THE TRIALS OF APOLLO: THE HIDDEN ORACLE by Rick Riordan (2016)

"Four thousand years of knowledge, the secrets of the universe, a sea of wisdom -- lost, because I can't contain it all in this teacup of a head." - Rick Riordan, The Hidden Oracle

THIS REVIEW IS SPOILER-FREE

Disclaimer: This review is constructed upon my personal reaction to the book. All thoughts and opinions are my own. SOLANGELO IS CANON I LOVE THE GAYS

One of the pros of being a Percy Jackson fan is that Rick Riordan will not stop writing about the Percy Jackson world. Technically, the series ended in 2009, with the release of The Last Olympian, part five in the five-part Percy Jackson and the Olympians series. However, Riordan decided actually, he wasn’t done yet, and wrote another five-part series: The Heroes of Olympus, picking up where The Last Olympian left off. This series ended in 2014 with The Blood of Olympus, and after ten books, you’d think Rick would’ve had his fill.

You’d be mistaken. He’s relentless.

In 2015, Riordan announced he was writing another five-part series set in the PJO universe. This series, titled The Trials of Apollo, would begin in May 2016 with The Hidden Oracle, and was tasked with filling in all the plot holes The Blood of Olympus left behind. It follows the god Apollo, cast down from Olympus to fulfil some unknown purpose as penance for royally ticking Zeus off. Rick Riordan fans across the world collectively rolled their eyes when The Trials of Apollo was announced, because even though we know Rick won’t “stop beating this dead horse until it stops spitting out money” (will I ever stop with the Bo Burnham references?), we also know we’re going to be the ones shoving dollar bills up that horse’s ass. As soon as The Hidden Oracle arrived at my doorstep, I started reading it.

Riordan’s last couple of books haven’t really done it for me. The Blood of Olympus was enjoyable but brimming with shoddy characterisation and lazy plot holes, and Magnus Chase and the Sword of Summer, the first book in a sister series to PJO, was fun, but not particularly memorable. Thankfully, The Hidden Oracle is great -- funny, action-packed, clever, progressive. It paid homage to the sarcastic, dry humour Percy Jackson is famous for, something I feel we lost sight of in Magnus Chase. Apollo’s characterisation was really unique -- I found Magnus very stylistically similar to Percy, making his voice feel awkward and unoriginal. Apollo couldn’t have been more different to Percy; whereas Percy is light-hearted, goofy, and completely and utterly selfless, Apollo is narcissistic, arrogant, and frankly, annoying. I liked about him, though, as it marked him as truly different from Percy. There was a refreshingly lyrical quality to Apollo’s narrative -- many sections of the book were beautifully eloquent, something I’m not used to with Riordan’s simplistic writing style. The fan service throughout the book was also glorious; so many new storylines that were only touched on in The Blood of Olympus were finally fully fleshed out. Rick Riordan responded to his fans’ prayers/angry tweets. The fandom rejoiced en masse.

It’s not, however, these simple, aesthetic aspects that made The Trials of Apollo great; for me, it was the social issues Riordan tackled. Inarguably, the best part of the book is the fact that Apollo is openly and proudly bisexual. This isn’t a spoiler -- it’s accurate historical representation, as in ancient Greek mythology, Apollo fell in love/slept with women and men all the time. The dude got around, and he wasn’t picky. Riordan has impressed me in the past with his representation of gay characters, but I never expected bisexuality to be one of the topics he tackled, as no one ever bothers tackling it. Bisexuality is horrifically underrepresented everywhere except Tumblr, and when it is represented, the character in question is either ambiguously bisexual, or they were just experimenting in college. Apollo is different. There’s no questioning or ambiguity, no insecurity or experimentation; he’s bi, and he doesn’t get why anyone could possibly find it weird. This is such a bold and progressive move for Riordan to have made, and a powerful one, too. Apollo’s nonchalant bisexuality is going to help so many kids come to terms with, accept, and rejoice in their own bi/pansexuality, because Apollo’s mentality shows us bisexuality is completely normal. It doesn’t change anything about him. It’s not weird or out-of-the-ordinary, and I think that’s a super important message for Riordan’s readers to take away from this book. (Side note: my friend and I were reading 1-star reviews of The Hidden Oracle on Amazon, and a majority of them were from homophobic parents complaining that boy-on-boy relationships are ‘inappropriate’ for their children, and declaring they will never buy another Percy Jackson book. There’s another great thing about The Hidden Oracle: it’s weeding out the weak.)

The other issue Riordan discusses in The Hidden Oracle is emotional and psychological abuse. We all know the statistics of physical abuse: in New Zealand, a family violence investigation is recorded every 5 and a half minutes, 1 in 3 Kiwi women experience physical abuse in their lifetime, etcetera, etcetera.  Family Violence Is Not Okay (But It Is Okay To Ask For Help). Physical and domestic abuse are awful phenomena we need to seriously crack down on, but emotional abuse is almost completely overlooked and invalidated. Riordan, then, changed the game. One of the characters in The Hidden Oracle suffers from emotional abuse by a parent figure who threatens to unleash their ‘angry side’ if the character in question doesn’t do as they are told. Like a Gemini, the abusive character is two-faced; they present themselves as having split personalities they can’t control. The victim is manipulated into subservience by the threat of any disobedience unleashing the physically abusive personality of the abuser. Apollo, bless his heart, goes on to actively comment on the situation, lamenting how gruesome and manipulative emotional abuse can be. Riordan choosing to put emphasis on this issue was simply wonderful. I admire him for using his platform to bring light to controversies we are usually too uncomfortable or ignorant to confront. When we don’t talk about emotional and psychological abuse, when we stigmatise it and invalidate it and treat it like a joke, we alienate victims of this kind of abuse. We make them feel alone, which, as Riordan has pointed out in The Hidden Oracle, isn’t true at all.  

Not everything about The Hidden Oracle was groundbreaking. The writing was funny, but not entirely up to the standard I’ve come to expect. Apollo was unique, but I’m not sure if I liked him as a protagonist all that much. The fan service was satisfying, but I also feel there was a degree of laziness to it, as if Riordan scrolled down his Tumblr dashboard and picked out headcanons he liked. That being said, what the book lacked in character, it really made up for in representation of overlooked social issues, which is such a goddamn pretentious SJW thing for me to say, but it’s true. I joke about having sold my soul to Rick Riordan, but honestly, I don’t really mind. The Percy Jackson world has brought me happiness ever since my dear friend Robyn introduced it to me at the tender age of twelve, and even though I know we’re reaching the point where Riordan should probably just bury the horse, the truth is, I’m glad he won’t, because his books and his characters and his amazing world bring me joy, and that’s all they really have to do.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I discussed this review with my delightful friend Robyn on Skype before publishing it, and to her, I issued the truth: this review is a thinly-veiled attempt to sophisticate my incoherent love of The Gays™. I hope it was a successful attempt, even if it’s completely transparent. Also, I'm both morally and personally inclined to tell you that the reference I made in the introduction -- "we'll stop beating this dead horse when it stops spitting out money" -- is from the song Repeat Stuff by Bo Burnham, which he performed in his comedy show, what., in 2013. It's a great song, and a great show, and I would highly recommend you check it out. It's on YouTube! The whole hour-long show! Amazing!

TWELFTH NIGHT by the Pop-up Globe Theatre Company

Images from eventfinda.co.nz and stuff.co.nz

“If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.” – William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

Monday morning. I’m vegetating in my 10am lecture, flipping noncommittally through the week’s copy of Craccum, when the title of the weekly editorial catches my eye: Romeo, Rome-oh No the Pop-up Globe is Closing. As both an English major and a pretentious asshole, great panic naturally ensued: the Pop-up Globe was closing in less than a week, and I, a self-professed (albeit admittedly #fake) Shakespeare fan, had not yet seen a play there.

Synonyms for this situation include: heresy, blasphemy, and absolute travesty.

Anxious to at least see something before the Globe moved on to greener pastures, I hastily booked tickets to see Twelfth Night by myself on Wednesday night, because I’m that person who goes to the theatre alone to “truly immerse myself in the art”, or something similarly aloof and socially alienating. My expectations were neutral: sure, it would be a cool cultural experience, and sure, it would be cool to lose my theatre virginity to a Shakespeare, but that was the extent of it.

My expectations were, it’s fair to say, obliterated.

Were I to call the Pop-up Globe Theatre Company’s rendition of Twelfth Night perfect, I do not feel I would not be exaggerating. The whole experience was simply stunning from start to finish. My jaw hurt from smiling so much; my hands hurt from clapping so much. My legs were killing me because I bought a groundling ticket and had to stand for the three hours, but honestly? Twelfth Night was worth the pain. I was enraptured, enchanted, completely blown away; before I had even left the theatre after the final bow, I was writing this review in my head, confessing to anyone who would listen my undying love for the production. To give you, humble readers who escaped my tirade of praise, an idea of what I so ardently admired and loved about Twelfth Night, here’s an overview:

1. I loved the acting. For me, someone who hasn’t read Twelfth Night and whose knowledge of Shakespeare does not encompass being able to interpret his 15th-century English on the spot, the acting really made the play for me. First and foremost, the all-male cast was hilarious -- all of the female characters were played by extraordinarily talented and highly convincing male actors, but what really got me was the chemistry the cast shared. The quote that comes to mind is, appropriately, Shakespearian: “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers” (Henry V 4.3). Because that was how it felt: as if I were watching a band of brothers gallivanting about that stage. As if the actors were a family. The interplay was simply infectious, light and flirty and natural – my synesthetic reaction was that the words felt tossed between the characters, the back-and-forth motion of the dialogue coherent and effortless. To sum it up in a word, Twelfth Night was strikingly charismatic, and I blame it all on the acting.

2. I loved the “scary audience interaction parts” -- or, more accurately, I loved the fact that it was meta as hell.  Now, obviously interacting with the audience isn’t a startlingly new innovation; I just thought that the Pop-up Globe Theatre Company did it really, really well. Buying a groundling ticket did mean that I had to stand for three hours, but I’ll say once again that it was worth it, because the yard was the place to be. Countless times did the characters interact with the crowd – gossiping with us, flirting with us, hiding amongst us (that’s right – the cast frequently ventured into the crowd and physically involving us in the play, Malvolio himself approaching me to show me the confessional Olivia had written to him), asking us for advice – it was hilarious to be engaged in such a way, and so much fun, and this is coming from a person who wears headphones with no music playing so that no one will talk to me in public. Involving the audience in the play dissolved the barrier between actor and audience member, so that even though the stage was elevated, I felt as if I were on it myself, an advisor on Olivia’s boy drama, a conspirator in Feste’s mischievous gang, a member of the happy few, the band of brothers who had me so completely transported.

3. I loved the atmosphere. I came away from Twelfth Night overcome by the sensation that I had never experienced anything quite as magical in my life. I can’t put my finger on why my enchantment was so extreme; all I can tell you is that I was moved so deeply, I swear there were cartoon sparkles in my eyes. The god-honest time of my life was had. The whole experience, from the fantastic acting to the awesome audience interaction to the fact that as the cast performed their final bow, a cascade of bubbles floated down from the upper tiers, catching the light like stars – it all came together to produce what to me felt like magic. I’ve said it twice and I’ll say it again: I was enchanted. Captivated. In love. Maybe it’s just me and my extraordinary ability to find beauty in the most mundane of things, but to say I marvelled in the experience would be a criminal understatement. It’s a silly cliché, but I could feel my heart glowing as I stood there beneath the stars.

One review of the Pop-up Globe Theatre Company’s Twelfth Night put it nicely: “I saw Shakespeare as it was meant to be performed” (stuff.co.nz). I could not agree more completely. The production was so intimate, so personal and exciting and, to put it plainly, fun, and for a Shakespearian comedy, I think this was exactly how it should have been portrayed. I’d say I’m sorry to gush, but I’m not; Twelfth Night was perfect, not only as a play but also as an experience I’m going to relive for years to come. Kudos to the Pop-up Globe Theatre Company: your rendition of Twelfth Night is a triumph.

Author’s note: This one’s a little unconventional, but aside from the fact that it’s a play and thus technically a form of literature, I like to live life on the edge. YOLO, and all. Live fast, die young, review plays instead of books or whatever. I’d also like to note that this review is probably the closest I’ve gotten to ever exhibiting, through the medium of the blog post, my violent passion for all things literary, and as a result, it’s a little incoherent. As they say, it can be really hard to describe why you love something, but I’ve tried my best with this. (Side note: if we’re being honest, a big part of my reaction to the play was my infatuation with the actor who plays Feste. I’m only, like, 5% smitten, okay? 10% at the most.) (I’m lying to myself. It’s 100%.)