Children's Book Reviews: Week of 2/4/2008

As in her first Dog and Bear book, Seeger (First the Egg) offers three beguiling tales fueled by give-and-take dialogues between a dachshund and a multicolored teddy bear. This time out, though, Dog and Bear's personalities seem a little further apart, with Bear emerging as a quasi-parental sort. In the opener, Dog announces, “I am running away,” and Bear knows better than to fight. Bear helps Dog pack, says goodbye and adds, “I suppose you won't be staying for ice cream”—effectively changing Dog's plans without a word of protest. Next, Dog bakes and accidentally eats a birthday cake for Bear, who is nonetheless pleased (“What a beautiful candle!”). In the final story, Bear nurses an under-the-weather Dog. By the time Dog feels better, Bear needs a rest. Seeger employs casual gouaches in terracotta, ochre and olive green on a white ground, leaving imperfections visible. Her rough-hewn ink outlines and unpolished brushwork have homespun warmth, reminiscent of the paint-it-yourself glaze on a favorite mug. If Seeger keeps these coming (and readers will hope she does), Dog and Bear are likely to join the rarefied ranks of Frog and Toad, and George and Martha. Ages 3-7. (Apr.)

At first glance, Big Bad Bunny seems like a creature that haunts the dreams of sleeping children: Fearlessly crossing “mucky swamps” and “rushing streams” (“Big Bad Bunny can go anywhere”), the monster has furiously knitted eyebrows, razor-sharp talons and knifelike teeth. But Big Bad Bunny is actually Baby Boo-Boo, the third child of sweet Mama Mouse. Dressed in a bunny suit, the little mouse has run away. Mama Mouse, however, is less meek and dainty than she appears; thoroughly undaunted by swamps and the rest (she “will go anywhere for Baby Boo-Boo”), she pursues and tames the ferocious Big Bad Bunny — with no loss of face on her child's part. In her first picture book, Billingsley (Well Wished) extends her plot with satisfying onomatopoeia; the oversize format, too, marks this for a readaloud. Karas (Muncha! Muncha! Muncha!) strategically deploys mixed-media to render the id-gone-wild scenes with comic abandon, often ramping up the mouse's Sturm und Drang so that it energizes an entire spread. The slyly delicate portraits of Mama Mouse, meanwhile, both articulate and defuse the fear that a parent may wither in the face of a child's emotional turmoil. Together, Karas and Billingsley walk the fine line between empathy and comedy. They grant Baby Boo-Boo and her alter ego the right to act out, at the same time assuring readers that there will always be a place for them at home. Ages 4-8. (Mar.)

New art gives readers an opportunity to revisit Newbery Medalist Fleischman's (Joyful Noise) debut book, originally published in 1979 with illustrations by Marcia Sewall. The setting is a rustic past, for which Root (The Cat Who Liked Potato Soup) evokes soft hills and wide skies with calm authenticity. A sailor and a wife have lost three sons to the sea; they move far inland, build a new house and, when a new son, Jack, is born, they plant an apple tree. The tree and Jack seem eerily linked: when Jack is ill, its leaves tremble; when Jack thrives, it does, too. Years later, when Jack leaves home in the night, the health of his tree and the type of bird that nests in it inform his parents that he, too, has gone to sea. Root's vignettes of the tree, the fields beyond it and the rough-hewn furniture that waits along with the sailor and his wife for Jack's return offer comfort—until lightning strikes the tree. The quiet hopes of the parents, the russets and golds of the landscape, the vulnerability of Root's figures and Fleischman's careful writing are the antithesis of the tall tale—yet they share its mythic dimension nonetheless. Ages 4-8. (Mar.)

Barrett (Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs) and Nickle (The Ant Bully) compile a set of droll rules to live by, each recommendation reinforced by a meticulous full-page image. The hulking shark of the title, for instance, glares at the bite-size kangaroo giving him a root canal—a darkly funny vision for those who fear dentists. Sometimes the animal and insect characters exaggerate certain human dramas: two cockroaches assist a demanding customer (“Never go shopping for shoes with a centipede”) or, in the overleaf of a clever vertical gatefold, an all-rabbit crowd watches a film with a tall individual blocking the screen (“Never take a giraffe to the movies”). Barrett maintains the negative commands until the conclusion, which winks, “But always go shopping with a pelican” (a built-in tote). Nickle, working in hyper-detailed acrylics, enhances the comical phrases with surreal imagery: well-dressed wild animals with panicked expressions throw their arms in the air when a small creature walks in (“Never go to the bank with a raccoon”); a housefly features in a cheerfully creepy scene (“Never play checkers with a spider”). Kids will revel in the absurd humor. Ages 4-8. (Mar.)

It may be a presidential election year, but for Ike, Teague's (Dear Mrs. LaRue) letter-writing, louche canine hero, all politics is local. The police chief of Snort City is running for mayor on a law-and-order, antidog platform, and with Mrs. LaRue laid up in the hospital (she inadvertently got between Ike's gang and a hot dog cart) it's up to Ike to counter with his own vision of change and hope—at least, that's his story in his letters to Mrs. LaRue, and he's sticking to it. As in the previous Ike books, black-and-white images depict Ike's considerably cleansed version of events, while full-color pictures on the same spread counter with the real story—which in this case is one of dirty tricks and scandalous behavior. The pictures aren't as visually sly as Teague's previous work in the series, but perhaps slapstick is the more befitting aesthetic, given the topic. The writing is as sharp and satiric as ever—in fact, Ike's mixture of self-pity and self-aggrandizement seem ripped from the headlines. “We will do our best to keep the campaign positive,” the candidate dog pledges to his incapacitated owner, “though I can't speak for my opponent, who appears to be vicious and unstable, if not insane.” Ages 4-8. (Mar.)

In this barnyard trifle, Marjorie the cow feels low because she “can't ride bicycles and do handstands like the other cows.” Her pals the chickens put their heads together, and a miracle occurs. The Holstein finds a small black-and-white spotted egg in her stall and proudly takes credit for it. Paparazzi flock to the farm, yet Marjorie's fellow heifers suspect the “crafty chickens.” Readers have reason to believe the cows when “a small, brown, feathery bundle” emerges—that is, until the hatchling says, “Moooo!” Cutbill (the Albie books) provides a silly surprise with this punch line, the high point in a studiously whimsical book. Ayto (The Witch's Children), working in pen-and-ink and watercolor with paper collage to match Cutbill's determined nuttiness, depicts Marjorie as a doting, bipedal type, with heavy lashes surrounding her doleful blue eyes and a flower tucked behind her ear. A few spreads show panache, as in a view of the chickens in their stacked roosts that looks like a spread of comic-book panels, but there's not much to pull kids back for seconds after the single joke has been delivered. Ages 4-8. (Feb.)

Thomas (Joshua the Giant Frog) and Johnson (Remembering Grandpa) depict George Washington as a forward-thinking farmer dedicated to making Mount Vernon a self-sufficient, profitable plantation. Emphasizing Washington's innovative thinking and experimentation, the narrative explains how he invented a plow to streamline the planting of crops, rotated his crops and tested different fertilizers, bred donkeys and horses to create strong mules and designed a treading barn with 16 sides. Quotes from Washington's diaries and letters, presented in script outside the main text, demonstrate his devotion to improving his farm and lend credence to the author's assertion that “George's thoughts were never far from home,” even during the Revolution and his presidency. Thomas's history is extremely detailed, full of facts that bring the 18th-century farm to life. She also addresses the obvious paradox: she concludes her work by praising Washington for “plant[ing] the seed of freedom on the battlefield,” then explores his role as the owner of slaves in an endnote. Johnson's representational paintings, all of them flattering, incorporate symbols like bald eagles but also illuminate the workings of the plantation; a cutaway view of the 16-sided barn is especially helpful. A useful look at a lesser-known aspect of Washington's achievements. Ages 8-up. (Feb.)

Italian artist Ceccoli's (The Barefoot Book of Fairy Tales) previous illustrations were dreamy paintings; for this tall-format book, she uses clay models and digital media to create images of eerie immediacy. Each scene has its own quirky depth of field; the porcelain-doll faces of the children jump out with breathtaking clarity. Walls and drapes or the breeches of a rabbit violinist are similarly crisp; the other parts of a composition seem lightly misted. The surreal atmosphere is true to fairy-tale scholar Bernheimer's vision of a girl imprisoned in a marvelous world. The castle inhabited by the girl is inside a glass globe, which is in a museum full of old toys; children who visit the museum crowd around the globe to see the girl. She is lonely; her only visitors come in dreams. “Sometimes,” the narrator adds provocatively, “the girl in the castle even dreams about you.” The narrator suggests that readers ease the girl's loneliness by pasting a photo of themselves in a gold frame by her bed. Closing the book with a bang-up twist, the author inverts her this-inside-that motif to enshrine the audience's place in the story: “Now in her room and in her dreams, inside the castle inside the museum, inside this book you hold in your hands, you keep her company.... Do you see her? She sees you.” Young fans of fantasy will be spellbound. Ages 4-8. (Feb.)

Written as witty, off-the-cuff journal entries, this inviting novel takes preadolescent angst and doses it with pure heart. Like the heroine of Jennifer L. Holm's Middle School Is Worse than Meatloaf, pudgy 12-year-old Sarah Elizabeth Simpson has a penchant for making lists, and these elaborate upon her many concerns. Her first entry, for January 1, combines a cool running commentary with no less than five lists, among them “Things I Do Not Like About Kim [her father's new wife],” “Things I Do Not Like About Jonah [her mother's boyfriend]” and New Year's resolutions she wishes Jonah would make (“2. Sell the van.... 4. Quit singing 'We Shall Overcome.' 5. Shave”). Although Sarah's tone ranges widely, from resentful to full-out funny (“Bad Things About Getting Older:... 7. Getting asked on dates. 8. Not getting asked on dates”), her vulnerable yet take-charge personality comes through. It finds its sharpest expression when Sarah, acting from a complicated set of motives that the author wisely leaves to readers to untangle, says something wounding to Jonah's five-year-old son and can't undo the damage. Covering a lot of territory in relatively few pages, Rupp (The Dragon of Lonely Island) delivers a story that both touches and convinces. Ages 8-12. (Feb.)

Reisman's fast-paced, cinematic first novel, already optioned by Universal Studios, transcends its Spiderwickian premise to move in a different direction: it makes scientific concepts interesting and accessible. Like Newton's apple, a secret book—which contains so much power that it could become “the most dangerous thing in existence”—falls from above and hits the Everyboy protagonist, 11-year-old Simon Bloom from New Jersey, smack on the head. Titled the Teacher's Edition of Physics, it teachers Simon how to turn himself into an 11-year-old superhero. As he tells his friends, the super-cool Alysha and tiny, cowardly Owen, “This Book tells me how science really works.... It only looks like magic if you don't understand.” Using one of the book's formulas, he takes away Alysha's body's kinetic friction, and she slips and slides over dry forest leaves.The kids' personalities evolve as the book progresses, although the villains (they try to capture the book) are flat, stock characters. The narrator is British—“all the best Narrators are from Great Britain”—and members of an Order of Physics receive silly names, such as Ralfagon Wintrofline and Mermon Veenie. These mannerisms, by now familiar in novels for this target group, function almost as a kind of shorthand: kids who like ironic narration will like this title, too. Ages 9-up. (Feb.)

When his father is charged with embezzlement, 12-year-old Gil Goodson becomes an outcast at school and his family sinks under a black cloud that doesn't lift, not even after his dad is acquitted. From this somber premise, first-time novelist Feldman concocts an outlandish method by which Gil will come out on top again—and get enough cash so his family can move. But winning the Gollywhopper Games, a contest sponsored by the toy company that fired his father, means besting 25,000 entrants in a series of brainteasers. Gil makes it to the final 10, where two teams compete against each other. His teammates are as obnoxious as the golden ticket holders on Charlie Bucket's famous tour, though not as imaginatively drawn, and their bickering nearly drains the fun from the whacked-out challenges they face. Indeed, the appeal of the book lies in the puzzles, which involve unscrambling clues hidden in rhyming verses and then tackling various stunts (obstacle courses, mazes, scavenger hunts) that get increasingly difficult as the field is winnowed. As the outcome of this intricate, potentially interactive story is never in doubt, many kids will want to put the story on pause to try to work out each answer. Final illustrations not seen by PW. Ages 10-14. (Feb.)

Poet and baseball enthusiast Fehler should attract a crowd with his first YA novel, related by 28 narrators in free-verse monologues. When high school star athlete Luke “Wizard” Wallace gets hit in the head by a wild pitch, he falls into a three-day coma, from which he emerges blind in one eye. The author raises the stakes for the other characters, sometimes a little too much: the rival team's pitcher hangs up his uniform (even though he's being scouted by the major leagues), infuriating his unrepentant coach (who ends up blaming Luke: “If he'd just gotten out of the way..../ he ruined our whole damn season”). Luke's selfish semi-girlfriend visits him only once (“When I saw his face.../ I thought I'd barf right there”). What makes this brief novel believable and rewarding are Fehler's clear grasp of the dedicated athlete's mind and his ability to imagine what it feels like to be suddenly and seemingly permanently sidelined. Fehler does an excellent job in pacing his shifts of perspective, and the central story, of Luke's friendships and eventual recovery, comes through with drama and clarity. Ages 12-up. (Feb.)

Barnes launches a teen spy series with this campy and thoroughly addictive read. Sixteen-year-old Toby Klein, a tough-girl loner who'd rather sit in detention than pump up a game-day crowd, is appalled but intrigued when she receives an invitation to join the super-popular varsity cheerleading squad at Bayport High. Then she learns the squad is a cover for a top-secret group of teen girl government operatives whose mission is to protect America at all costs. Readers will easily suspend their disbelief to follow the exploits of these party girls whose picture-perfect appearances conceal their skills as brilliant profilers, linguists, weapons experts and computer hackers. Barnes (Platinum) handily blends scenes of mundane high school life with espionage as the girls sport necklaces with built-in microphones and bulletproof push-up bras. This over-the-top tale never takes itself too seriously, much like Charlie's Angels (to which Toby occasionally dryly refers). Despite a prolonged lead-up to the girls' first mission and an annoying younger brother who pops up too often, this is a terrific guilty pleasure. Ages 12-up. (Feb.)

Selfors (To Catch a Mermaid) injects an angst-ridden 17-year-old Manhattan actress into Shakespeare's star-crossed romance, yielding hilarious and often very clever results. Mimi loathes her role as Juliet, but she feels pressured to continue acting in order to save her family's theater. When she is magically transported into Shakespeare's play, she instantly connects with Juliet, who is being pressured to marry Paris to save her family's name, and she becomes determined to give Juliet a “happy ending.” There are plenty of twists as Mimi meddles with Shakespeare's characters (she begins a romance with smooth-talking Benvolio, for example). The author even plays off traditional plot points, providing original versions of the infamous balcony scene and the potion that mimics death. Readers will have fun with the characters, from a womanizing teen heartthrob who inadvertently travels back with Mimi (and reworks a pop song with Mercutio) to a spirited Juliet, who starts a rumor about a boil on her bottom to try to discourage Paris. Mimi herself is an honest, savvy narrator; she relates much of Shakespeare's plot to readers, and occasionally addresses them directly (e.g., “Turn the page for the grand finale”). The book ends a bit quickly, but after so much drama, readers will welcome the neat, happy conclusion. Ages 12-up. (Feb.)

The opening of this absorbing drama may startle with its graphic violence. Jonsberg (The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne), an Australian high school teacher, does not shy away from darkness, whether considering his beleaguered and bullied protagonist, the grotesquely overweight Michael Terny, or the supporting characters—the kind-faced classmate, the well-meaning stepmother, the cruelly intelligent tormenter—who orbit Michael's pain-filled world as he enters a new school, his eighth in four years. Michael is a “lucid dreamer” who learns to “ride” or control what happens in his sleep with a confidence that eludes him in his waking life, even as his actions during sleep begin to spill into reality. Don't mistake this novel for fantasy, however. It has fantastic elements, yes, but it switches genres at a climactic moment. Readers will be chilled by the author's unflinching and innovative treatment of the horrors and hopelessness engulfing the victim of bullying. Jonsberg's prose is spare, his pacing excellent, his plotting memorable. Ages 14-up. (Feb.)

Signature

Reviewed by Lemony Snicket

Lois Lowry, who casts her noble and enviable shadow wide across the landscape of children's literature, from fantasy to realism, here turns her quick, sly gaze to parody, a word which in this case means “a short novel mocking the conventions of old-fashioned children's books stuffed with orphans, nannies and long-lost heirs.” These clichés are ripe if familiar targets, but Ms. Lowry knocks off these barrel-dwelling fish with admirable aplomb in The Willoughbys, in which two wicked parents cannot wait to rid themselves of their four precocious children, and vice versa, and vice versa versa, and so on. The nanny adds a spoonful of sugar and a neighboring candy magnate a side order of Dahl, if you follow me, as the book's lightning pace traipses through the hallmarks of classic orphan literature helpfully listed in the bibliography, from the baby on the doorstep to the tardy yet timely arrival of a crucial piece of correspondence.

The characters, too, find these tropes familiar—“What would good old-fashioned people do in this situation?” one asks—as does the omniscient, woolgathery narrator, who begins with “Once upon a time” and announces an epilogue with “Oh, what is there to say at the happy conclusion of an old-fashioned story?” This critic even vaguely recognizes the stratagem of a glossary, in which the more toothsome words are defined unreliably and digressively. (He cannot put his finger on it, at least not in public.) Never you mind. The novel does make a few gambits for anachronistic musings (“Oh goodness, do we have to walk them into a dark forest? I don't have the right shoes for that”) and even wry commentary (“That is how we billionaires exist,” says the man who is not Willy Wonka. “We profit on the misfortune of others”) but mostly the book plays us for laughs, closer to the Brothers Zucker than the Brothers Grimm, and by my count the hits (mock German dialogue, e.g., “It makesch me vant to womit”) far outnumber the misses (an infant named Baby Ruth, oy).

There are those who will find that this novel pales in comparison to Ms. Lowry's more straight-faced efforts, such as The Giver. Such people are invited to take tea with the Bobbsey Twins. Ms. Lowry and I will be across town downing something stronger mixed by Anastasia Krupnik, whom one suspects of sneaking sips of Ms. Lowry's bewitching brew. Tchin-tchin!

Lemony Snicket is the author of A Series of Unfortunate Events.