Lionboy's Unflattering Picture of America

It's ironic that Zizou Corder's Lionboy trilogy became a bestselling series in the US since the books are, with little padding to soften the blow, anti-American.

Oh, sure, they say that The Simpsons will still be showing in the near future, when these books take place, and The Simpsons are a great gift from America to world culture. But the USA in these books appears mostly as "the Empire Homelands" looming on the west of the Atlantic.

That geopolitical picture is especially striking when I compare this series with other recent British fantasies:

• In Jonathan Stroud's Bartimaeus trilogy the British Empire is still powerful, and the rebellious province of America its bleeding weak spot.
• Philip Reeve's Larklight also revives the British Empire, in Victorian terms, and expands it across the solar system; there's a passing reference to American rebels.
• Reeve's Hungry City Chronicles presents America as simply wiped out by nuclear war while Old World cities battle it out for survival.

(In contrast, the hottest American fantasy series these days, Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson books, makes the US is the center of western civilization, and thus home to the Greek gods.)

We never actually see the "Empire Homelands" in the pseudonymous Corder's trilogy. The closest we come is in the third volume, Lionboy: The Truth; it takes us to a Caribbean island run by the Corporacy, which in turn is run by Americans.

But we get glimpses of the Empire in action, such as this TV news report from the start of the second volume:

The Empire soldiers had had to shoot up a city in the Poor World, and lots of civilians had been shot and there were no medicines available. There were pictures of children with dirty bandages on, looking terrified and hungry.

Alas, we don't have to imagine the near future to think of such events, given recent reports on aerial bombings in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Somalia.

Empires abound in fantasy literature, of course, but attaching the word "Homelands" to that designation seems a clear hint that Corder's picture of America was inspired by the administration that created an office of Homeland Security only a few months after it needed to concentrate on, well, homeland security. (We used to call securing the homeland "defense," but for over half a century the US Department of Defense has been busy in other people's homelands.)

Indeed, Corder seems to have chosen details that would needle the current administration and its leader. Volume 3 offers a glimpse of Fidel, the "ruler" of Cuba, "an old but strong-looking man in a beret, with a rather fine beard"; yes, he's still around. As far as I recall, the one American city mentioned by name is that administration embarrassment, New Orleans. And of course the whole story takes place in a civilization that's had to adapt to a petroleum crash and global warming.

I have no problem with the Lionboy books portraying a future American government as bellicose, heartless, and entwined with rapacious corporations. (It's unclear whether the Corporacy controls the Empire, or the Empire governs the Corporacy, or if that even matters.) For one thing, I enjoyed reading Corder's adventure story.

More important, a good fantasy story, even one subtitled The Truth, isn't supposed to be taken as the truth. (Something that William Donohue needs help to recall.) Fantasies help us imagine how a world might be, which can then spur us to think about how this world to be. We can still get off the road to the Empire Homelands.

But I call the Lionboy series "anti-American" rather than "anti-right-wing America" or "anti-corporate America" for two reasons:

• As I've already written, the books mangle American speech patterns badly. The American characters are clearly inspired by stereotypes, not real people.
• There are no sympathetic American characters to counter all those blustering, power-hungry, and relentlessly cheery authority figures. We don't see if, for instance, Americans actually voted for a different Empire government by a small but significant margin. We don't see if any Americans distrust the Corporacy as much as the Ashanti family does.
  

If a bestselling series portrayed another familiar nationality in such a one-sided way, I suspect American readers might have been troubled by the caricature. But we may be oblivious to the possibility of a fun book portraying us--us!--in a poor light. Or we may sense that nothing this British children's author writes could seriously affect our power in the world. Which in the end might show that Corder's portrayal isn't that far off.

Divided by a Common Language in Lionboy, books 2 and 3

Back in May I discussed how in Zizou Corder's Lionboy a circus impresario from the "southern Empire" of America uses "y'all" incorrectly. Major Thibaudet doesn't use "you-all" any more correctly on page 29 of the second book. But that's just the start of the problem.

Accents usually reveal where you're from, not just in geography but also in class. The British are usually thought to be experts in this sort of assessment. But Corder has trouble sorting out the accents on this side of the Atlantic.

In the trilogy's later books Corder again tells us how Major Tib "drawled in his lazy southern Empire voice." Usually he sounds like a Louisiana gentleman, but he can suddenly drop a few pegs on the class scale and say, "that ain't a problem, don't ya think?" Or turn British by telling an employee, "You're creakin' sacked." Or pull out the Yiddishism "no-goodnik."

Then there's the Head Chief Executive, another American. He sounds like this:

"Good to see ya, good to see ya. . . . And the football team--well, wow! All a' them! But of course the prize of the lot--Maccomo, you pulled it off! The Catspeaker! What can I say? You prarbly know we had a little trouble over in Yurp with the parents. . . But thanks to you that's all over. They'll be here licketysplit I'll bet, and we'll have all the ingredients we need for a fine a profitable noo season a'research."

The HCE says "y'all," too (correctly), and "ain't."

But every so often the HCE's folksiness sounds forced, like Fred Thompson playing a presidential candidate, and out comes a clunker like, "He can join the program along of all the other folks, and I daresay he'll be far the better man for it." In the end I decided the HCE's lines are best read the way the Monty Python gang used to do outrageous Amurkan accents, all Rs and round vowels.

There are no real Americans in the Lionboy books. In the final scenes, Sally Ann from Tennessee, working on an Atlantic island totally run by the American-rooted Corporacy, offers everyone "biscuits" instead of cookies. And all those folks, not just the ones from Yurp and Africa, want tea instead of coffee, Coke, or sweet tea.

Lionboy Trilogy Originally a Biology?

I can't find any external evidence for this theory, but I suspect that Zizou Corder (actually Louisa Young and her daughter Isabel) originally wrote her Lionboy series as a single large book, or two volumes, and added a third volume on the recommendation of the publisher or agent.

The book deal that made news in early 2003 was for three connected books, but as late as that August Young admitted that the series, "as it's a three-parter, [wasn't] even finished." Does that hint that a two-parter would have been finished by that time?

The first book, titled simply Lionboy, ends at a positive but inconclusive moment. Young Charlie Ashanti and his lions have outdistanced their pursuers and found at least a temporary refuge and powerful friend. But none of them is home, Charlie hasn't found his parents, and those villains are still on the move.

In contrast, second volume Lionboy: The Chase ends with nearly all the plotlines from the first volume resolved. Charlie's family has been reunited. The lions are home in Africa, and even Primo the saber-tooth has found a place where he is loved. The two main villains have been dispatched in different ways.

Yes, there's still the rapacious Corporacy steering the Rich World from its Gated Village Communities. But as far as the damage that occurs in Charlie's own life at the start of volume one, all has been repaired. Together, the two volumes make a most satisfying adventure, albeit one with unanswered questions and the seemingly extraneous (easily added, easily removed) minor character of a chameleon.

That makes the beginning of Lionboy: The Truth, the requisite third in the trilogy, a difficult challenge. The first several chapters grind a little as the vast machinery of plot moves again, like an ocean liner leaving the dock.

Characters who appeared to be left to the fates they deserved, either good or bad, must find reason or freedom to escape from those holes. Supporting characters who've had their time upon the stage and left, such as the king of Bulgaria and the circus folk, must be reengaged. And, though it requires a fair dose of stupidity, Charlie must let himself be kidnapped once more ("He'd been a fool--he knew it immediately"). Then another chase is on. And this time the little chameleon is crucial to the plot.

The third book also introduces a couple of minor plotlines that aren't fully developed or, in the case of the king trying to learn Catspeaking on page 116, ever heard of again. Though the problems problems that fuel this leg of the journey are long-standing and worldwide, they seem to get resolved in a rush, in contrast to the well-paced conclusion of book two.

But three is a magic number; who ever heard of a two-book fantasy series? As the Book of Armaments commands, "thou shalt count to two only shouldst thou immediately proceed to three."

He Wondered If He Would Ever See Julius Again

On page 124 of Lionboy: The Chase, Zizou Corder inserts what seems at first glance to be an extraneous paragraph. Young hero Charlie Ashanti is trapped with his lion friends in a Venetian palazzo, wondering where his parents are.

At that moment the novel brings up someone else entirely:

He thought about them in bed that night, wishing that Julius was asleep on a bunk above him. Julius knew so much, he would have been able to help. But he had never been able to tell the truth to Julius, because he was a circusboy and would not have understood how the lions had to escape. That didn't stop Charlie from missing him, though. He wondered if he would ever see Julius again.

This paragraph seems to have nothing to do with the preceding scenes. We last saw Julius in chapter 1, when he and his fellow circus performers on board the Circe discovered that Charlie had absconded with their lions. The narrative hasn't shifted back to the circus ship since page 31.

Furthermore, there's no sound logic to Charlie's thinking. Julius's expertise lay in knowing how the circus worked; he'd have little to say about the politics of Venice. So this passage tells us about Charlie's emotional state, but does it serve the narrative in any other way? In short, what's it doing in the book?

I think it's there so that sixty-five pages later when Charlie's parents have found their way to the Circe to talk to the circus boss, and "a curly freckled boy ran up to them," we readers quickly think, "Yes! It's Julius! Julius is Charlie's friend! Julius will help!"

Without that reference on page 124, we readers would be more likely to have forgotten Julius and how nice and knowledgeable he was. But just a little reminder, which seems to be nothing but Charlie moping before going to sleep, can be all it takes to tie things together.

I think Corder (actually author Louisa Young) does an excellent job through most of the Lionboy trilogy in doling out those hints and reminders and details from her several plot threads. The small exception involves the ending of volume the third, Lionboy: The Truth, and thus the ending of the whole trilogy.

******* SPOILER ********

The dénouement depends on Charlie having extraordinary computer skills. Page 208 reminds us: "Months ago, in Major Tib's cabin [on the Circe], he had listed among his strengths 'good at computers.'" But by that point Charlie's already started hacking into a worldwide corporation's main system, which goes well beyond being "good" at typing and videogames. A little damage is done, therefore: Charlie's skill appears more convenient, and thus contrived, than it has to be.

I think Corder could have inserted a few more references to Charlie hacking computers over the course of the book. Yes, that could be a challenge since he's usually on the run and kept incommunicado. But there are opportunities, given all the little computers he meets with: a boat's autopilot, cell phones, etc. Just a few references, every sixty to eighty pages, and his special skill would have been no surprise.

Divided by a Common Language in Lionboy

The circus proprietor in Lionboy is named Major Maurice Thibaudet, pronounced Tib-uh-day. (Every novel should have a circus proprietor, don’t you think? It would have made all the difference to Crime and Punishment.)

The major speaks “French, but with an accent Charlie [our young hero] recognized to be southern Empire.” The trilogy never identifies that Empire straight out, but a powerful clue appears on page 110 of the first book:

”Hey there, Lionboy!” called a voice from the deck behind him. It was Major Tib. “Y’all better get back on board right now. We don’t do shore leave without leave. Get back in here and help Maccomo. There’s plenty of work to be done.”

The “Ya’ll” is a giveaway that Major Tib comes from the American South--and that author Zizou Corder (Louisa and Isabel Adomakoh Young) does (do) not.

Major Tib is using “y’all” to address one boy. But “y’all” is a second person plural form.

Centuries ago, English had different pronouns for the second person singular and the second person plural. The singular forms were thou, thee, thy, and thine. The plural equivalents were you, you, your, and yours. The first group has fallen by the wayside, kept up into the last century by traditional Quakers but no one else. In both Britain and America, people use you in both singular and plural contexts.

(Similarly, in French the plural vous also serves as a formal singular form, with tu reserved for intimates and children. Though I recently read that past president Jacques Chirac and his wife still use the vous form with each other.)

American Southerners apparently realized that there’s grammatical value in distinguishing between second person singular and second person plural. So they’ve recreated the plural form as you all or y’all. We Yankees and English-speakers from other countries (who think all us Americans are Yankees) usually don’t realize that, and get y’all all wrong--as in Lionboy. We think it’s just those quaint Southerners being ungrammatical, but this word reflects a more sophisticated grammar than the rest of the English-speaking world uses.

Americans from outside our South use “you all” as a synonym for “all of you”--i.e., everyone I’m addressing now. So if Southerners understand “you all” to mean y’all, how do they signal when they’re addressing an entire group?

“All y’all,” naturally.

(A final note: Lionboy’s reference to the USA as an “Empire” makes an interesting contrast to our depiction as rebellious colonies in other recent British fantasies that revive the British Empire. Unlike those books, Lionboy is set in the near future, after a petroleum crash.)

Roaring Start for Lionboy

Now that is a fine opening chapter. Right off the mark Lionboy establishes young Charlie's deep affection and admiration for his extraordinary parents without becoming syrupy. His mum accidentally cuts her leg while gardening, and Charlie proudly goes into her lab to fetch the Bloodstopper Lotion.

"Thank you, sweetie," she said, and was just about to lift the lid and drip a drop of the lotion onto her still-bleeding wound, when she hesitated.

"Bring me a pen and paper," she said suddenly.

Charlie fetched one of the strong swirling glass pens that they used for every day, and the green kitchen ink, and a scrap of envelope.

"Proper paper," she said, and he brought a piece of heavy clean parchment from the drawer.

Mum pulled herself up, and as she did so the movement made the blood bubble a little more from her shin. She took no notice. Instead, she lifted her leg, and laid it along the kitchen table, as if she were doing her yoga, or ballet. The parchment lay on the kitchen table; the ink was ignored. Mum took the Venetian pen and cautiously dipped it in the beading blood of her wound.

Charlie stared.

"Don't worry," she said to him. "I just thought of something I've been meaning to do for a while."

What a powerful combination of the quotidian (the pen "they used for every day," the items Charlie knows just where to find in the home he loves) and the almost monstrously strange! And that opening chapter ends thus:

He forgot all about the parchment written in blood, and didn't think about it again until six months later, when he came home to find that his parents had disappeared.

Were Penguin to make that chapter available on the web, it would be a great selling tool.

Instead, the multinational continues to promote the Zizou Corder team as "Already being compared to J. K. Rowling." That's more than disingenuous. As the BBC surmised in 2005, "Almost every first-time children's author published since the Harry Potter books first had global success has been dubbed 'the next JK Rowling'." It's like "the new Dylan" for American music companies in the 1970s. The ravenous British press needs new icons.

And to her credit, Louisa Young, the older half of Zizou Corder, saw through this phenomenon herself in her terrific 2003 article for the London Guardian:

Tragically, I am no longer the New JK Rowling. I read in the paper that one Jonathan Stroud is the New New JK Rowling, and so my brief but glorious reign is over - before, I may say, the book that won me the title is even published. Or, strictly, as it's a three-parter, even finished.

You may think that being the New JK Rowling is an experience granted to few, of little interest to the general reader - but you'd be wrong. New JK Rowlings are ten a penny (which must be galling for the Actual JK Rowling). There was Georgia Byng, Eoin Colfer, Lemony Snicket, Lorraine Kelly and that vicar, and the guy whose mother saved his manuscript from the bin. . . .

(Not to mention Matthew Skelton.)

Basically, I'm pretty sure I was the New JKR because I am being paid what could (though not accurately) be called a Million-Pound Advance - following the logic that whatever six figures your six figures may be, six figures is nearly seven figures, and seven figures is a million quid and a million quid is a headline.