Except, it isn’t. It’s Harry Fucking Potter. It’s a fairly underwhelming, unquestionably unoriginal, children's fantasy book. And this children's book is now the most successful literature franchise of all time. The sheer longevity of The Bible aside, no non-religious text has gripped the Western race more than Harry Potter. So, let's not underestimate it.

 

At first, I thought the phenomenon was rather poignant and sad. And, perhaps, it is. But it’s a poignant sadness than can easily swing, for me, to plain disturbing – at very least, ridiculous. But still, in a certain light, the ludicrously multi-demographic spell of Rowling’s ingenious – contrived – invention, says something rather extreme of the bizarre state of the modern human condition.
 
Are we that sad? Of course, we are. It’s a silly question; but, really, here is a world – a world that justifies its every shred of brutality and slavery on some arrogant, functionally delusional concept of our superiority (or evolutionary advancement, or our enlightened society, or Freedom™, or whatever the delusion of the moment is) – moving forward, through a life that is seemingly so increasingly unfulfilling, all the grown-ups of this world secretly crave how good life was. Everybody wants to regress – we all want to escape our “now” and return to “then”. In fact, we’ll pay big money to do it. Because its safety, its sense of possibility and personal, imaginative (and really, to some extent, spiritual) freedom is destroyed by our advancement in this ever-so-advanced society. Harry Potter isn’t a character – he’s a space in time. He’s the recapturing of something cruelly transient, that can only ever be held again by stroking false states that remind us of that lost time. Harry Potter is an achingly simplistic child’s fantasy book. It’s about a teenage witch, for heaven's sake, that goes to a magical school for wizards, in a far away land; and there, he rides broomsticks and laughs at frogs, and fights magical, caped baddies that he will always win against, in the end. And the grown-ups of this world can’t get enough of him.
 
In this way, he is a clever reversal, symbolically. Harry is the orphan of his parents, and we are the orphan of our child-self. He’s perfect for us. He looks for us, as much as we look for him. And in him, we get to reverse our position through his – we get to instead orphan our immediate adult selves and return, psychologically, to the child-state. It’s a kind of freedom – and a kind of safety and, ultimately, joy – that we just don’t seem to find very easy as adults. Children all long to be adults, after all – that’s the horrible irony only we, on this side of the fence, know. Harry constantly pushes the boundaries of his adolescence and, sometimes rebelliously, demands to grow up. But we, in fact, deny Harry his wishes, when we become him in his world. We’re there to enjoy the state of childhood. We don’t want to grow up – unlike Harry, we know what that’s like. The thought of Harry moving through puberty has enthralled a world – there’s so many stages and thrills of adolescence to regress and move through – but Rowling was smart enough to know that Harry could never grow old. The thought of Harry growing old, truth be told, is a horrible thought for most; and I’ve overheard many conversations on public busses that involve a great deal of soppy sentimentality – a kind of grief – over the loss of the experience of Harry’s youth. It’s “sad”, after all, that Harry is no more. “Would he die?” the world wondered. Of course, he would. He didn’t have to die, literally. The answer to that question (stop here, if you’re reading it and don’t want it spoiled) is, supposedly, “No – he doesn’t die.” But of course, he does. In the end, he grows old. He becomes us. That’s what happens, after all. That’s the very kind of death that drives grown ups to revive their childhood through him.
 
“Oh my God, I can’t believe they were using such language – did you read that part where she called her a bitch?”
 
“Oh, I know! It seems like yesterday, she was this sweet little girl!”
 
And these, I might add, are conversations I have heard come from the mouths of tres cool urban types who sit enthralled over such details, as they drink their Stella. The kiss, the progression through school – so many of these gripping elements are not tied to the supposed plot of Harry’s fight with Evil. People get obsessed with the story of his passing through time – of his growing up. What a powerful hit it can be; a collective allowance, through (how very now) a pop culture fashion, to be young again. The sparkling eyes; the excited, child-like talk over favourite moments; I’ve even begun observing the positions people on public transport are in, when they’re reading it on their way to work. They sit, child-like - I’d dare to call it occasionally fetal. You can just picture them hunched up in their pajamas in their warm, safe doona, gripped by the endless and wondrous adventure that is life. Once, they’d run the risk of being viewed as retarded, or potentially pedophilic, for sitting hunched excitedly over a children’s fantasy book, in a public space  – now they’re indulging in a perfectly acceptable cultural fashion.
 
What a clever woman, JK is. She openly admitted it was a retirement work; and what a retirement that woman’s about to have. And I can’t even really begrudge her; she constructed it perfectly, after all. It was made so utterly knowing of what it was doing and, most of all, who it was doing it to. It is indeed a feat; just not one of art. And she did spend years writing proper novels – complex, adult fantasies that, I’ve been told, have a great deal more substance. And nobody gave a shit.
 
But that’s the other side to the coin. There was a moment – it came from beneath the poignance – where I watched a couple of the docile, drunk young creatures talking about what great literature it is (and what a master of suspense she is, bla, bla bla), and I thought; “Good God. Is it just regression, alone, this phenomenon?”
 
Or have we got to a point – amongst our MTV, Reality TV, Youtube and PS3’s – where this is the outer point of people’s comprehension? Is Harry Potter actually demanding for these people? Is it sincerely stroking their intellect, somehow? Are they that under-cultured, undernourished intellectually, that Harry Potter is a great fucking book?
 
I choose to ignore this question. I can do so, with part of me conceding that there are (whilst still adults, as such) some very young adults getting awfully excited about it. Surely, there’s something else other than the regression for them? But, then, would they really be reading anything else? Do they know anything else? Is the supposedly clever social metaphor of the Ministry really, like, mind-blowing shit, man? Is this the coolest thing they’ve ever bought from the mall? And do I look good reading it, in these $400 Ksubi jeans and my tight, red post-punk t-shirt?
 
And yes, I know that I’ve only seen two of the films (until a fortnight ago, the only real experience I’d had of Danielle Radcliffe was him modeling with his gear off, pouting beside a horse), and read only portions of the books; and yes, I am quite aware that you must inform me that this means I “wouldn’t know”. I’ve been told this more than enough, thankyou. But I do know. Admittedly, I only saw the latest installment because I wanted to go to Imax, and it was the only thing on – but there I sat, for two fucking hours, bitterly disappointed that the widescreen Imax effect was all a little bit downhill after the cool motion-graphics opening credits. There I sat with my over-priced choc-top, like (ironically) a little kid doing something special with Mum and Dad while I was on holiday in the Big Smoke, and you know those opening credits where the camera swooped through the clouds? That was really cool. Thanks to a twelve story screen, and all. But from that point, on? Yada, yada, yada. It killed a couple of hours, at best. I didn’t feel warm and fuzzy when Harry finally got a bit of action; I didn’t feel any real suspense in the fight scenes I knew very well he would win; I didn’t feel too threatened by the Villianess I could predict every move of and be assured of her eventual demise; I didn’t get creeped out by Ralph Fiennes having a really bad face day; and when it was all over, I knew the story was to continue… but I didn’t really care. I don’t care what happens to Harry. I know that makes me evil; but I just don’t. Someone “spoiled” the ending of the new one for me, and I don’t really feel too distraught, or like my life’s missed out, particularly. Bah humbug, I suppose.
 
But seriously, it’s cool. Kind of. Fly away on your broomstick, if you must. I just can’t tap into the power of Potter, and I do wish the world wasn’t the kind of place that made the power of Potter so powerful. But it does, perhaps, say something beautiful about the reality of the human soul, and how it strives for something better, for a freedom and joy it instinctively desires. It's just that we've become so adapted to the prison of the lives we lead as adults, we will never actually allow ourselves to look at such a longing when it manifests in a cultural phenomenon such as this one, and really understand it. Certainly, we won't do anything about it. And that's sad - it's sad that we settle for a wizard on a broomstick that we can escape through on the bus. But at least we want to - at least we do; and that, to me, is a relief. If we never dared to dream, at all, then we'd really be screwed. 

 

So, I have enough sympathy to put my blinkers on, and ignore every TV ad for a fast food cross-promotion. Oh, and every poster in every store I walk past. And the merchandise on impulse shelves of supermarkets. Oh yeah, and every conversation of every single person I stand next to at my local pub. I’ll ignore it all. Then, it will be over. Culture is transient, after all - just like us. It gripped the world while it lasted; but you know, my friend, it was always going to happen. It’s time for Harry Potter to be a grown-up. Soon after, you will realise you are, too.  How magical does that feel?