(A review from 2002 and the Washington Post, written before Coraline was published.)
It is possible to look at the growth of the phenomenon of “crossover” fiction – essentially, Children’s or Young Adult fiction which is enjoyed and consumed in quantity by adults – in several different ways. You could view it as a sad symptom of the creeping infantilisation of the culture. You could see it as a triumph of marketing. Or, more optimistically, you could view it as a need by adults for Story, without which children will not read. Engines of story drive the books of Diana Wynne Jones, Philip Pullman, and the rest of the recent crop of crossover authors. Many of their books are, by any standard, good books, and perhaps adults simply needed to be told that it was socially acceptable to read them in order to be coaxed to pick them up.
I wonder though if there isn’t another phenomenon at work here. Fiction only seems capable of existing in one ghetto at a time, so if your book is in what used, rudely, to be known as the kiddylit ghetto, then it is children’s fiction no matter what else it might be (fantasy, historical, horror, SF, humour, romance, and so on.). As a result of the enormous success of authors like J.K. Rowling and Pullman, adults in their millions have now read and enjoyed fantasy novels without ever having had to browse the fantasy shelves. For the most part, after all, the crossover books tell tales in which the joy of story is also the joy of the fantastic without apology, a freedom of children’s literature that can be lost at adulthood, where metaphor becomes literal, and genre restrictions apply.
But whatever the reason, the former kiddylit ghetto has become fashionable, the cool people are moving in, and property prices are starting to climb.
It’s hard to get cooler than Michael Chabon, whose last novel, the Pulitzer prize-winning The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay displayed a love for and perception of popular culture and an understanding of the engines that drive the teenage mind. In Summerland he uses that understanding to tell a very different kind of story,.
Ethan Feld is a terrible baseball player. His widower inventor father builds airships. Ethan plays baseball in Summerland, on the tip of Clam Island, Washington, where it never rains.
When Feld Sr. is kidnapped by the evil Coyote, in order to bring about the end of everything, Ethan and his not-a-girlfriend Jennifer T. Rideout, accompanied by their odd friend Thor and Cinquefoil (an Indian “ferisher” -- not quite a fairy, inspired, one assumes, by the Native American tales of tribes of very small, magical people) have to follow him across the many worlds while putting together a baseball team.
The first hundred pages of set-up are less assured, in tone and style, than the rest of the book. But as soon as the kids flee Summerland, and head off into a great beyond to put their team together and save the universe, the story finds its game. That they will succeed is never in any doubt. That there will be reverses and alarums, setbacks and treacheries and fine lessons to be learned is also a given from the off. Ethan must learn to save himself and, ultimately, the world.
Coyote, whenever he appears, which is too seldom, steals scenes with ease and aplomb. He’s Coyote, sure, and he’s Loki and Prometheus and probably Bugs Bunny and the Squire of Gothos as well: a force unto himself, who is having too much fun trying to bring about Ragnarok – delightfully Hobson-Jobsonned by Chabon into “Ragged Rock”.
Standout sequences include a magnificently gory chapter involving some unfortunate werewolves and the queen of the shaggurts – frost giants with “appetites vast and bloody” [p 410], and a storyline set within the Tall Tale tradition, where Ethan and his team meet the Big Liars of Old Cat Landing, the tall tale people, all “lies and legends made flesh...[who] hung around Old Cat landing, haunting its bars and brothels” [p 346], now sadly shrunken by time and disbelief: Pecos Bill and Paul Bunyan and John Henry, Annie Christmas and the rest of them. It’s the place that Chabon comes closest to a genuine American mythopoeia and it is very fine indeed.
As a reader I sometimes felt shortchanged. It’s a thick book, but it could comfortably have been thicker: I wanted the better setpieces to go on longer, and to get more of a sense of what made the other members of Ethan’s baseball team tick -- with the exception of Ethan, Jennifer and the tragic she-sasquatch, Taffy, they seemed sketched, not painted. I wanted to see the games they lost. I wanted more.
But the engines that drive Summerland are real story engines, and they work hard to deliver: it’s a fantasy with a young protagonist, which fuses baseball, Native American tales, Norse myths and sundry shaggy god stories into a tasty, quest-driven stew. Whether this is enough, as the marketing material that accompanies the book trumpets, to make it “clearly and indisputably a classic” is much harder to judge, and one that time and popular taste will decide, not I. But it’s a rollicking and fine tale, well told and with moments of real magic, peril, adventure, terror and triumph in the mix, not to mention what is, I am certain, the most delightful sound of a window breaking in all of fiction. And that ought to be enough.