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.

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? Those following the HBO series loved (and mourned) 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, some of whom will show up in season 5. 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 knew 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’s intimidating brood slithering toward payback in style.

[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.]

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.

This post originally appeared March 31, 2014 on Tor.com.

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.

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. In any case, let’s hear about your favorite villains (past, present, and possibly future) in the comments!

This post originally appeared on Tor.com on November 4, 2013.

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.

Thanks to the various casting news updates, set photos, teasers, and trailers released by HBO over the last several months, it’s become abundantly clear that the coming season of Game of Thrones is going to be diverging from its source material in the Song of Ice and Fire novels to a greater degree than ever before.

With the premiere of Season Five just a few weeks away, let’s pour out some Dornish red, roll up our heavily-embroidered sleeves and take stock of some of the biggest changes in store for fans of the series: which characters we won’t be seeing, which plotlines have been significantly altered or expedited, and which unexpected pairings and new partnerships we’ll be following as the show pushes forward into unfamiliar territory….

Warning: Spoilers for all of the novels and seasons 1-4 of the HBO series.

I’m Not Dead! I’m Getting Better! I Don’t Want To Go On The Cart! (You’re Not Fooling Anyone, You Know.)

First up, let’s take a quick survey of which dead/semi-dead/mostly dead characters will be putting in an appearance in Season Five. While I’d be extremely surprised to see Sandor Clegane reappearing at any point this season, as far as I know, no one on the show has confirmed that we’ll never see or hear from The Hound again, so…there’s still hope that he hobbled away from the bottom of that cliff somehow, maybe? It’s a much better bet that we’ll soon be encountering The Mountain again (or at least the Gregorstein version of the elder Clegane) when Cersei’s new champion, Ser Robert Strong, is introduced upon her forced atonement and return to the Red Keep. (Actor Hafthor Bjornsson was also spotted in Belfast while the show was filming there, so the odds are good that the show isn’t done with Gregor quite yet.)

Catelyn Stark, on the other hand, is gone for good: there don’t seem to be any plans to feature Lady Stoneheart on the series…which is good news for Brienne and Pod, at least? (Although I’m sure they won’t stay out of trouble for long.) In the absence of UnCat’s violent quest for retribution, though, maybe the show will provide some balance by having Sansa step into a more active role? It’s possible that the brief scene in the trailer in which Littlefinger tells Sansa to “Avenge them.” might point toward a darker, payback-driven plotline for the elder Stark daughter. Sansa’s storyline will clearly be moving beyond the events covered by the books, so it might be interesting to see her put her own spin on the thirst for vengeance that drives Catelyn/Lady S. (not to mention Arya) in the novels—one that’s more calculating, less blind rage, but still deadly.

Taking the Express Lane Toward A Lannister-Targaryen Alliance

Tyrion and Daenerys don’t appear in A Feast For Crows…and when they finally reappear in A Dance with Dragons, it’s pretty slow going, to put it mildly. Dany’s angstily playing politics in Meereen while engaged in a squicky, ill-advised affair with the smarmy Daario Naharis. She’s got 99 problems, most of which involve killer dragons, slavery, continuous revolt, and (eventually) hostile Dothraki. Meanwhile, Tyrion goes on a dark, depressing, and seemingly endless eastward journey that doesn’t quite pan out the way he’d hoped. It’s like George R.R. Martin read all the sad, dank, boring camping sequences in the last Harry Potter book, and walked away thinking, “My next novel needs more of THAT. I’m going to sidetrack the shit out of these guys for a few zillion chapters.”

Happily, these plodding plots seem to have been sped up quite a bit on the show, with set photos showing Tyrion and Daenerys together in Meereen (possibly watching Ser Jorah fighting for his life, gladiator-style, in the pits…) In the trailer, it also looks as if Dany and her entourage end up in the fighting pit with Jorah, surrounded by hostile soldiers, which is an interesting twist on the way events play out in the books….

Varys Takes A Holiday

At the end of Season Four, we saw Varys jumping ship (along with a crateful of freshly-escaped Imp), fleeing King’s Landing just as the bells began tolling for Tywin Lannister. According to the trailer, it looks as if they may have hightailed it to Pentos, arriving at Varys’ former partner-in-crime Illyrio Mopatis’s digs (where Tyrion resurfaced alone in the books after fleeing Westeros). A later shot from the trailer shows Varys and Tyrion in an alley in what appears to be a different city—possibly Meereen? Regardless of where he ends up, spending more time with Varys can only be a good thing, as far as I’m concerned, thanks to Conleth Hill’s consistently amazing performance (and facial expressions.)

In the books, of course, Varys completely disappears from King’s Landing following Tyrion’s escape, only reappearing out of nowhere toward the end of ADwD to murder poor Kevan Lannister, explaining that Kevan’s level-headed attempts to rein in Cersei’s crazy stand in the way of his ultimate goals: to play the Lannisters and Tyrells against each other so that Aegon Targaryen can swoop in and claim the throne (more on that plotline in a moment). Speaking of Kevan, Ian Gelder is slated to resume his role in Season Five, with rumors suggesting that he will show up later in the season, possibly around the time that Cersei is forced to suffer through her infamous Walk of Shame.

Griff-less: Jon Connington and Aegon Targaryen Have Been Kicked To The Curb

These also-rans probably won’t appear, at least not this season—they haven’t been cast, and won’t factor in the Tyrion/Daenerys plots at all—but can the show really just get rid of these guys completely? With the continued reports that HBO would like to extend Game of Thrones to ten seasons, perhaps the revelation of a male Targaryen heir could serve as a way to extend the struggle for the throne past the initial struggles between Lannister, Tyrell, and Stark. According to the books, Aegon was thought by many to be the fabled “the prince that was promised”—his conception was even marked by the appearance of a fancy comet and everything!—and according to the rules of succession, he would displace his aunt Daenerys in line for the Iron Throne.

On the other hand, most people believe that Aegon was murdered as an infant on the order of Tywin Lannister, which is why Connington would have preferred to bolster young Aegon’s claim through marriage to Daenerys. In ADwD, however, Aegon and the Golden Company grow tired of waiting on Dany and mount a fierce (albeit dragonless) invasion of Westeros, which is where we see them last. Snipping Aegon and Connington out of the story entirely simplifies matters (and saves the smallfolk of Westeros from yet another contender for the throne rampaging through their lands), but it also cuts out a major Dornish angle, given that Aegon’s mother was Elia Martell, sister to Oberyn and Doran. Her death (and that of her children) is the source of the intense, long-festering hatred toward the Baratheons and Lannisters among the Dornish nobles, which I’m sure we’ll hear plenty about given this season’s prominent focus on Dorne and the Martells…

Jaime Lannister and Bronn Go Road-Trippin’ in Dorne, or, Welcome to Season Five: We Hope You Like Sand!

So, instead of lifting the siege at Riverrun, Jaime and his sparring partner/new bestie Bronn are apparently heading down to Dorne for sun and fun with the Sand Snakes. I’m fine with that (although I’ll miss The Blackfish. That guy is awesome. Maybe we’ll catch up with him in Season Six or one of the extra three seasons HBO wants to tack on…or maybe not.) In any case, the writers certainly seem to be foregrounding the Dornish plotline—I’m guessing Jaime’s there to bring back his daughter-niece Myrcella, and having a few familiar faces around should help ease non-book-savvy readers into the world of Ellaria Sand (who we met last season), Doran Martell, Areo Hotah, and the Sand Snakes.

I’ve also heard/read a few theories suggesting that the writers might be seeding elements of Arys Oakheart’s storyline into Jaime’s, mixing him up with the seductive Sands Snakes in place of Arianne (the trailer does show him having a moment with Tyene, but she’s so not his type: she’s not blonde, they don’t share a birthday…or even a gene pool. C’mon.) The show also seems to have dispensed with Quentyn Martell and Gerold “I am of the night” Dayne (a.k.a. “Darkstar,” “Stabby McFaceslasher”) but Doran’s youngest son Trystane will factor into this season, and it’s looking like the show will be spending some time on the relationship between Trystane and Myrcella, so that could be interesting… The Dornish rules of succession would place Myrcella on the Iron Throne ahead of her brother Tommen—a fact which played a major role in the events of A Feast For Crows—but it’s unclear whether that plotline will play into the show’s revised approach to Dorne.

I’m admittedly disappointed that the show chose to drop Arianne, a memorable POV character in the books who could have been a strong addition to the cast, and I know I’m not the only one. I’m also curious about the fact that only three of the Sand Snakes have been cast (Tyene, Obera, and Nymeria), although Oberyn mentioned having eight daughters in a conversation with Cersei shortly before having his head smushed in like an overripe gourd (still not over it). I’m not sure if that means the other five Sands are too busy causing trouble elsewhere or if the show just couldn’t handle that much collective awesomeness, but let’s hope that Ellaria and the three sisters are more than capable of holding their own against Jaime, Uncle Doran, and anyone else who might try to rain on their parade.

Sad News for Fans Of A Good Old-Fashioned Kingsmoot

Maybe due to all the focus on the sun-drenched sands of Dorne, we’re going to be spending a lot less time in the Iron Islands than we do in the novels—it seems that all Greyjoy-driven plots (not involving Theon/Reek) will have to wait for a later season, if they’re going to factor in at all.

In the books, of course, beloved father-of-the-year Balon dies and the matter of who will succeed him is hashed out at a kingsmoot. Both Asha (Yara, on the show) and her uncle Victarion lay claim to the Seastone Chair, but Balon’s brother Euron wins the day, to the delight of basically no one. Euron sends his estranged brother Victarion to deliver a proposal of marriage to Daenerys, while Victarion plans to take Dany for himself and bind her dragons to his own cause.

Personally, the less time my brain spends marinating in the damp grizzled grizzly dampness of House Greyjoy, the happier I tend to be, but I realize that there are plenty of Kraken fans out there who’ll miss the grim-faced power plays of A Feast for Crows as well as Victarion’s high-seas adventuring in A Dance with Dragons. If it helps lessen the sting, there’s a fascinating fan theory floating around which suggests that Euron and Daario are actually the same person—it sounds completely crazy at first, but as this amazingly helpful video explains, the two are described in very similar ways (both physically and in terms of personality) and plenty of curious connections can be drawn between their backgrounds and exploits. In the end, the theory probably doesn’t work, but as long as the show is making changes and setting its own course, it’s certainly a fun idea to mull over.

Meanwhile, Scary Tree-Yoda Teaches Bran Stark To Fly Somewhere Up North…

Bran, Hodor, and Meera Reed will be sidelined in Season 5, after losing Jojen in a wight attack, finally reaching the mystical weirwood tree and meeting a Child of the Forest, who leads them to the three-eyed crow/Bloodraven/Brynden Rivers. Since the finale of Season Four brought Bran’s story up to date with A Dance with Dragons, the plan is for much of his training to occur off-screen, so maybe we can hope for an amazing Karate Kid-style training montage to kick off Season Six?

Showrunner David Benioff compared the move to the way the Star Wars movies handles Luke’s transformation between Empire and Return of the Jedi. It makes a certain amount of sense, although it might be a shock to catch up with Isaac Hempstead Wright after so much time has passed. He was only 11 when the show started filming, and will be turning 17 by the time sixth season is released (assuming the show keeps to its yearly release schedule), so expect Bran to be quite a bit more grown-up (and also magic) the next time we see him! There’s also no guarantee at this time that Hempstead Wright will return to the role, since actors are normally released from their contracts when sitting out for a season, but happily all signs seem to point to his return in 2016.

So, while we’re watching Jon Snow trying to keep Melisandre at bay (and away from poor Shireen, hopefully), Stannis preparing to take the North (in spite of those pesky, psychotic Boltons), Cersei and Margaery trading body blows under the watchful eye of the High Sparrow, and everybody else tromping all over the Eyrie, Dorne, and Essos—just remember that somewhere north of the Wall, Bran is finally coming into his own. And when he shows up riding a luckdragon, or a giant eagle, or a Nimbus 2000 or something in Season Six, it’s going to be totally worth the wait.

Looking ahead: Ten Seasons and a Theme Park?

Showrunners D.B. Weiss and David Benioff still seem to be sticking to their plan of ending the show after seven seasons, but HBO execs would prefer to pull a reverse-Deadwood and extend the show to ten seasons. For his part, George R.R. Martin says he’d be on board with a longer run (and also a movie, for what it’s worth, and you can’t really blame him for wanting to ride this magical gravy train all the way to Biscuit Junction), but if that’s where we’re headed (Biscuit Junction?), what does it mean for the major characters and plotlines, moving forward?

Would that mean bringing back some of these excised plotlines and characters? Will Aegon Targaryen finally get some time to shine? Will we ever get to see Jaime wrangle with the wily Blackfish? Will Gregorstein and Qyburn finally debut their snappy rendition of “Puttin’ On The Ritz”?  And if so, do we want to see all these things, or would you prefer a more streamlined version of events, with a definite end in sight? Please sound off in the comments, and let me know if I’ve missed any other major departures from the novels coming up this season—with so much going on, it’s getting hard to keep track!

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com and SHE IS OF THE NIGHT.

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… 

Captain Carrot and His Amazing Zoo Crew!

While this DC Comics series only lasted from 1982 to 1983, this wacky band of characters still make occasional cameos in the DC universe, appeared in an arc of Teen Titans, and a reprint of their entire 26 issue series was released in September 2014. Captain Carrot (aka Roger Rodney Rabbit of Gnu York—no relation to the other Roger, presumably) leads the intrepid Zoo Crew ask they face an array of sinister anthropomorphic villains and, apparently, a world filled with animal-related puns (there’s a character named after Burt Reynolds. His name is “Byrd Rentals.” He gains superpowers when a meteor fragment strikes his hot tub and becomes Rubberduck.) Captain Carrot, on the other hand, replenishes his powers by eating cosmic carrots, gaining super-strength, heightened senses, endurance, and of course, super-leaping abilities.

Mr. Herriman (Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends)

The oldest imaginary friend at Foster’s, Mr. Herriman is a stickler for the rules, is well-meaning but often pompous, and can generally come off as a bit stiff (although he also has a wild-and-crazy hippy-esque alter ego named “Hairy,” so at least he gets to let loose sometimes!) A six-foot-tall rabbit sporting formal wear, a monocle, and a top hat, the very proper, very English Mr. Herriman is obsessed with keeping order and protecting Madame Foster, who created him when she was a small child in the 1930s. He remains singularly devoted to his creator, even deigning to perform the “Funny Bunny” song and dance that delighted her as a girl (but only behind closed doors, where no one can see him cavorting about…)

Binky, Bongo, Sheba, et al. (Life in Hell)

You can’t really separate the Simpsons from their origins in Life in Hell, the long-running comic strip dedicated to Matt Groening’s ruminations on life, love, work, death, and all the fear, humor, irritations, and anxiety that existence entails. Beginning in 1977, Groening’s comics centered on the rabbit Binky (generally neurotic and depressed) and his son Bongo (a young one-eared rabbit, full of mischief, curiosity, and inconvenient questions), as well as Binky’s girlfriend Sheba and identical humans Akbar & Jeff. Groening would also represent himself and his sons Will and Abe in rabbit form in the strip, which finally ended its run in 2012. Often darker, weirder, and more introspective than The Simpsons, I loved reading the Life in Hell books and comics in the free Philadelphia City Paper as a kid—Groening’s rabbits were both funny and oddly therapeutic, perfect for weird kids, smartass teens, and stressed-out adults alike.

Suzy, Jack, and Jane (David Lynch’s Trio of Humanoid Rabbits, Rabbits/Inland Empire)

In 2002, David Lynch released a series of avante-garde video films featuring a trio of humanoid rabbits, which he refers to as a “nine-episode sitcom.” The horror-comedy vibe of these shorts is reflected in the series’ creepy tagline, “In a nameless city deluged by a continuous rain…three rabbits live with a fearful mystery.” The nature of that mystery is never quite revealed, as the rabbits mainly wander around the sitcom-style set uttering curious non-sequiturs or reciting esoteric poetry; they are occasionally interrupted by a random, effusive laugh track. The rabbits are played by Naomi Watts, Laura Harring, and Scott Coffey (all of whom appeared in Lynch’s Mulholland Drive), and the set and some footage from the series were used in Inland Empire, lending fuel to the theory that all of Lynch’s films are somehow interrelated in some crazy way…

Bugs Bunny

Last but not least, here’s Bugs: wily trickster, Warner Bros. royalty, and comedy icon. Bugs made his official debut in 1940’s A Wild Hare, a huge critical and commercial success (it even got an Oscar nomination), with the legendary Mel Blanc providing the bunny’s now-famous New Yawk accent and delivering his catchphrase, “What’s up, Doc?” Since then, the rascally rabbit has starred in countless cartoons, movies, video games, even commercials, satirizing and spoofing decades worth of popular culture and accumulating plenty of SF/F cred along the way. Bugs has been consistently foiling Marvin the Martian in his attempts to destroy the Earth since 1948, while still finding to torment a certain vengeful Norse demigod in What’s Opera, Doc? All that, and he still looks great in a wig—Bugs is a true paragon of rabbitkind.

I could go on, but I don’t have much to say about Radagast’s sleigh-pulling Rhosgobel Rabbits (big! fast! furry!), although they certainly deserve an honorable mention along with Mr. Bunny Rabbit (of Captain Kangaroo), the psychotic-but-adorable Bun-bun (Sluggy Freelance), Mr. Bun (aka Pauly Bruckner in The Unwritten), and Tim Conway’s performance as F. Lee Bunny on The Carol Burnett Show. In the meantime, 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 stays up nights writing frantically about bunnies (and will always maintain a vague but potent distrust of Art Garfunkle).

On June 10^th, 1928, Maurice Sendak was born in Brooklyn, New York, and the world of children’s literature gained one of its greatest artists (although it would take a few more years before that fact became apparent…). At the age of twelve, Sendak walked into a movie theater to see Walt Disney’s Fantasia and walked out hell-bent on becoming an illustrator, and so he did—starting out by providing the art for a science textbook, Atomics for the Millions, and quickly becoming a sought-after illustrator of children’s books throughout the 1950s.

The best, as they say, was yet to come.

In 1956, Kenny’s Window—the first book both written and illustrated by Sendak—was published by Harper, and it was truly lovely. It was quickly followed by a string of delightful works: Very Far Away, The Sign On Rosie’s Door, and The Nutshell Library. In 1963, Sendak produced an instant classic, Where The Wild Things Are, which received international acclaim and remains, arguably, his best-known and most popular book.

Following the success of Where the Wild Things Are, Sendak became known for testing the limits of conventional children’s lit, both in terms of his art and his subject matter, which was often characterized as being darker and more subversive than most contemporary picture books. 1970’s In The Night Kitchen, a joyfully surreal romp through a toddler’s dreamscape, famously caused controversy with its depiction of its naked protagonist, Mickey, and continues to pop up on annual lists of most frequently banned and challenged books.

Outside Over There (1981) relates the story of Ida, a young girl who must rescue her baby sister from a horde of goblins—Sendak based the story on his own childhood memories of his older sister, Natalie, as well as his anxiety over the sensational Lindbergh kidnapping in 1932. As a small boy, his awareness of the case and its tragic outcome deeply affected him, and helped contribute to the themes of mortality and danger which inform so much of his later work.

On a similar note, 1993’s We Are All in the Dumps with Jack and Guy features a community of homeless children, another stolen baby, poverty, illness, abandonment…when asked if children would have an adverse reaction to such troubling themes, Sendak insisted that only adults tend to recoil from such harsh realities:

Grown-ups desperately need to feel safe, and then they project onto the kids […] But what none of us seem to realize is how smart kids are. They don’t like what we write for them, what we dish up for them, because it’s vapid, so they’ll go for the hard words, they’ll go for the hard concepts, they’ll go for the stuff where they can learn something, not didactic things, but passionate things.

In spite of the occasional bleakness and sense of danger at the edges of Sendak’s work, however, an all-pervading sense of hopefulness lies at the heart of each of his books—an awareness of potential threats and darker emotions does not necessarily translate into pessimism. I find it helpful to think of Sendak’s approach to childhood in terms of the sublime—throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, various thinkers and poets explored the concept of the sublime as a way of describing a state of emotion or an idea too vast or complex for human consciousness to fully grasp and understand. At the risk of oversimplifying a rather complex idea, the experience of the sublime is often characterized as a mixture of terror, even pain, and ecstatic pleasure at encountering the unknown and awe-inspiring…and in some ways, isn’t childhood one long, epic encounter with the unknown?

Sendak had a way of making the ordinary trappings of childhood (tantrums, sibling rivalry, birthday parties, annoying encounters with overbearing relatives) seem fantastical and bizarre, and by the same token, he gave his protagonists a kind of glorious equanimity in the face of man-eating lions, monsters, goblins, and even emotionally needy Wild Things. Without ever moralizing, preaching, or adopting a didactic tone, Sendak presented his readers with the courage to navigate the complicated territory between loneliness and belonging, knowing when to walk away from an unsatisfying existence in search of something better, and when to come home again to surrender happily to the people who love you. More than anything, his heroes revel in the chaos of living life—in the thrill of just being alive, with all of its attendant drama, its perils, occasional doldrums, and exultant, joyful heights.

Beyond writing his own books, Sendak continued to illustrate children’s books, collections of fairy tales, poetry, classic literature, and plays throughout his career, as well as designing the sets for many operas, ballets, and stage productions. In the 1990s, he collaborated with playwright Tony Kushner to produce a new translation of the children’s opera Brundibár, which was first performed by children interned at Theresienstadt concentration camp in Czechoslovakia in 1943. Sendak, who had lost many relatives in the Holocaust, published an illustrated book based on the opera, with text by Kushner in 2003, and the newly translated opera premiered the same year. His work has also been adapted to TV, stage musicals, and film, from the animated Really Rosie (starring Carole King) to the live action movie version of Where The Wild Things Are which premiered in 2009.

Sendak’s life, like his work, was a fascinating blend of high art, straight talk, and wry humor. He maintained a lifelong love of Disney, Mickey Mouse, and of course Fantasia, as well as a passionate devotion to Mozart, Melville, and the poetry of Emily Dickinson. He received countless awards, medals, and other honors over the course of his career and became known for his caustic wit and gruff, irascible persona—he did not suffer fools, but he loved his young fans and always responded to children’s letters. He was grumpy and cantankerous and beloved, a celebrity who lived quietly with his partner, Dr. Eugene Glynn, for fifty years, before Glynn passed away in 2007. When Sendak died in 2012 at the age of 83, accolades poured forth from everyone from Neil Gaiman to Spike Jonze to Stephen Colbert, who noted that “we are all honored to have been briefly invited into his world.”

As a lifelong fan of his books, I never thought to send Maurice Sendak a letter when I had the chance—looking back, I honestly don’t know why it never occurred to me. But today, on his birthday, I’d like to thank him for creating stories in which children are never judged harshly for being wild, for being impetuous, or willful, or less than sensible. He didn’t force his characters to behave as miniature adults, but treated them instead as surprisingly perceptive, surprisingly powerful beings whose wildness and vulnerability never undermine their intelligence or integrity in the least. He was honest about the fact that the world can be an absurd and confusing place, but encouraged us to face the unknown with courage, and hoped that we might find joy along the way. He showed us how to see the world not as scary, but sublime.

This article was originally published June 10, 2014 on Tor.com

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. She lives in Brooklyn with a wild thing named Max.

As an artist, David Bowie has spent a lifetime blurring the lines between performer and stage persona: after all, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars was famously advertised with the slogan “David Bowie is Ziggy Stardust”—while, in smaller type, the words “Ziggy Stardust is David Bowie” ran across the bottom of the ad.

This confusion between creator and creation is something Bowie has played upon from the very beginning—and then there’s the fact that, over the last couple decades, he himself has become the direct inspiration for various fictional characters, from the Lucifer of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman to The Venture Bros. shapeshifting leader of The Guild of Calamitous Intent. So let’s take a look at a few of Bowie’s more interesting incarnations, both as an actor and as a character, the dreamer and the dream, beginning with his acting debut in the unsettling 1967 short film The Image.

Filmed in black and white and featuring minimalist soundtrack and no dialogue, The Image follows a young Michael Byrne as a painter haunted by his own beautiful, otherworldly creation. In the role of the image-sprung-to-life, Bowie’s interest and training in mime and avant-garde performance art, which would inform his later musical alter egos, are much in evidence here. Furthermore, the troubled relationship between The Artist and The Image that takes on a life of his own seems rather prophetic when viewed in light of later episodes in Bowie’s career—his abrupt killing-off of Ziggy at the height of the character’s popularity, for example, or his drug-fueled Thin White Duke phase, which devolved into deranged incoherence and eventual breakdown; Bowie later blamed his behavior and mental instability at the time on both his cocaine addiction and the malignant nature of the character he’d created.

While The Image is sometimes said to be loosely inspired by Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, the parallels with the novel are much more obvious in the video for “Look Back in Anger” (1979). This time around, Bowie himself plays both the painter and the subject of the painting, but while the image remains safely on canvas, the artist’s face begins to decay—again, it’s easy to read the video as a comment on his recent struggles, a recognition of both the price of creating art and the potent narcissism involved in the process.

By the mid-eighties, having vanquished his demons and revitalized his career, Bowie was able to have some self-deprecating fun in the goofy, charming Jazzin’ for Blue Jean, a 20-minute promo film which won the 1985 Grammy Award for Best Short Form Music Video. As a likeable doofus named Vic who pretends to be friendly with David Bowie-esque rock star Screamin’ Lord Byron in order to impress a girl, Bowie is endearingly dorky even as he mocks his former reputation for bizarre behavior and rock star excess as the tweaked out Mr. Screamin’.

In the last minutes of the film, the self-spoofery becomes even more elaborate as the “real” Bowie breaks the fourth wall to complain to the director (Julien Temple) that his vision isn’t being respected, further playing with the stereotype of the spoiled star—it’s amusing, and clever (but not clever-clever!), and Bowie clearly has a great time poking fun at the joyless self-indulgence of the pretentious rock star.

A few years later in 1988, Bowie turned in a strong performance in Martin Scorcese’s adaptation of The Last Temptation of Christ in the brief but pivotal role of Pontius Pilate, kicking off a series of memorable supporting parts: FBI Agent Phillip Jeffries in David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, Andy Warhol in Julian Schnabel’s Basquiat biopic, Tesla in the previously mentioned adaptation of The Prestige, and so on.

He’s also branched out into voice work in the last decade, even famously showing up on SpongeBob SquarePants as Lord Royal Highness, the Blue Meanie-esque ruler of Atlantis. And then, of course, there was his much-loved cameo in Zoolander and his hilarious/painful appearance with Ricky Gervais on Extras—Bowie’s clearly comfortable playing serious, silly, or self-mocking, which might explain why he’s become so popular with other creators over the years—beginning with one Mr. Neil Gaiman.

When Gaiman reimagined Lucifer while writing Sandman, he was extremely adamant that the ruler of Hell resemble David Bowie as closely as possible. According to artist Kelley Jones, Gaiman insisted, “You must draw David Bowie. Find David Bowie, or I’ll send you David Bowie. Because if it isn’t David Bowie, you’re going to have to redo it until it is David Bowie.” The artists complied, and the resulting character ranks as the greatest depiction of His Infernal Majesty since Milton (and/or Peter Cooke in Bedazzled), at least for my money. Gaiman’s also been quoted as saying that David Bowie would make the perfect Joker (although he’s not alone in endorsing the Joker/Bowie connection, by any means, and Grant Morrison has admitted to using late-70s Bowie as a model for his own take on the character).

Gaiman has also collaborated with artist Yoshitako Amano (most known for his work on the Final Fantasy series) on an unreleased story called “The Return of the Thin White Duke;” a sort of prologue was published in V magazine in 2004. The story apparently revolves around Bowie and his wife Iman living in a fantasy version of New York, in which she is the queen and he comes to find her after 1000 years; although the current status of that project is unknown, you can still check out glimpses of Amano’s fabulous artwork online.

And finally, while we’re on the topic of Gaiman’s love of Bowie, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include his DIY remake of Labyrinth, starring Amanda Palmer, himself, some sock puppets, a glorious wig, a silver cape, and pure genius—imitation is the highest form of flattery, of course—and when awesome people choose to imitate David Bowie, everybody wins:

Of course, Gaiman wasn’t the first to succumb to the sparkly lure of Bowie Impersonation, and he won’t be the last. We’ll be discussing Todd Haynes’ quasi-biopic (but not quite, for legal reasons) Velvet Goldmine in a separate post, but if you’ve seen it, you already know all you need to know about glam-inspired costume porn and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers: Faux Bowie extraordinaire. Then there’s Castor, Michael Sheen’s character in TRON: Legacy, who Sheen claimed was inspired by Bowie and The Rocky Horror Picture Show with a touch of Mae West. Huh. The look, however, is pure Bowie (making it one of the best things about the film, for better or worse).

The epic “Bowie” episode of Flight of the Conchords clearly deserves a mention here, both because of Jemaine Clement’s incredibly entertaining Bowie impression and the climactic fantasy sequence set to the song “Bowie” (aka “Bowie’s in Space”), which packs in enough visual and musical references to his career that even the most hardcore Bowie fan will be impressed. It certainly doesn’t hurt that the song is hilarious, and ridiculously catchy to boot—an irreverent love letter to the sheer outlandish awesomeness of Bowie’s entire career:

Last, but certainly not least, I have to give a shoutout to The Venture Bros., and their creators’ abiding love for all things David Bowie. The references to his work in the series are too numerous to list, although I highly recommend the Season 1 episode “Ghosts of the Sargasso” as a standout—half of the episode is spent in an extended “Ashes to Ashes”-inspired gag, with plenty of random references to other Bowie songs and lyrics for good measure, and all of it is brilliant. But even with their Bowie fanboy status clearly established early on, I doubt anybody saw it coming when Bowie was revealed to be the mysterious Sovereign, leader of The Guild of Calamitous Intent—except that it makes perfect sense, in terms the show’s warped logic.

In a series that tends to revel in obscure 70s and 80s art, music, and pop culture references, clearly the person in charge should be someone who’s remained unquestionably hip and culturally relevant throughout: for Doc Hammer and Jackson Publick, that person is obviously David Bowie. Even as a supervillain, Bowie is polite, charming, and insanely cool—the apotheosis of hip combined with a humanizing penchant for self-mockery.

It’s a fitting tribute to a performer who’s toyed with the boundaries between personal identity, public image, fictional personas and “real life,” throughout his career that he continues to inspire these various homages, whether serious or silly. He’s become something very rare: an approachable icon, whose public image is fluid enough to resist simple parody—after all, no one enjoys making fun of being David Bowie more than David Bowie does. It’s all part of why he’s awesome, so here’s to many more years and many more versions of Bowie: the real, the unreal, and everything in between.

This article was originally published on January 10, 2012 as part of Bowie Week.

Bridget McGovern did her best to work in a reference to Bowie’s 37-second appearance in Yellowbeard with Madeline Kahn and Eric Idol, but this post was already long enough…

As a child of the 80s, I grew up watching a lot of weird stuff. My parents love movies, from glorious technicolor musicals (hi, mom!) and classic comedies to Westerns and all Kubrick films (hey, dad!), and as the oldest kid I was their pop culture guinea pig as they tried their best to figure out what kind of entertainment would fly with little ones, and what would just straight-up freak us out. But of course, they soon found that mileage tends to vary in a big way—spooky movies that amused me to no end gave my younger brother crazy nightmares, while other scenes that completely disturbed me had zero effect on him, and so on. Kids are fun like that.

Of course, having a strong emotional reaction to a movie or a particular scene isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and sometimes the moments we find most upsetting end up sticking with us long after we’ve processed those emotions. I’m sure everyone has a list of the movies that deeply affected them, growing up, and we’d love to hear your stories in the comments, if you care to share! In the meantime, here are my own personal top five trauma-inducing movie moments from childhood (mostly), in no particular order…

Artax Succumbs to the Swamps of Sadness—The NeverEnding Story

Oh, Artax. Other generations had Old Yeller or Bambi’s Mom or saintly Charlotte (of the titular Web) as their Spirit Animals of childhood trauma, ushering them gently into a precocious awareness of the harsh realities of mortality and loss. For better or worse, children of the 80s got the spectacle of a depressed horse sinking into the ghastly black depths of the Swamps of Despair, as his tearful, panicked human companion sobs and screams at him to fight against the sadness crushing in on him. It’s…pretty messed up.

Even knowing that Artax is restored to Atreyu at the end of the movie never did much to assuage my horror at this scene as a kid—I always broke around the point where Atreyu screams “Stupid horse!” as he pulls desperately on Artax’s bridle. It wasn’t just the sudden and tragic death of a beloved animal that was so upsetting (although I’ve never been good at handling that particular type of ordeal)—looking back, I think it was the idea that your emotions could be so overpowering that you couldn’t control yourself, or your actions, that disturbed me almost as much as the sinking horse. The idea of being so sad that you can’t fight to save yourself was just a horrific concept to me as a little kid who knew nothing about depression or mental illness, and frankly, it’s not the most comfortable scene to watch even now, almost three decades later.

But no matter how deeply (or not) Artax’s death affected you back in the day, at least I’m happy to report that all those morbid rumors that the horse used in the movie actually drowned during the scene are apparently completely false (there was an accident on set and Noah Hathaway, who played Atreyu, was injured, but the horse was unscathed.) And then probably went on to live the greatest horse life ever, eventually ascending directly into Equine Heaven alongside Secretariat, Fatty Lumpkin, and Li’l Sebastian, THE END.

A Child’s Guide to Conspiracy, Assassination, and Betrayal—The Secret of NIMH

As with The NeverEnding Story, I adored The Secret of NIMH when I was little, in spite of (or possibly because of) its stranger and darker aspects. The story throws its field mouse heroine, Mrs. Brisby (changed from “Frisby” in the book) into the path of a monstrous cat, a creepy owl, and all sorts of other dangers, all while she’s grieving the death of her husband, Jonathan, and attempting to save one of her children from a life-threatening illness.

While she encounters allies among the rats of NIMH (whose lifespans and intelligence have been expanded in a series of experiments), she also finds herself at the center of a power play by the film’s cunning and ruthless villain, Jenner. When Nicodemus, the wise, kindly leader of the rats, agrees to help move the Brisby home to safer ground, Jenner sees his opportunity to seize power and advance his own nefarious aims. He plots to murder Nicodemus by cutting the ropes during a critical point in the move, crushing the elder rat while conveniently making his death look like an accident.

Jenner’s slick façade quickly comes crumbling down when he attacks Mrs. Brisby in a frenzied attempt to silence her (and steal the magic stone Nicodemus entrusted to her earlier in the film). In the ensuing struggle, he wounds Justin, the Captain of the Guard, and slashes the neck of his former crony, Sullivan, when he attempts to intervene. Justin stabs Jenner and leaves him for dead, but Jenner manages to creep up behind Justin in order to deliver a killing blow. At the last second, the mortally wounded Sullivan hurls his dagger into Jenner’s back, redeeming himself and saving Justin’s life.

It’s an incredibly thrilling, beautifully animated couple of action scenes which reveal a level of villainy, betrayal, and violence that’s practically Shakespearean in its scope—Jenner is as calculating as he is merciless, and it certainly sets him apart from most other villains of children’s movies. The fact that he carefully plots (and successfully carries out) the cold-blooded murder of Nicodemus is still one of the more surprising aspects of the film, and that treachery certainly stuck with me over the years as an example of ruthless, pre-meditated evil.

George Lucas Loves An Orphan—Ewoks: The Battle For Endor

I might be one of the only people who vividly remembers the beginning of 1985’s sequel to The Ewok Adventure (aka: Caravan of Courage), but it was an oddly formative moment for me, and not in a particularly positive way. The made-for-TV movie focuses on Cindel Towani, the flaxen-haired moppet who had starred in the previous film, which saw Cindel and her brother happily reunited with their parents at the end, with the help of Wicket and the other Ewoks. As the sequel opens, their family is preparing to leave the forest moon of Endor when a savage band of marauders attacks—both parents are wounded, and Cindel is forced to escape with Wicket, leaving her family behind to their doom.

As a big fan of the earlier movie, I was already pretty invested in the Towani clan, since the whole first movie centers on getting Cindel and Mace safely back to their parents. More than that, I was basically the same age as Cindel, the main protagonist, and obviously identified with her to a certain point (I mean, what 80s kid didn’t want an awesome Ewok buddy to hang around with? All I really wanted was an Ewok, or maybe a Mogwai, and my six-year-old bucket list would have been beautifully complete.) So when the second installment started off by killing off Cindel’s parents, I completely and immediately rejected the first 15 minutes of the movie or so, because the idea was so utterly terrifying to me.

Obviously, kids then and now encounter plenty of absent/missing/dead parents in the world of children’s entertainment, but something about seeing Cindel go from part of happy nuclear family to orphan-on-the-run in a few abrupt minutes really messed with my head. Not that I stopped watching The Battle for Endor—instead, I’d always ask my parents to fast-forward past the unpleasantness, and would repeatedly reassured them and my brother that “Cindel’s family probably got away” from the bad guys. I mean, we don’t actually see them die, even though Cindel seems pretty definite that she’s an orphan, and is quickly paired up with certified consolation grandpa Wilford Brimley, who presumably helps to fill the family-shaped void in her psyche with his excellent mustache and random curmudgeonly mutterings.

Sigh. Damn you, George Lucas.

So. Much. Animated Rabbit Blood—Watership Down

I’m not going to choose a particular scene, because I think it’s safe to say that very young viewers might find themselves fairly traumatized by the film as a whole, without pointing out any particular moment of climactic violence. If you’re not prepared to see a bunch of grisly rabbit injuries and deaths (no matter how subtly or artfully the surrounding story is presented), then you may want to hold off on Watership Down.

The movie starts off with a rabbit creation myth in which an act of rabbit hubris results in a divine smackdown, as the predators of the world are unleashed upon rabbitkind and begin gleefully (and graphically) slaughtering the peaceful and unsuspecting bunnies. The movie then switches to the more realistically-animated tale of Hazel, Fiver, and their quest to survive in the face of these ancient enemies and more modern, man-made dangers.

Don’t get me wrong—Watership Down is a beautiful film, but it’s also a brutal portrayal of the fear and desperation of these creatures at the bottom of the food chain, and the violence that stalks their every move. It does not shy away from disturbing images, which include (but aren’t limited to): trippy visions of blood-soaked fields, a rabbit choking to death in a snare, a sequence in which an entire rabbit warren is gassed and destroyed using farm equipment, Fiver Hazel getting shot and chasing the Black Rabbit of Death, some intensely bloody rabbit-on-rabbit violence, and a horrifying encounter with a vicious dog. I was captivated by the movie, as a kid, but I was also deeply disturbed by it—as I got older, I read and loved the novel it was based on, but if I had to do it over, I would have preferred to watch the movie after reading the book, when I was a bit older and better able to contextualize the images and experiences being represented, and the emotional reactions they produced.

You Are Who You Choose To Be—The Iron Giant

All of the previous movies on this list I’d seen by the time I was six or seven years old; when The Iron Giant came out, I was in college, and probably thought of myself as being pretty jaded at the time (I mean, kids raised on Watership Down have seen some stuff, you know?)

I hadn’t cried at a movie in years, and certainly wasn’t prepared to be knocked off my emotional high horse by the likes of Hogarth Hughes and his goofy metal-chomping mega-robot, but the retro design looked amazing and I’d heard good things, and so I pressed play one day and completely fell in love in almost no time. And when I came to the scene in which (*spoilers*) the Iron Giant sacrifices himself to save Hogarth and the rest of the town by intercepting an incoming missile, I was absolutely gutted. To this day, I can’t watch the scene, with the Giant smiling to himself and murmuring “Superman” as he slowly closes his eyes, without crying buckets. I’ve tried—it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it, it just destroys me with its perfect combination of inexorable sadness and sheer, triumphant, heroic joy.

And while I’m always delighted when the scattered bits of the Giant begin to reassemble themselves at the end, it doesn’t make that one brilliant moment of self-sacrifice any less beautiful or devastating to me. That moment is everything, and even though the older I get, the more I tend to tear up over movies (and TV, and occasionally books and articles…and sometimes the odd commercial, if we’re being totally honest), I’m always grateful for the emotional touchstone that it’s become for me, over time.

Looking back at this list, it’s probably telling that all but one of the movies I’ve mentioned here were adapted (with varying degrees of faithfulness) from books—although I wasn’t aware of that fact, as a child. Perhaps a separate reckoning of similarly memorable moments in fiction might be in order, somewhere down the line. In the meantime, though, I’d love to hear about all the striking, shocking, sad, or trauma-inducing movie moments that have stuck with you over the years, for better or worse…

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, and clearly watched way too many potentially disturbing movies as a kid. She regrets nothing.

Mark Hofmeyer of Movies, Films, and Flix recently undertook the Herculean task of identifying the top-ranked horror movies of the 21^st century, thus far. By reading through and aggregating scores drawn from critics and users of sites including IMDb, Metacritic, and Rotten Tomatoes, as well as data from horror sites including Fangoria and Bloody Disgusting, he was able to come up with four separate lists ranking the most acclaimed horror films of the last 15 years according to both critics and audiences alike.

The entire process and resulting analysis and discussion over on MFF is fascinating and well worth an in-depth read—and then, of course, Hofmeyer decided to take things to the next level and asked readers to vote for the Best Horror Film of the 21^st Century. The results of that poll are now in, so it’s officially time to FIGHT, INTERNET, FIGHT!!! (By which I mean, take a look at the list below and politely discuss our feelings and opinions about what does and does not belong in the top ten…)

Without further ado, here’s the MFF list, based on votes/poll results:

#10 Drag Me To Hell
#9 Mulholland Drive
#8 Shaun Of The Dead
#7 The Babadook
#6 It Follows
#5 Let The Right One In
#4 The Descent
#3 28 Days Later
#2 Pan’s Labyrinth
#1 The Cabin In the Woods

As the AV Club has pointed out, this new ranking features fewer horror comedies than Hofmeyer’s original lists did (no Zombieland, no What We Do In The Shadows, for example), but overall it’s an interesting mix. On a purely subjective level, I love several of these movies (Mulholland Drive, Pan’s Labyrinth, and Shaun Of The Dead, while very, very different takes on the genre, are all insanely brilliant). Others, I don’t care for at all (I’m rather surprised that Drag Me To Hell rates as highly as it does here and in the previous lists; while I’m a longtime Sam Raimi fan and rushed to the theater to see it on opening weekend, I found it extremely disappointing on multiple levels.)

I was pleasantly surprised to see The Cabin in the Woods in the top spot, though. It’s a movie that I had quite a few thoughts about when it first came out in 2012, when I wrote about its potential long-term pop cultural significance at some length (with bonus Breakfast Club references thrown in for good measure). Personally, I’m delighted to see people voting for a film that manages to be fun, funny, and genuinely clever while driving home a powerful critique of Hollywood and the culture at large. But clearly “horror,” as a genre, means a lot of different things to all kinds of different people—how do these rankings stack up against your own personal Best Of list? And what movie would you nominate for the number one spot?

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com and can’t wait to finally see What We Do In The Shadows this weekend.

Exciting news for fans of House Greyjoy—it seems that Game of Thrones will be returning to the Iron Islands, after all. In an interesting bit of casting news, HBO has confirmed that Danish actor Pilou Asbæk will be playing Euron Greyjoy in the upcoming sixth season. Best known for his appearances in the sci-fi action thriller Lucy, Showtime’s decadent historical fever dream The Borgias, and the hugely popular Danish political drama Borgen, Asbæk joins Max von Sydow and Ian McShane as one of the major new additions to the series’ cast.

So, what does that mean for the show? (Spoilers follow for those who have not read the Song of Ice and Fire books….)

Pilou Asbæk

Until now, it was unclear whether the series would be picking up with the events that unfold in A Feast for Crows, in which various Greyjoys and a handful of ironmen lay claim to the Seastone Chair, resulting in the first kingsmoot in thousands of years. Key players include Aeron Damphair (always the life of the party), Asha (renamed Yara on the show), Euron Crow’s Eye, as well as Victarion Greyjoy. HBO has yet to announce who will have the pleasure of playing Victarion, a character that George R.R. Martin has described as “a dullard and a brute” as well as “dumb as a stump.” Fun!

In the books, much of the kingsmoot-y drama initially centers around whether the ironmen would accept a female ruler (Asha certainly has her supporters), but eventually boils down to the power struggle between Euron and his younger brother Victarion, who (along with Aeron Damphair) are simultaneously locked in a solid three-way tie for Westeros’ Creepiest Uncle (and that’s a tough category—poor Asha. And Theon, I guess, but he’s got his own thing going these days…) It certainly doesn’t help that Euron and Victarion have been estranged for years after a deeply disturbing and violent falling out that led to murder and exile…

Of course, there’s a chance that the HBO showrunners might completely change or truncate the plot to suit their needs; and frankly, I already find myself hoping that they find a way to keep things moving right along, in terms of pace. Personally, I wasn’t a huge fan of the way the Dorne plotline was handled in the most recent season of the show, and a little exposure to the ironborn goes a long way. Properly deployed, the continuing adventures of the Greyjoy clan could be great—just as long as we’re not spending massive chunks of the ten new episodes wallowing in the gritty, grizzled, drizzly, oppressive dampness of life in the Iron Islands, buffeted by repeated mutterings about paying the iron price and He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves…

But that’s just me—I’m sure there are plenty of Greyjoy fans out there who’ll be delighted to spend more quality time with the Lord Reaper of Pyke and company, so feel free to sound off in the comments and let us know what you’re hoping to see in the coming season! And while we’re at it, who should play Victarion?

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com and still wants to know who Al Swearengen will be playing this season.

I’ve been rewatching Beetlejuice, a movie I’ve been madly in love with since I was 9 years old, and trying to figure out what makes it work as well it does. I think to understand Beetlejuice, and why it’s a high point of Tim Burton’s career, it helps to understand what it could have been: a much darker, less comedic film that comes off as the insane, creepy evil twin of the 80s classic that many of us grew up with.

In Michael McDowell’s original script, we’re introduced to the Maitlands, our charming young protagonists, only to watch them die a violent, graphic death, trapped in their car and screaming for help as they drown. Later, as ghosts, they exhume Betelgeuse, a psychotic manifestation of a winged demon who spends the rest of the movie trying to straight up murder their house’s new owners and defile their older daughter (the younger daughter is merely mutilated).

Tim Burton read this, apparently, and thought, “YES.” But also, “I’ve got some notes.” Another writer was brought on to help with the story, and eventually the whole script was rewritten by a third writer (Warren Skaaren), who drastically changed the tone of the project at Burton’s behest, making it more witty and comedic, less surreal and sinister. And that’s how pure concentrated nightmare fuel became one of the best death-related comedies ever: an oddly life-affirming, wholesome fairy tale that could be considered an offbeat, cartoonish Harold and Maude for the children of the late 80s.

In the screen version, we meet the Maitlands on the first day of their stay-at-home vacation. They’re up and about at 6:45 AM; she’s wearing an apron, he’s listening to Harry Belafonte and working on his miniature model of their idyllic town. They are young, square, and in love, and the only shadow cast on their happiness is the fact that they haven’t been able to have children. Their death, in contrast to the original script, is quick and relatively painless: swerving to avoid a dog in the road, they crash through a covered bridge and end up in the river. I’ve always wondered whether the last shot, of the shaggy dog sending them crashing down, was an intentional visual pun invoking the concept of a shaggy dog story—their anticlimactic demise coming on like the end of a bad joke. Given the rest of the humor, it certainly wouldn’t be out of place…

Adam and Barbara return home, find The Handbook for the Recently Deceased, and start coming to grips with the realization that they’ve somehow shuffled off this mortal coil, but aren’t able to leave their house. Enter the new tenants, the Deetzes: neurotic, hip, and benignly dysfunctional. Charles is a real estate developer whose nerves are shot; moving to Winter River, Connecticut is his attempt to relax and recover from a recent breakdown. Delia, his wife, is a sculptor who misses the hip, bohemian life in New York; with the help of Otho, the world’s most pretentious interior decorator, she begins remodeling the house. Finally, Lydia Deetz makes her entrance, gothed out to the max, viewing everything through the lens of her camera (the camera is a constant prop until she meets the Maitlands; when her father offers to build her a dark room, she dramatically replies, “My whole life is a darkroom. One. Big. Dark. Room.”)

Lydia’s character took the place of both an older and a younger (9-year-old) daughter in the original script, which explains why the role demanded someone who could believably balance between vulnerable kid and savvy young adult (she’s described by Barbara as a “little girl” and refers to herself as “a child,” but is also just old enough that Betelegeuse’s attraction to her is merely pervy and distasteful, not totally obscene). Winona Ryder was 16 when the movie was released, and she manages to play Lydia as a smart, dry-witted, precocious young girl who can match her stepmother quip for sophisticated quip, but isn’t jaded enough to ignore the Maitland’s clumsy attempts at haunting her family.

As she later tells the Maitlands, “Well, I read through that Handbook for the Recently Deceased. It says, ‘Live people ignore the strange and unusual.’…I myself am strange and unusual.” The line is more or less played for laughs, as her stagey, deadpan delivery of the last line seems intended to indicate that Lydia might be taking herself a little too seriously, but she’s absolutely right: she’s an outsider, and it makes her special, and the fact is that everything that happens in Beetlejuice revolves around her from here on out, even if Barbara and Adam Maitland seem to be the more obvious protagonists.

Tim Burton is always at his best when he’s telling a story that centers on some version of a childlike adult: Pee-Wee Herman, Edward Scissorhands, Ed Wood, Jack Skellington—his early career is built on a veritable parade of odd, enthusiastic, well-meaning manchildren (I don’t want to get into Willy Wonka or Alice—the pattern is there but Burton’s remakes didn’t work nearly as well for me.) Lydia Deetz fills almost the same role in Beetlejuice, but she gets to be the precocious oddball who is also the voice of reason, the wise child in a world full of petty, distracted, or misguided adults. In a sense, the whole movie plays out like a wish fulfillment fantasy for bored, attention-starved children of the 80s: once Betelgeuse focuses on Lydia as both a sexual object and a way back into the world of the living, her flakey, self-centered parents are finally forced to focus on the fact that she’s in trouble, while Adam and Barbara spring into action to save her.

In the end, defeating Betelgeuse brings everyone together happily under one roof—unlike the first version of the script, which had the Maitlands shrinking and moving into the miniature model version of their own house, or another which had the Deetzes moving back to New York, leaving Lydia to be raised by the Maitlands, the movie closes with all four parental figures delighted by the fact that Lydia passed her math test. Charles is more relaxed, Delia is happier and more successful as an artist (her cover of Art in America hangs in the study), and Barbara and Adam finally have a child that they can dote on in a corny, adorable, stern-but-loving way that includes plenty of Harry Belafonte. In short, Lydia is surrounded by a non-traditional but completely nuclear family that centers upon her and her wellbeing.

Interestingly, she herself hasn’t changed her personality, but she certainly seems happier, more outgoing, and in place of her formerly all black, goth-y style, she now sports a white shirt and even some plaid as part of her school uniform (though there’s still plenty of black in the mix—the change is just enough to show that she’s incorporated a bit of the Maitland’s wholesome style into her own). Speaking of which, the Maitlands aren’t just ghosts in the sense that they’re no longer living; in a way, Adam and Barbara can be seen as being tied to the past in many ways. As Otho quips, they’re Ozzie and Harriet; she wears aprons around the house, he’s obsessed with Harry Belafonte hits from the late 50s; it’s not just that they’re straight-laced and traditional—they seem like they’re from a completely different decade when compared with quintessential 80s yuppies like the Deetzes.

In fact, Burton seems to be playing around quite a bit with various wacky generational elements in this movie. Besides the Maitlands being quirky throwbacks to the Eisenhower administration, there’s the casting: even if we completely put aside the fact that Burton had to be talked out of going after Sammy Davis, Jr. (which is still something I’m struggling to picture, to be honest), there’s Robert Goulet as real estate tycoon Maxie Dean, as well as Dick Cavett, who shows up as Delia’s agent. Between Belafonte, Goulet, and Cavett, Beetlejuice seems hellbent on populating its late 80s setting with icons of suave (yet wholesome, non-threatening) early 60s cool….

Clearly, many directors’ personal nostalgia directly informs their work, but there are some, like Tim Burton and John Waters, who really seem to revel in it, in different ways. Waters (born in 1946), maniacally skewers the conventions of polite suburban society and presents a reality in which everything is so much better when the weirdos, misfits, outcasts and nonconformists take over; proving that it’s possible to be both affectionate, mocking, and relentlessly subversive toward cultural norms all at the same time. Burton (born in 1961) has no interest in the revenge of the outcast; his solution to conflict between the past and present, say, or artsy yuppies versus straitlaced squares is always to combine the two opposing sides into a more interesting, weirder definition of “normal”: and when it doesn’t entirely work out (as in Edward Scissorhands or Ed Wood), well, it’s clear we’re all a little worse off and poorer for not embracing the possibility.

In this case, however, it all plays out perfectly: Lydia gets her hip New Yorker parents doing their thing on one floor, her devoted, 50s-style Ozzie and Harriet parents on the next, and a new look that might be described as “sunny suburban goth.” And you know what? It’s great. Wish fulfillment isn’t a bad thing—with a movie as clever, well written, and brilliantly cast as Beetlejuice, that happy ending is more than earned, and that last scene is a thing of beauty that, for me, just never gets old. It does, however, strike me as very much a product of its time. I mentioned Harold and Maude, earlier, because the older I get, the more I tend to think of these movies as variations on a theme, almost two decades apart. Both are dark comedies, and both feature extremely likeable young protagonists with distant parents and a fascination with death (or more precisely in Lydia’s case, the afterlife). Released in 1971, Harold and Maude was director Hal Ashby’s affectionate wake up call to the disaffected youth of the day, assuring them that alienation and ennui are nothing compared with the struggles of past generations (in Maude’s case, the Holocaust…beat that, baby boomers!)

Harold and Maude is a romance, albeit an unconventional one, and its ending is about growing up and embracing adulthood. Beetlejuice, on the other hand, is about protecting and prolonging innocence, saving Lydia from the creepy, unwanted advances of an undead maniac but also from growing up too fast and becoming too jaded and cynical. If the message of Harold and Maude (in a nutshell) was “You’re not the center of the universe, kid. Grow up and fully embrace life because it’s awesome,” then the message of Beetlejuice could be interpreted as something like, “You are totally the center of the universe, kid. You should embrace life because dying won’t make you less neurotic, and all of your problems have been solved thanks to your fairy godparents—I mean, your new old-fashioned ghost parents.” To be fair, like any good fairy tale, Lydia gets her happy ending by being brave and unselfish, but she’s also rewarded for being strange and unusual and different from everyone else—Beetlejuice is like Tim Burton’s feature-length “It Gets Better” video for artsy goth kids stuck in suburbia, and I have absolutely no problem with that. There are worse role models than Lydia Deetz (especially if you lived through the 80s), and worse messages than “enjoy your childhood,” especially in a movie which actually seems to respect its young protagonist as an intelligent, capable human being.

I think this might be Burton’s best movie for many reasons, not least of which is the amazing cast, all of whom would have gotten a glorious twenty-minute standing ovation at the 1989 Oscars, if it had been up to me. I’ve barely mentioned Betelgeuse, because in many ways his major function in the plot is as the catalyst that brings the cutting-edge yuppies and the traditional homebodies together, uniting them as allies so that everything can be resolved happily—but that just makes Michael Keaton’s star performance even more incredible. He’s cartoonish, buffoonish, creepy, and unstable without ever going all the way to scary, changing from minute to minute in a way that would have been exhausting and/or annoying in the hands of a lesser actor. Keaton embodies and brings to life all the subversive, selfish, exploitative elements that have to be expelled before everyone can unite for their rockin’ Belafonte paranormal dance party, and he looks good doing it. That’s no small feat.

But in the end, I think the movie succeeds as wonderfully as it does because Burton managed to find a perfect vehicle for all of his pet quirks and artistic preoccupations in this bizarro fantasy about a bunch of people—all losers, outsiders, damaged goods or outcasts in their way—who discover that embracing weirdness might just be the key to true happiness. And he did it by hiding a delightful fairy tale inside a modern ghost story (one in which the ghosts wear designer sheets and compel the living to dance to calypso), transforming a warped horror script into a witty offbeat comedy, and generally making strange with all sorts of cinematic and casting conventions. Looking back, Beetlejuice is clearly classic Burton, but in a way that feels unstudied and spontaneous, like he was just throwing all the elements that he loved together to see if it all coalesced into something amazing…and he succeeded. He’s made plenty of other movies that I enjoy almost as much as Beetlejuice, but I don’t think any of them have quite the same sense of experimentation and manic, unrestrained joy as this cinematic love letter to youth, exuberance, and all that is strange and unusual.

This article originally appeared on October 26, 2012 as part of Tor.com’s Ghost Week.

Bridget McGovern is the non-fiction editor of Tor.com. She was also one of New York City’s leading paranormal researchers, until the bottom dropped out in ’72.

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.

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 (2009-15)

The show has had two fantastic Christmas-themed episodes; 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, 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 entertainment).

The Venture Bros. (2004)

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 (1999-2013)

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 managing editor of Tor.com.

(This is rerun of a post that originally ran on August 5th, 2015.)

As a child of the 80s, I grew up watching a lot of weird stuff. My parents love movies, from glorious technicolor musicals (hi, mom!) and classic comedies to Westerns and all Kubrick films (hey, dad!), and as the oldest kid I was their pop culture guinea pig as they tried their best to figure out what kind of entertainment would fly with little ones, and what would just straight-up freak us out. But of course, they soon found that mileage tends to vary in a big way—spooky movies that amused me to no end gave my younger brother crazy nightmares, while other scenes that completely disturbed me had zero effect on him, and so on. Kids are fun like that.

Of course, having a strong emotional reaction to a movie or a particular scene isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and sometimes the moments we find most upsetting end up sticking with us long after we’ve processed those emotions. I’m sure everyone has a list of the movies that deeply affected them, growing up, and we’d love to hear your stories in the comments, if you care to share! In the meantime, here are my own personal top five trauma-inducing movie moments from childhood (mostly), in no particular order…

Artax Succumbs to the Swamps of Sadness—The NeverEnding Story

Oh, Artax. Other generations had Old Yeller or Bambi’s Mom or saintly Charlotte (of the titular Web) as their Spirit Animals of childhood trauma, ushering them gently into a precocious awareness of the harsh realities of mortality and loss. For better or worse, children of the 80s got the spectacle of a depressed horse sinking into the ghastly black depths of the Swamps of Despair, as his tearful, panicked human companion sobs and screams at him to fight against the sadness crushing in on him. It’s…pretty messed up.

Even knowing that Artax is restored to Atreyu at the end of the movie never did much to assuage my horror at this scene as a kid—I always broke around the point where Atreyu screams “Stupid horse!” as he pulls desperately on Artax’s bridle. It wasn’t just the sudden and tragic death of a beloved animal that was so upsetting (although I’ve never been good at handling that particular type of ordeal)—looking back, I think it was the idea that your emotions could be so overpowering that you couldn’t control yourself, or your actions, that disturbed me almost as much as the sinking horse. The idea of being so sad that you can’t fight to save yourself was just a horrific concept to me as a little kid who knew nothing about depression or mental illness, and frankly, it’s not the most comfortable scene to watch even now, almost three decades later.

But no matter how deeply (or not) Artax’s death affected you back in the day, at least I’m happy to report that all those morbid rumors that the horse used in the movie actually drowned during the scene are apparently completely false (there was an accident on set and Noah Hathaway, who played Atreyu, was injured, but the horse was unscathed.) And then probably went on to live the greatest horse life ever, eventually ascending directly into Equine Heaven alongside Secretariat, Fatty Lumpkin, and Li’l Sebastian, THE END.

A Child’s Guide to Conspiracy, Assassination, and Betrayal—The Secret of NIMH

As with The NeverEnding Story, I adored The Secret of NIMH when I was little, in spite of (or possibly because of) its stranger and darker aspects. The story throws its field mouse heroine, Mrs. Brisby (changed from “Frisby” in the book) into the path of a monstrous cat, a creepy owl, and all sorts of other dangers, all while she’s grieving the death of her husband, Jonathan, and attempting to save one of her children from a life-threatening illness.

While she encounters allies among the rats of NIMH (whose lifespans and intelligence have been expanded in a series of experiments), she also finds herself at the center of a power play by the film’s cunning and ruthless villain, Jenner. When Nicodemus, the wise, kindly leader of the rats, agrees to help move the Brisby home to safer ground, Jenner sees his opportunity to seize power and advance his own nefarious aims. He plots to murder Nicodemus by cutting the ropes during a critical point in the move, crushing the elder rat while conveniently making his death look like an accident.

Jenner’s slick façade quickly comes crumbling down when he attacks Mrs. Brisby in a frenzied attempt to silence her (and steal the magic stone Nicodemus entrusted to her earlier in the film). In the ensuing struggle, he wounds Justin, the Captain of the Guard, and slashes the neck of his former crony, Sullivan, when he attempts to intervene. Justin stabs Jenner and leaves him for dead, but Jenner manages to creep up behind Justin in order to deliver a killing blow. At the last second, the mortally wounded Sullivan hurls his dagger into Jenner’s back, redeeming himself and saving Justin’s life.

It’s an incredibly thrilling, beautifully animated couple of action scenes which reveal a level of villainy, betrayal, and violence that’s practically Shakespearean in its scope—Jenner is as calculating as he is merciless, and it certainly sets him apart from most other villains of children’s movies. The fact that he carefully plots (and successfully carries out) the cold-blooded murder of Nicodemus is still one of the more surprising aspects of the film, and that treachery certainly stuck with me over the years as an example of ruthless, pre-meditated evil.

George Lucas Loves An Orphan—Ewoks: The Battle For Endor

I might be one of the only people who vividly remembers the beginning of 1985’s sequel to The Ewok Adventure (aka: Caravan of Courage), but it was an oddly formative moment for me, and not in a particularly positive way. The made-for-TV movie focuses on Cindel Towani, the flaxen-haired moppet who had starred in the previous film, which saw Cindel and her brother happily reunited with their parents at the end, with the help of Wicket and the other Ewoks. As the sequel opens, their family is preparing to leave the forest moon of Endor when a savage band of marauders attacks—both parents are wounded, and Cindel is forced to escape with Wicket, leaving her family behind to their doom.

As a big fan of the earlier movie, I was already pretty invested in the Towani clan, since the whole first movie centers on getting Cindel and Mace safely back to their parents. More than that, I was basically the same age as Cindel, the main protagonist, and obviously identified with her to a certain point (I mean, what 80s kid didn’t want an awesome Ewok buddy to hang around with? All I really wanted was an Ewok, or maybe a Mogwai, and my six-year-old bucket list would have been beautifully complete.) So when the second installment started off by killing off Cindel’s parents, I completely and immediately rejected the first 15 minutes of the movie or so, because the idea was so utterly terrifying to me.

Obviously, kids then and now encounter plenty of absent/missing/dead parents in the world of children’s entertainment, but something about seeing Cindel go from part of happy nuclear family to orphan-on-the-run in a few abrupt minutes really messed with my head. Not that I stopped watching The Battle for Endor—instead, I’d always ask my parents to fast-forward past the unpleasantness, and would repeatedly reassure them and my brother that “Cindel’s family probably got away” from the bad guys. I mean, we don’t actually see them die, even though Cindel seems pretty definite that she’s an orphan, and is quickly paired up with certified consolation grandpa Wilford Brimley, who presumably helps to fill the family-shaped void in her psyche with his excellent mustache and random curmudgeonly mutterings.

Sigh. Damn you, George Lucas.

So. Much. Animated Rabbit Blood—Watership Down

I’m not going to choose a particular scene, because I think it’s safe to say that very young viewers might find themselves fairly traumatized by the film as a whole, without pointing out any particular moment of climactic violence. If you’re not prepared to see a bunch of grisly rabbit injuries and deaths (no matter how subtly or artfully the surrounding story is presented), then you may want to hold off on Watership Down.

The movie starts off with a rabbit creation myth in which an act of rabbit hubris results in a divine smackdown, as the predators of the world are unleashed upon rabbitkind and begin gleefully (and graphically) slaughtering the peaceful and unsuspecting bunnies. The movie then switches to the more realistically-animated tale of Hazel, Fiver, and their quest to survive in the face of these ancient enemies and more modern, man-made dangers.

Don’t get me wrong—Watership Down is a beautiful film, but it’s also a brutal portrayal of the fear and desperation of these creatures at the bottom of the food chain, and the violence that stalks their every move. It does not shy away from disturbing images, which include (but aren’t limited to): trippy visions of blood-soaked fields, a rabbit choking to death in a snare, a sequence in which an entire rabbit warren is gassed and destroyed using farm equipment, Hazel getting shot and chasing the Black Rabbit of Death, some intensely bloody rabbit-on-rabbit violence, and a horrifying encounter with a vicious dog. I was captivated by the movie, as a kid, but I was also deeply disturbed by it—as I got older, I read and loved the novel it was based on, but if I had to do it over, I would have preferred to watch the movie after reading the book, when I was a bit older and better able to contextualize the images and experiences being represented, and the emotional reactions they produced.

You Are Who You Choose To Be—The Iron Giant

All of the previous movies on this list I’d seen by the time I was six or seven years old; when The Iron Giant came out, I was in college, and probably thought of myself as being pretty jaded at the time (I mean, kids raised on Watership Down have seen some stuff, you know?)

I hadn’t cried at a movie in years, and certainly wasn’t prepared to be knocked off my emotional high horse by the likes of Hogarth Hughes and his goofy metal-chomping mega-robot, but the retro design looked amazing and I’d heard good things, and so I pressed play one day and completely fell in love in almost no time. And when I came to the scene in which (*spoilers*) the Iron Giant sacrifices himself to save Hogarth and the rest of the town by intercepting an incoming missile, I was absolutely gutted. To this day, I can’t watch the scene, with the Giant smiling to himself and murmuring “Superman” as he slowly closes his eyes, without crying buckets. I’ve tried—it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it, it just destroys me with its perfect combination of inexorable sadness and sheer, triumphant, heroic joy.

And while I’m always delighted when the scattered bits of the Giant begin to reassemble themselves at the end, it doesn’t make that one brilliant moment of self-sacrifice any less beautiful or devastating to me. That moment is everything, and even though the older I get, the more I tend to tear up over movies (and TV, and occasionally books and articles…and sometimes the odd commercial, if we’re being totally honest), I’m always grateful for the emotional touchstone that it’s become for me, over time.

Looking back at this list, it’s probably telling that all but one of the movies I’ve mentioned here were adapted (with varying degrees of faithfulness) from books—although I wasn’t aware of that fact, as a child. Perhaps a separate reckoning of similarly memorable moments in fiction might be in order, somewhere down the line. In the meantime, though, I’d love to hear about all the striking, shocking, sad, or trauma-inducing movie moments that have stuck with you over the years, for better or worse…

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, and clearly watched way too many potentially disturbing movies as a kid. She regrets nothing.

I couldn’t be more delighted with last week’s news that Lin-Manuel Miranda will be producing film and TV adaptations based on Pat Rothfuss’ Kingkiller Chronicle trilogy. It’s no secret that there’s a massive amount of crossover between SFF fandom and people with an abiding love of theater and Broadway musicals, and Hamilton in particular, so for many people this announcement represents an opportunity to cross our favorite streams in the best possible way: JRR Tolkien meets jazz hands; Stephen Sondheim’s blind date with Severus Snape; Sally Bowles live at the Mos Eisley cantina.

It’s also a chance to play the dream-casting game again—I’ve done this once before but I’ve never been fully satisfied with the way it turned out; LMM’s involvement presents the perfect opportunity to cast a wider net and explore the myriad, diverse possibilities offered by the amazing cast of characters Rothfuss has created.

I should also note that I’m not up to date on the author’s own casting preferences beyond a few comments he’s made here and there, so those haven’t been taken into account here. Similarly, in most cases I’ve decided to look beyond the exact physical character descriptions detailed in the books—this is more of a free-wheeling attempt to consider actors who’d bring something fun and interesting and exciting to the roles.

In light of the recent announcement, this post will focus mainly on the first book, The Name of the Wind, since that will be the source of the upcoming movie adaptation. As with all Tor.com casting posts, this is simply a fun experiment—as someone who grew up obsessed with both musicals and the fantasy genre, I’m *extremely* excited to see what new elements and interpretations are in store for The Four Corners of Civilization with Rothfuss and LMM working as collaborators, and it’s entertaining to try to imagine what this project will look like, as it takes shape. This post is just the start of the conversation, though—I’m really looking forward to hearing everybody’s suggestions in the comments!

Kote (AKA, Older, World-Weary, Cut-Flower Kvothe)—Tom Hiddleston (alt. Toby Stephens, Michael Fassbender)

I’m sticking with my original pick on this one—Tom Hiddleston remains an excellent actor whose playfulness and boyish quality would help connect the adult Kvothe to his younger counterpart. On the other hand, he’s certainly more than capable of capturing the haunted, world-weary side of the character and tackle the almost Shakespearean complexities of being both Kote, the affable nobody, and Kvothe, the conflicted, misunderstood legend in his own time. I’ve seen Domhnall Gleeson’s name bandied about in casting discussions lately, and while I think he’s a talented actor, he doesn’t quite work for me in this role. Same with perennial favorite Eddie Redmayne—he’s great, but not my first choice for this very particular character. I’d be quite happy with either Michael Fassbender or Toby Stephens in the role, however—both older and decidedly less boyish actors, but with the range needed for the part.

Kvothe: The Teen Years—Alex Lawler or Asa Butterfield

The most difficult role to cast—Kvothe’s status as a prodigy at the Universe means choosing an actor who will look like the youngest person in the room while still coming across as an incredibly clever, charming, and capable young adult. I’ve narrowed down the field to two choices for the role—Alex Lawler is an up-and-coming British actor in his (very) early 20s, best known for playing the young Alan Turing in The Imitation Game and starring in a recent episode of Black Mirror. So far he’s won both critical praise and the fervent admiration of Dame Maggie Smith(!), and clearly has great things ahead of him.

Asa Butterfield is probably a more familiar face around these parts (he’s starred in various SFF properties, including playing Ender Wiggen—one of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s all-time favorite fictional heroes). At a few months shy of his 20^th birthday, he’s just old enough to tackle Kvothe’s coming-of-age narrative, and his established acting chops and genre cred make him a strong candidate. Both natural brunettes, a little off-screen magic might be necessary to capture Kvothe’s signature red locks, but I think both Lawler and Butterfield would do a fantastic job in the role.

Chronicler/Devan Lochees—Mandy Patinkin or Naveen Andrews

Chronicler is a bit of a mystery in several ways (although who isn’t, in these books?)—exactly how old the character is supposed to be is open to debate; I won’t go into the whole thing here, but this discussion on Reddit does a good job of summarizing the different theories. My own mental image while reading the books was of someone a bit older than Kvothe, but I think the question is open enough to support a range of ages. So, at the older end of the spectrum, I’d like to make the case for Mandy Patinkin.

An odd choice? Maybe. But the man is a Broadway legend AND he’s Inigo Montoya. He’s amazing. How many people have acted with both Barbara Streisand and Andre the Giant, and still have time to get together to duet with their lifelong friend Patti LuPone on the weekends? Mandy freakin’ Patinkin has, and I think he could bring a compelling mix of grit, dry humor, and scholarly reserve to the role. And also swordfight and sing like an angel, if necessary—Mandy P. can pretty much do it all!

For a slightly younger take on the character, though, I’d really like to see what Naveen Andrews could do in the role. Between Lost and Sense8 he’s got plenty of SFF street cred, and has proved himself adept at playing enigmatic, multifaceted characters—vulnerable but not naïve; haunted without being broken.

Bast—Ezra Miller

Ezra Miller’s really grown on me over the last few years, which is good since he’s suddenly all over the place, popping up in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and playing The Flash in the DC Extended Universe. Miller can play dangerous, even homicidal, but he can also be puckish, charming, and louche; he strikes me as a perfect fit for the demands of playing Bast, the mercurial Fae princling. Miller is also a musician and singer who performs in a band and was trained in opera singing as a child, which could come in handy if the adaptation expands Bast’s musical role beyond the lullaby he sings to Kvothe in The Name of The Wind.

Ambrose Jakis—Cameron Monaghan

So here’s where I nominate Actual Ginger Cameron Monaghan to play the nemesis of (a probably faux-red-headed) Kvothe—I’m creating a topsy-turvy parallel universe fueled entirely by bleach and hair-dye fumes, I know. But hey, it can’t be denied that Monaghan would make an excellent Ambrose. I haven’t seen his turn on Gotham, but it’s clear that he’s more than capable of playing a darker, more villainous character—but keeping in mind Lin-Manuel Miranda’s insistence that he doesn’t believe in villains, Monaghan’s familiarity with more multifaceted dramatic and darkly comedic roles might come in handy as well, in case the adaptation calls for an antagonist who’s conceivably more sympathetic than your garden variety insufferable rich kid-turned-fledgling psychopath.

Denna—Zendaya or Amandla Stenberg

So, it’s clear that Denna needs to be likeable and genuinely warm, as well as beautiful, if the audience is going to feel invested in the twisty, tentative relationship that develops between her and Kvothe. Zendaya (Spider-Man: Homecoming) and Amandla Stenberg (The Hunger Games, Sleepy Hollow) are gorgeous, but more importantly they’re both smart, outspoken, self-assured young women working in an industry that doesn’t always reward candor and confidence. These women have substance. For that reason alone, I think either actress could do the role justice, without coming off as flaky or flighty. (It also helps that both are singers and accomplished performers.)

Master Elodin—Lin-Manuel Miranda

This one was easy: Elodin is exceptionally brilliant, a prodigy who shot up through the ranks of the university to become the Master Namer. He can be charming, if eccentric, and acts as something of a mentor to Kvothe, though his behavior can also be erratic at times. I picture LMM having so much fun with a role like this; Elodin is a young hotshot, incredibly dedicated to his craft, which involves the connection between language and magic—it’s a perfect fit for a performer who is also a celebrated wordsmith, creator, and writer.

Elxa Dal—Taika Waititi or David Tennant

In my opinion, anyone cast as Elxa Dal should be capable of having fun with the role in the same way Alan Rickman clearly had a great time sneering and glowering his way through the life and times of Severus Snape. Dal’s a charming weirdo with a flair for the dramatic—he has a sense of humor, but also might be responsible for getting Devi expelled from the University (we haven’t gotten to the bottom of that particular mystery yet).

I will never pass up an opportunity to include the above picture of David Tennant in a post, and still think he’d be a great fit for Elxa Dal, but I’d also love to see multi-talented actor/director/comedian Taika Waititi take on the role. I’ve enjoyed everything he’s done as both an actor and director, and would love to see Waititi’s take on the goatee-sporting Master Sympathist.

Master Hemme—Ben Kingsley or Peter Capaldi

Kvothe describes Jasom Hemme as “the king-high bastard” of the University Masters; he’s smug, has a fondness for trick questions, and clearly enjoys lording his position over students (and Kvothe in particular). He should appear visibly older than Elxa Dal (who in turn is older than Elodin); at 72, Ben Kingsley would no doubt bring a viciousness and sense of superiority and entitlement to the character (if you’ve seen his brutal, sociopathic gangster in Sexy Beast, you have an idea of how unpleasant Kingsley can be in a role). On the other hand, thanks to my enduring love of The Thick of It, my favorite Capaldi is Total Bastard Capaldi, and I’d love to see him put those finely-honed Bastard skills to work on Kvothe. While I don’t see Hemme as wielding quite the same glorious proficiency with expletives as Malcolm Tucker, Capaldi’s vicious condescension and ferocious, steely-eyed glare are more than enough to convey Hemme’s essential awfulness.

Master Kilvin: Ernie Hudson

Okay, hear me out: I know Kilvin is supposed to be a massive guy, but for what it’s worth, Ernie Hudson is surprisingly jacked (go ahead and Google images of “Ernie Hudson muscles” and tell your boss I made you do it. Or…probably don’t, if you’re at work. Just trust me: there are muscles. I hope I look half that good when I’m 70). More importantly, who doesn’t need more Ernie Hudson in their life? Ernie Hudson is one of our greatest national resources, and would bring a steady, earnest, mellow wisdom to the role of the honest and honorable Kilvin.

Simmon— Eugene Simon or Avan Jogia

Here’s the thing about Simmon: I want to cast Jonathan Groff in this role SO badly. He’s the best, and this way the adventures of Lin-Manuel and Groffsauce could continue well into the future. But, I fear that Groff may be a smidge too grown-up for the part, because life is terrible and unfair. Instead, I suppose I’ll go with Eugene Simon, AKA Lancel Lannister: the biggest doofus in all of King’s Landing. I’d originally had him on my list as a possible candidate for Ambrose, but I think he’d make a better nice guy than a villain (and honestly, after everything Lancel went through, maybe Simon deserves the chance to play a sweet, sensitive soul with actual friends and non-incestuous relationships? Just for a change of pace). And in the interest of giving a less familiar face a shot, actor Avan Jogia had a recurring role in Caprica and has starred alongside the above-mentioned Sir Ben Kingsley and Asa Butterfield (in different productions) in the last year, so if we’re tired of the Game of Thrones cast getting all the good fantasy roles, Jogia could be worth a shot.

Wilem—Alfred Enoch

You might know Alfred Enoch as Dean Thomas in the Harry Potter movies, but he’s also done a ton of stage work, from Antigone to King Lear, speaks fluent Portuguese, and has a degree in Portuguese and Spanish from Oxford. Most recently, he’s had a rather boring role supporting Viola Davis’ scenery-chewing star turn in How to Get Away with Murder, but I feel now would be the perfect time for Enoch to return to his fantasy roots and have a little fun hanging out at the Eolian, drinking cut-tail and playing corners. Given his facility with languages, it also might be fun to see what he can do with Wilem’s accent and dialogue in Siaru as he doles out advice to Kvothe and Simmon.

Fela—Lupita Nyong’o

Strikingly beautiful, extremely intelligent, yet fun and approachable—Fela sounds almost too good to be true, and yet Lupita Nyong’o is all of these things and more. Oscar-winning and Tony Award-nominated as an actress, Nyong’o speaks four languages, holds an advanced degree from the Yale School of Drama, has written, directed, and produced a prize-winning documentary, campaigns vigorously against ivory poaching, and is an advocate for the health of women and children in war-torn, impoverished regions. All that, and she finds time to star in Star Wars and the upcoming Black Panther movie and still seems utterly likeable, so she gets my vote for Fela.

Manet—Daveed Diggs

Granted, Manet is supposed to be an older and more crotchety figure in the books, but if you have the opportunity to cast Daveed Diggs in something, you’d be a fool not to do it. And hey, Diggs has the requisite wild hair, would still be a bit older than Sim, Wilem, and Kvothe, and since some fans have linked Manet to Elodin (because both characters ask the same question involving three spades and five spades), we get the added pleasure of trying to figure out what mysterious nonsense Diggs and LMM get up to in their free time at the University (my guess: SO MUCH RAPPING. And inventing cool dance moves).

Auri—Saoirse Ronan

As I noted in my previous casting post, 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. Almost four years later, I’d still argue she’s the strongest 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 that’s important, especially if you’ve read The Slow Regard of Silent Things—Auri has layers; she contains worlds).

Devi—Chloë Grace Moretz

Devi’s fearsome reputation precedes her in the book; she’s a formidable woman used to being underestimated (by Kvothe and others), something she both resents and uses to her advantage. Anya Taylor-Joy, who starred in the The Witch earlier this year, has an eerie ability to shift almost imperceptibly from wide-eyed baby deer innocence to sharp-edged, potentially malevolent intensity in the blink of an eye. She’s definitely an interesting candidate for the role, but I haven’t seen her in anything that requires her to portray the kind of flinty, uncompromising bad-ass that lies under Devi’s cute-as-a-button exterior.

Chloë Grace Moretz, on the other hand, can definitely play tough, as we’ve seen from her performances as Hit-Girl in the Kick-Ass movies and her recurring role as Alec Baldwin’s Machiavellian teenaged nemesis on 30 Rock (so good). She might be a little young for the role on paper (at a couple months shy of 20), but Moretz has an ability to project confidence and self-possession far beyond her years, and would have no problem putting the fear of god into Kvothe or any other unfortunate, cash-strapped University students.

Count Threpe—Simon Russell Beale

(1) Simon Russell Beale is one of the greatest stage actors of his generation. 2) If you have not seen his performance in Penny Dreadful, you are missing out on one of the great joys in life. Sir Ferdinand Lyle is a sparkling jewel illuminating the dark, dank Victorian angst. In conclusion: Best. Threpe. Ever.

Deoch and Stanchion—Christopher Jackson and Leslie Odom, Jr.

Just a thought, really, but the smaller roles of Deoch and Stanchion, proprietors of the Eolian, present a perfect opportunity to sneak in some choice Hamilton cameos. I could see Odom as the charming, affable, and gossipy Stanchion with Jackson as his more taciturn business and romantic partner, Deoch—just as long as they both get to sing at some point (even if that’s not in the books). Or genderflip the roles and have Phillipa Soo and Renée Elise Goldsberry take over management of the Eolian—whatever works, as long as there’s plenty of dancing and singing and silver pipes to go around…

BONUS ROUND: Casting The Wise Man’s Fear

Maer Alveron—Raúl Esparza

Raúl Esparza is known for his incredible versatility: if you’ve seen him in Company, you’ll know how great he is at seeming suave and bemused; if you’ve seen him on Law and Order, you’ll know he can pull off cautious concern and a piercing glare. If you’ve seen him in Cabaret—well, congratulations (he was amazing). But more importantly (for me) he and Lin-Manuel Miranda are friends—if you haven’t seen it, check out their classic Miscast duet from West Side Story—and I’d love to see Esparza bringing some additional Broadway sparkle to this adaptation in the role of the Maer.

Lady Meluan Lackless—Zoë Kravitz

Meluan Lackless is striking, proud, and intelligent—with a fanatical hatred of the Edema Ruh. If the popular theories are to be believed, she may be Kvothe’s aunt, and/or may be somehow related to Denna, with whom she shares a resemblance. Without the final book, it’s difficult to know how much credence to give to all the potential familial relationships in the series, so for now I’ll limit myself to nominating Zoë Kravitz for the role of Meluan. I’ve liked her recent appearances in Dope and Mad Max: Fury Road and could easily see her summoning the rage and disdain necessary to play Lady Lackless. (And, for the record, if there’s ever an opportunity to cast Kravitz’s mother, Lisa Bonet, or her stepfather, Jason Momoa, in additional roles, I have zero qualms about turning this into a whole Lackless family affair…)

Felurian—Jessica Parker Kennedy, assorted supermodels?

I have a tough time attempting to cast Felurian—Kvothe’s time with her in Fae is not the most fascinating section of the story for me, and in some ways I imagine the role might be a relatively thankless one for a lot of actresses looking to do more than play an insatiable sex goddess with a lot of time on her hands. On a certain level, I feel like you could probably glance randomly at any Victoria’s Secret commercial or runway show and find a host of viable candidates, if you’re simply looking to fill the “attractive, alluring, comfortable in various states of undress” part of the equation.

Thinking along those lines, but with some proven grit and professional acting experience added into the mix, it occurs to me that pretty much any of the women who played the Wives in Mad Max: Fury Road could easily slip into the role of Felurian. I’ve already tapped Zoë Kravitz for Meluan Lackless, but that still leaves Riley Keough and supermodel/actresses Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, Courtney Eaton, and Abbey Lee. I thought all of them did strong work in Fury Road as the vulnerable-but-courageous Wives (Capable, The Splendid Angharad, Cheedo the Fragile, and The Dag, respectively), and any one of them could convincingly bring Felurian to on-screen life.

The other casting option that comes to mind is Jessica Parker Kennedy (The Secret Circle, Black Sails); her performance as Max, the crafty, seductive prostitute-turned-entrepreneur of Black Sails proves that she can combine sexiness and extreme physicality with emotional depth and intelligence, making Kennedy my first choice to portray the series’ mercurial, Shadow Cloak-weaving “primal lust goddess.”

So, those are my picks! Now it’s your turn: let us know which actors you’d like to see in the upcoming movie (and/or TV series), and what aspects of the books you’re most looking forward to seeing on screen…

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. But on the plus side, there’s also this.

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 Emily Asher-Perrin and I launched our American Gods Reread five years 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. Now that Starz is about to premiere their TV version of the novel, I can’t wait to see how music plays into the show, and if any of these songs pop up along the way…

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 greater depth in the individual chapter by chapter Mix Tape posts, 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? (Update: the original Beatles version/footage is no longer on YouTube, although you may be able to see it here.)

“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.

Chapters 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. (If you like your apocalypses with more of a glam rock edge, though, be sure to check out Bryan Ferry’s cover of the song, which I love beyond all reason…)

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.

Chapters 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 through 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, & 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. (For good measure, you should also check out Nina Simone’s stellar live interpretation of the song here…)

“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 go with “Closer to Fine,” one of the duo’s best-known songs—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.

This is an updated version of a post that originally published in November 2012

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com. Once again, she is losing her battle with all these earworms; it’s like Dune in her head right now. Well, Dune with less sand and more guys named Elvis.

Alien: Resurrection had a lot going for it—released five years after Alien 3, which received mixed reviews and garnered a fair amount of criticism for the decision to kill off several major characters, the fourth installment was an opportunity to give the franchise a fresh start. With Sigourney Weaver uninterested in resuming her role as Ellen Ripley, Fox brought in an up-and-coming screenwriter named Joss Whedon to craft a story around a cloned version of Newt, the traumatized young colonist introduced in Aliens. By all accounts, Whedon’s initial treatment was fantastic, but of course, we’ll never know how it would’ve turned out. When we originally started planning these rewatches, I wanted to revisit Alien: Resurrection—I had a vague memory of the film being weird and messy, but maybe I hadn’t given it enough credit at the time. Even if it was a failure, given all the talented people involved, it would have to be an interesting failure, right? Sometimes an ambitious fiasco can be more interesting than a conventionally successful blockbuster—theoretically, at least.

Then again, with some movies, all you can do is roll out the crime scene tape and try to figure out what went wrong—and in this case, I’d argue that all the talent involved might be the movie’s biggest problem, since nobody seems to be on the same page: conversations and relationships seem stilted and bizarre, there seem to be big, weighty themes floating about waiting to bonk us on the head, but they never connect or come into focus.

As it turns out, Ripley’s there, after all. Sigourney was lured back to the franchise, intrigued by the script’s new take on the character and the chance to play an updated version of Ripley as part human, part alien. She’s supported by a cast of stellar character actors, including Ron Perlman, Michael Wincott, Brad Dourif, and Dan Hedaya, all of whom I’ve enjoyed in many, many other movies, and all of whom seem completely wasted here.

Weaver also shares the screen with a secondary female lead, Call, played by Winona Ryder. While this casting might make even less sense in retrospect than it did at the time, I will say that in 1997, Winona Ryder could still do no wrong, in my book—I’d grown up watching her in Beetlejuice, Heathers, Edward Scissorhands. Winona was still a quirky indie superstar at this point in her career, and if she wanted to break into action movies, what better choice than in an already successful franchise alongside an actress that she idolized?

I…loved you…in Ghostbusters…

Similarly, the director at the helm seems like an unusual choice, but at the time, I was unbelievably excited about the prospect of Jean-Pierre Jeunet making strange with action movie conventions (and a blockbuster budget). The sheer weirdness of Delicatessen (1991) and The City of Lost Children (1995) had played a huge part in my burgeoning interest in indie film, as a kid—his movies were so dark and bizarrely beautiful, and so…French. Sigourney Weaver used her clout to bring Jeunet on as a director, although just about every hot young director in Hollywood was considered for the job, including Danny Boyle, Bryan Singer, Paul W.S. Anderson, and Peter Jackson—and in spite of the fact that Jeunet didn’t speak English; he directed the movie through an on-set translator. (This last fact doesn’t seem surprising at all, if you’ve seen the film).

While these basic ingredients—screenwriter, script, stars, supporting cast, director—are all interesting and potentially positive on their own, once combined they somehow curdle like heavy cream mixed with battery acid. The movie begins with the opening credits as the camera pans over a confusing mass of embryonic tissue and malformed features, which are revealed later to belong to the failed attempts to clone Ellen Ripley—genetic mutations kept in jars aboard the USM Auriga, 200 years after Ripley’s death.

Having successfully cloned Ripley (after seven previous attempts), military scientists extract the embryo of an Alien Queen from her body. Their aim is to raise the queen and use its eggs to breed more Xenomorphs for some nefarious military purpose, and Ripley is left alive for further study, mostly as an afterthought. As Dan Hedaya’s character, the short-lived General Perez, blusters, “As far as I’m concerned, Number 8 is a meat by-product!”

Following surgery, Ripley/Clone #8 spends three days wrapped in some kind of weird futuristic cheesecloth cocoon, or possibly just performing terrible Matthew Barney-inspired performance art, eventually squirming her way free. If you’re not comfortable being repeatedly hit over the head with heavy-handed birth imagery, this scene should serve as a warning to run for the hills, because it only gets more ridiculous from here. The newly reborn Ripley has a few surprises up her sleeveless combat vest: she somehow retains the memories of the original Ellen Ripley, AND she’s swapped some DNA with the Alien Queen that had been living inside of her, so now she’s got acid blood and is even more of a badass. If you want coherent scientific explanations for any of this, by the way, there are plenty of theories online, but the actual science in the movie is basically limited to Brad Dourif muttering creepily to himself and occasionally screaming stuff like, “You are a beautiful, beautiful butterfly!” to the alien while covered in slime. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it’s fun to watch Weaver channeling the Xenomorph—her dead-eyed stare and predatory, swaying movements.

SCIENCE!

Meanwhile, the Betty, a ship carrying mercenaries and human cargo (to serve as hosts for the alien facehuggers), docks with the Auriga. The crew, including the menacing Johner (Perlman) and Call (Ryder) show up, meet Ripley and play a little space-basketball just in time for everything to go to hell thanks to the aliens onboard escaping (surprise!) and going on a Trademark Alien Rampage.

The rest of the movie involves the crew of the Betty, a military scientist named Wren, one of the alien hosts, and a single surviving soldier, all following Ripley through the Xenomorph-infested ship and getting picked off, one by one. Along the way, Ripley finds the seven previous monstrous versions of herself, cloned from the same DNA—it’s actually an affecting and horrifying scene, as the most human (but still incredibly grotesque) Ripley/Alien hybrid begs for death. Ripley obliges, tearfully toting a flamethrower, then continues on.

There’s an underwater alien chase scene—for all those people who liked the previous Alien movies, but wished they could be more like The Poseidon Adventure, I guess? Oh, and it turns out that Winona is a robot (cue Ripley: “I should have known. No human being is that humane.”). At the beginning of the third act, the Alien Queen gives birth to a human/alien hybrid—thanks to that super scientifically-feasible DNA swap with Ripley, somehow the queen ended up with a womb, and no longer needs eggs and human hosts to reproduce. Alien-in-labor isn’t exactly my favorite scene—so much slime, and goo, and like, gooey dangling slime-sacks—but if you’ve ever wondered what What To Expect When You’re Expecting would have been like as a David Cronenberg movie, well: you’re in luck.

Unfortunately for the queen, the newborn bites her head off and bonds with Ripley, instead, following her back to the Betty as the survivors blast off toward Earth. Which brings us to the most disturbing scene in the movie, in which Ripley lures the hulking newborn hybrid away from Call and cuddles with it, while surreptitiously using her acid-blood to burn a hole through a nearby viewpane. As Call and Ripley cling to safety, the newborn is thrown against the hole, and the vacuum created rips its flesh apart, sucking it out into space, as Ripley watches and sobs.

It’s one of those scenes that should be better than it is. There are so many thematic and visual references to motherhood, birth, identity, what it means to be human in the movie: is Ripley a “she” or an “it”? A person, a mere clone, a monster? What about Call, the most “humane” character, capable of free will, but not actually human? What about the earlier Ripley clones, and the newborn, which clearly identified with its human “mother”? Instead of engaging with any of these questions, the climax of the movie is simply brutal, and its attempted emotional payoff seems unearned, crude, and even galling—Ripley seems to feel some sort of bond with the creature being ripped apart before her eyes, but in the end, all the violence and drama rings hollow, since any semblance of meaning remains trapped in dense, heavy-handed metaphors and underdeveloped plot points.

Maybe this is just what happens when basic elements just don’t mix well: as much as you might love sushi and foie gras and crème brûlée, cram them all together in a blender and you end up with something that looks like the crud they rinse out from under the Tilt-a-Whirl every night. Alien: Resurrection is that nightmarish chunky carnival slurry: all the script revisions, the direction changes, the rejected endings, the competing (or at least never fully incorporated) visions of screenwriter, director, star, and studio leads the whole production to seem as unfinished, lumpy, and bizarre as Ripley Clones 1 through 7.

Ripley, surrounded by awkwardly ironic metaphors

A large part of the blame rests on Jeunet, in my opinion. He envisioned the movie as a dark comedy, but what worked well in his earlier films fails rather hideously here. This includes his reliance on impish Frenchman Dominique Pinon, who has appeared in all of Jeunet’s films and can be effective and charming in the right roles—but in this particular film, his barely comprehensible French accent and ill-conceived performance as the foul-mouthed comic relief/loveable mascot of the Betty is hard to watch without hurling things at the screen. It is maddening.

And then there’s the dialogue: Whedon dialogue is its own animal—anyone familiar with the character of Dawn Summers in the Buffy series knows how painful a Whedon-penned sentence can sound in the mouth of a bad/miscast actor. It’s not always a matter of how talented the actor is, though—nobody wants to see Lawrence Olivier deliver Billy Wilder dialogue; Orson Welles might not fit with Woody Allen. And there’s the matter of direction: many writer-directors from Quentin Tarantino and the Coen Brothers to Allen, Wilder, Welles, and Whedon work best when they can direct their own scripts, or at least pair off with like-minded creative partners. As Whedon himself has noted, in the case of Alien: Resurrection: “It wasn’t a question of doing everything differently, although they changed the ending; it was mostly a matter of doing everything wrong. They said the lines…mostly…but they said them all wrong. And they cast it wrong. And they designed it wrong. And they scored it wrong. They did everything wrong that they could possibly do.”

Except for the basketball scene. That was perfection.

Then again, we can’t feel too badly for Joss Whedon, or anyone else involved: his success over the last two decades as a writer and director has made him one of the biggest names in Hollywood. And five years after this movie, of course, he went on to make Firefly, a series which clearly shares a great deal of its DNA with the Betty and its ragtag crew—although I’ve always found it funny that it includes not a single alien.

Jean-Pierre Jeunet followed up Alien: Resurrection first with Amélie (a critical and box office success, although I personally cannot stand it) and the much more interesting A Very Long Engagement. Sigourney Weaver got paid 11 million dollars to star in Alien: Resurrection, and continues to be Sigourney F-ing Weaver (plus, she later had a cameo in The Cabin in the Woods, so chalk up another one for the Whedonverse). Ron Perlman persists in his essential awesomeness, and Winona—well, she was Spock’s mom, and more recently she absolutely *killed it* in Stranger Things, so clearly she still enjoys working in genre film and TV (and is probably not really a robot). And of course, the Xenomorph famously went on to collaborate closely with The Predator before being supplanted by a younger model in Prometheus. But let’s face it: a comeback is never out of the question.

This article originally ran as part of Tor.com’s 2012 “Countdown to Prometheus” series.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, and still wants to play basketball with Sigourney Weaver some day.

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 Easter 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). There’s even a cartoon series based on the books, currently in its third and final season.

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…

Captain Carrot and His Amazing Zoo Crew!

While this DC Comics series only lasted from 1982 to 1983, this wacky band of characters still make occasional cameos in the DC universe, appeared in an arc of Teen Titans, and a reprint of their entire 26 issue series was released in September 2014. Captain Carrot (aka Roger Rodney Rabbit of Gnu York—no relation to the other Roger, presumably) leads the intrepid Zoo Crew ask they face an array of sinister anthropomorphic villains and, apparently, a world filled with animal-related puns (there’s a character named after Burt Reynolds. His name is “Byrd Rentals.” He gains superpowers when a meteor fragment strikes his hot tub and becomes Rubberduck.) Captain Carrot, on the other hand, replenishes his powers by eating cosmic carrots, gaining super-strength, heightened senses, endurance, and of course, super-leaping abilities.

Mr. Herriman (Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends)

The oldest imaginary friend at Foster’s, Mr. Herriman is a stickler for the rules, is well-meaning but often pompous, and can generally come off as a bit stiff (although he also has a wild-and-crazy hippy-esque alter ego named “Hairy,” so at least he gets to let loose sometimes!) A six-foot-tall rabbit sporting formal wear, a monocle, and a top hat, the very proper, very English Mr. Herriman is obsessed with keeping order and protecting Madame Foster, who created him when she was a small child in the 1930s. He remains singularly devoted to his creator, even deigning to perform the “Funny Bunny” song and dance that delighted her as a girl (but only behind closed doors, where no one can see him cavorting about…)

Binky, Bongo, Sheba, et al. (Life in Hell)

You can’t really separate the Simpsons from their origins in Life in Hell, the long-running comic strip dedicated to Matt Groening’s ruminations on life, love, work, death, and all the fear, humor, irritations, and anxiety that existence entails. Beginning in 1977, Groening’s comics centered on the rabbit Binky (generally neurotic and depressed) and his son Bongo (a young one-eared rabbit, full of mischief, curiosity, and inconvenient questions), as well as Binky’s girlfriend Sheba and identical humans Akbar & Jeff. Groening would also represent himself and his sons Will and Abe in rabbit form in the strip, which finally ended its run in 2012. Often darker, weirder, and more introspective than The Simpsons, I loved reading the Life in Hell books and comics in the free Philadelphia City Paper as a kid—Groening’s rabbits were both funny and oddly therapeutic, perfect for weird kids, smartass teens, and stressed-out adults alike.

Suzy, Jack, and Jane (David Lynch’s Trio of Humanoid Rabbits, Rabbits / Inland Empire)

In 2002, David Lynch released a series of avante-garde video films featuring a trio of humanoid rabbits, which he refers to as a “nine-episode sitcom.” The horror-comedy vibe of these shorts is reflected in the series’ creepy tagline, “In a nameless city deluged by a continuous rain…three rabbits live with a fearful mystery.” The nature of that mystery is never quite revealed, as the rabbits mainly wander around the sitcom-style set uttering curious non-sequiturs or reciting esoteric poetry; they are occasionally interrupted by a random, effusive laugh track. The rabbits are played by Naomi Watts, Laura Harring, and Scott Coffey (all of whom appeared in Lynch’s Mulholland Drive), and the set and some footage from the series were used in Inland Empire, lending fuel to the theory that all of Lynch’s films are somehow interrelated in some crazy way…

Bugs Bunny

Last but not least, here’s Bugs: wily trickster, Warner Bros. royalty, and comedy icon. Bugs made his official debut in 1940’s A Wild Hare, a huge critical and commercial success (it even got an Oscar nomination), with the legendary Mel Blanc providing the bunny’s now-famous New Yawk accent and delivering his catchphrase, “What’s up, Doc?” Since then, the rascally rabbit has starred in countless cartoons, movies, video games, even commercials, satirizing and spoofing decades worth of popular culture and accumulating plenty of SF/F cred along the way. Bugs has been consistently foiling Marvin the Martian in his attempts to destroy the Earth since 1948, while still finding to torment a certain vengeful Norse demigod in What’s Opera, Doc? All that, and he still looks great in a wig—Bugs is a true paragon of rabbitkind.

I could go on, but I don’t have much to say about Radagast’s sleigh-pulling Rhosgobel Rabbits (big! fast! furry!), although they certainly deserve an honorable mention along with Mr. Bunny Rabbit (of Captain Kangaroo), the psychotic-but-adorable Bun-bun (Sluggy Freelance), Mr. Bun (aka Pauly Bruckner in The Unwritten), and Tim Conway’s performance as F. Lee Bunny on The Carol Burnett Show. In the meantime, 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, and has been updated several times since.

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

WALL-E is generally referred to as a children’s film, and I’m not going to argue: it’s an excellent children’s film—a classic, absolutely. I also happen to think that it’s an even better movie for adults, for whom its lessons are more poignant, possibly more resonant, and more necessary. Pixar has a knack for producing films which consistently operate on two different levels: one which speaks to a young audience without condescension or pandering, and one which reflects adult experience, rather than just exploiting nostalgia for idealized conceptions of childhood or simply spiking the cinematic punch with snarky, Grown-Ups Only pop culture references and in-jokes.

Movies like WALL-E and Up deftly evoke complicated emotional responses in adults in a way that most children’s films don’t, speaking to adults on their own level through smart, subtle storytelling that’s often amazingly, heartbreakingly simple. Consider the opening sequence of Up, for example, which has the power to make grown men break down and sob as if they’ve just been kicked in the heart, but doesn’t seem particularly traumatic for small children at the same time; it’s not that kids don’t “get it”—they just don’t necessarily react to the sequence in the same way that adults, carrying a little more emotional baggage into the theater, tend to respond.

WALL-E is Pixar’s most sustained and arguably most successful experiment in employing this radical narrative simplicity. For the first twenty minutes of the movie, there’s basically no spoken dialogue, only recorded human voices echoing around a long-abandoned Earth. During the making of the movie, the Pixar team studied and drew inspiration from silent films, particularly those of Chaplin and Buster Keaton, and the influence is palpable throughout the movie, but especially in these opening scenes.

The irony, of course, is that the era of the silent film greats was defined by the limits of available technology—these artists were driven to perfect a unique mode of expression because of the challenges they faced in the early days of cinema. WALL-E himself is literally a product of technology, the discarded creation of a society with no such limits, but also no vision, which eventually self-destructed in a downward spiral of mindless consumption and apathy. In WALL-E’s reality, there isn’t any dialogue because there’s no longer anyone to talk to, to talk with. Oddly enough, when we eventually get a glimpse of human existence later in the movie, there’s still no dialogue—plenty of noise, prerecorded messages, automated announcements, and verbal commands, but no conversation, and certainly no meaningful interactions between people.

WALL-E shares a kinship with Keaton and Chaplin that goes beyond his movements and mannerisms—in short, he is an artist. The opening scenes of the movie establish the fact that he possesses a remarkable capacity for aesthetic appreciation. His function, as a robot, is to clean up the planetful of garbage left behind by humanity—a mindless, thankless task, or it would be, if he wasn’t able to spend his days sorting through the rubble, collecting objects which appeal to his natural curiosity and sense of beauty. His prized possession, of course, is a beat-up VHS tape of Hello, Dolly! —his (and our) only link to a vibrant, thriving human past. In a sense, WALL-E is the last holdout of romanticism, stranded in an isolated industrial wasteland—and where Keats had a Grecian urn and Wordsworth had all sorts of abbeys and daffodils to inspire him, WALL-E’s experience of the sublime stems from a random 1969 Barbra Streisand musical…and that is genius.

I love that we’re never given any background on Hello, Dolly!, no belabored exposition on what it was and why we should care, no cute backstory about WALL-E finding his precious video cassette—all that matters is the feeling it evokes, within the context of the story. It’s such a fascinating choice for such a central plot device—a bloated, big-budget spectacle that was both one of the last great Hollywood musicals (directed by none other than the legendary Gene Kelley), and also a box office disappointment which helped usher in the end of an era, as cheery showtunes and sequins failed to impress late 60s audiences more interested in edgier fare. The movie version of Hello, Dolly! isn’t iconic enough to be instantly familiar to most audiences, but that fact makes it such a brilliant choice in a movie that urges you to look at the world differently, to appreciate the inherent value of creation and expression wherever you can find it.

Through WALL-E’s eyes, a campy Sixties musical suddenly becomes a lightning rod of varying emotions: joy, longing, passion…it brings WALL-E and EVE together, reunites them when they’re separated, and even serves as a call to action in a robot revolt in the second half of the movie. When the captain of the Axiom starliner views the recorded video of Earth stored in EVE’s memory, he’s initially discouraged—until the clip of “Put on Your Sunday Clothes” magically appears, steeling his resolve and inspiring him, finally, to return to Earth. The lesson is driven home again and again: singing, dancing, music, and art have the power to connect, to further our understanding of the world; art is how we communicate—it can inspire revolution, redemption, and change for the better.

More than anything else, WALL-E is a movie about the importance of appreciating and creating art—without it, we are cut off from each other, and from ourselves. As far as depictions of dystopian futures are concerned, the movie is rather gentle—nothing about the cushy Axiom is likely to traumatize small children… but at the same time, its indictment of a culture entirely devoted to the mindless consumption of “entertainment” with no artistic merit or intellectual value is chilling the more you think about it. And the movie really, really wants you to think about it.

When you get right down to it, WALL-E can be considered Pixar’s mission statement; it’s basically a gorgeous, animated manifesto. Over and over again, it drives home the point that civilization and self-expression go hand in hand—humanity is defined by its ability to move beyond mere survival into the realm of art: it’s no coincidence that, after meeting WALL-E, the captain’s crash course in the history of the world moves from learning about basics like “soil,” “earth,” and “sea” directly into “hoedown” and “dancing”: this is a natural progression, according to the movie’s logic. WALL-E spends 700 years on his own (Hal, his adorable cockroach friend notwithstanding), but as soon as he encounters EVE, he immediately attempts to reach out to her by building a sculpture in her image–that gesture alone betrays more passion and humanity than any of the any of the actual humans in the movie are capable of mustering, until the very end. And this is why I think adults may have more to learn from WALL-E than kids do….

George Carlin famously said, “Scratch any cynic and you’ll find a disappointed idealist.” For me, more than anything else, WALL-E is a movie that speaks directly to the cynics, the apathetic, and to anyone who has lost touch with the fundamental urge toward creativity and expression, with the sheer joy and heights of emotion that art can bring. Just watching the closing credits is inspiring, as they move through the style of cave drawings, Greek and Roman art, Seurat, Van Gogh, all the way up through 8-bit video game-style graphics. It drives home the message that the world is full of inspiration, sometimes where we least expect to find it. It’s clear that the folks at Pixar see themselves as participating in this grand tradition that includes everything from ancient graffiti to Renaissance masterpieces to Modern Times, and 2001, and even Hello, Dolly! Every aspect of this movie is imbued with the power of its creators’ convictions: WALL-E is Pixar’s luminous love letter to the creative process…one which will hopefully continue to inspire adults and children alike for many years to come.

Originally published in June 2012.

Bridget McGovern is the non-fiction editor of Tor.com. She is making it her mission in life to mount an all-robot production of Mame, just as soon as she finishes building her Bea Arthur-bot. You can follow her on Twitter.

On Friday, July 20, 2018, Tor.com will turn 10 years old.

In that span of time we have published, along with over 700 pieces of award-winning original fiction, more than 30,000 articles. To commemorate this exceptional, intense, unicorn-dappled run of non-fiction, we have assembled Rocket Fuel, a free collection of some of the best feature articles from Tor.com’s 10-year history as an online sci-fi/fantasy literature magazine!

Experience:

• An intimate moment under the covers that bloomed into a lifetime lived through sci-fi/fantasy.
• A fierce defense of fanfiction.
• The history of Wheel of Time author Robert Jordan, and the story of the reader who had her future rewritten in turn.
• A deeply unwise thought experiment that explains how centaurs eat.
• The story of one writer’s amazing day, starting out on her last dime and ending with her somehow hugging her idol, Terry Pratchett.
• And so much more!

Rocket Fuel is free to download at your preferred ebook outlet.

Selecting articles that represented the myriad authors, writers, and voices that have graced our shores was a months-long task. We are an odd rocket, veering our way through a universe full of epic fantasy rereads, lists featuring our favorite musical horse videos, deep dives into the history of military fantasy, nakedly open personal essays, Game of Thrones recaps, rankings of the kloo horn players in Star Wars, and more How do you contain that into a singular voice?

We needn’t have worried. When everything was arrayed before us, one article brought to mind another, which immediately brought to mind another, and another… Soon, Tor.com was telling its own story in its own voice.

You’ll find that, too, as you flip through the collection. Rocket Fuel is full of miniature journeys; writers informing each other without ever having met; fiction informing life informing new fiction informing…you.

We’re excited to be able to share it all.

Table of Contents

• Preface – Bridget McGovern

1. Under the Covers with a Flashlight: Our Lives as Readers – Emily Asher-Perrin
2. Sometimes, Horror is the Only Fiction That Understands You – Leah Schnelbach
3. The Bodies of the Girls Who Made Me: Fanfic and the Modern World – Seanan McGuire
4. Writing Women Characters as Human Beings – Kate Elliott
5. Meet My Alien Family: Writing Across Cultures in Science Fiction – Becky Chambers
6. So How Does a Centaur Eat, Anyway? – Judith Tarr
7. Fantasy, Reading, and Escapism – Jo Walton
8. The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan (and Why You Should Read It) – Leigh Butler
9. Robert Jordan: The American Tolkien – Michael Livingston
10. The Trial of Galadriel – Jeff LaSala
11. Good Idols: Terry Pratchett & the Appropriate Hug – Lish McBride
12. Orwell and the Librarian, a Love Story – Alex Brown
13. Beloved: The Best Horror Novel the Horror Genre Has Never Claimed – Grady Hendrix
14. The Peril of Being Disbelieved: Horror and the Intuition of Women – Emily Asher-Perrin
15. What Rape Apologists Need to Learn From Jessica Jones – Natalie Zutter
16. In Defense of Villainesses – Sarah Gailey
17. Queering SFF: Writing Queer—Languages of Power – Brit Mandelo
18. Sleeps With Monsters: There’s A Counter In My Head – Liz Bourke
19. Apologize to No One: V for Vendetta is More Important Today Than it Ever Was – Emily Asher-Perrin
20. Five Books about Loving Everybody – Nisi Shawl
21. Safe as Life: A Four-Part Essay on Maggie Stiefvater’s Raven Cycle – Brit Mandelo
22. The Complete American Gods Mix Tape – Bridget McGovern
23. Rewatching Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: “Far Beyond the Stars” – Keith R.A. DeCandido
24. The POC Guide to Writing Dialect In Fiction – Kai Ashante Wilson
25. Homecoming: How Afrofuturism Bridges the Past and the Present – Tochi Onyebuchi
26. Nobody Gets Mad About Hamlet Remakes: Why Superheroes Are the New Cultural Mythology – Ryan Britt
27. Sowing History: A Gardener’s Tale – Ursula Vernon
28. Not Saving the World? How Does That Even Work? – Jo Walton
29. Ursula Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” Defies Genre – Gabrielle Bellot
30. Soon I Won’t Know What the Future Looks Like – Chris Lough
31. Bouncy Prose and Distant Threats: An Appreciation of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s (or Sorcerer’s) Stone – Mari Ness
32. Joy, Sorrow, Regret, and Reassurance: The Singular Beauty of The Last Unicorn – Bridget McGovern
33. One Day You Wake Up and You Are Grown: Fairyland and the Secrets of Growing Up – Molly Templeton
34. Preparing Myself for Death with Joe Versus the Volcano – Leah Schnelbach

Rocket Fuel is free to download at your preferred ebook outlet.

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 paid glowing 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 absolutely should not 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’ve discussed the film at length in a separate essay), 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. The elements that resist translation from page to screen are 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).

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 uncomprehending crowds of 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.

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 solitary 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 once 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, a way of affectionately tweaking the reader’s attention for just a moment—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—and as 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 immediately 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 vice versa, and Schmendrick insists that they must let her go: Lír is now a 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, 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.

Buy it Now

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 my 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’ll go 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.

An earlier version of this essay was originally published in January 2014.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, and this remains one of her favorite books of all time. She also 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.