With "Alice in Wonderland" Lewis Carroll has created a world that has taken root in many people's minds. Wonderland's mysterious inhabitants have entrenched themselves into our dreams as soon as we heard or read about them. It should come as no surprise then that this realm has spawned millions of references, not to mention the abundance of stories that sprouted in other minds, with Disney twists and darker turns, but always with the Cheshire's grin somewhere lurking about.
When I read Lewis Carroll's work for myself, I came away a bit disappointed. The story felt too disjointed, the characters not relatable enough, and beyond the first moments of awe through encountering such strange creatures and absurd landscapes lay a feeling of anticlimax. Maybe it's the vivid and highly appealing image that has been painted of Wonderland, or maybe it's the feeling that more could be discovered in the white rabbits's burrow, but despite my disillusionment something about the story keeps fascinating me. I think the true power of Wonderland is found in how it works differently in everybody's imagination. For some the set pieces that were created here have become molds for their own dreams, Wonderland being a river bed through which their own fantasies run their course. For me Wonderland used to be that place where imagination has gone the farthest, a horizon for my daydreams. Recently it also felt that it's where fancy has got the longest way ahead of it, as I dream of taking a left where Alice has taken a right.
Christina Henry is one of the many authors to have decided that more could be done with Wonderland, and her take on the matter has been largely met with praise. When I started this book I was skeptical of an author who had to make use of a "mold" to get her story out there. On the other hand, there is no better mold than the one that's got "Made in Wonderland" etched on the bottom, so I decided to give it a try.
And at first, I was highly entertained. The green grassy hills made way for an industrial city, the sparkling blue rivers have been replaced by green sludge and the merry cast of characters have become either bruised and battered victims or terrifying monsters. Alice herself is no longer the curious girl but a scared, scarred and confused woman who has to deal with the trauma of rape while being locked away in a mental institution. Dark clouds gather, fires erupt and another tumble down the rabbit hole ensues, only this time it's going to be bloody.
But as with the original, my initial enthusiastic feelings did not endure. Four stars became three and as I wrote this review it even dropped to two. This is because at some point the narrative was showing some symptoms of the Young Adult Literature-disease.
The first symptom: overexplanation, spoonfeeding of interpretations, making the implicit needlessly explicit. Juicy lines that are meant to grab the reader's interest are put in italics, just to make sure you can't miss their genius. Where Lewis Carroll left a lot of silhouettes in his shrouds of mystery, Christina Henry drags them out into the spotlight and explains them away. Nothing is left up to the imagination. As if it wasn't bad enough that the once magical characters suddenly had to have something as ridiculously mundane as motives, these motives also had to be clarified. In my book, that's akin to blasphemy in Wonderland.
The second symptom: bitterness. I don't know if it's a YA-thing specifically or a recent trend in literature as a whole, but the few stories I have read in the genre carry with them a certain bitterness that goes well with the dark atmosphere in which the protagonists wallow, a darkness that was specifically designed to account for such a supposedly mature sentiment. Like any bitterness, it carries whiffs of pomposity and leads to a certain class of philosophies such as "an eye for an eye" that sound all the more pertinent and alluring due to all the emotional baggage the reader is asked to hold on to.
As a side-symptom, the bitterness, as ever crowned with a false sense of moral highground and intellectual superiority, allowed the author to make a villain out of practically every character. While it was innovative to see the Walrus depicted as a ruthless ganglord in the beginning, it got old very quickly as all the other characters were made into something similar during the course of this story. This book felt more and more like black paint being splashed on a painting of a beautiful landscape. Darkness was spilled all over the place to such an extent that one wonders why the author didn't choose to do it on a blank canvas instead of spoiling such a pretty place. I guess for many it's the contrast that makes it work. It did for a long time for me too, but in the end there was little contrast left as darkness filled the entire frame.
I hoped this story would have been about coping, about wonderment after disillusionment or about finding comfort in magic as cold reality chills your bones, but it became something else altogether. This is a bitter tale of vengeance. Magic, love and mystery are just some tiny sprinkles added on this ultimately cold and saltless dish, and the abundance of blood does little to hide the lack of tension. My final assessment thus becomes two stars, as a testament to the Cheshire's enduring grin, while the rest vanished into darkness.