‘Enter stranger, but take heed; Of what awaits the sin of greed’.

Emblazoned across the entrance to Gringott’s bank, perhaps this little aphorism would have been better placed at Warner Bros studios. I understand that the finale of the Potter spectacle has broken records left and right, grossing $43.5 million by the midnight before cinemas opened their doors for general release, and Daniel Radcliffe’s salary alone was reported to be $50 million. Marlon Brando made $50,000 for The Godfather. The mind boggles.

As a life-long Potter fan to the point of embarrassingly nerdy knowledge, I defy anyone who claims to have had a childhood more influenced by these novels. They are not masterpieces; J.K. Rowling has not shaped the landscape of the literature of our time - she is little more than a storyteller. Yet they are, to my mind, the finest children’s stories to have ever been committed to paper; a generation has been dragged back from the brink of MTV oblivion.

Such stories, should they be represented in film, deserve to be treated with reverence. To enter into such a production is a privilege; it is not to be bulldozed with tacky effects and adorned with the biggest names available. Apparently J. K. did exercise some initial control over production, insisting on British actors and remaining throughout the series as a producer, but one feels that the reins have rather been slipping from her in the latter stages. I take as my point of reference, the magnificent Lord of the Rings trilogy. Every location is painstakingly scouted; every set, costume and performance reaching such heights of elegance and glory that I imagine Tolkien himself would have marvelled. They were part of something bigger than themselves; a legacy. Peter Jackson himself said, ‘Pain is temporary, film is forever’. Potter will be remembered for its gross revenues, Lord of the Rings as a work of beauty.

It isn’t that Deathly Hallows is unbearably bad. The story is so marvellous that frankly if I spent two hours and twenty minutes watching someone sit and read it to me I think I’d consider that time well spent. What is unbearable is the thought of what might have been; Harry Potter provides such a platform for potentially great cinema. They had the entire world as a captive audience - ‘bums on seats’ were guaranteed. Alas, the leading trio were, as I have come to expect, abysmal. Radcliffe fails once again to capture the gravity of Harry’s situation, and what should be a brothers-in-arms campaign against evil is reduced to a troop of floundering teenagers brandishing sticks. But akin to fond parents at a school play, the audience claps along regardless, and presented with ever-dwindling emotional depth, say ‘didn’t they do well..’.

While the later casting has long been something of a misfire (Helena Bonham-Carter’s cringeworthy over-acting providing a regular treat), the supporting actors admirably outshine Harry and co in this instalment, with Matthew Lewis as Neville Longbottom showing what often comes fairly close to charisma, and the wonderful Maggie Smith being awarded some well deserved screen time. The effects, while I’m sure state-of-the-art, look cheap and poorly conceived, and the cinematography is often lazy and amateurish. There is some truly outrageous lifting of ideas and compositions from other movies, with a notable shot of the young Lily and Snape lying in a field pilfered straight out of Twilight. I shudder to think what would have become of the final battle scene had Lord of the Rings’ awesome Helm’s Deep not come first to provide inspiration. The ‘19 years later’ finale drew genuine derisive laughter from the audience.

It was with some sadness that I rewatched The Philosopher’s Stone shortly before Deathly Hallows II. Things were going so well for the franchise ten years ago; sure, the acting was unfortunate, but you could excuse these small children, safe in the knowledge that they could only improve (I’m still hoping). This was a time when there was some value in loyally representing the novel, when every idiosyncracy of the wizarding world was crafted onto the screen, its quaintness brought to life with love and discernment. I remain baffled by the film’s glowing critical reception; I can only assume that praise is directed towards the plot, and to Ms. Rowling, rather than to those who brought it to the screen.

I remind myself, in my frustration, that the highest rated entertainment broadcast in the history of British television was a 1986 episode of EastEnders. Warner Bros and David Yates have seriously dropped the Quaffle on this film, but it doesn’t matter – no one noticed.