It was such an ordinary evening, but every detail of it would matter; every detail would become vital.
Wed Wabbit, Lissa Evans. 2017.
Lissa Evans had my heart with Old Baggage, a novel for adults about a suffragist’s attempt to impart meaning to her life after the battle for the vote has been won, which came out in 2018. Seeing that Wed Wabbit was released just a year before that only increases my sense of admiration. How talented do you have to be to produce not only a heartwarming, unsentimental, brilliantly angry and complex adult novel, but also a heartwarming, unsentimental, brilliantly angry and cacklingly hilarious children’s novel, within the space of two years? Pretty bloody talented.
Our heroine is ten and a half-year-old Fidge (her mother named her Iphigenia, and her little sister Minerva; her father acquiesced on the condition that he be allowed to give the children unfussy nicknames, so they are Fidge and Minnie). She and Minnie live with their mum. Their dad, a firefighter, died (of cancer or a similar terminal illness) a little over a year ago, a fact with which Fidge is struggling: she hasn’t let anyone hug her since then. Minnie, age four, is going through something of an obsessive stage: her favourite animal is a stuffed red velvet lapine to whom she lispingly refers as “Wed Wabbit”, and her favourite book, which Fidge is obliged to read over and over again, is a nauseatingly cheery and reductive story entitled The Land of Wimbley Woos:
The first picture showed a group of happy-looking Wimblies. Each was a different colour, but they were all shaped like dustbins with large round eyes and short arms and legs, and they radiated a sort of idiotic jollity. Fidge turned the page and continued reading in a bored, rapid mutter.
“Yellow are timid, Blue are strong, Grey are wise and rarely wrong. Green are daring, Pink give cuddles, Orange are silly and get in muddles. Purple Wimblies understand The past and future of our land.”
“Wead it pwoply, with expwession,” commanded Minnie.
Fidge is a tough cookie, but she is looking forward, with heartbreaking intensity, to an impending outdoor-activities holiday. On a last-minute shopping trip into town the day before, her mum’s slowness combined with Minnie’s need for the latest Wimbley Woos book causes them to be too late to buy the flippers that Fidge so desperately wants. Mutinous with resentment, she kicks Minnie’s beloved Wed Wabbit—intending only to take out her frustration—directly into traffic. Minnie runs out after him, and…well, no, it’s a children’s book. But she is hospitalized, and Fidge—now wracked with guilt—sent to stay overnight with her Uncle Simon, Auntie Ruth, and cousin Graham. Graham is hopeless, apparently terrified of everything and overprotected by his parents but convinced of his own superior intellect, “large and pale, like a plant that has been heavily watered but kept in the dark”. While Fidge is there, there’s a thunderstorm, and something extremely odd happens. In Evans’s own, deliberately hand-wavey explanation,
Fact: when Fidge had thrown all Minnie’s toys down the stairs at Graham’s house, the thing that had happened next—the huge soundless static explosion—must have somehow churned them together, and who knew what might—
Yes: Fidge, and Graham, and all of Minnie’s toys (including a pink and purple elephant named Ella and a bright pink diamanté mobile phone that makes a very annoying sound when it rings), and Graham’s “transitional object” (a plastic promotional carrot from a supermarket, which his rather dippy parents are hoping will serve as a locus for all of his fears and help him cope with change), are in The Land of the Wimbley Woos. And not just in a generic sense, either: they are, specifically, in Minnie’s copy, and therefore in Minnie’s version of Wimbley Land. (The Purple Wimblies, upon all of which she has drawn moustaches in felt-tip in her copy of the book, are moustachioed here.) Much more problematic, though, is the fact that Wed Wabbit is also in the book—and here, in what is clearly some corner of Minnie’s fearful and confused psyche, he is extremely powerful. In fact, he has overthrown the Wimbley King (who doesn’t mind, mostly because his greatest ambition is to be left alone), and established himself as a vast (literally; everything is bigger in Wimbley Land, so Wed Wabbit is about twenty feet tall) and terrifying dictator.
Well, terrifying to the Wimbley Woos, anyway. When Graham and Fidge first meet this tyrannical incarnation of Wed Wabbit, the inherent ridiculousness of the situation brings them together for the first time:
“WIMBLEY LAND HAS BEEN WUN IN A WEGWETTABLE WAY, BUT NOW THE TIME OF WECKONING HAS COME,WEQUIWING A BWEAK FWOM THE PAST AND A CWACK DOWN ON TWEATS AND WELAXATION. IT WILL TAKE AN EXTWEMELY STWONG STWUGGLE TO WIGHT THESE WONGS AND I—”
Graham let out a huge snort, and Fidge found she couldn’t hold back any longer and they were suddenly both yelping with helpless, uncontrollable laughter—Graham doubled up, Fidge with tears actually running down her cheeks.
(That’s not a formatting error above, by the way; Wed Wabbit speaks in 62-point all-caps.)
In order to depose Wed Wabbit, Fidge and Graham—plus Ella, the carrot (who demands to be referred to as “Dr. Carrot”, despite Graham pointing out that the “DR” printed on her base stands for “Douglas Retail”, the name of the shop where the vegetable promotion was occurring), a plucky Pink Wimbly and a somewhat long-winded Grey Wimbly—must bring all the Wimblies together to take out the Blues, who serve as castle guards.
Honestly, I’m nearly 1000 words into the review and we’ve just about sorted the meat of the plot. Wed Wabbit pretty much defies description in that regard, but in the best possible way. It is an intensely weird premise and there is no point in pretending it is not—but then, Evans knows, and is entirely uninterested in, its level of weirdness. The mechanism by which Fidge, Graham and the toys get into Minnie’s book—much less get out again—is never explained and hardly dwelt upon. Wed Wabbit isn’t about believable world-building; it’s about using the structure of a quest narrative (free Wimbley Land from tyranny!) to intelligently parallel an arc of internal emotional development. Both Fidge and Graham need to let go of something that is holding them captive: Fidge, her refusal to give or receive hugs (which here are metonyms for affection and the vulnerability that comes with being demonstrative), and Graham, his terror of everything and his belief in the superiority of intellect above pragmatism or kindness. Both of them, in other words, have their own Wed Wabbits lurking in their hearts.
For the most part this is fairly subtly done (at least, I imagine a ten-year-old wouldn’t necessarily twig). There is one moment, I think, where Evans slightly overplays it:
“But why?” asked Graham. “What does he get out of it? OK, so he’s the boss and the whole country’s terrified of him, and everyone rushes about obeying his orders, but he’s stuck in the castle, he never gets out, he never does anything or talks to anyone or has any fun or…” He suddenly became aware that Dr. Carrot was looking at him in a significant way. “What?” he asked defensively. “You’re not trying to say that’s like me, are you?”
Why, yes, yes indeed.
Fidge’s turn, when it comes, is better managed: having done what they believe necessary to defeat Wed Wabbit, she realizes one final thing is in order, and—reluctantly—hugs him. Instantly, he shrinks, colour returns to Wimbley Land (amongst other things, he has been draining everything to white), and good governance is restored. (Not, mind you, by the re-installation of the Wimbley King. The Oldest and Wisest of the Grey Wimblies, who has by now learned the art of brevity, is elected ruler in his stead.)
Fidge and Graham’s personal quests, though a hook to hang the rest of the book from, are not really the funny bits. Those are mostly to do with the Wimblies, who can only communicate in the singsong rhyme scheme of their book, and whose self-conceptions are entirely based around the assumption that each color Wimbly is only good at one thing. (This is, in fact, key to the strategy that ends up overthrowing Wed Wabbit, but I won’t spoil everything for you.) The rhyming provides almost infinite opportunities for wit, and Evans takes full advantage of them. The Wimbley King’s apathy, for instance, is delightfully articulated by the fact that he frequently can’t be bothered to think of end rhymes:
“Sorry, I didn’t hear your question./This muesli’s rather good./Bim bestion.”
When Wimbley Land is freed, it’s not just from Wed Wabbit, but from the shackles of trochaic tetrameter. A Pink Wimbly thanks Fidge in the structure of a limerick:
“But it’s us who can’t thank you enough/We know that your journey’s been rough/For such a brave fight/Your talents were right/You’re clever and stubborn and tough.”
“It wasn’t just me,” said Fidge.
A Purple with green blotches clapped Graham on the back.
“One straw is so weak,” it bellowed. “But take and weave a handful—/Such strength together!”
“That didn’t rhyme,” said Fidge.
“Blank verse,” said Ella.
(I think, actually, it’s a haiku.)
The strength of Wed Wabbit, therefore, isn’t necessarily in its plot: even though describing it takes ages and sounds quite mad, it’s in the service of a not-so-unusual story, about how to find strength at moments when you feel weak, about how to make friends and move through fear. Where it shines is in its complete dedication to being batshit, its ability to convince us that yes, of course, a four-year-old’s idea of a terrible dungeon would indeed include squashy bananas and warm milk with a skin on it, because those are the things she hates. That’s what makes it, not just a good children’s book, but a good book, like Pixar doesn’t just make good movies for kids but good movies in general. In fact, I’d quite like to see Pixar adapt this.