Archive for July, 2009

"Harry, where's some water? Should I drink some water?"

When you saw the latest Harry Potter movie, were you appalled by the beloved trio’s flagrant use of alcohol as a crutch to ease the pain of their terrorized adolescence?  I, for one, have seen many, many episodes of Intervention, so I know when to get worried about the substance abuse of random (fictional) people, and the behavior I saw in The Half Blood Prince frankly terrified me.

The first warning sign was when Hermione and Harry started hanging out with that new Professor Whats-his-face, getting trashed on, well, we don’t know what was in those glasses, that’s how bad it was.  As they lurch around his office, we see the confusion in their young faces–“what is this feeling? why do my limbs feel so muddy?”–turn to hard, bright mania–“I can’t feel the pain in my scar anymore! heyyouguys what if I stood ON this potted plant?!”

Then they all went to Hogsmeade and drank butterbeer without ordering any food, which is completely illegal for 16 year olds in the U.K, as we all know.   And Hermione, bless her wretched little heart, got a bit too unwound and took off her top and cut a lewd, grotesque caper on the table, much to Harry’s embarrassment and Ron’s secret delight.  Then, sweet God, Harry began carrying a flask.  Everywhere.  He dribbled it over his waffles in the morning and clutched it in the shower while he cried before bed.  (It doesn’t matter if I cry in the shower because there’s so much water in there anyway, he thinks.)  Around this time, we in the audience realize that Harry only wears long sleeves.

These kids need help, obviously.  Luckily, the concerned lady writers of the New York Times are here to explain our heroes’ dysfunction. They detail Harry’s classic addictive personality (which  is exacerbated by his life of constant, stomach-clenching anxiety) and Ron’s myriad of pathetic inadequacies.  And, oh, Hermione, honey?  You’d better cut back on the butterbeer  because Ron and Harry aren’t always going to be around to pry those rapey Slytherin Quidditch players off of you.  You’re welcome.


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