But one night, after an accidental display of his talents, Griffin and his folks experience a visit from the hunters. These men kill Griffin's parents and wound him before he flashes away to his desert locale. There he's rescued by a man and a woman named Sam and Consuelo. They become his surrogate parents, and he reveals his secrets to them. Worried, Sam sends him to Mexico to hide out with Alejandra, Consuelo's niece, "twenty-five and beautiful." Griffin begins to feel he can breathe safely once more.

But after two years, he's discovered again. He and Alejandra get away, separately, and Griffin establishes an underground redoubt for himself that only he can reach. Now begin several additional years of maturation, as Griffin manages his own life. He acquires an education in traditional school subjects and the martial arts, picks up a friend or two and develops his drawing talents, all while jumping circumspectly around the globe for pleasures and necessities. He's almost caught by legal authorities on a trip to France (whoever his enemies are, they have friends in high places, including passport control), but he manages to wriggle free. By the time he's 16, he's actually got his first real girlfriend, Elaine Kelson.

And that's when everything truly falls apart.

A cinema-inspired reimagining

This new book from Steven Gould presents the savvy reader with a real dilemma. Its origin is rather complex, and that colors its reception. Those who read it unaware of its backstory—and, as you'll see, that could very well be a large number of folks—will apprehend it one way. Those of us coming at it fully burdened will react differently—although some of our perceptions, shared with the naïve reader, will also derive from the virtues and vices of this particular presentation alone.

First, the origin explained.

In 1992 appeared Jumper, the story of a teen named Davy who discovers he can teleport himself and other objects. Davy's story was continued in Reflex (2004). These books were scrupulously buttressed with verisimilitude and logical speculation about what it would actually mean to teleport. Davy's first-person voice was charming and authentic. Emotional resonance was high. Any melodrama was believable.

Naturally, the movies glommed onto such a great property. The film version of Jumper will appear in 2008. Davy is still the star, apparently, but a new character has been added: Griffin. And much of the basic scenario surrounding jumping has been changed. Hence this book, which, in Gould's preface, we learn is meant to be "consistent with the movie."

So now we readers familiar with Davy's saga are presented with a rejiggering and recapitulation focused on a Davy surrogate. (This is certainly not an actual novelization of the film, since many characters due on the screen are absent.) Does it recapture the magic?

Not so much. And it's due to cinematic influences and constraints, I tend to believe. Unfortunate influences and demands that stand out even when you don't know the earlier books.

Griffin's first-person narrative voice is certainly not annoying, and one does sympathize intensely with him and gain vivid pictures of all the action through his eyes. But his insights and actions are just way too mature for someone aged 9 through 16. I think the remnant voice of older Davy has been awkwardly grafted to Griffin. Would any 9-year-old have a copy of John Crowley's Little, Big on his nightstand? Would a 9-year-old actually label an adult "twenty-five and beautiful," as Griffin does upon first seeing Alejandra? Or take pre-calculus at 12? These seem to me Hollywood tokens of the precocious tweener, and they form a barrier to empathy. Even assuming we're getting Griffin's story from his 16-year-old self, it's still too mature. Max von Sydow as a touchstone name to Griffin? C'mon!

The plotting in this book feels less organic than its predecessors. Unlike the earlier book, which had just the right amount of quotidian details, there are too many mundane moments that seem intended to offer actors and actresses and viewers some talismans of normality. Also, the new angle of many jumpers and a secret conspiracy to kill them adds a Ludlumesque Jason Bourne atmosphere to the proceedings that's at odds with the highly personal tone of the first two books. And, of course, the violence and body count and quip levels are all much higher.

What does come across well here is the sheer deracinating pleasure of being able to jump anywhere you want, defying the limits of space, and the way a clever and logical person could maximize that skill. If the movie provides the same visceral thrills, then perhaps all my objections will be a wash.