The Transparent Timepiece
Posted January 3rd, 2013 by rebecca
A Book Review by Rebec
in Rivendell, the only place in Middle Earth that gets Wi-Fi
There is nothing majorly wrong in this picture. Only two things make me uncomfortable, and they are the amount of rewrites this has had. It has adapted, and I do not know if it is for the better. But as a story, isolated from previous memories, Leloo's work, as always is fantastic. It is unbeatable.
From the original, I know our protagonist is Cricket, but her metamorphisation is one of the aspects I do not like overmuch. It is just that the original had so much going for her, and this new Cricket is a lot quieter, very different. She also has some magic. Even if I am not fond of her, she was written brilliantly.
The story begins with a mysterious man, who is not dead, but he was. From reading plans, I know what this means, but I shall not mention it, other than to say he works perfectly, as he has done in all his previous incarnations. Of course, then, after a sutiably mysterious prologue, Cricket's abusive mentor Vanguard enters, and he perhaps is what detracts from her character, though he is awesome, with his cyborg dogs and general evilness. He forces her to use her visions to see her mother in her coffin, which is slightly on the cruel side. I don't know how the original Cricket would react to that.
Cricket, then, is the only character that needs a bit more work. The plot is fine, our mysterious friend from the prologue is sutiably unlike Sherlock Holmes, and Vanguard is brilliant, in a love-to-want-to-kill kind of way. All in all, I should wait to see the new story, assuming this is it's final evolution, before making jokes like that last one.
For the author:
What can I say, really? Characterise Cricket better. That's the problem. Her character does not interest me like the last Crickets (ah, another bad joke about this, nicely done). Having said that, I am not inside her head. You need to be. Sounds cheesy I know, but it works. It's like acting. This story needs to be believed, even whilst you are reminding yourself it's fiction.
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