot has been separated from her home and family for so long, often just barely missing being reunited with her kin by combination of coincidence and bad timing. But more than that, the name makes me nostalgic for the child that Arya used to be, before the relentless tide of tragedy and trauma and horror began to sweep her further and further away from anything resembling comfort, stability, or safety.

Hot Pie

Guys, he baked Arya a wolf-loaf. Never forget.

Hot Pie gets an honorable mention here only because he always seems so confused and out of his depth, like he randomly wandered out of some other series where people don’t die violently every few minutes. Even his name seems out of place: if Game of Thrones were a sitcom, Hot Pie would be the Lumpy Rutherford, the Potsie, the Tootie, if you will…he would be the Sixx to Arya’s Blossom, the Buddy to her Charles in Charge. Oh, Hot Pie—I can’t believe you’re still alive. Good on you.

[Warning: the characters discussed below have not yet appeared on HBO’s Game of Thrones. There are no overt spoilers about the fate of the characters themselves, but if you haven’t read the books and want to steer clear of information about what’s to come, stop reading here.]

The Red Viper and the Sand Snakes

The Red Viper and Ellaria Sand (actual Sand Snakes not included)

Why does Dorne have the best nicknames? For those following the HBO series, get ready to meet The Red Viper (sexy-as-hell badass Prince Oberyn Martell) this season; his eight (8) sexy-as-hell badass illegitimate daughters are known collectively as the Sand Snakes. Here’s the dirt: at the age of sixteen, Prince Oberyn was discovered in bed with the paramour of Lord Edgar Yronwood, and subsequently wounded Lord Edgar in a duel. After Lord Edgar died, it was widely rumored that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned blade, earning the prince his sinister moniker, and his infamy was only bolstered in later years as he gained a reputation for his vast knowledge of poisons (and possibly the darker arts). Clearly, Oberyn knows how to make a bad reputation work in his favor—he’s like the Joan Jett of Westeros, in that regard—and while vengeance and bad blood are nothing new in the world of Game of Thrones, I’m very much looking forward to watching the Red Viper and his intimidating brood slithering toward payback in style.

Lady Stoneheart

We thought a picture of Lady Stoneheart might be too spoilery, so here is an amazing photo of non-Lady, non-Stone Heart, instead.

We’ve discussed it, and if the rest of the Tor.com staff and I ever start a glam/metal band, we are definitely calling ourselves “Lady Stoneheart.” Maybe it’s because my brain always wants to confuse Lady Stoneheart with Bowie’s “Lady Stardust”—to be fair, I can certainly imagine Lady Stoneheart singing songs of sadness and dismay, although admittedly, Lady Stoneheart probably doesn’t do a lot of singing, what with her whole weird…throat…thing. Also, she’s kind of busy wreaking vengeance upon her enemies, and all enemy-adjacent parties, and people who maybe might have maybe met her enemies once, plus anybody who even remotely reminds of her of an enemy. She’s not picky, when if comes to vengeance, is what I’m saying. Fasten your seatbelts.

Coldhands

I am the night?

Hm. As far as band names go, I’d say “Coldhands” has more of an emo vibe than anything else on the list; I’m imagining lots of perfect, lustrous bangs and infinite sadness. On the other hand, he rides around on a giant elk like some kind of awesome undead Thranduil-from-the-dark-side, which is pretty badass. He’s mysterious and helpful (which is the best kind of mysterious), and so it makes sense that we know him by a name that’s probably the least terrifying thing you could possibly call a becloaked, raven-controlling undead guy with black, swollen hands who keeps his face hidden at all times and smells vaguely of rot. I suppose it will have to do until we finally find out who he really is… (Hint: it is probably not Bruce Wayne. Although, who knows?)

Bonus Round: Great Bastard Edition [Warning: spoilers through A Dance with Dragons below, as well as in the comments.]

Bloodraven (Lord Brynden Rivers) vs. Bittersteel (Aegor Rivers)

The sons of rival mistresses of Aegon VI Targaryen, both Bloodraven and Bittersteel were legitimized by the king as sons of nobility, along with at least two other offspring, collectively know as the “Great Bastards.” Their lifelong rivalry came to a head during the Blackfyre Rebellion (many details of which are fleshed out in the Dunk and Egg novellas), in which Bittersteel supported their half-brother Daemon Blackfyre in his doomed attempt to take the throne, while Bloodraven remained loyal to the legitimate Targaryen line. Come on, feel the Bittersteel.

Bittersteel, whose name pretty much explains itself (he was apparently an unusually embittered, angry man, but also a fierce warrior), fled Westeros in disgrace following the rebellion and became a mercenary, eventually founding the Golden Company. Bloodraven (so-called because of the red, vaguely raven-shaped birthmark on the right side of his face) was an expert bowman and spymaster, with a reputation as a powerful sorcerer, who served as both Hand of the King and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch under different Targaryen kings.

He was also a one-eyed albino who went about cloaked and hooded to protect him from the light and (spoilers for A Dance with Dragons), he lives on as the three-eyed crow that appears to Bran Stark after his accident. When Bran and the Reeds finally reach his cave, Brynden appears not as a crow but as the last greenseer, a skeletal figure entangled in the roots of a weirwood tree who teaches Bran how to develop his own gifts as a seer. At this point in time, Bloodraven would be around 125 years old (but looks pretty great for his age, if you ignore the whole “weirwood roots poking through his bones and empty eyesocket” thing).

All I know is, if some promoter would throw a totally unnecessary umlaut over one over the vowels in “Bloodraven” and book Bittersteel as an opening act, I can’t be the only one who would show up, lighter in hand, to see them play the Meadowlands, am I right? Or maybe not.

There are still plenty of nicknames left to discuss (and I didn’t even touch on any of the name-related in-jokes and homages that Martin weaves into the text, which is really a whole separate topic), so please share your own favorites, alternate interpretations, and potential bandnames in the comments…

Coldhands art by EvaMarieToker on deviantART.
Bittersteel and Bloodraven art by Amoka.
Top image taken from imgur.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She does not have a proper nickname but if things go according to plan, she will one day be known, and feared, as The Widow von Doom.

In the folklore of various cultures and ancient civilizations, rabbits have represented a kind of Trickster figure; in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean mythology, rabbits live on the moon. The Aztecs worshipped a group of deities known as the Centzon Totochtin, a group of 400 hard-partying rabbits who were the gods of drunkenness, and in a slightly more recent mythos, bunnies were the bête noir of a certain thousand-year-old former vengeance demon.

As we head into the weekend, I’d like to take a minute to pay tribute to some of the more memorable bunnies and assorted rabbit-like creatures who have hopped, time-traveled, and occasionally slaughtered their way through science fiction and fantasy, beginning (in no particular order), with everybody’s favorite hard-drinking, invisible lagomorph….

Harvey
Based on a Pulitzer Prize-winning stage play, Harvey embodies everything strange and brilliant and wonderful about classic Hollywood. Jimmy Stewart stars as good-natured kook Elwood P. Dowd, who spends his days at his favorite bar in the company of his best friend, Harvey, an invisible, six foot, three-and-one-half-inch tall talking rabbit. Technically speaking, Harvey is a pooka (or púca), “a benign but mischievous creature” from Celtic mythology with a pronounced fondness for social misfits—but since he takes the form of a giant rabbit, he totally makes the list. Driven by Stewart’s delightful and deeply touching performance, Harvey is a lighthearted comedy with unexpected depths, an inspiring piece of fantasy that celebrates the triumph of a kind-hearted nonconformist over worldly cynicism and the pressures of respectability.

Bunnicula
In 1979’s Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery, the Monroe family find a baby rabbit one dark and stormy night during a screening of Dracula, but the family’s other pets are suspicious of the furry foundling, with its strange markings and fang-like teeth. When vegetables start turning up mysteriously drained of their juice, the family cat springs into action with the zeal of a crazed, feline Van Helsing. Chronicling the adventures of the Monroes through the eyes of Harold, the family dog, the Bunnicula series spun off into seven books, ending in 2006 with Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow (although my favorite title in the series has always been The Celery Stalks at Midnight).

Frank (Donnie Darko)
Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko quickly gained a huge cult following when it was released in 2001 (and since then seems to have received a certain amount of backlash), but whether you love it or think it’s completely overrated, I think we can all agree that Frank is probably the creepiest rabbit-type-thing on this list, appearing to the title character in a series of visions like in the form of some kind of menacing demon-alien terror bunny. According to many readings of the film, creepy rabbit Frank is actually the dead, time travelling version of his sister’s boyfriend, Frank, who is manipulating Donnie into saving the universe. Okay, it’s complicated—if you want an excellent rundown of the film, go here—but all you really need to know is that if Frank shows up on your doorstep with a basket of Peeps and jellybeans, you should probably run for the hills and don’t look back.

Hazel, Fiver, et al. (Watership Down)
Richard Adams’ brilliant heroic fantasy features a group of anthropomorphic rabbits complete with their own folklore, mythology, language, and poetry. Jo Walton has discussed the book at length, although I was initially introduced to Fiver, Hazel, and company through the animated film version; as a seven year old, I found it equal parts disturbing and fascinating (and I’m apparently not the only one—in writing this post I ran across a Facebook group called “Watership Down (the film) traumatized me as a kid!”). Maybe it’s not surprising, then, that both the book and its film adaptation are discussed in Donnie Darko…

The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog (Monty Python and the Holy Grail)
The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog probably needs no introduction—in the immortal words of Tim the Enchanter, it’s the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on. Apparently inspired by a medieval carving on the façade of France’s Amiens Cathedral (in which the vice of cowardice is represented by a knight fleeing from a rabbit), this scene is now a permanent contender for the title of greatest two minutes in bunny-related movie comedy history…

Roger Rabbit
Gary K. Wolf’s original novel, Who Censored Roger Rabbit? is significantly different from the blockbuster Disney hit it was eventually turned into. For example, the novel was set in the present day (and not the 1940s), the cartoon characters interacting with humans are mostly drawn from comic strips (like Dick Tracy, Garfield, and Life in Hell), and not classic animated cartoons…and Roger Rabbit? He’s actually dead (see also: creepy Frank, above). Roger gets murdered early on in the book, leaving private eye Eddie Valiant to track down his killer. Apparently, Steven Spielberg and Disney weren’t so into the whole dead-cartoon-rabbit thing, and so the character was resurrected and a monster hit was born (along with at least one amazing dance move). 

The White Rabbit and the March Hare (Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)
I’ve always thought of the White Rabbit as a bit of a pill; he’s neurotic and occasionally pompous and always in a hurry, but it’s hard to deny his pop cultural notoriety. “White Rabbit” has been a trippy byword for psychedelic drug use since the 1960s, as well as a recurring trope in both Lost and the Matrix movies (apparently, he moonlights as a harbinger of not-very-satisfying conclusions…). The March Hare, on the other hand, is simply certifiable (Lewis Carroll was playing on the English expression “mad as a March hare,” making him the perfect companion for a certain wacky, riddle-loving Hatter). In the book, it’s the Hare, not the Rabbit, that loves to party—and maybe they were only drinking tea when Alice first encounters the March Hare, but something tells me he would fit right in with a certain clique of ancient Aztec party bunnies…

Gargantuan Mutant Killer Rabbits (Night of the Lepus)
Based on the Australian science fiction novel The Year of the Angry Rabbit, the movie version moved the setting to Arizona, leaving the book’s satirical elements behind while retaining the basic premise: giant, mutant carnivorous rabbits threatening humans. Released in 1972, Night of the Lepus was a monumental flop, completely panned by critics for its horrible plot, premise, direction, acting, and special effects, and for utterly failing to make giant bunnies seem scary (presumably forcing audiences to wait with bated breath another six years before they could be properly traumatized by the film version of Watership Down).

Dragonfly Bunny Spirits (The Legend of Korra)
Anyone familiar with Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra know that the world of the avatars is full of amazing, often adorable creatures (baby saber-tooth moose lions, anyone?). But even with all the competition, Furry-Foot and the other dragonfly bunny spirits rate pretty high on the all-time cuteness scale. Since they generally do not appear to people unless they sense a strong spiritual connection, the dragonfly bunny spirits were initially only visible to Jinora (the young daughter of Tenzin/granddaughter of Aang and Katara). Eventually, Jinora urged the spirits to reveal themselves to Tenzin, Korra, Bumi, and the rest of her family, and they helped the group gain access to the spirit world. When exposed to negative energy, dragonfly bunny spirits may turn into dark spirits, but otherwise make great pets and I totally want one.

Jaxxon (Star Wars): For those of you who might not be familiar with the Lepi (Lepus carnivorus), they are the sassy sentient rabbits of the Star Wars Expanded Universe, native to the planet Coachelle Prime (although their rapid breeding rate quickly led them to colonize their entire star system, because…rabbits.) Jaxxon is probably the most famous member of the species—a smuggler, Jax joined Han Solo in defending a village under attack along with several other mercenaries, collectively known as the Star-Hoppers of Aduba-3. The Star-Hoppers fended off the superior forces of the Cloud-Riders and defeated the Behemoth from the World Below, saving the village, after which Jaxxon returned to smuggling and his ship, the Rabbit’s Foot. Having fallen into relative obscurity over the years, he was one of the first characters created outside of the films for the Marvel Star Wars comic series, as an homage to Bugs Bunny (who often addressed random strangers as “Jackson” in the old Warner Brothers cartoons…hence the name.)

The Were-Rabbit (Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit)
As part of his humane pest control business, eccentric inventor Wallace attempts to brainwash a group of rabbits out of stealing vegetables, but during the process things go awry and Wallace ends up with one of the bunnies fused to his head. His highly intelligent dog, Gromit, saves the day (as usual), but afterwards both Wallace and the rescued rabbit (now called “Hutch”) exhibit strange behavior. It’s not long before the village is being terrorized by a giant, vegetable-crazed Were-Rabbit, and Wallace and Gromit must solve the mystery before the monster can ruin the annual Giant Vegetable Competition…and if you haven’t seen this movie, you probably should. Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit was only the second non-American movie to win the Academy Award for Best Animated Feature, and it was the very first stop-motion film to win, which is pretty impressive. Plus it’s chock-full of bunnies, of course.

Peppy Hare (Star Fox)
Okay, full disclosure: I’ve never actually played Star Fox, but when I mentioned this post to Chris and Sarah here in the Tor.com offices, they immediately started yelling about Peppy Hare and wouldn’t stop playing clips of all his weird wingman advice and catchphrases until I added him to the list. So here we go: Peppy Hare is a member of the original Star Fox team who serves as a mentor to the game’s protagonist, Fox McCloud. According to Chris and Sarah, Peppy is way more awesome than the team’s other wingmen, Slippy Toad (who is “the worst”) and Falco Lombardi (who does nothing but criticize, even when you save his life. Jerk.) Peppy wants you to do a barrel roll. Always. You should probably listen to him.

Miyamoto Usagi (Usagi Yojimbo)
Created by Stan Sakai in the early 1980s, Usagi Yojimbo follows the adventures of Miyamoto Usagi, a rabbit ronin, as he wanders about on a warrior’s pilgrimage, occasionally serving as a bodyguard. Set in Japan during the early Edo period, the series was lauded for its attention to detail in terms of period architecture, weaponry, clothing, etc., and drew heavily on Japanese samurai films (particularly the work of Akira Kurosawa, given the title) as well as Japanese history and folklore. Based on the legendary swordsman Miyamoto Musashi, Usagi is a formidable warrior in adorable rabbit form, and is frequently ranked among the greatest comic book characters of all time (by Wizard magazine, Empire magazine, and IGN, among others).

Max (Sam & Max)
Described as a weird “hyperkinetic rabbity thing,” Max is the smaller, more aggressive member of the infamous crime-fighting duo known as Sam and Max: Freelance Police. Along with Sam, a wise-cracking, fedora-wearing dog, Max works as a private investigator with a healthy disrespect for the law; where Sam is grounded and professional, Max is gleefully violent and maybe a tad psychotic (in a fun way!) He’s a lagomorph who gets things done, and you really don’t want to mess with him. Sam & Max have attracted a rabid cult following over the years, initially appearing in comics, then a series of video games and TV series in the late 90s—I first encountered them in the now-classic LucasArts adventure game Sam & Max Hit the Road, which I can’t recommend highly enough—12-year-old me was a little obsessed with it, back in the day, and I’m pretty sure it holds up, even now….

Basil Stag Hare (Redwall)
Fans of Brian Jacques’ Redwall series will recognize this handsome gentleman as Basil Stag Hare of the Fur and Foot Fighting Patrol. A loyal ally and expert in camouflage, Basil assists Matthias and the other denizens of Redwall Abbey when trouble threatens, playing a key role in several rescue missions, and is known for both his appetite and his battle cry, “Give ‘em blood and vinegar!”

Bucky O’Hare
The eponymous hero of his own comic book series as well as an animated TV series and several video games, Bucky O’Hare is the captain of The Righteous Indignation, a spaceship in service of the United Animals Federation. The Federation is run by mammals and exists in a parallel universe from our own, where they are at war with the evil Toad Empire (ruled by a sinister computer system known as KOMPLEX, which has brainwashed all the toads. Natch.) In both the original comics and the spin-off media, Bucky fearlessly leads his crew—which includes a telepathic cat, a four-armed pirate duck, a Berserker Baboon, a one-eyed android named Blinky, and a presumably confused pre-teen who becomes stranded in “the Aniverse”—against the rising toad menace. Rumors that he may be closely related to Jaxxson remain unconfirmed… 

I suppose I could go on, but I don’t have much to say about Radagast’s sleigh-pulling Rhosgobel Rabbits (big! fast! furry!), and since I still can’t seem to bring myself to write about Space Jam, here’s what we’ve learned: Don’t underestimate bunnies. They’re so much more than carrot-loving, Trix-shilling, twitchy little furballs: sometimes they’re mystical, sometimes they’re trying to stave off the apocalypse; sometimes they just want to chew your face off. Plus, they multiply almost as fast as Tribbles (but with less purring and many, many more teeth). If they ever do end up taking over the world, it’s not like we haven’t been warned….

An earlier version of this article appeared on Tor.com in April 2011. Thanks to shellywb for finding the Amiens image, and all of the commenters who suggested additions to the original list!

Bridget McGovern wasn’t really all that screwed up by Watership Down, if you don’t count the fact that she just stayed up all night writing frantically about bunnies (and will always maintain a vague but potent distrust of Art Garfunkle).

As one might suspect from the title, “The Rogue Prince” from the upcoming Rogues anthology is a companion piece to Martin’s “The Princess and The Queen, Or, The Blacks and The Greens,” which capped off last year’s Dangerous Women anthology. Once again, the story is framed as a formal history set forth by Archmaester Gyldayn of the Citadel of Oldtown, whose dedication to the sober and serious task of recording the dynastic struggles of the Targaryen clan can’t entirely stifle the rich strain of scandalous rumor and gossip woven throughout the official record.

“The Rogue Prince” fills in much of the backstory leading up to the extremely bloody events of “The Princess and The Queen,” in which competing branches of the ruling house waged a violent war of succession which brought the Targaryens and their dragons to the brink of extinction, almost two hundred years before the events of A Game of Thrones. Chronicling the familial tensions and personal hostilities that eventually grew into the full-scale bloodletting known as the Dance of the Dragons, this new story is “a consideration of the early life, adventures, misdeeds, and marriages of Prince Daemon Targaryen,” who wreaked all kinds of sexy, swashbuckling havoc during the reign of his mild-mannered brother, King Viserys I.

A note about spoilers: Because the events of this story directly precede those of “The Princess and The Queen,” there is some discussion of that novella, but no overt spoilers; those who want a refresher on Targaryen history should check out this incredibly helpful timeline/family tree. Because “The Rogue Prince” is set long before the era of A Song of Ice and Fire, there are no spoilers for the series in the story itself or in this review, but you may want to stop reading before the comments if you’d like to avoid any speculation on how this story might relate to the plot of the books through A Dance With Dragons.

In order to uncover the seeds of the great conflict so vividly described in “The Princess and the Queen,” the Archmaester follows the thread backward from the battlefield and the war councils through the murkier depths of deep-seated personal animosity, unrequited affection, and illicit relationships that characterized the private lives of the royal family. In other words, we are pretty firmly in the realm of soap opera, here: King’s Landing during the reign of Viserys was apparently one fur-turban-wearing-Joan Collins-cameo away from transforming into an episode of Dynasty at any given moment. The King himself is a nice guy: kind-hearted, trusting, optimistic, determined to give everyone the benefit of the doubt…and clearly not at all suited to deal with the ruthless ambition and treasonous tendencies of his power-hungry younger brother (not to mention his lovely queen and darling daughter).

Picture Bob Newhart. Now picture Bob Newhart absentmindedly juggling a slavering pack of rabid weasels. That pretty much captures the general vibe of King V’s court. Prince Daemon has almost nothing in common with his older brother—a celebrated knight and skilled warrior, Daemon is charming but hot-tempered and reckless, with a reputation for casual brutality and even sadism. The story details his various ill-fated attempts to move above his station and rival the king through conquest, alliances, and marriages—but in spite of his obvious machinations and power-grabs, the king continued to forgive the troublesome prince and welcome him back from exile time and again.

Inevitably, Daemon’s story dovetails with that of his niece (and Viserys’ recognized heir), Princess Rhaenyra, beloved by all of Westeros… except, of course, for her stepmother and archrival, Queen Alicent, and the Queen’s supporters. “The Princess and the Queen” began by describing the hostility between these two powerful women and their eventual battle for succession—in “The Rogue Prince,” we learn more about Rhaenyra’s ill-starred (and possible one-sided) romance with her champion Ser Criston Cole, as well as her marriage and children (let’s just say that the question of legitimacy is something of an ongoing issue, on Rhaenyra’s side of the family.)

And of course, flashy, handsome Uncle Daemon was a great favorite of the young princess, always bringing her exotic presents and showering her with attention—since these are Targaryens we’re dealing with, I think you can probably guess what the more salacious historical sources have to say about their relationship. At moments like these, poor stodgy Archmaester Gyldayn is often forced to refer to the rather vivid recollections of one Mushroom, the king’s fool, for information about what may have occurred behind the closed doors of the Red Keep. For better or worse, Mushroom’s memoirs make Casanova sound like Sunday School reading, so if anybody out there has ever wondered why there’s not more jester porn out there in the world…well, you’re in luck: let the spicy Mushroom fan fiction flow!

…0r not. Ahem. Mushroom and his bawdy tales of ribaldry aside, it’s clear that both Daemon and Rhaenyra both had their fair share of not-so-wholesome fun, as rich, spoiled royals are wont to do. And of course, while the two of them are off cruising about on their dragons, scheming, and/or getting freaky with their respective paramours (not you, Mushroom), good Queen Alicent stayed by the king’s side, consolidating power with the help of her father, the King’s Hand, and generally frowning in massive disapproval at any mention of her stepdaughter or brother-in-law. The toxic relationship between Alicent and Rhaenyra comes into greater focus in this account, as does the role of the frustrated, impetuous Rogue Prince, always looking for an opportunity to rise to power, by any means necessary…

With “The Princess and The Queen,” Martin introduced his readers to a brutal but captivating chapter of Westerosi history, filled with memorable characters, intrigue, and epic battles, underscoring the particular aptness of the Targaryen house motto, “Fire and Blood.”

It raised questions about the possibility of a woman taking the Iron Throne which continue to reverberate in the events unfolding in the Song of Ice and Fire, over two hundred years later. “The Rogue Prince” traces the origins of that massive, earth-shaking schism in the Targaryen line back to its familial fault lines: petty tensions, grudges, snubs, spurned advances, disappointments, all festering and swirling around the good-natured king who was unable or simply unwilling to see the bad in those closest to him. It’s a glimpse at the family drama behind the public, political battles for the throne, connecting the personalities and private motivations of the various players to the widespread historical horrors they ultimately unleashed.

As the reigning family of Westeros, the Targaryens often struggled to balance the potent blend of genius, madness, incandescent charm, and tyrannical cruelty that manifests in varying degree from one generation to the next. For every beloved ruler like Viserys I or Aegon V (beloved by fans of the Dunk and Egg novellas), Westeros had to suffer under an Aegon the Unworthy or Mad King Aerys II, or any number of other silver-haired royal maniacs whose collective antics make the Borgias look like the Brady Bunch. Which isn’t to say that the Baratheons and Lannisters have been doing such a bang-up job ruling the country, but these stories do serve as a sobering reminder of the ambiguous and deeply troubling legacy that Daenerys must struggle with as she seeks to reclaim the Iron Throne. Of all the obstacles that stand in her way, escaping the ghosts of the past may prove to be the greatest challenge to her reign: we know that fire cannot harm her, but it seems that her own blood may ultimately present a far more potent and unavoidable threat, in the end.

Rogues is available June 17th from Random House.
We’ll be reviewing additional stories from the anthology soon, look for them all here!

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. Please do not send her any Mushroom fan fiction, no matter how amazing it probably is.

Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn, while sometimes categorized as YA, is generally hailed as a story for all ages. As much as I love the book, I didn’t read it until I was in college, so my initial introduction into Beagle’s world (like many fans my age, I suspect) came courtesy of the 1982 Rankin/Bass animated movie of the same name.

While I can’t speak to the experience of reading the novel as a child, I certainly believe that a story as beautifully crafted and enduring as this one will resonate with readers of various ages and experience. I’d argue that the movie also has plenty to recommend it to adult fantasy fans, and is far more advanced in its themes than the vast majority of animated children’s entertainment. And while it stays very true to the book in many ways, the film manages to foreground certain elements of the original story that give it a very powerful, very unique appeal for children. Don’t get me wrong: it’s kind of a strange film, but therein lies its magic. It speaks to younger viewers in a manner that very few films ever do.

So, full disclosure: when I was about four, somewhere between my Extreme Wizard of Oz phase and the beginning of my All Labyrinth, All the Time mania, I discovered The Last Unicorn and the rest of the world ceased to exist. To my mother’s understandable chagrin, I decided that I only ever wanted to wear pure white clothing (a perfect plan for an active four-year-old, obviously), and I switched my entire career path from “witch” over to “unicorn.” It…probably made sense at the time. The fact that there isn’t any surviving photographic evidence of this period in my life should just be chalked up to some kind of crazy miracle and never questioned, because yikes. It was bad.

Which is all to say that yes, my nostalgia for this movie is both longstanding and intense; it’s a film that’s stuck with me—I’ve watched it countless times over the years and bonded over it with high school friends and college roommates and even now with current coworkers. I know it’s not for everybody, and I wouldn’t expect someone who didn’t grow up with The Last Unicorn to have the same reaction to it as those who did. I don’t know if I’d feel such a strong connection to the movie if I saw it for the first time now, in my thirties—but looking back, it’s illuminating to delve into the reasons why it holds such a strong allure, particularly for younger viewers, and why it made such a powerful impact on me and so many other kids over the years.

Beginning on the most basic level, of course, there’s the look of the film: Rankin and Bass hired the Japanese studio Topcraft to provide the design work and animation for The Last Unicorn. Topcraft had produced hand-drawn animation for a number of Rankin/Bass titles in the seventies and early eighties (including The Hobbit and ThunderCats), and Topcraft artists would become the core of Hayao Miyazaki’s Studio Ghibli in 1985 following the success of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind.

From the gorgeous, sun-dappled forest of the opening scene, with its deep shadows and rays of light glinting through the trees to the spectacular opening credits sequence, based on the famed Unicorn Tapestries, the movie thoroughly captures the otherworldly beauty of the unicorn and her enchanted wood and the rough strangeness of the world beyond. The human characters look a bit awkward, ungainly, and almost stunted in comparison to the unicorn’s shimmering grace, as they should—it is, after all, her story.

The unicorn is voiced by Mia Farrow, heading up a stellar cast, and it’s remarkable how Farrow’s distinctive qualities as an actress come through so strongly in her voice—tremulous and almost girlish, but tempered with an impressive urgency and self-possession. Alan Arkin is an interesting choice for Schmendrick—Beagle complained that his performance was “flat,” and I can see that: in the book, the magician comes off as more mercurial than neurotic, but he also has a more substantial backstory and a bit more to do in the original version. Personally, I enjoy Arkin’s take on the character: earnest, self-deprecating, and occasionally sarcastic, with an easy, believable chemistry between Schmendrick and Molly Grue (brought to life with humor and passion by Tammy Grimes’ distinctive voicework).

Angela Lansbury seems to have a fantastic time playing the shabby witch Mommy Fortuna, shouting threats and cackling madly (I admittedly love Lansbury in anything, but especially as a villain or antagonist). Christopher Lee is absolutely brilliant as the tormented King Haggard—I’m just as awed by his performance today as I was when I was four, if not more so. His Haggard is so intense, and rather frightening—but just as in the book, he never comes off as an actual villain, but rather as tortured, unhappy, misguided to the point of madness. Jeff Bridges is appealingly sincere and boyish as Haggard’s adopted son, Prince Lír, although admittedly it can sometimes be a little odd rewatching the film in a post-Lebowski world and thinking, “The Dude is full-on singing a love song to a unicorn lady right now.” Well, technically, it’s a duet—and while neither Farrow or Bridges have the crazy range of an Idina Menzel, for example, their voices are pleasant and there’s a certain halting awkwardness that genuinely fits the characters and their tentative steps toward romance.

The rest of the characters are voiced by a collection of character actors and Rankin/Bass regulars: Paul Frees, Don Messick, Keenan Wynn, René Auberjonois, etc, and the mixture of British and American actors and accents has always struck me as rather interesting. The decision to include a diverse array of dialects (and not conform to the time-honored “fantasy accents are always vaguely British” model) certainly helps reinforce the book’s playful approach to its setting in time and place, blending together quasi-medieval trappings and modern slang and references (also reflected in the dialogue throughout the film).

On a similar note, the original score composed for the film by Jimmy Webb adds to this sense of displacement and strangeness, filled with an eloquent sense of longing, soaring orchestration and strains of rich melodic melancholy. The folk rock bank America perform several of Webb’s original songs (in addition to one song sung by Mia Farrow, plus the aforementioned duet between Farrow and Bridges)—it might not be to everyone’s taste, but as a kid who grew up on plenty of folk and classic rock (hell, I still think “A Horse With No Name” and “Sister Golden Hair” are pretty great), I’ve always found the soundtrack to be haunting and rather beautiful, and so different from the usual kids movie musical fare.

Then again, “deviating from stereotypical kids movie fare” pretty much describes most aspects of The Last Unicorn. Beagle himself wrote the screenplay, and was able to keep the original story—which I’ve summarized in detail in an earlier post—largely intact, with the exception of a few plot points. I’ve already mentioned Schmendrick’s backstory (in the book, he’s cursed with immortality until he can learn to be a great magician), and we also lose the interactions with townsfolk along the road to Haggard’s castle; Hagsgate is cut out entirely, along with the witch’s curse and Lír s origin story.

I’d also argue that some of the book’s humor doesn’t entirely translate, or comes off as more odd than funny on occasion. Scenes like the amorous talking tree that takes a shine to Schmendrick, or the initial interview with the kooky reanimated skeleton guarding the entrance to the Red Bull’s lair strike me as more menacing than was intended in spite of (or possible because of?) the attempt at lighthearted, wackity-schmackity musical cues. It’s really just a matter of tone—having read the book, I watch these scenes a little differently now then I did as a kid, when I just accepted the weirdness and rolled with it (a strategy I’d still heartily recommend to first-time viewers).

By necessity, the movie is more focused on the action, less generous with its asides and commentary, and the metafictional cleverness is toned down (though not lost entirely). The book weaves a story that frequently doubles in on itself and riffs brilliantly on the nature of stories and storytelling, while the film really drives home the personal experience of the unicorn and the changes she undergoes throughout her journey. I don’t mean to imply that her experience isn’t central to the novel—of course it is—but the book dwells on details about the unicorn (her great age, her inscrutable immortal nature, her knowledge of and reactions to the other beings that she encounters) that repeatedly set her at a certain distance. The reader understands from the first that the unicorn is, as an immortal, essentially enigmatic and alien, and that mortal beings are not meant to identify with her too directly.

In the movie, on the other hand, I’d argue that the audience, and particularly children, are able to relate to the unicorn and her plight from the first, precisely because of her isolation and the confusion she experiences. We are part of her world from the beginning, and rather than taking pains to tells us that the unicorn is something strange and ancient and unknowable, Farrow’s expressive performance draws us in…but the character retains a strangeness and a separateness that actually becomes a point of connection for small children, rather than distancing them.

The appeal of the unicorn—this particular unicorn—goes far beyond the realm of the sparkly neon flood of unicorn-laden imagery unleashed on young girls starting in the early 80s in the form of Lisa Frank Trapper Keepers and My Little Pony merchandise. She is aesthetically beautiful, yes—but not a cuddly object of adoration or a kind of spiritual power animal boldly trampling rainbows and frolicking somewhat inexplicably through the Milky Way (not that there’s necessarily anything wrong with that). It’s just that this unicorn is not particularly happy or at ease at the start of her quest; in fact, she encounters reality much in the same way a young child might, making her way through a world that often seems strange, frightening, or hostile. She is self-contained but not unaware of (or immune to) the confusing and complex emotions of the people around her, with their esoteric and unfathomable moods, worries, disappointments, and self-delusions.

The mortals she encounters have drives and desires she simply doesn’t understand; they are preoccupied with their own mortality, with control over forces more powerful than themselves. There’s Haggard, obviously, with his obsessive need to possess unicorns, but also Mommy Fortuna’s fixation on the harpy as a deranged bid for immortality, or Captain Cully’s preoccupation with his own legend living on in song and story. Even her allies Schmendrick, Molly, and Lír are all arguably damaged (or at best, significantly unhappy or unfulfilled) in ways that even her magic can’t simply fix, and in knowing them and caring for them she inevitably comes to feel some of their sorrow, and learns the nature of regret—not that this empathy is seen as a bad thing in any way, but the story makes it very clear that friendship and other relationships can have emotional costs as well as rewards.

In some ways, it might be said that a young child is not all that different from an immortal creature, in his or her own mind. For a time, a child lives in her own world upon which other people, helpful or not, impede and intrude and expand and draw her out. When J.M. Barrie wrote “It is only the gay and innocent and heartless that can fly,” he captured the essence of childhood as a self-contained kingdom where the whims and wants and needs of others hold no dominion—a state rather similar to the unicorn’s untroubled existence in the lilac wood, before she learns that other unicorns have disappeared and feels compelled to go find them. The longer she spends in that world, entangled in obligations and the feelings and desires of others, the more of her innocence and heartlessness are worn away—and once she is turned into a mortal woman she is haunted by troubling dreams and memories where before there was a peaceful, uncomplicated emptiness.

The song that Farrow sings as the dream-haunted Lady Amalthea (“Now That I’m a Woman”) lends itself very well to a reading of The Last Unicorn as a story about moving from girlhood into adulthood, falling in love, and moving on, and I suppose that works, but it seems a little pat to me. This movie isn’t a simple love story, although that’s an aspect of it; I’d argue that it’s more about the gradual, sometimes painful, move away from the safety of a more isolated existence and toward empathy and socialization and obligations to other people—growing up, in other words. It’s a process that begins but doesn’t end in childhood, as the world and the people we meet change us in a million unexpected ways, for better or worse. And what I love about this movie is that it’s so honest about the fact that losing this sense of separateness is scary, and that it’s possible to move past pain and fear, but not to pretend that they don’t exist.

Even more impressive is that the movie isn’t interested in wrapping everything up in some hackneyed moral lesson at the end but in simply sharing a bit of wisdom, and reassurance that sacrificing the comfortable, insulated boundaries of your solitude can be worth the cost. Personally, I distrusted a preachy, hamfisted moral more than anything as a kid—I’ve never been a big fan of the smug and oversimplified approach to getting a point across (looking at you, Goofus & Gallant, my old nemeses…shakes fist). The Last Unicorn never talks down to its audience—it doesn’t tack on a speech at the end about how if you trust in the power of friendship and eat your vegetables, true love will magically conquer all. It’s a movie that’s very much about regret, as evinced by the final exchange between the unicorn and Schmendrick:

“I’m a little afraid to go home. I’ve been mortal, and some part of me is mortal yet; I am no longer like the others, for no unicorn was ever born who could regret, but now I do—I regret.”

“I am sorry I have done you evil and I cannot undo it…”

“No—unicorns are in the world again. No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy, save one—and I thank you for that part, too.”

There’s a note of melancholy here that is characteristic of the movie as a whole, and that tone is also part of the film’s fascination for young viewers, as children too young to know much of sorrow or regret encounter these emotions along with the character. The film’s beauty is inextricable from its more solemn depths, which can awaken in children a kind of wistfulness not fully understood, but deeply felt. It tells kids, in the gentlest and most reassuring possible way that one day they may have to relinquish their position at the center of their own small world and adapt to the chaos of a larger, louder, more random existence, in which the needs and expectations of others will become inextricably tangled up with your own. Things will be complicated and confusing and sometimes contradictory—and you will be okay, and you won’t be alone.

There are a million stories that paint black-and-white heroes and villains in cheery Technicolor tones, and promise a Happily Ever After to ease every ending. Some are great, and some are not, and the success of these tales is almost all in the quality of the telling; The Last Unicorn is not like any of these stories—it doesn’t look or sound or behave quite like anything else. Even if it weren’t so beautiful, or so beautifully told, it would still have the distinction of saying something to its audience that truly needs to be said, something useful and real and comforting. Something I’ll never get tired of hearing.

This post originally appeared on Tor.com on January 30, 2014.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, which is a pretty great thing to be, if you can’t be a unicorn. So it all kinda worked out, eventually.