“Or How Katniss went from Kick-Ass to an Annoyingly Dense Teenager,” as Ikkalee would prefer to call it.
I loved The Hunger Games. I thought the characters were amazing and the plot was an interesting idea. And then I picked up Catching Fire. And while it wasn’t bad… Geez did Katniss bug me.
It’s been 49 days since I read this book, but apparently my initial thought upon (almost) finishing was: “Either I’m incredibly brilliant or book characters are incredibly dense. And people do doubt my brilliancy…” Let’s put it this way: I know writers are supposed to try to hold out mystery, but I figure out Sherlock Holmes’ mysteries before the big reveal (I’d say before he does but he and I are on similar wavelengths. He’s just a pompous ass, though I am totally going to watch the movie as I just found it for cheap on blu-ray). I spent the majority of Catching Fire yelling at Katniss about what was obvious to the eye: and of course, everything had to be explained to her in the last 50 pages. I was rolling my eyes and groaning by that point.
That’s not to say that her denseness completely ruined the book. There were some very excellent supporting characters in the Champions of the Past. I quite enjoyed meeting all of them and seeing how they interacted and how the games changed them. They made up for my annoyance of Katniss and, like a few of them, I joined them in wanting to hurt her on occasion. But alas! Hurting/maiming/destroying the main character is not something that is lightly done, especially in first person, so naturally, she escaped harm to come make me want to throttle her for book three.
When you have nothing to do but read, you sure get a lot read. Sometimes, you’re not sure you want to. And sometimes, people really need to stop writing trilogies and sagas. I know it’s the new thing but seriously? Sometimes a single book will more than suffice. Sequels just ruin perfectly amazing books.
