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In literary criticism, there are four main foci: book, author, reader, and world. Each type of criticism can fall within one of these four areas, but, more often than not, “critics” focus on a reader-based form of criticism.

Reader-based criticism, or “reader response criticism,” emphasizes how a piece of literature connects to its audience. Often, it can emphasize the subjective over the objective, and enjoyment or pleasure takes priorities over themes or lofty ideas. When it comes to a fandom, reader response dominates.

This kind of criticism is not inherently wrong or flawed, and it offers many valuable insights. However, it often creates very contradictory view points.

J. K. Rowling’s new Harry Potter work, a script of the play Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, provides ample room for these contradictions to be made visible.

We Want More!

The Washington Post’s review, “I’m sorry, J.K. Rowling, but none of this makes any sense,” is based on a fan who wants a world that is ever expanding and an authority that provides more as long as it conforms to preconceived expectations of the reader:

Never again would I experience that sense of community, the batting theories back and forth, because the case was closed. Mysteries solved. Or so I thought. Rowling, shy on social media at first, now rarely lets a day go by without tweeting. With her own site, Pottermore, she has slowly revealed aspects of the stories and tidbits about characters that we only could’ve guessed years ago. It was lovely, and it gave me a real sense that she was a fan like us. I always imagined what it would be like to have a conversation with her, and though she’s never tweeted back at me, she has with other fans. It felt like she was personally connecting, and it was an extraordinary gift…

I know she doesn’t owe her fans any more than the gifts she’s already given us, but that won’t stop me from feeling a profound sadness that this is the final time we will get to read about Harry and this is what we are left with.

The author’s disappointment is over the lack of quality. The books are fuel for a fandom discussion, and new works are necessary to continue forward. The script, to continue this metaphor, is bad gasoline, causing the car to breakdown.

But not everyone wants the works to continue. They want something solid and contained to work with.

Please Stop!

A review in the Boston Globe, “An open letter to J.K. Rowling: Please, just stop.” takes the contradictory position, wanting Rowling to stop interfering in her world:

And yet, the magical world of Harry Potter shows evidence of something akin to urban sprawl, awash with continuations, spinoffs, and editorializing from you as you continue — through tweets and other means — to add annotations that are too often immaterial (e.g., Dumbledore was gay) and at worst upsetting or even infuriating (knowing that Americans use the term “no-maj,” as in “no magic,” instead of “Muggle” irritates me immensely)…

Many fans are predictably euphoric. I, unfortunately, am not one of them…

the end of the series coincided with the end of my youth. It was a depressing thought, but I was comforted knowing that I could still return to your fantastical world, which would remain the same, unchanged, even if I would not. And the best part was that, with the official canon complete, I was free to continue the narrative on my own, filling in the blanks with my own imagination.

Both reviews are written by fans, but the Globe describes the fear of a degeneration in story, the very act that the Post laments.

The Reader’s Demand

Both of these reviews have the same type of reader: a fan who wishes to enjoy the work. Enjoyment is addictive, and it can be difficult to deal with a favored work coming to an end. What do the characters do next? What will happen? Is everything resolved?

The characters are part of the reviewers, fundamentally changing a part of them through the act of reading. Literature changes lives, and books of all types can have a great impact on an individual.

But there is a dark side: the reader becomes possessive and protective. When Sherlock Holmes was first killed, there was mass hysteria. People went insane, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was constantly harassed until he brought the character back. This was not an isolated incident, and such possessiveness is not modern.

Phenomenology teaches us that our imagination plays an important role in taking observed information and recreating ideas and concepts within ourselves. We create our own version of a character, and the loss of that character is a loss to ourselves. Many people are unable to cope with such loss, so they lash out.

In The Paradoxes of Art, the philosopher Alan Paskow, the late-phenomenologist and former mentor of mine, outlines this problem:

Who, then, or what are the fictional beings of artistic representation? Are they merely make-believe creatures who exist only in the minds of artists and the appreciators of artworks? If this is so, if we know them to be simply fantasies without any objective claim on us as real beings, then how can we possibly care about them in any way whatsoever? (40)

Dr. Paskow provides many possibly explanations as to why we identify with characters in strong, emotional manner, but what matters most is that we do respond in this way.

Harry Potter did not die in the new script, but the version of Harry Potter held by many fans was destroyed by the new work. The contradictions of character challenged the idea that many fans had of Harry Potter, which forces them to accept the change or lash out harshly against it, denying the author’s right to change her characters.

It is not racism, sexism, or any other -ism that leads people to react harshly to character changes. It is caused by the natural state of denial provoked by an important aspect of our psyche being eroded by an outside force.

The Reader is Always Right and Always Wrong

On a subconscious level, both Post and Globe writers recognize the challenge to their idealized version of Harry Potter. The Post writer fears for a loss of the ideal through a lack of activity, but she also desires a purity of character that does not challenge her own version. The Globe writer fears that there can never be purity except in her own fan conception, so she interprets any new work as a threat.

The phenomenon is not unique; the film Batman v. Superman suffered greatly because both Batman and Superman are fundamental to so many fans. Any deviation can be a great insult to millions. Similarly, the recent changes to the comic version of Captain America also provoked a major backlash. Even the complaint of an “all-woman Ghost Busters” reveals the fear of fans that artistic merit is being supplanted by political ideology, tarnishing the reputation of a work they hold dear.

But new works do not have to affect your appreciation for older works. The reader is always in control of their “head canon,” the version of a fandom that exists primarily within their own imagination. A reader can always ignore a new work for whatever reason, and that is always legitimate.

The fans are neither right nor wrong. They are fans. Artists should always challenge the public, but the public also pays for their success. There is a constant struggle between popularity and integrity.

Often, a character becomes so popular that the writer no longer has control. The author either becomes passive or a panderer, subservient to the wishes of the fandom. When this happens, the audience has assumed the right to rule, and it is difficult to take it back.