#91 = Volume 30, Part 3 =
November 2003
REVIEW ESSAYS
Aaron Parrett
Alternative Worlds of the Nineteenth
Century
Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Pellucidar. Lincoln, Nebraska: U of Nebraska P, 2002. xv +167 pp.
$13.95 pbk.
C.J. Cutcliffe Hyne.
The Lost Continent: The Story of Atlantis.
Lincoln, Nebraska: U of Nebraska P, 2002. xiv +257 pp. $14.95 pbk.
H.G. Wells. The War in
the Air. Lincoln, Nebraska: U of Nebraska P, 2002. xi + 258 pp.
$16.00 pbk.
Bison Books has recently released three titles in its
FRONTIERS OF IMAGINATION series
that will be familiar to aficionados of the adventure novel. As many critics
have observed, the adventure genre, which often features swashbuckling and
ruggedly modern heroes employed in “civilizing” other worlds, may be read as a
commentary on imperialism and the real-time colonization of Africa, India, and
other parts of the world.
This is especially true of the curious sequel to Burroughs’s
At the Earth’s
Core (1914) titled
Pellucidar (1915). The hero, David Innes, has
returned to the world of Pellucidar--a prehistoric land in the interior of the
earth, teeming with exotic and wild animals and primitive quasi-human
societies--dutifully sincere in his intention to take up “the White Man’s
Burden.” Burroughs’s novel has all the fine markings of (if one may be permitted
an oxymoron) a top-notch potboiler. The book is composed of brief, eminently
readable chapters, each ending, like the Saturday afternoon serials such novels
inspired, in a cliffhanger. We observe clearly demarcated forces of good and
evil, and we follow a handsome and übermenschlich European hero in ardent
pursuit of the local queen, who is stunning in her native beauty.
The enduring success of such novels with no pretensions to high art stems
from Burroughs’s mastery of the art of tale-spinning. Perhaps the best modern
analogue would be the Indiana Jones films, adventure stories whose success
derives from impeccably intense pacing and panoramic action. Virtually every
chapter of Pellucidar ends with our hero enmeshed in a crisis from which
delivery seems all but impossible; each subsequent chapter then testifies to his
ingenuity and physical strength, for each time he escapes to advance his project
of subduing and civilizing the world of Pellucidar.
The subtext of such adventure stories is authentication of the real-world
colonialism that the Western nations were imposing on the rest of the planet.
This is especially true in the case of Burroughs, who frequently compares the
savagely brutal natives of Pellucidar to Native Americans. At one point, Innes
comments on the “simplified language” of the natives, which seems to his ear
composed of nothing but verbs and nouns: “like our own North American Indians
when questioned by a white man, they pretended not to understand me” (86).
The novel ends with the triumph of Innes. Having subjugated the native
populations and singlehandedly routed the legions of his chief adversary Hooja,
Innes is universally acknowledged as emperor of Pellucidar. Hence, this
variation on the theme of Kipling’s darker story “The Man Who Would Be King”
(1888-90) ends with Innes settling down to the business of civilizing an entire
world and raising its inhabitants to the level of the surface-dwelling
Europeans.
This new edition reprints the J. Allen St. John illustrations from the
original and adds an introduction by Jack McDevitt and an afterword by Phillip
R. Burger. Though McDevitt is a well-respected sf writer, his comments on
Pellucidar are for the most part disappointing and unhelpful. He feints
toward some compelling comments about Burroughs’s ambiguity about the value of
civilization, but fails to draw any meaningful conclusion regarding Burroughs’s
motives beyond a suspicion that “his objection to civilization was purely
professional” (xiii). McDevitt does, however, identify the secret of Burroughs’s
continuing success: “Burroughs does far more than simply tell a story. He
creates an experience. When it rains in [the] novel, the reader gets wet” (xiv).
Burger’s Afterword, by contrast, is a fascinating essay with an intriguing
title: “A Railroad through the Pleistocene; or with Roosevelt in Brightest
Pellucidar.” Burger explores the similarities between Innes’s adventures in the
imaginary world of Pellucidar and the political enterprises of Theodore
Roosevelt. “[T]he framing sequence for At the Earth’s Core and
Pellucidar ... is highly reminiscent of Roosevelt’s book [African Game
Trails (1910)]” (159). One Rooseveltian theme that Burroughs echoes is the
rugged adventurer’s warning against powerful nations’ overcivilizing themselves
into “effete” sloth. Burger also draws parallels between fantasy-world adventure
stories such as Pellucidar and prototypical western novels such as Owen
Wister’s The Virginian (1904). Both partake of what Frederick Turner
called “the Myth of the West”-- a yearning for fresh territory in which to erect
new civilizations that avoid the material excess and intellectual complacency of
more established societies.
C.J. Cutcliffe Hyne’s The Lost Continent (1899) is another rip-roaring
adventure. L. Sprague de Camp, who wrote Lost Continents: The Atlantis Theme
in History, Science, and Literature (1954), the definitive work on the
subject, called Hyne’s book “one of the best.” The pace is frenetic and the plot
incidental. Like Burroughs’s book, Hyne’s is a thinly disguised valorization of
British imperialism. Deucalion, native son of Atlantis, is recalled from the
colonies (the Yucatan Peninsula) to restore moral order in the wake of a regime
led by Phorenice, a beautiful demi-goddess. Along the way, he falls in love with
Naïs, daughter of one of the high priests of the mystery cults of Atlantis. As
one might expect from a Victorian novel, the tale is charged with sexual tension
bubbling beneath a fragile surface of propriety--Phorenice has a healthy libido,
even if Deucalion hits the stage as a forty-something virgin.
Harry Turtledove wrote the introduction to this new edition; he tries to
encapsulate just what it is about these fin-de-siècle adventure tales that has
(after almost a century) ensured their survival. Like McDevitt, however,
Turtledove remains vague in his assessment: “Cutcliffe Hyne quite simply wrote
himself one hell of a book” (x). (No doubt critics one hundred years from now
will be at a similar loss for words when they evaluate the enduring success of
John Grisham or Stephen King.) Hyne’s writing might be stiff, his characters
stock, and his jingoism hardly suppressed, but his story delivers non-stop
action and excitement. Hyne, like his modern-day counterparts, understood the
power of entertainment.
Gary Hoppenstand is more articulate than Turtledove in his analysis of Hyne’s
success in the afterword. His catalogue of reasons for The Lost Continent’s
permanence in print reads like the blurb on a Cecil B. DeMille or Stephen
Spielberg DVD:
it is an entertaining and sophisticated adventure story replete with the
exotic splendor of an ancient lost civilization, the barbaric decadence ... of
a seductive queen, sublime battle scenes featuring the proverbial cast of
thousands, deadly combat with prehistoric creatures, mysterious wizards
wielding unearthly science to bring apocalyptic catastrophe to a doomed
continent, a larger-than-life hero who is the embodiment of bravery and honor,
and lofty romance with beautiful maidens laced with undercurrents of
titillating sexual repression. (242)
Hoppenstand also points out that The Lost Continent is not entirely
original, remarking that it is largely a “pastiche” of themes drawn from the
immensely popular H. Rider Haggard, whose novels King Solomon’s Mines
(1885) and She (1887) are seminal works in the adventure genre.
Though H.G. Wells’s The War in the Air (1908) is also a kind of
action-adventure story, it belongs to the different tradition of dystopian
prophetic literature. The other books under review belong more properly to the
genre of fantasy, but The War in the Air corresponds closely to what the
godfather of sf, Hugo Gernsback, first defined as “scientifiction”: the story
takes place in the future and explores the ramifications of human nature
intertwined with technology-- as Gernsback put it, Wells’s novel offers “romance
intermingled with scientific fact and prophetic vision” (qtd. in Westfahl 342).
The War in the Air contains what many critics have pointed out as a
major blunder: Wells predicates his entire tale on the idea that the dirigible,
rather than the airplane, would be the main vehicle for airborne warfare.
Nevertheless, Wells’s book is in nearly every other respect a prophetic vision
of a world devastated by human mastery of the skies. The War in the Air
is a precognitive glimpse of the unprecedented wholesale slaughter made possible
by the rapid advances in technology during the first decades of the twentieth
century. Even more striking is Wells’s description of the German air assault on
New York City, which reads like a script for the terrorist attack of 9/11. The
airships ram their targeted buildings, and Wells describes an aftermath that is
startling in its resemblance to the post-9/11 CNN broadcasts:
a little army of volunteers with white badges entered behind the firemen,
bringing out the often still living bodies ... carrying them into the big
Monson building close at hand. Everywhere the busy firemen were directing
their bright streams of water upon the smouldering masses. (126)
The sf writer Dave Duncan provides an informative introduction in which he
argues that Wells’s power of prophecy--even though he was mistaken about the
dirigible-- far surpasses that of Orwell’s 1984 (1949) or 2001: A
Space Odyssey (1968). The message of most of Wells’s novels (and The War
in the Air is no exception) seems to be that the moral stature of human
beings lags far behind their technological prowess. Needless to say, this theme
has been echoed in countless later works of sf.
Wells’s novel also contrasts with Pellucidar and The Lost Continent
in its contempt for the imperialistic impulse. Whereas Burroughs and Hyne
romanticize and uphold a sense of European superiority to the rest of the world,
Wells challenges such self-aggrandizing arrogance. Wells is critical of
Eurocentrist positivism, especially as exemplified in London’s Crystal Palace,
which Wells sees as representative of a pernicious barbarity lurking beneath an
opulent and pretentious façade. Typical of Wells’s method is the irony oozing
from the book’s opening line: “‘This here progress,’ said Mr. Tom Smallways, ‘it
keeps on’” (1). Such “progress,” as we all remember from our history classes,
led directly to the Battle of the Somme and thence to Auschwitz, developments
that Wells all but specifically announced before the fact in novels such as
The War in the Air.
Bison Books should be commended for putting together such handsome and
readable editions of these classic works. Though the editions do not set
themselves up as “scholarly,” they would lend themselves to use in classrooms,
and for that reason, the weakness in the supporting material is disappointing.
Duncan’s introduction to The War in the Air is helpful, and the
afterwords by both Phillip Burger and Gary Hoppenstand make for fascinating
reading, but the other prefaces fail to provide either compelling insight or
basic contextual information. Neither Turtledove nor McDevitt mentions the year
of publication for the book he introduces, let alone provides any larger
historical context. Nonetheless, the novels themselves are welcome additions to
the FRONTIERS OF IMAGINATION
series, and are well worthy of perusal.
WORKS CITED
Sprague de Camp, L. Lost Continents: The Atlantis Theme in History, Science,
and Literature. New York: Gnome, 1954.
Westfahl, Gary. “‘The Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, and Edgar Allan Poe Type of
Story’: Hugo Gernsback’s History of Science Fiction.” SFS #58, 19:3 (November
1992): 340-53.
Ruth Berman
The Wizardry of Oz
Katharine M. Rogers, L.
Frank Baum: Creator of Oz. New York: St. Martin’s, 2002. xvi + 318
pp. $27.95 hc.
Michael Patrick Hearn, ed.
The Annotated Wizard of Oz. Centennial Edition.
New York: W.W. Norton, 2000. cii + 396 pp. $39.95 hc.
Ranjit S. Dighe. The
Historian’s Wizard of Oz: Reading L. Frank Baum’s Classic as a Political and
Monetary Allegory. Westport, CT: Praeger (88 Post Rd W, Westport CT
06881), 2001. 150 pp. $69.95 hc; $24.95 pbk.
Mark Evan Swartz. Oz
Before the Rainbow: L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz on Stage and
Screen to 1939. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins UP, 2002. xii + 291 pp.
$18.95 pbk.
During its first half-century, L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
(1900), like his other fantasy stories, was ignored by almost every critic who
cared about children’s literature. For the general public, the overwhelming
popularity of the 1939 MGM movie meant that the title was known, but lists of
books recommended for young readers never included Baum. This neglect was due
partly to many critics’ distrust of fantasy, and partly to the assumption that
any long series must be worthless hack-work. (Baum wrote fourteen full-length Oz
books, and the series was continued after his death by Ruth Plumly Thompson, who
wrote nineteen more; there were later books by others, too, after her
retirement.) No one paid any attention to Oz -- except children who liked to
read, and authors of children’s fiction and fantasy, including Ray Bradbury,
Carol Ryrie Brink, Edward Eager, Paul Gallico, James Thurber, and Gore Vidal.
When Michael Patrick Hearn published the first edition of The Annotated
Wizard of Oz in 1973, the only books on Baum were Edward Wagenknecht’s
Utopia Americana (1929), The Wizard of Oz and Who He Was
(1957) by Martin Gardner and Russell B. Nye (containing Baum’s text, a
biographical essay by Gardner, and critical discussion by Nye), and To Please
A Child (1961), a biography of Baum by his oldest son, Frank J. Baum, and
Russell P. MacFall. Hearn could cite in addition many shorter studies,
especially from the pages of the Baum Bugle, published since 1957 by the
International Wizard of Oz Club. Although the IWOC is a group of fans rather
than scholars, its newsletter regularly includes biographical and
bibliographical studies, and occasionally prints critical studies as well.
Baum’s hold on readers is now more than a century old, and critics no longer
condemn non-realism as necessarily escapist. The centennial of The Wonderful
Wizard of Oz in 2000 occasioned several books re-evaluating Baum’s
achievement.
One of the most interesting is Katharine M. Rogers’ biography, L. Frank
Baum: Creator of Oz. Frank J. Baum’s memories of his father made for a vivid
portrait in To Please A Child, and many of his most striking anecdotes
are included in Rogers’s biography. But the forty years intervening between the
two biographies have seen the publication of a wealth of new material that
Rogers draws upon: biographical studies such as Susan Ferrara’s The Family of
the Wizard: The Baums of Syracuse (2000), Nancy Tystad Koupal’s Baum’s
Road to Oz: The Dakota Years (2000), Douglas G. Greene and Michael Patrick
Hearn’s W.W. Denslow (1976), and critical studies such as Hearn’s 1973
and 1983 annotations, Raylin Moore’s Wonderful Wizard, Marvelous Land
(1974), Michael O. Riley’s Oz and Beyond: The Fantasy World of L. Frank Baum
(1997), and Suzanne Rahn’s The Wizard of Oz: Shaping an Imaginary World
(1998). In addition, archives of Baum family letters and papers have been
established at several libraries.
L. Frank Baum’s life sprawled over the entire country, for he grew up in New
York, tried to run his own businesses in the Dakota Territory, tried various
sales jobs but discovered himself as a writer in Chicago, and finally moved to
California. He had several failed careers (actor, general-store owner, newspaper
publisher, and traveling salesman) before discovering he was a writer, and began
a new career even after becoming successful: his Oz Film Manufacturing Company
in California. Rogers balances this variety of place and work with interesting
discussion of the ways that his work was influenced by his broad geographical
and vocational background; she alternates skillfully between biography and
criticism.
Her view of Baum is more nuanced than Frank J. Baum’s portrait had been. The
younger Baum, understandably, idealized his father, seeing him as invariably
sweet-tempered. Rogers, while generally agreeing, discusses some exceptions. She
includes, for example, a brief discussion of Baum’s “truly shocking editorial”
(259) written during the panic inspired by fear of Indian rebellion in the
Dakota Territory in 1890, in which he advocated extermination of Indians, a
position contradicting what Baum on most other occasions advocated.
Rogers has written scholarly books on feminism, and she includes thoughtful
discussions of Baum’s ambivalent reaction to feminism. His wife, Maud Gage Baum,
was the daughter of Matilda J. Gage, a leader in the Suffrage movement. Baum
included a satire of the Suffrage movement in his second Oz book, The
Marvelous Land of Oz (1904), portraying General Jinjur and her band of
rebels as largely -- but not entirely foolish and misguided. At the same time,
he chose at the end of that book to turn Oz from a male autocracy, headed by the
Scarecrow (as appointed by the Wizard at the end of the first book), into a
female autocracy, headed by Ozma, “rightful” queen of Oz, with the Good Witch
Glinda as her chief advisor. (In Wizard, Glinda’s area of power was
restricted to her own territory, the Quadling Country.) On the transformation of
the boy Tip into the girl-queen Ozma, Rogers comments that when Ozma says that
she is the same person as ever and Jack Pumpkinhead replies, “Only you’re
different!,” Jack “probably speaks for Baum.... Girls are not the same as boys,
but they are not inferior, and basic identity is not determined by sex” (126).
Rogers’s clarity and balance make her account of Baum’s life both enjoyable and
informative.
For a discussion specifically of Baum’s best-loved book, The Wonderful
Wizard of Oz, Michael Patrick Hearn’s The Annotated Wizard of Oz,
Centennial Edition, is a good choice. The Wizard of Oz may seem an
odd choice for annotation. It is not so old in language nor so complicated in
syntax as to daunt the unassisted reader. Baum’s humor did not run to parodies
of poems now little known or to concealed mathematical jokes, as Lewis Carroll’s
did. But while The Wizard of Oz does not need annotations to be read
comfortably, any important book can be read with more appreciation with the
kinds of background knowledge annotation provides. Hearn’s notes discuss Baum’s
ideas and influences and cover critics’ interpretations of Oz, its
reflections of the author’s personal life and historical period, and its
publishing and illustration history. It was annotations of these kinds, along
with a substantial introduction and bibliography, that the 1973 Annotated
Wizard offered. The revised edition adds material from the wealth of
research published since. These are found not so much in new notes as in
material added to the original notes (although there are some 80 annotations
added to the original’s 186, most of the additions are short paragraphs dealing
with small points). In the first chapter, for example, notes on Baum’s Dorothy,
her location on the Kansas prairie, and cyclones as compared to tornadoes, are
lengthened. The insertions add information on Baum’s niece, Dorothy Gage, who
died in infancy in 1898; on possible suffragist influence on the
characterization of Dorothy; on the resemblance of Baum’s fictional Kansas
prairie to the actual prairie around Aberdeen in the Dakota Territory (where
Baum lived from 1888-1891); on the frequency of tornadoes in South Dakota; and
on Kansans’ mixed feelings about Baum’s depiction of their state. The first
chapter includes substantial new notes on Uncle Henry and Aunt Em as similar to
many Dakota settlers, with a comparison of their claim shanty cabin to the home
(near Edgely, ND) of Baum’s sister-in-law, Julia Gage Carpenter (as she
described it in her diary); and on Baum’s use of “gray” as a symbolic color.
The layout of the Centennial edition has several advantages over the earlier
version. Originally, the Annotated Wizard was laid out horizontally, with a page
of text and a page of annotations, or two pages of text to one page of the book.
That layout resulted in narrow margins and was too small to include the full
margin-areas of two pages of text, so that the edges of Denslow’s elegant
drawings were truncated whenever they extended out beyond the margins of the
print. A color section included reproductions of all the color plates Denslow
did for the book, with a few additional color drawings showing other work by
Denslow. The new volume is laid out with single pages of text, enlarged, on
large vertical pages (with annotations on a facing or adjoining page), leaving
room for Denslow’s full pictures, which show to advantage on the larger scale.
In addition, the reproduction of black and white photos is more accurate,
showing details that were invisible before. Many photos, black and white
drawings, and color drawings have been added to the illustrations; and some that
previously appeared in black and white, such as a handsome watercolor of the Tin
Woodman drawn by Denslow as part of a flyleaf inscription on a gift copy, are
now among the color pages.
Two minor drawbacks are that the new version is less careful in checking the
registration of the single extra color in Denslow’s 2-color drawings. (The first
edition had, besides its color plates, single-color detailing printed over the
black and white illustrations, with the single color changing in the course of
the story to reflect Dorothy’s location, an attractive feature now omitted.) The
carefully printed full-color plates do not show this problem of registration,
but the reproduction introduces an overlay of fine dots, changing whites to
grays and noticeably muting the colors.
Like Rogers’s biography, The Centennial Annotated Wizard of Oz is a
book that anyone interested in American fantasy writing -- even those who
already own the earlier edition -- will want to own. It restores the interplay
between Baum’s text and Denslow’s illustrations, and Hearn’s new annotations are
valuable.
A more specialized annotation of Baum’s text is offered by Ranjit S. Dighe in
The Historian’s Wizard of Oz: Reading L. Frank Baum’s Classic as a Political and
Monetary Allegory. Dighe’s aim is to show elements of the story that can be
read as an allegory of Populism. This work includes Dighe’s introduction and
discussions of the Populist and free-silver movements; he also reprints a
section from Baum’s second Oz book, The Marvelous Land of Oz (1904), in
which the Scarecrow is temporarily stuffed with money, as well as the text of
William Jennings Bryan’s “Cross of Gold” speech (1896). This reading of Baum was
created by Henry Littlefield in “The Wizard of Oz: Parable on Populism” (American
Quarterly, 16.1[1964]: 47-58) and has been widely repeated, although
biographical information shows that it is unlikely that Baum had any such
allegorical intention. Dighe points out that The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
is almost certainly not a conscious Populist allegory, and to say that it is
unambiguously one is to traffic in misinformation. Nevertheless, he adds, the
parallels between the book “and real-life issues in late-nineteenth-century
America are striking, whether intended or not; the book works as a Populist
allegory” (8).
This claim that the book works as an allegory is accurate in terms of a
correspondence close enough to make The Wizard useful in teaching
students about the Populist movement. Littlefield’s primary goal in inventing
the reading, in fact, was its usefulness as a pedagogical tool. The allegorical
reading, however, does not work well in providing plausible interpretations of
the book’s wider themes. The ironies embedded in the four-fold quest for
difficult external achievements (home, brains, heart, and courage) that turn out
to be achievable only from within are obscured when the four questers are
divided into different types of being, with Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Tin
Woodman representing groups (the American people, farmers, and factory workers),
but the Cowardly Lion representing an individual (William Jennings Bryan).
Similarly, it is surprising in allegorical terms that the Wizard -- whose
role as a humbug ruler does show clear politically satiric intent in Baum’s
characterization of him -- should be so hard to pin down. Dighe’s annotation
(106-07) points out that while Littlefield saw the Wizard as any president from
Grant to McKinley, Hugh Rockoff and Neil Earle, who also have written expansions
of Littlefield’s allegorical reading, identify the Wizard as, respectively,
Republican kingmaker Mark Hanna and as Democrat Bryan. Dighe finds all of three
of these interpretations attractive, but considers Earle’s view of Bryan as the
Wizard “an even better fit” (106) than Littlefield’s and Rockoff’s. At the same
time, Dighe accepts “the usual Populist interpretation of the Lion” (65) as
Bryan. The multiple interpretations of the fictional Wizard as someone
historical—as a generic president, or Mark Hanna, or William Jennings Bryan—and the multiple interpretations of the historical Bryan as someone in the story
(whether as the Wizard or the Cowardly Lion) show how poorly the events of the
story and the events of the history fit together in an allegorical reading. Dighe suggests (“only half-facetiously”) that “instead of viewing The
Wonderful Wizard of Oz as an allegory of 1890s political economy, we should
view 1890s political economy as an allegory of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz”
(8). Thus, even though the story does not really work all that well as an
allegory, the allegory works well as a tool for teaching the history.
Mark Evan Swartz’s Oz Before the Rainbow: L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful
Wizard of Oz on Stage and Screen to 1939 also undertakes a specialized topic
that may be too narrow to appeal to general readers. Half the book is devoted to
the 1902 stage musical of The Wizard of Oz that Baum adapted from his
book (considerably re-written by the director and producer in production). It
was a smash hit, starring the comedy team of David Montgomery and Fred Stone as
the Tin Woodman and the Scarecrow; they played these roles in Chicago, in New
York, and on tour. The show continued on tour for another four years after they
left, and subsequently there were scattered local productions. The latest known
production was in 1918 in Washington DC. The musical was too lavish to be easily
staged, lacked first-class music, and depended too heavily for its success on
Scarecrow Fred Stone’s startling agility. (By contrast, the producer’s next
venture, another fairytale-extravaganza, was Babes in Toyland [1903],
with Victor Herbert’s much-loved score to keep it alive.) Nevertheless, as
Swartz discusses, the stage Wizard had a considerable influence on the
dramatizations that followed, including the 1939 MGM movie.
Swartz also devotes a chapter to Baum’s 1908 Fairylogue and Radio-Plays,
a multi-media production of silent films, slides, live action, and Baum’s own
live narration, presenting scenes from The Wizard and its first two
sequels, The Marvelous Land of Oz and Ozma of Oz (1907). Further
chapters describe the 1910 Selig Playscope Company’s silent film of The
Wonderful Wizard of Oz (Selig got the rights to film the book when Baum’s
expensive Fairylogue ran him into debt); the 1925 silent film starring
Larry Semon as the Scarecrow, with Oliver Hardy (before his famous partnership
with Stan Laurel) co-starring as the Tin Woodman; Baum’s Oz stage-plays of 1905
and 1913 (The Woggle-Bug, loosely adapted from The Marvelous Land of
Oz, and The Tik-Tok Man of Oz, loosely adapted from Ozma of Oz
but turned into an Oz book the following year as Tik-Tok of Oz); and
Baum’s silent-film productions in 1914 of His Majesty, The Scarecrow of Oz
-- elements of The Wizard combined with a new story, which became the
basis for Baum’s next Oz book, The Scarecrow of Oz (1915) -- as well as
The Patchwork Girl of Oz (1914) and The Magic Cloak of Oz (1914,
adapted from a non-Oz fairytale, Queen Zixi of Ix [1905]).
Several articles about aspects of the 1902 Wizard stageplay have appeared
in the Baum Bugle, as well as a smaller number of articles about Baum’s
Fairylogue and Selig’s Wizard. (Semon’s Wizard has not previously been examined
in any detail.) Besides drawing on these articles when appropriate, Swartz has
amassed information from contemporary publications and collections of private
papers. The book reprints a wealth of rare illustrations -- photos from the
various productions, advertisements and posters, program covers, photos and
drawings of Baum’s collaborators, sheet music, etc.
There is, indeed, almost too much material on the details of staging,
costumes, performers’ backgrounds, and changes in the cast of the 1902
Wizard, especially considering that some of the information is repeated when
the account backtracks to follow changes between drafts and productions.
Concentrating on one production (either the 1902 opening in Chicago or the 1903
opening in New York), and perhaps discussing any variations in an appendix,
would have given a clearer idea of what the show was like.
The discussion of Baum’s own later stage plays and silent films seems too brief.
In part, Swartz ignores them to focus on adaptations of the Wizard -- but
Baum’s film of His Majesty, The Scarecrow of Oz is enough an adaptation
of the Wizard to deserve attention. Another problem is that the interplay
of influences between Baum’s later Oz dramas and his Oz fictions would have been
worth investigation. Baum was largely unsuccessful, as Swartz discusses, in
repeating the success of the stage Wizard with his multi-media Fairylogue,
Woggle-Bug, and Tik-Tok Man of Oz stage-plays and his
Scarecrow, Patchwork Girl, and Magic Cloak films. Swartz does
not discuss Baum’s success in writing new Oz narratives based on his dramas --
Tik-Tok of Oz was adopted from a stage play and The Scarecrow of Oz
from a film. In following the line of Wizard dramatizations (most
previous studies had focused on them separately), however, Swartz has documented
the continuity of influence they had on one another, culminating in the 1939 MGM
movie. Although Swartz’s book does not have the wide appeal of Rogers’s and
Hearn’s studies, it will be valued by those interested in the Oz-dramas. (Dighe’s
book is more a tool for the historian, using Oz as a way of teaching history.)
The centennial of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz has brought welcome
attention to a classic of American fantasy too often dismissed in the past. The
Wizard Dorothy found behind the curtain was a bad wizard, but he considered
himself a good man. The writer behind the wizard behind the curtain had a
wizardry of his own.
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