Skip to main content

Goldilocks

James Marshall retold four folk tales, and they're all now canonical: "Goldilocks" (the award winner), "The Three Little Pigs," "Little Red Ridinghood," and "Hansel and Gretel."

In each case, Marshall sticks pretty close to the source material; he isn't distracting you with self-conscious, arty flourishes. ("The Wolf: HIS Perspective"--!) I sense that Goldilocks is a character who especially "activates" Marshall's imagination; Goldilocks doesn't do what she is told, and Marshall seems to enjoy cataloging her bits of naughtiness. ("Sweet-looking girl!" says one villager. And another rolls his eyes. "That's what YOU think.")

By contrast, Little Red Ridinghood simply follows rules, and I sense that Marshall keeps himself interested, in that case, by crazily drawing dozens of cats, in the background, in several of the scenes.

After "Goldilocks," "The Three Little Pigs" ranks high for me. In this one, I particularly like the attention Marshall gives to the pigs' sartorial choices: One pig can't really be bothered to zip his fly (he ends up dead), another seems to wear a lei at all times (he ends up dead), and a third dresses like a banker, consistently (he wins the game).

I have a feeling Marshall was drawn to folk tales in part because he felt an interest in patterns, particularly "the rule of threes." A set of threes is the easiest way to establish a pattern with a twist. "I came, I saw, I conquered." "No shoes, no shirt, no service." You see threes all over Marshall's work. Dead pig, dead pig, shrewd pig. Missing porridge, broken chair, invader in the bedroom. Misunderstanding, misunderstanding, tense showdown. It's such a pleasure, if you're a kid, to (a) detect the pattern and (b) try to guess what the final act will entail. You can sense Marshall's pleasure, as well, so the stories become all-absorbing.

My family owns "Goldilocks" now, but I have a hunch that we'll be getting the three others. I wish Marshall had been around to do more work. I'm giving my highest recommendation.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...