Arthurian Legend in the Twentieth and Twenty-first Centuries 2020943382, 9781648893315, 9781622739479, 1648893317

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Arthurian Legend in the Twentieth and Twenty-first Centuries Edited by Susan L. Austin Landmark College

Series in Cinema and Culture

Copyright © 2022 by the authors. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Vernon Art and Science Inc. www.vernonpress.com In the Americas: Vernon Press 1000 N West Street, Suite 1200, Wilmington, Delaware 19801 United States

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Series in Cinema and Culture Library of Congress Control Number: 2020943382 ISBN: 978-1-64889-331-5 Also available: 978-1-62273-947-9 [Hardback] Product and company names mentioned in this work are the trademarks of their respective owners. While every care has been taken in preparing this work, neither the authors nor Vernon Art and Science Inc. may be held responsible for any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in it. Every effort has been made to trace all copyright holders, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publisher will be pleased to include any necessary credits in any subsequent reprint or edition. Cover design by Vernon Press. Cover image by MonikaP from Pixabay.

Table of contents Introduction

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Chapter 1 Kids and kings: postmodern nostalgia and youthful Arthurian cinematic retellings

1

Sarah Gordon Utah State University

Chapter 2 Camelot 3000 and Dracula vs. King Arthur: The uses of limited-run comics as updates of the Arthurian legend for contemporary readers

25

Carl Sell Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania

Chapter 3 The fate of Artoria: contextually exploring gender, character, and conflict in Fate/Zero

35

Tracey Thomas York University

Chapter 4 Gender and class in John Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights

53

Susan L. Austin Landmark College

Chapter 5 A kid wizard in King Arthur’s court Zainah Usman Tarrant County College Northwest

73

Chapter 6 Chivalry and ambition in Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King

89

Susan L. Austin Landmark College

Chapter 7 Democratic dreams and the death of Arthur, king

103

Adrienne Major Landmark College

Chapter 8 Killing Arthur: revising the Perceval myth in “Kingsman: The Secret Service”

119

Erin Mullally Le Moyne College

Chapter 9 The death of the Fisher King in Iris Murdoch’s The Time of the Angels

135

Susan L. Austin Landmark College

Chapter 10 When Arthurian heroes fall: adapting moral failure and Christian redemption in the BBC’s Merlin

149

Leah Hamilton Xavier University

Index

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Introduction Arthurian legend has always been open to innovation. Who Arthur might have been inspired by is open to debate and speculation, but it is clear that if such a figure really did exist, he would not have been wearing the kind of full-body armor that most readers imagine when they think of King Arthur. The tragedy of brothers Balin and Balan or the death of Accolon, both of which involve combatants killing allies because they did not recognize the other’s armor, are based on armor that rendered a knight anonymous, which would not have happened in any historic Arthur’s time because armor did not obscure faces when he might have existed. We love the stories, however, because they have changed and reflected the values of the times they were written, and the great stories of other times always hold some appeal. The idea of a just and fair king who brings peace, and as the story evolves, gathers the best and most powerful fighters in the land and asks them not to abuse their power, but to protect the powerless, especially women, carries lasting appeal, as war and abuse of the powerless by the powerful appear to be part of the human condition, parts of ourselves that we wish could be controlled to make the world better. As the stories evolved, different tellers added elements that would be repeated and elaborated on. The appeal of Arthurian legend is partly nostalgia for an imagined glorious past, but largely because Arthur represents an ideal leader, one who is fair and just, whose warriors are the best in the world and instructed to use their power to help those who are weaker or poor, and who is himself brave, skilled, and ready to put his own life at risk for the good of his people. He is defeated not by a superior enemy but because he, his wife, and his best knight are human and prone to occasionally doing what they want rather than what is right. His youthful lust fathered a would-be usurper, and those who loved him most loved each other more. Only his own men would be strong enough to defeat him. He is still a king, however, and that he is a male born to his position and answerable to no one causes tension in many of the works discussed in this volume. This book began with a call for papers for the 2018 Northeast Modern Language Association Conference, which raised the following questions: How have films, television shows, games, comics, and books for all audiences and ages employed Arthurian characters, themes, motifs, and plots? How have these changes reflected shifting cultural attitudes and values? What do recent retellings and appropriations of Arthurian legend tell us about ourselves and the generations immediately

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preceding us? How have these changes reflected shifting cultural attitudes and values? What do we want and need from King Arthur and his court? Responses to the original call introduced themes that would become more pronounced as more chapters came in, suggesting that what we appear to need from Arthur and his court, in general, is that they be less explicitly Christian and more inclusive, allowing those who are not white males born to noble families more prominence. Most of the works discussed raise questions about the use of power and what entitles one to that power. This was a simpler question when society accepted that God made people kings because God wanted them to have power than it is in today’s more democratic, egalitarian world. Some challenge the gender roles of traditional Arthurian literature. Some try to adapt or reject the values in this inherently Christian genre. Does this mean that all new Arthurian works in the twentieth and twenty-first century express anxiety about gender, social class, and the divine right of kings? No, but it does suggest that such works attracted the attention of a small number of critics in the three years leading to 2020. As many of the chapters encompass multiple themes, the structure of this volume is very loosely based on themes that stand out in each chapter, beginning with those that challenge gender assumptions and may be more socially inclusive, moving toward those questioning the proper use of power and by what authority the powerful rule, and ending with discussions of two works that try to adapt to our more secular world. In “Kids and Kings: Postmodern Nostalgia and Youthful Arthurian Cinematic Retellings,” Sarah Gordon places the concept of postmodern nostalgia developed by Fredric Jameson and Linda Hutcheon in the current evolution of Arthurian film aimed at a juvenile audience. In-depth discussions of Disney’s Avalon High (2010) and director Joe Cornish’s The Kid Who Would Be King (2019) explore how these films combine anachronism and history with updated social values and political concerns to argue that recapturing a lost, yet fictional, better past is a central preoccupation of juvenile Arthurian film. Both films involve racially diverse casts and challenge gender roles by making traditionally male characters female. Gordon notes that, as part of the Disney company’s move to include stronger female characters, Avalon High has King Arthur reincarnated as a teenaged girl and that the film offers encouragement to study the texts of the past and to look for lessons in the past that may be useful in the present. As high school students unite to save the world from reversion to darker ages of the past in Avalon High, younger children unite to fight bullies and work to resolve the conflicts of a politically and socially divided world in The Kid Who Would Be King.

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As Sarah Gordon’s chapter discusses how two recent films encourage new audiences to become familiar with Arthurian legend, Carl Sell’s “Camelot 3000 and Dracula vs. King Arthur: The Uses of Limited-Run Comics as Updates of the Arthurian Legend for Contemporary Readers” shows how comic books can do the same. Predating Avalon High by twenty-five years and perhaps an inspiration for its gender and race changes, Camelot 3000 involves a reincarnated Arthur with reincarnations of his knights, and also includes racial diversity and a gender-bending plotline, which if fairly common in the 2000s, was not in 1985. The reincarnated Tristan finds himself in a female body while still identifying as male and still loving the also-female Isolde. Sell finds the conclusion of Tristan’s story unsatisfying but remarkable for its time and likely to inspire interest in new readers. Sell also explores problematic issues of the male gaze in Dracula vs. King Arthur, a fairly traditional good versus evil story with Arthur representing God and Dracula serving the devil, noting that the hyper-sexualized female characters that feature in the comic are common in the genre and while the genre itself would benefit from including more readers, comics are very popular and likely to bring King Arthur to readers who might not encounter him otherwise. In “The Fate of Artoria: Contextually Exploring Gender, Narrative, and Conflict in Fate/Zero,” Tracey Thomas introduces us to another version of King Arthur, who is reincarnated as a female. Thomas comments on the uses of and alterations to grail legend in Fate/Zero, an anime created by Gen Urobuchi. Thomas notes that Artoria is an example of “female masculinity” found in characters in branches of manga aimed at young, female readers and that her gender is less important than the virtues she shares with the traditional Arthur. Artoria is the servant of the master who summoned her, however, rather than a king in her own right, and other characters both challenge her effectiveness as a king and sexualize her, but Thomas finds that Artoria is “an example to challenge … preconceived notions of gender roles.” The quest for the Holy Grail becomes a war over who will have wishes granted by the Grail, which is no longer a symbol of God’s grace but corrupted and potentially malign. As a representative of Arthurian chivalry, Artoria does not achieve this corrupted Grail but remains true to her Arthurian values. While John Steinbeck did not make Arthur female as in Avalon High and Fate/Zero, in his translation of Malory’s Morte D’Arthur, by adding personalities to some of Malory’s female characters, he did turn a relatively minor character, the oldest woman in the triple quest of Gawain, Ewain and Marhalt, into a woman who might identify as transgender in today’s parlance. In “Gender and Class in John Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights,” I trace changes John Steinbeck made to what started out as a faithful translation of Malory’s Morte D’Arthur, finding increasing differences in the portrayals of

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women and challenges to assumptions about class and birth in Steinbeck’s source, and concluding that discomfort with Malory’s attitudes toward class and gender may have kept Steinbeck from finishing the work. This chapter analyzes the expanded roles of women in Steinbeck’s translation and places them in the context of other Steinbeck works, then explores class issues and how the idea of kings and nobles born to their positions is incompatible with Steinbeck’s other writings. While the world of Harry Potter is more egalitarian than Malory’s world in that wizards do not need to be born into wizarding families and women both have power and hold some high-ranking jobs, J. K. Rowling does not challenge gender roles to the extent of most of the works discussed previously. In Morte D’Arthur and Steinbeck’s re-writing of it, Morgan le Fay is very much her own woman. Her evil deeds are in her own interests. In contrast, Bellatrix Lestrange, her closest counterpart in the Potter books, is subservient to Lord Voldemort rather than an independent agent. While the women are capable in battle, for the most part, men battle men and women battle women, and except for the magic, Molly Weasley is a fairly traditional housewife and mother. With the possible exception of the chapter on Iris Murdoch’s The Time of the Angels, the works discussed in the chapters of the book that follow my Steinbeck discussion also more or less maintain fairly traditional gender roles. Noting that the appeal of King Arthur’s story relies on an imagined medieval past—that postmodern nostalgia Gordon writes of—and Arthur as a wise and successful king who in some ways doesn’t act like a king because he asks counsel of his knights and therefore seems more democratic, Zainah Usman’s “A Kid Wizard in King Arthur’s Court” shows parallels between J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series and Arthurian legend, especially T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. Among other comparisons, Usman notes that Arthur and Harry both live in castles, begin in ignorance of their true identities, have similar relationships to helpers and magical objects, assemble allies, and place right action over the use of power for personal glory. While, as Usman argues, Harry Potter learns to develop and master his power but has the instinctive goodness we expect of a chivalrous Arthurian figure, in “Chivalry and Ambition in Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King,” I argue that the film’s protagonist Jack Lucas (Jeff Bridges) misuses power because he lacks instinctive goodness, or at least sees it as incompatible with ambition and financial success. Created by screenwriter Richard LaGravenese to challenge attitudes toward wealth and success of the 1980s, I note that Jack’s behavior for most of the film is similar to—though a bit less evil than—the evil Sir Damas from Malory’s Morte D’Arthur. Jack only values people he can use and behaves as if he owes them nothing in return, discarding them when they are no longer useful as if they were human garbage. While that is significantly better than

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throwing them into a dungeon where many die, as Sir Damas does, I note that when Parry (Robin Williams) assumes the role of a knight errant after his wife’s death, it may be that on some level, he recognizes the cause of his wife’s death as the lack of chivalry in Jack’s behavior. He guides Jack on a quest that he will not let end until Jack provides evidence that he can be brave and put the needs of others before his own—in short, that Jack has learned the lessons of chivalry: that the wealthy and powerful should treat the poor and powerless responsibly and with compassion; and that all people, especially the powerless, are worthy of care and protection. In this, the film echoes the messages valuing chivalry Gordon finds in The Kid Who Would Be King and Thomas finds in Fate/Zero. By making Jack Lucas an American and a commoner, albeit a wealthy and snobbish one at the beginning of the film, Gilliam and LaGravenese avoid questions of how the noble King Arthur can also represent the democracy symbolized by the Round Table to viewers from an era when absolute monarchs are the exception rather than the rule. The films discussed in Adrienne Major’s “Democratic Dreams and Arthur, King” and Erin Mullally’s “Killing Arthur: Revising the Perceval Myth in Kingsman: The Secret Service” all raise questions of what such a king might look like, and in some cases reflect the same concerns about inherited nobility as Steinbeck. Major analyzes four Arthurian films that reflect and sometimes predict the political moods of the time and which all show some anxiety over the use of power and the idea of a king who touts democratic ideals. Major finds that John Boorman’s 1981 Excalibur reflects anxious masculinity that needs the protection of armor and sword at all times in response to real-world economic woes and the rise of powerful women like Margaret Thatcher and, ironically, Phyllis Schlafly. Jerry Zucker’s 1995 First Knight involves a Round Table that is supposed to be inclusive and democratic, but which is exclusive and at which the king has the only real voice. The film also raises questions about what gives one country the right to invade another, a concern that would be reflected in the Gulf War. Connecting Antoine Fuqua’s 2004 King Arthur to ideas about freedom inspired by the 9/11 attacks, Major observes that the film’s ironic conclusion indicates that the true path to freedom might be to find the right king. Major concludes her discussion with Guy Ritchie’s 2017 King Arthur, Legend of the Sword. As Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights indicated some authorial anxiety about the need for Arthurian knights to be of noble birth, and the Harry Potter series differentiates between the “good” wizards from old families, who accept muggles and the muggle-born and the snobbish old families that don’t, Guy Ritchie responds to the challenge of making the boy born to be king more appealing to democratic audiences by making him a nobly-born orphan raised by prostitutes. In 2017’s King Arthur, Legend of the

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Sword, the first indications that Arthur deserves to lead are demonstrated by his street smarts and sometimes less-than-noble tactics. Major concludes that this film “is scarily prescient—the grifter king who wins his money through petty extortion, and his power through appealing to the masses while being supported by the old aristocracy against an established yet corrupt political system has something to say about how and why Donald Trump continues to dominate US politics.” Erin Mullally’s “Killing Arthur: Revising the Perceval Myth in Kingsman: The Secret Service” also explores conflicting messages about class while tracing similarities between Eggsy of Kingsman and Chrétien’s Perceval. Like Perceval, Eggsy is the son of a dead military man kept from following in his father’s footsteps by a mother who is afraid he too will be killed, but unlike Perceval, Eggsy is not a child of nobility. He, like Ritchie’s Arthur, is a street kid whose past actions may not meet standards all would consider honorable. Given the opportunity to take on the clothes and the role of a gentleman warrior, Eggsy encounters support and discouragement from some surprising sources, his biggest challenges coming not from those born to the elite, but from self-made men, including the Arthur of the Kingsmen organization, who reveals himself both a traitor and, despite his pretensions, a Cockney. As Mullally points out, this film raises questions about class and who deserves the right to lead and why hinted at in films covered by Major’s chapter and about the trappings of success like the ones Jack values in The Fisher King. As Arthur is corrupted by power and therefore must die in Kingsman, my chapter, “The Death of the Fisher King in Iris Murdoch’s The Time of the Angels,” explores how Iris Murdoch’s version of the Fisher King is also corrupt, abusing both the traditions of masculine power and religion. This chapter shows how Murdoch, an atheist concerned with sustaining morality without God, uses the Fisher King myth of Arthurian legend ironically. While the Fisher King, keeper of the Holy Grail, is traditionally a figure of redemption and rebirth, Murdoch’s Carel Fisher and the corrupted church he represents must be destroyed to heal the land and its people, not restored to health. Carel Fisher represents abuse of power from which those under it must, and do, escape. Leah Hamilton’s “When Arthurian Heroes Fall: Adapting Moral Failure and Christian Redemption in the BBC’s Merlin” also reflects changing attitudes toward religion. Although not explicitly atheist with its frequent references to the “old religion,” the Merlin television series attempts to replace Christian views of character redemption in a secular world. Hamilton finds that the show assumes its audience is apparently harder to please than the Christian God. Penitence is harder to define, and the show uses three strategies to avoid other problems the lack of Christianity creates, “omission, excusing, and dramatic humility.” Through these strategies, the characters’ stories change to supposedly

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make them more acceptable. Examples include that Merlin’s father is not a demon and Uther Pendragon is adulterous but not a rapist. Hamilton explores the ways the characters attempt to make up for their failings and earn forgiveness, ultimately concluding that “perhaps without any form of universally accepted path to redemption and restoration, even extreme forms of humility and penitence may be insufficient to achieve restoration,” but suggesting that Merlin’s example may contribute to the exploration of new paths as Arthurian legend adapts to our time. Together, these chapters suggest that while it can be difficult to imagine what a perfect ruler in a fair and just world might look like in the more secular, more inclusive world of today, Arthurian legend still provides inspiration to consider those issues or to imagine ourselves as part of some imagined, better past.

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Kids and kings: postmodern nostalgia and youthful Arthurian cinematic retellings Sarah Gordon Utah State University

Abstract The first decades of the 2000s were a fertile ground for rewriting Arthurian material for the cinema. Inscribed within the theoretical framework of Postmodern nostalgia and pastiche in popular culture, this chapter investigates two examples of twenty-first-century Arthurian film for children and adolescents: Disney’s Avalon High (2010) and director Joe Cornish’s The Kid Who Would Be King (2019). The chapter explores specific film scenes, characterization, locations, and visual images in this rewriting of Arthuriana for children. It argues that both films tackle the contemporary concerns of a juvenile audience, with issues ranging from bullying, to Brexit and a current climate of divisive politics in Britain and America. Recapturing a lost, yet fictional, better past is a preoccupation of these juvenile Arthurian films. Yearning for a heritage or connection with “pastness” are clear in both films, as they play on the target audience’s desire to transcend problems of the present through nostalgia. Keywords: Avalon High; The Kid Who Would be King; juvenile film; King Arthur, Arthurian; postmodern nostalgia *** Arthurian legends survive through timeless, universally appealing themes and a memorable cast of characters. For centuries, Arthurian literary adaptations have served as a social and political barometer for the time in which they were produced. Today, some politically engaged filmmakers have used intertextual references to Arthurian literature to empower young audiences and advocate for better leadership, unity, and equality in a divisive world. This chapter will demonstrate how Arthurian films for young audiences express a powerful mix of nostalgia for a better past and optimism for a better future. The futures they

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envisage value diversity, gender equity, and a multiplicity of truths. While grounded in the past, they call into question stereotypes entrenched in the film and television industries. Viewed in part through the theoretical lens of postmodern nostalgia provided by Fredric Jameson, Linda Hutcheon and others, this study explores postmodern nostalgia and Arthuriana in two films from the same decade: Avalon High (2010, USA) and The Kid Who Would Be King (2019, UK/USA). These films were intended primarily for a school-age audience.1 Arthurian legend, modern technology, diversity, youthful humor and optimism, and social justice are combined creatively in both of these unique films. Arthurian characters, places, and objects have stood the test of time around the globe. The Round Table and Excalibur remain familiar relics in our imaginary (from Round Table pizza restaurants to the Excalibur Hotel Casino in Las Vegas and beyond). In just one real-life illustration of the enduring appeal of Arthurian literature for youth, in 2018, Swedish and American media enthusiastically reported that an eight-year-old Swedish-American girl, named Saga, had discovered and drawn a real fifth-century sword out of a lake with her bare hands. The public in Sweden hailed the youth as the new Queen of Sweden, and social media buzzed with the news around the world. Sensational news reports referenced Arthur’s Excalibur or the Lady of the Lake. Along with these media mentions of King Arthur and the little girl that captured imaginations, recent films have also kept the legend of The Sword in the Stone alive for cinemagoers. More than anecdotally, Arthurian legends and medieval literature remain a source of inspiration, wonder, and nostalgia for school children and adults alike. As the other chapters in the present volume attest, Camelot, King Arthur, Merlin, Guenevere, Lancelot and the other Knights of the Round Table, and other Arthurian characters and motifs are timeless. Timelessness, time travel, and in fact the notion of time itself have become frequent themes in modern Arthurian literature and postmodern popular culture. A focus on the “once and future” promise motif, the messianic (or return, resurrection, rebirth, or reincarnation) aspects of the Arthurian tradition are apparent in films of the early 2000s. Certainly, the real-life fate of future generations has been a preoccupation of fictional Arthurian youth literature for almost two centuries. Looking to the stories, lessons, and values of the past to ensure a brighter future

1 For

further discussion of what constitutes a children’s film, as well as an investigation of different commercial and ideological goals and trends over time (in Disney and other studios) see Noel Brown’s concise, useful survey (2017).

Kids and kings: postmodern nostalgia

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appears increasingly as a message in juvenile literature and film in the twentyfirst century. Today’s moviegoers, television viewers, and streaming service bingewatchers are no strangers to all manner of remakes, reboots, sequels, prequels, spin-offs, mash-ups, and crossovers, particularly in the genres of superheroes, science fiction, and medieval fantasy. Medieval literary material lends itself to a pastiche of familiar elements, as well as to retellings and remakes, partly because the oral and literary traditions on which it is based are already derivative and written to invite (re)interpretation. Looking back, from minor manuscript scribal variants to major literary cycles, medieval Arthurian material was composed orally or written down in an open-ended manner that invited rewriting, with more adventures, more quests, more prequels and sequels, and more knights and ladies being added over the centuries. Indeed, the complex, and seemingly infinite, number of adventures and quests in the Arthurian corpus in medieval and early modern European texts alone attests to Arthurian popularity and adaptability—as the medieval Round Table captured the imagination and seemed to invite more fictional characters to fill its seats. As countless studies in literary history have shown, for each era in which Arthurian legends and stories are rewritten, the socio-political climate of the times, and even banal elements of contemporary daily life, are reflected in text or image, from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Thomas Malory to Monty Python. Arthurian literature is rewritten, translated, and adapted for different audiences, languages, or genres, and Arthurian names and motifs are, in a sense, reincarnated for each new iteration. This is because, since the first oral traditions were written down, “All Arthurian literature and film is derivative. The unique nature and vast corpus of Arthurian literature (and other media) lends itself well to afterlives, medieval, early modern, and contemporary” (Gordon 47). Arthurian texts, whether written or visual, may act as time capsules to those cracking open the cover after many years, finding them packed with familiar names, places, motifs, and objects, all adapted for the time and context in which they were produced. Whether an Arthurian rewriting takes sides in the Hundred Years War or the War of the Roses, or reflects on the divisive nature of Brexit today, it remains a compelling framework with which to entertain children and adults while reflecting the values and socio-political concerns of its storytellers and audiences. Of course, the entire corpus of twentieth- and twenty-first-century literature and popular culture Arthuriana for children and young adults is extensive and outside the scope of this volume, ranging from novels and comic books to toys

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and cartoons.2 Nonetheless, it is important to recognize that two films analyzed here are part of a long line of films for children and over two centuries of juvenile literature. Children’s fantasy books that recall Arthurian conventions and structures cater to young audiences: from Sidney Lanier’s The Boy’s King Arthur (1880, ultimately based on Malory), to N.C. Wyeth’s lavishly illustrated paintings decorating gilded tomes, to the well-known turn-of-the-century Pyle children’s books, to today’s Alfred the Boy King series (available in paperback or Kindle tablets in the digital age). Such books not only invite children to explore medieval literature, but provide a nostalgic, or even emotional, connection to the past and texts of the past in general. Arthur reincarnated as a modern youth, or appearing to and communicating with a contemporary youth character, is not new on paper or on screen. For instance, in the film A Kid in King Arthur’s Court (1995), a pre-teen is transported back to a medieval Camelot when a California earthquake opens up a magic portal in the earth; here, the medieval and the modern come together in a young adult context, overtly rewriting Mark Twain’s time-traveling hero, with many layers of intertextual reference to stories that were themselves retellings of Arthurian literature. Elsewhere, the Alfred: The Boy Who Would Be King young adult book series by Ron Smorynski is just one example of similar nostalgic storytelling; it rewrites a modern child as a legendary unifying hero with a group of friends as knights with noble causes and exciting adventures. The films chosen to be analyzed in the present study represent a form of cinematic postmodern nostalgia for youth. Simply put, postmodern nostalgia may be characterized in part by multiplicity, intertextuality, the pastiche of familiar elements, and its fragmentary nature. The nostalgia for a past time and place that never existed as such is also a manifestation of the postmodern condition. Produced in a postmodern, commercial context, historical accuracy or textual authority are never the goals of such films. Instead, these films play with the very notions of time, of past and present, engaging viewers in a conversation about the positives and negatives of each time, with a multiplicity of points of view. Moreover, postmodern nostalgia does not value originality as much as it does familiarity; in this aspect, it closely resembles the derivative nature of medieval literature. Adaptations, literary or cinematic, are becoming increasingly popular, as “…the appeal of adaptations for audiences lies in their mixture of repetition and difference, of familiarity and novelty” (Hutcheon A

2

Kevin J. Harty provides a nearly exhaustive list, including a filmography and annotated bibliography including film critic reviews, of Arthurian film around the world through 1998, as part of the ongoing research of the digital Camelot Project. See also David John Williams for a broader medievalist filmography through 1999.

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Theory 114). In fact, a hodgepodge of anachronistic elements from different time periods is their hallmark.3 Linda Hutcheon has theorized nostalgia as a temporal phenomenon, a critique of an unsatisfactory present (“Irony”). Nostalgia is in part about critiquing the present, yearning for a lost past, and even looking toward a better future. The two films explored here share this approach. Furthermore, Fredric Jameson puts forth in the well-known 1982 lecture “Postmodernism and Consumer Society” expanded notions of “nostalgia film” or “la mode retro.” Jameson includes Star Wars as an example of this type of cinematic nostalgia and postmodern pastiche of familiar elements, even though the futuristic Star Wars ostensibly is about the far future: This particular practice of pastiche is not high-cultural but very much within mass culture, and it is generally known as the ‘nostalgia film’ (what the French neatly call la mode rétro—retrospective styling). We must conceive of this category in the broadest way: narrowly, no doubt, it consists merely of films about the past and about specific generational moments of that past. … But let me first add some anomalies: supposing I suggested that Star Wars is also a nostalgia film. What could that mean? I presume we can agree that this is not a historical film about our own intergalactic past. … Star Wars, far from being a pointless satire of such now dead forms, satisfies a deep (might I even say repressed?) longing to experience them again: it is a complex object in which on some first level children and adolescents can take the adventures straight, while the adult public is able to gratify a deeper and more properly nostalgic desire to return to that older period and to live its strange old aesthetic artifacts through once again (Jameson 4-5). Jameson’s discussion of Star Wars may also apply to many medievalist—and particularly Arthurian—films as well. Whether the cinematic past is based on a real or imaginary future or fantasy past, whether it is located in the heroism of a fictional Camelot or in the rebellion of a galaxy far, far away, the appeal of the postmodern nostalgia film is that they may contain a pastiche of elements, narratives, images, characters, and values to create what Jameson has termed a postmodern “spectacle of pastness” (21). A similar phenomenon of longing and nostalgia may be at stake with the Star Wars franchise and Arthurian and medievalist films. Audiences of Arthurian youth films might find them compelling because they are nostalgic for older, familiar films or film genres (and not just for a heroic past that never existed as such). Truly postmodern,

3

Rouse investigates the concept of anachronism and anachronistic elements in other medieval films, including in the science fiction genre.

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with a pastiche of prior films and several literary texts, everything old becomes new again in Avalon High and The Kid Who Would Be King. In addition to functioning as a time capsule, such films could be viewed as a treasure chest or a toy box for a younger audience, containing miscellaneous magical objects, delightful literary tropes, and inspiring heroic images that are charged with meaning and emotion for viewers already familiar with the medieval and medievalist elements. Avalon High (2010) Previous studies on Arthurian and medievalist film have overlooked Avalon High (2010), perhaps due to its intended juvenile television audience.4 Avalon High is adapted from the young adult novel of the same name by Meg Cabot (also the author of the young adult bestseller The Princess Diaries) and produced by Disney. The following reading focuses on the cinematic version. The telefilm’s premiere was viewed by over 3.8 million television viewers and has remained popular on the Disney Channel and streaming venues today. The Disney Channel also created a weekly online Arthurian trivia game and interactive experience prior to the film’s premiere to entice young viewers to learn more about Arthurian literature and medieval history before watching the film. This internet game and website, along with television commercials, actively sought to motivate children to read up on Arthurian legends, or at least to explore Arthurian imagery and trivia as background for the film, further underlining the essential intertextual nature of Arthurian adaptions. Children and teens discussed interpretations of the film on social media. The film is a unique, forward-thinking, backward-looking production that simultaneously celebrates “pastness” and calls into question the postmodern nostalgia for a time that never existed. In order to sift through the meaning of what is still left of the Arthurian mythos today, we may turn to this live-action Disney movie. The essence of Arthuriana remains, but is reset in a very different context. It involves a sort of time travel, but takes this trope far beyond the book or film adaptation of Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.5 Rather, Disney’s Avalon High could be viewed as more of a meta approach to the nature of the enduring legend and the many literary reincarnations of King Arthur.

4 Cinema Arthuriana: Twenty Essays, edited by Kevin Harty (2010) provides a collection of in-depth analyses of several Arthurian films, but even this revised edition did not include Avalon High. 5 Time travel remains a popular trope and common vehicle for the spectacle of pastness in today’s television and streaming services for children and young adults. For instance, in the recent medievalist show Dwight in Shining Armor (BYUTV), a twenty-first century teenager falls into a hole and awakens in medieval times, while medieval villains are reincarnated in his home town. This show is also informed by references to Arthurian literature.

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When viewed in this light, Avalon High turns around a theme of textual reincarnation. As such, this film merits scholarly attention. Avalon High shows some influence of Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court and its cinematic adaptations, with a prediction of an eclipse, a meteor shower and other events, along with allusions to other previous cinematic sources. Of course, “not all medievalist television is for children” (Matthews 138), but several animated and live-action films, from Disney to Japanese animé to comic books, have been produced for children, primarily for a television audience, notably Disney’s A Kid in King Arthur’s Court (1995). Avalon High recalls a tradition in Walt Disney Productions of creative and comedic Arthurian retellings, from the animated The Sword in the Stone (1963) to the space-age rewrite of A Connecticut Yankee, Unidentified Flying Oddball [UK Title: The Spaceman and King Arthur] (1979), to the animated Arthurian canine cartoon Pound Puppies and the Legend of Big Paw (1988) that also aired on the Disney Channel.6 In Unidentified Flying Oddball, the nostalgic and ironic juxtaposition of the astronaut in a space suit riding a draft horse is an example of the playing with a mix of time periods that Disney Arthurian live-action films do.7 Time-travel fantasy, reincarnation, and rebirth in a youthful context are thus further cinematic forms of Arthurian retellings in film and television. Avalon High is perhaps the most imaginative and successful Disney afterlife of King Arthur to date. Avalon High uses an American school setting that is familiar to many Disney Channel viewers from their television shows, and repaints aspects of it to vaguely mirror familiar Arthurian names and themes. Notions of history, literary studies, storytelling, manuscript sources, textual analysis, and even academia and scholarship show up in the background of this film (whereas in The Kid Who Would Be King, one single book and a map frame the story, as discussed below). The film begins with young Allie Pennington (played by Britt Robertson) and her parents (actors Don Lake and Ingrid Park), who both happen to be scholars of medieval literature knowledgeable about the Arthurian tradition. Indeed, there is a meta-commentary on the survival of

Pound Puppies and the Legend of Big Paw (1988) is based on a line of Tonka toys and an American animated television series and is aimed at toddlers and younger children, recasting Arthurian heroes as a young boy and his dog. This highly creative retelling says that in the year 958, a child named Arthur and his dog, Digalot, found a stone that held Excalibur, as well as a magical Bone of Scone for the dog. These mythical items are rediscovered in a 1950s American museum, empowering modern children and dogs to fight evil and showing them that a connection to the past can be very powerful. 7 Raymond Thompson has discussed the ironic tone and comedy prevalent in latetwentieth-century Arthurian film. 6

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Arthurian legends in academia through the figures of the parents that are university professors in medieval studies. On her first day at a new high school named Avalon, Allie makes the acquaintance of the following individuals: the football team’s star quarterback Will (Gregg Sulkin); his popular, attractive girlfriend Jen (Molly Quinn); Will’s well-liked best friend, Lance (Christopher Tavarez); a smart “nerd” kid named Miles (Joey Pollari); a school bully named Marco (Devon Graye); and a clever European History teacher, Mr. Moore (Steve Valentine). When things curiously start to go wrong at school, an inquisitive group of students discover that the cause is a mysterious foe named Mordred from the past. They are not sure at first who Mordred is reincarnated as in their school. The unknown Mordred threatens to turn the world back in time to another, more sinister reincarnation of the “Dark Ages.” The students’ quest involves discovering the identity of the reincarnated Mordred, as well as their own identities in the Arthurian past. The teens must therefore search for a connection with the legendary and historical past through both research and action. In a compelling message for teen viewers, the students must look to history and literature to avoid the consequences of their world being thrust back in time by the forces of evil. Time and memory are central preoccupations for the characters. As noted above, Linda Hutcheon conceptualizes nostalgia as a temporal phenomenon, as a form of lamenting an unsatisfactory present (Irony 194). In Avalon High, a postmodern pastiche of Arthurian references begins from the start, as past, present, and future are confounded in a nostalgic, non-linear narrative. The Merlin figure, the crafty Miles, starts having magical visions of the past and predicting the future, as Allie starts drawing explicit parallels between her own life and the people and structures of medieval Camelot. Allie compares the football team, “The Knights,” to the Knights of the Round Table and starts “remembering” details about daily past-life in Camelot that she was not aware that she knew, such as feast menus and details about the medieval diet. This part of the film appears to be a general appeal to “pastness” or to studying and appreciating the past, as well as perhaps a brief, pseudo-educational lesson in medieval culture and history inserted into the fictional narrative. Drawing another textual connection to the past and future, Allie and Miles are assigned to conduct a school research project and write a report on the Order of the Bear (fictional, created for the novel and film). “The Order of the Bear is an ancient organization which believes that one day, King Arthur will be reincarnated,” Allie’s medievalist mother states when asked about the very topic that she happens to have written a scholarly book on, “Arthur will return when he is truly needed to bring the world out of the dark and into a new age of enlightenment.” Allie’s academic, nostalgic parents say that it is up to new members of the Order of the Bear to find the reincarnation of Arthur, to which

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Allie and Miles remain incredulous and only laugh. In a unique rewriting, the children’s quest is, therefore, to discover their own identities and defend their school and community. The motif of the incredulous children who are thrust into the role of contemporary members of a Round Table-like group that combats evil is repeated in The Kid Who Would Be King, as demonstrated below. Not only Arthurian literature and chivalric orders are being viewed with nostalgia here, but also the academic fields of literature and history are being revitalized and justified for youth. As the young heroine quips, “I don’t know how things are at your house, but around here dinner just isn’t complete without a King Arthur poem!” On an extratextual level, as the humanities struggle as an academic discipline in the twenty-first century, the role of books, texts, and research are revalorized here. In addition, the roles of youth as future storytellers, researchers, archivists, and the keepers of history are highlighted (in The Kid below, a dusty old King Arthur book in the attic is juxtaposed with online Youtube and Google searches on Arthurian topics). 8 In addition to references to books or the literature of the past, the film’s dialogue is marked by a tone of nostalgia in this Disney adaptation. Inspirational speeches—that recall many famous battlefield speeches in medieval and early modern literary and theatrical sources, or in earlier medievalist cinema—are rewritten as school-age sports pep talks. Monologues in Avalon High and The Kid by children and adults speak of chivalry, duty, honor, honesty, and victory. As in The Kid, military and chivalric terminology is used by the children. After Allie gives her own royal inspirational speech about values and victory, the popular athlete Will invites her to his party, where more Arthurian parallels abound. Allie discovers that Will and Marco, the bully, are stepbrothers and finds Jen having an affair with Lance. Jen tells Allie not to tell Will about it, saying that if she tells him, it will be just like what happened with the love triangle that caused the downfall of Camelot of literary texts, noting that Arthur could not go on living after being betrayed by the two closest people to him. Miles also reveals that he experienced a vision of this same Arthurian affair and betrayal. His visions reflect the medieval tradition of dream vision tales.

8

The connection between nostalgia for the past, optimism for the future, and youth as storytellers is of course note new, and is expressed for example in the end of Roger and Hammerstein’s musical Camelot (and its film adaptation) in which Arthur beseeches the little boy, and the audience: “Each evening, from December to December/Before you drift to sleep upon your cot/Think back on all the tales that you remember/Of Camelot./Ask every person if he’s heard the story./And tell it strong and clear if he has not./That once there was a fleeting wisp of glory/Called Camelot…/Don’t let it be forgot that once there was a spot./For one brief shining moment/That was known as Camelot.”

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Again, playing with the non-linear narrative and the juxtaposition of past and future in the film, Allie confronts Miles about how he mysteriously always knows what is going to happen before it happens. Miles says he’s been seeing flashes of the future ever since he was a little kid. Miles discovers a hidden page in the book about the Order of the Bear, revealing a prophecy (perhaps the screenplay is echoing the prophecies of Merlin in centuries of Arthurian literary texts) that Arthur would come back during an eclipse and a meteor shower at the same time, which coincidentally, was the Friday night of the big high school football game. Miles decides that Marco is really the reincarnation of Mordred and is going to use the fact that Jen is having an affair with Lance to weaken Will, just as Mordred did centuries ago to Arthur in the stories. Allie tells her medievalist parents this, trying to confirm their identities and theory that the children are the reincarnation of Arthur and the knights. Allie figures out that the reason her academic parents moved around the country so much was not to further their academic careers, but instead to try to investigate the reincarnation of Arthur. These scenes of identity negotiation perhaps echo the real-life behaviors of children during playground make-believe games, in which children discuss who is pretending to be which character from a given well-known book, film, or fictional universe, and changing which child is roleplaying which character from which fictional universe on a given day. Racial and gender stereotypes are erased for a new generation. Additional visual elements, such as toys, props, and homemade costumes, highlight this make-believe game-like feel in all juvenile films with an Arthurian theme. This phenomenon is echoed in The Kid (2019) when the young students prepare themselves for battle by making armor and make-shift weapons out of household, schoolhouse, and gym items and shields out of metal road signs and construction signs. Such anachronistic costumes, a mix of medieval and modern elements, underline the postmodern pastiche created by both filmmakers. In both films studied here, postmodern nostalgia is evident as a scene often may juxtapose past, present, and future in one image or a single object. For instance, as Mordred attacks, Allie picks up a prop sword from the high school theater, and it suddenly transforms into “the real” Excalibur. The teen Miles, channeling the medieval Merlin, is reminded that any sword, even a toy, in the hands of a reincarnated King Arthur turns into Excalibur. As in The Kid film below, Excalibur plays a crucial role in the narrative and visuals (but in The Kid, the legend depicted is that any body of water in England, from a lake to a bathtub, can summon the Lady of the Lake’s hand to retrieve Excalibur).

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Here, perhaps surprisingly, it is revealed as Allie picks up the toy sword that magically turns into Excalibur, that she is the new King Arthur. In the Disney cinematic version, the screenplay is also rewritten in a gender-bending retelling, in the teenage context of what is supposed to be typical contemporary American high school. Alternatively, in the novel Avalon High it is a teenage boy who is the reincarnation of King Arthur. But, as part of a growing Disney “girlpower” message in recent years, the film adaptation features instead an intelligent, strong female lead (Allie, Ellie in the Cabot novel), who discovers only later in the film her destiny and duty.9 There are strong female characters, both good and evil, in Avalon High (and in The Kid Who Would Be King, as seen below), as the Arthurian mythos is again reframed for a generation that has grown up with increasing gender equality in real life and in cinema. The children thus challenge the older gender biases maintained by their parents and teachers. Allie (Arthur) embodies the uneasiness, awkwardness, and uncertainty of adolescents in a divided world. She becomes empowered by her connection to the past (symbolized by Excalibur) to become an effective and motivating leader. Traditionally an outlet for representations of young masculinity and often seen in the early twentieth century as “boy’s” literature, as in the older book series mentioned above, Arthuriana in Avalon High instead calls into question gender roles in older Arthurian texts and film, and on a much broader scale. Looking forward, the film invites future production of young adult literature and the entertainment industry to continue to erase gender lines today in other contexts.10 Also, pivoting 180 degrees from traditional princess roles that some viewers might expect in a medievalist film from Disney, or from an author like Cabot who has written about princesses before, it is the female protagonist that becomes King. As a walking anachronism, a person who goes against gender roles, and a new student in a somewhat toxic school environment, positioned on the margins, the character of Allie develops as a leader as her connections to the past grow stronger. As the story progresses, and as she studies more about leadership and values from Arthurian literature and medieval history, Allie becomes stronger. Finally, only in the midst of battle, with the newly energized Excalibur in her hand, does she realize herself that she is the reincarnation of King Arthur. Her European history teacher, Mr. Moore, reveals

9

See the edited volume by Bell, Haas, and Sells for an exploration of the evolution of gender roles in other Disney films and cartoons, and the volume edited by Pugh and Aronstein on medievalist elements in Disney films, theme parks, and popular culture. 10 Published prior to the release of the films analyzed here, issues of race, class, and gender in medievalist films and medieval adaptation films is: Tison Pugh and Lynn Ramey, eds. Race, Class, and Gender in “Medieval” Cinema, Palgrave, 2007.

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that he is the new Mordred. The film deals with gender stereotypes, as Mr. Moore finds it hard to accept that King Arthur is now a girl, repeatedly indicating he thinks Arthur is male and actually the sporty boy named Will. Allie then proceeds to beat the medieval version of Mr. Moore and get him arrested in the current real world, underlining that he is a figure of evil, especially with his outdated prejudices and gender stereotypes. Even her parents voice that a girl could not be the new Arthur, and then Mr. Moore (Mordred) says that he thought Allie had to be the reincarnated Lady of the Lake, exclaiming, “But King Arthur—King Arthur can’t be a girl!” Allie retorts with, “Yet here we are.” The children resist the outdated gender expectations held by the adults. The revelation of identity is perhaps intended to empower young female viewers, with a battle cry that reinforces the fluidity of gender in the film: “It was you all along, Allie! You’re King Arthur!” Along with the modernization and Americanization of Arthurian lore that Disney had engaged in since the 1960s, Avalon High updates gender roles and deals with gender equality and other issues facing American children born in the 2000s.11 Within the context of the twenty-first-century school, the movie genre unfolds a story of adolescence and good versus evil. It looks toward a literary past for social lessons today. In Avalon High, well-known twentieth- and twenty-first-century American high school stereotypes become immediately attached to medieval Arthurian archetypes and characters. The intentionally anachronistic visual images are striking. Heraldic flags are juxtaposed with high school letterman jackets. Suits of armor are juxtaposed with cheerleader outfits. Will declares he wants to be the president of the United States, and Allie agrees, comparing him to King Arthur. The Americanization of the Arthurian material is made explicit here in Will’s discussion of leadership as relating to both the American presidency and American sports metaphors surrounding “winning the big game.” Another scene transports the characters to a costumed medieval duel on horseback between Allie and Mordred (shot at a beach location in New Zealand, with visuals that are meant perhaps as a stand-in to recall a legendary

11 About earlier Disney films, Susan Aronstein characterizes the rewriting of Arthurian material for an American audience as part of the Disney doctrine, suggesting that Walt Disney was engaging in revisionist history: “Disney, poised the threshold of the crises of the 1960s, revisited the American past to reaffirm his central Distorical vision, relocating America’s founding myths to the Middle Ages, endowing their values with the status of a universal originary tale, and enshrining the ‘American way’ of our forefathers as the only viable way” (99). The use of and nostalgia for the Arthurian “origins” myths and Arthuriana appear in other non-American films and pop-culture contexts, as Sandra Gorgievski’s (2002) work that includes French film and comic books has shown.

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Arthurian coastline of Tintagel as well as the Lord of the Rings film trilogy shot in New Zealand). Allie’s knights, Will, Lance, and Marco, also fought alongside her against Mordred’s champions. Miles casts a magical spell and returns Merlin’s old staff to its rightful owner, himself. After Allie defeats Mordred, once again showing that she is a strong female figure, they are transported back into the contemporary high school theater. Marco bows in fealty to Allie, and everybody returns to the modern-day American football game to watch Will win. Because they were not transported back in time to see Allie (Arthur) defeat Mordred in a joust, Allie’s medievalist parents are disappointed at not seeing a big battle and say again that they were sure Will was Arthur. Leaving the audience with a final message of hope for unity, peace, gender equity, and equality, the reconciled group of teenagers celebrate with a meal and sit around a circular table. The medieval versions of the teens are then shown celebrating their new order, clad in armor, as they put their swords together on the center of the table and cheer. The main characters of Avalon High are twenty-first century, modernized, technology-using, slang-talking teenage reincarnations of King Arthur, the Knights of the Round Table, and other associated legends. Like The Kid Who Would Be King analyzed in what follows, this film is marked by its didactic nature, communicating messages about the themes of leadership and unification. As suggested by the tagline advertising this film, “At this school, legend lives on,” the nostalgic tone permeates all aspects of the film. The past is de-historicized, and the Arthurian legends are re-contextualized. In the end, Allie, Jen, Lance, Will, Marco, and Miles follow in the steps of their mythical role models and all make up the modern Knights of the Round Table, as they learn lessons from past legends that are applicable in their present and future lives.12 The Kid Who Would Be King (2019) Generation-Z is the intended audience for another Arthurian cinematic postmodern pastiche in The Kid Who Would Be King (2019). It is a children’s adventure movie with a quest structure. In the context of the socio-political turmoil surrounding Brexit and a divided UK (as well as Trumpism in a divided US), an Arthurian-themed film for children provides an optimistic image of unification for a new generation. The heavily CGI-infused film puts Excalibur in the hands of a small, bullied British schoolboy, and seats a diverse and optimistic group of youths at the Round Table. It explicitly bestows hope for the future in their young hands. Here again, the Arthurian ethos connects youth with both a sense of “pastness” and hope for a better future. Modern society is

12 Thanks are due to Tara Shafie for valuable input in the analysis of the narrative and gender roles of Avalon High.

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viewed through the cinematic lens of an idealized medieval viewpoint, judged by a past ethos. The film provides veiled references to adult socio-political issues with characteristically adolescent exaggeration. The Kid Who Would Be King was directed by Joe Cornish, a trendy director with a following among teenagers and millennials in the UK. The director’s previous film, Attack the Block (2011), a celebrated, biting social satire about a group of British children saving the world from alien invasion, was an instant cult classic. Attack the Block was more successful with a wider and older audience than The Kid Who Would Be King. Both films paint a picture of youth saving a country in crisis. In a 2019 interview with the Los Angeles Times, the director expresses the enduring appeal of Arthurian material, its adaptability, and its place in the collective memory: The interesting thing about Arthurian legend is it’s like the original blockbuster, and even if you don’t know the details of the story, it’s got all these incredible narrative devices that are really memorable, like the Round Table and the Sword in the Stone and the Lady of the Lake, Merlin the magician. All these traits that are really kind of embedded in people’s minds, and I’ve always thought that it would be cool to take them and bring them into modernity (Olsen). The director plays with familiar Arthurian narrative devices and places. The Kid Who Would Be King was meticulously shot on location in Cornwall and depicts mythical Arthurian sites such as Tintagel, Glastonbury Tor, and Stonehenge. This gives the film quite an Arthurian sense of place (more so than the Disney film discussed above, which takes place mostly in the hallways and football field of an American high school, though it repeatedly refers to Camelot). In addition, an animated map appearing at the beginning of the film situates its legendary past within the context of other legendary sites in the UK and Ireland, such as Stonehenge and Tara. The map is perhaps intended to lend authority to the film with a brief pseudo-history and geography lesson steeped in The Matter of Britain. The map gives a sense of past and a sense of place. Inscribed in the postmodern, various snippets and fragments of Arthuriana are used in the juvenile film to create nostalgia and a retro feeling of connection to some form of “pastness.” To this end, the screenplay is decorated with some of the superficial trappings of Arthuriana, from characters to place names to magic objects. For example, in this modernization, names have an Arthurian ring to them: timid twelve-year-old Alex (Louis Ashbourne Serkis) is Arthur, sporty Lance is Sir Lancelot (Tom Taylor), mischievous Kaye (a female, played by Rhianna Doris) is Sir Kay, and faithful friend Bedders (Dean Chaumoo) replaces trusty Sir Bedivere. The rebooted characters exhibit traits loosely based on the characterization of these figures in Malory and the later English Arthurian tradition (or perhaps in the case of Bedivere, on the earlier Welsh

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Bedwyr). As in Avalon High, the casting of the film is diverse. In both leading roles and supporting roles (such as friends, teachers, and police), the film defies racial stereotypes and resists traditional gender roles. Mordred exploiting the Lancelot-Guenevere-Arthur love triangle provides most of the conflict in Avalon High above, while in this film, Arthur’s vengeful half-sister Morgana (Rebecca Ferguson) is the female antagonist. The children face off against the evil Morgana, but other more modern socio-economic challenges also confront the young heroes. In addition to the bullying that the neo-Arthur must overcome at school, the film makes a point of showing that his mother (Denise Gough) is a hardworking single mother struggling to make ends meet in tough economic times, living in the low-income housing of a council estate surrounded by gentrification, construction rubble, and crumbling urban infrastructure.13 Even as the youth pulls a sword from the stone (here a concrete block), the audience is struck by the images of a derelict construction site and sound effects, including police sirens. The stark reality of current urban life collides loudly with this legendary messianic moment from Arthurian literature. The child has grown up without a father, being raised by a single mother, a contemporary situation that the film likens to the legend of the absent father Uther Pendragon, using similar names and storylines. The names in both films are vaguely based on various sources of Arthurian literature and remain the clearest palimpsest in such rewritings. For example, the child hero lives on Malory Road, a nod to the Arthurian tradition’s fifteenth-century landmark English text, Le Morte d’Arthur by Thomas Malory.14 Two shots of the street sign reading Malory Rd SW15 invite a well-read audience not to miss this connection. The modern-day street sign twice draws a textual connection between an idealized past and the struggles of the present day. In addition, a

13 Canonical literary roles of class, race, gender, and age are overturned. Another back-in-time literary adaptation of Mark Twain’s novel for young viewers is the Disney television film: A Knight in Camelot (1998), starring Whoopi Goldberg as a scientist who is transported back in time, along with her electronics. As another example, Black Knight (2001), Martin Lawrence plays an athletic medieval-themed amusement park employee who wakes up in fourteenthcentury England and uncovers a sinister plot with an evil Sir Percival. Such rewritings of Mark Twain also challenge traditional gender, race, and age roles. 14 Some young audiences might recognize a similar reference to Malory from Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers, a twelve-volume children’s literature series depicting a boarding school in Cornwall. The series was first written in the 1940s-1950s, with a popular sequel written in 2009. A television adaptation of Malory Towers premiered on CBBC in 2020. Whether or not the novels or television show are familiar, they attest to popular culture’s continuing use of references to Malory and Arthuriana in productions for children.

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pub on the street called The King Arthur Arms further alludes to the persistence of Arthurian pop culture and tourism. Medievalist sources that inspired the intertextual references in The Kid screenplay are themselves highly derivative and include, for the most part: T.H. White’s The Sword in the Stone (1938, based on Thomas Malory’s fifteenthcentury Le Morte D’Arthur, itself a translation of French sources); the Disney animated film adaptation of this retelling The Sword in the Stone (1963); Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (1889) and its film adaptation (1949); and John Boorman’s Excalibur (1981). There are other more tenuous intertextual allusions, such as to Geoffrey of Monmouth as an Arthurian source since this modern Merlin calls himself “Mertin Ambrosius Caledonensis,” perhaps recalling Geoffrey’s Merlin.15 T.H. White’s novel centers on the theme of youth and imagines the juvenile education of the fifteen-year-old Arthur under the tutelage of the wise magician Merlin. The focus on childhood and education in this 1930s novel is echoed in this 2000s film, and offers a cinematic reimagining based on T.H. White’s invitation to “the Old England of the twelfth century… and … a remote castle” in the wilds (White 23). From White’s novel to Cornish’s film, writers have attempted to transport young audiences on a journey to pastness. Merlin (Patrick Stewart/Angus Imrie) remains a mentor to the young Arthur figure in this film. Past and future are blurred, in particular with the ageless, time-traveling character Merlin figure. The older Merlin is played by Patrick Stewart with comic elements of both his Shakespearean and Star Trek sides intentionally showing through. He explains that he ages in reverse, as he becomes younger over the centuries. Indeed, a postmodern Merlin aging backwards embodies the notion that Arthurian adaptations have targeted increasingly youthful audiences over time. Because Merlin ages backwards in the film, he draws further connections between childhood and nostalgia. On another level, intertextual references abound, as Merlin magically transforms into an owl, a familiar shape-changing motif and animal to juvenile or adult readers of T.H. White (or its adaptations in animated film or comics). But the film soon departs from T.H White’s bookish influence and incorporates several recent fantasy film conventions into its storytelling. Further tethering the film to the popular culture of its time, the film makes overt yet fragmentary intertextual references to other popular film adaptations and other fictional universes, crossing generic lines, as the characters

15 Of course, medieval and medievalist Arthurian literature is so interwoven with multiple

layers of intertextual references that it goes far beyond the scope of this chapter to tease out every reference or source.

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themselves mention well-known medieval-fantasy genre films and books, in an overarching postmodern meta-commentary. Even skeptical adult viewers may wax nostalgic about a mix of other medievalist fantasy books and films. For example, the children make verbal references to the television series Game of Thrones (HBO), Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, and the Star Wars franchise. Magic tricks and the colors of school uniforms recall visuals in Harry Potter films. The children also draw comparisons between themselves and the archetypical heroes and sidekicks that appear in them, with Alex’s best friend explicitly likening their relationship to the fictional fantasy buddies, “like Sam and Frodo or Han Solo and Chewbacca,” he says. The pre-teen Bedders says about the teenage Merlin when they encounter the eccentric older child, “At the very least I bet he’s into role-playing games and Game of Thrones.” The red, glowing light sabers used by the enemies (in the film the mortes miles, or undead enemies of the past) might recall Star Wars franchise visuals in battle scenes.16 Still other visuals recall the C.S. Lewis Narnia series and film adaptations, with magical portals and Excalibur magically glowing inside a wardrobe, for instance. As Kevin Harty has shown, “Medieval film is also capable of being self-reflective” (Cinema 7), and this is increasingly the case in medievalist films in the 2000s. Recent medievalist films for children often make references to other familiar narratives or genres. The theme of justice is central in The Kid and relates to a younger audience through images of school bullying, as the young Arthur figure and his friends face bullying in school, finally standing up to bullies. The young hero faces bullies who leave him injured on a dirt mound in a derelict construction site, where he pulls Excalibur from the twisted rebar and concrete rubble of the demolished foundations of his society. Again, in this pivotal scene, the lighting, special effects, and sound effects make a connection between a legendary, idealized past and real-world problems. A certain code of chivalry in this film emphasizes tell the truth, be fair, be noble, and change the world. The principal declares to the school children in the movie, with a direct message to young audiences, “It is a tough world out there, getting tougher all the time. The world is not going to change…you have to change.” (The didacticism of the 2010 Disney film also emphasizes honesty and helping others.) Contemporary socioeconomic and political concerns are evident in the action, setting, and dialogue in light of the attempt to revitalize aspects of this idealized code for children. As

16 The 2000s have shown an increase in strong cinematic roles for women and girls. For example, in Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker (2019) there are also Arthurian echoes, as Rey, the strong female character, that fulfills the roles of warrior and savior of the future, buries her light saber and that of Princess Leia deep in the sand for only a worthy, destined future leader to retrieve.

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demonstrated elsewhere in this volume, Arthurian literature and film are inevitably re-written by every generation to reflect current cultural, political, or social themes. Contemporary social themes appear in these films. Twenty-firstcentury concerns of diversity and inclusivity overlay the traditional Arthurian Round Table, as marginalized figures are drawn into the inner circle and stereotypes are dispelled as the children defy expectations, learn tolerance, rally around a common enemy, and find common ground. Political divisiveness is also a major problem depicted in The Kid, with a new form of Arthurian unity as a perceived solution. The spectacle of the past also engages with present-day realities. Beyond a postmodern pastiche of familiar cinematic genres, the film is compelling for its references to socio-political crises in the media. Brexit and a growing Brexit nationalistic movement appear to have been a contributing factor in the genesis of this project, and it was released shortly after the controversial Brexit vote. The director worked on this film project for several years but chose to release it among the media frenzy of the Brexit controversy in 2018-2019. There is a decidedly anti-Brexit aspect to the film, too, to which several major film critics in UK and US newspapers strongly attest. Fear and fear-based politics appear in Merlin’s monologues and the children’s dialogue. In one explicitly political scene, the radio on the bus the children are riding references UK and US current divisive politics, declaring that: “global divisions are increasing at an alarming rate.” The children are told, “This world faces mortal danger” and “The land is divided, lost, and leaderless; men’s hearts have grown hollow.” Their enemy, as Merlin explains, is a rather ambiguous “something old and evil that came out of the ground.” Essentially addressing young cinemagoing or streaming audiences, Merlin exclaims: “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the chivalric code.” The children, diverse in age, race, and gender, are told they volunteer to fight in “saving Britain from eternal slavery.” In a creative way, the film reminds viewers of the importance of the lessons of history and implies that all children must look to the past (in this case, to a chivalric code that values honor and “speaking the truth”) to solve the socio-political problems of the present and future. The theme of meritocracy and hereditary privilege is pervasive, particularly as the young Alex combats the Evil Morgana from the underworld, who challenges and demeans him, “you have no noble blood, no army. You can’t win…you are nothing but a low-born serf, know your place.” Rather than depicting a “chosen one” story, as most fifteenth- through twentieth-century Arthurian literature (and earlier twentieth-century silver screen adaptations), this film shows that any child, however small or poor, can grow up to be a leader. This optimistic message that anyone who is qualified may lead is similar to one message in Guy Ritchie’s 2017 King Arthur film, in which Arthur is

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depicted as an ambitious, social-climbing, street-smart urban youngster who does not know his noble heritage at first. Such interpretations by scholars and film critics echo statements by directors Ritchie and Cornish themselves. For example, the advertising tagline of Ritchie’s King Arthur, featured on urban bus stops and plastered on billboards in large US cities, underlines the socialclimbing message: “From Nothing, King.” To generalize, the bildungsroman aspect for both Ritchie and Cornish is similar to many medieval and modernist stories of Perceval or Arthur, in which a youth realizes their real lineage (through birth or reincarnation) after humble beginnings.17 Moreover, several press interviews with the director Joe Cornish reveal that the casting for The Kid was intentionally inclusive and based on talent in lieu of acting background, with an open casting call resulting in a diverse, young cast including suburban school children with no experience. Director Joe Cornish describes the genesis of his project as an idea from his own childhood inspired by the disparate 1980s cinematic influences of a sentimental science fiction film for the youth and an Arthurian action film: Well, the story was something I thought of when I was a kid, when I was like 11 or 12. I was really obsessed and I used to think of loads of ideas for movies and design little posters and stuff, and one of them was inspired by seeing E.T. and John Boorman’s Excalibur in the same year, when I was about 12, I think. I thought, wow, it would be a good idea to make a movie where a normal kid, a bit like Elliot in E.T., discovers the sword in the stone. So, a kind of scenario where a normal suburban childhood gets affected by this fantastic thing coming into it. It’s been sort of festering in my brain for many, many years (Olsen). The director further addresses in the Los Angeles Times interview the central messages of the film, the timing of its release, and its essential optimism in the face of turbulent political times: …Of course, the other thing that’s interesting about the legend is that Arthur arrives to save a divided country. The Britain of the 5th century when the legend is set, is a country of warring tribes who are divided, that’s desperate for leadership, and, weirdly, that seemed to have a resonance in terms of the contemporary situation in Britain and all over the world, really, as well….So there was the idea of there being these ancient evils that are dormant, that we think we’ve moved beyond but are actually still there, ready to be awoken. And then, just finally, the wish fulfillment, the idea that a young generation could actually fight off

17 For further analysis of Guy Ritchie’s Arthur, see Adrienne Major’s “Democratic Dreams and Arthur, King” in the present volume or in Gordon (2019).

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and unify against all these conflicts, felt like an inspirational and exciting story to tell…. This movie as well is trying to show the potential for good in the new generation. So I suppose it’s me being optimistic, and also making kids feel that they’re part of history. And their part is the evolution of society and their part is that sense of continuity with all these ancient myths and legends and historical ruins and archaeological finds. They kind of own and inherit all this history and culture, and if they don’t like it, if they feel that our generation are screwing it up, then, they have the ability to fix it. And I hope they will. I hope they’ll do a better job (Olsen). Cornish therefore underlines the hopeful message of the film and indicates that he has chosen Arthurian material for its intrinsically inspirational, didactic, and optimistic story. The director’s own statement reveals the attempt to use the medium of film to draw a connection between the past (be it history or legend) and the present, as he situates young viewers as the stewards of history and society. In both films explored here, groups of children are tasked with unifying despite their differences in gender, race, or socio-economic background, to fight to save the world, with a motivation loosely based on some notion of a legendary unification of Britain by King Arthur and a literary prophecy of return. The advertising bills for The Kid depict a diverse group of school children wearing both modern school uniforms, colorful jackets, and a few small pieces of armor, posing intimidatingly with swords and an improvised shield made from a traffic sign. The poster reads: “An Evil Army to Fight, A Demon to Slay, A World to Save, No Pressure.” This Gen-Z humor refers to the stress and pressure faced by youth not only at school, but in a world threatened by chaotic politics, economic hardship, racial inequality, and climate change. In both films, the audience knows that the future is at stake and that the children must save the world, but not precisely what type of catastrophe or war the powerful forces of evil will bring. The films may then be read either in the realm of pure fantasy or in the domain of contemporary ideology, or both. From the first minutes of the movie, The Kid Who Would Be King looks back at an idealized, fictional better time in Britain’s past, as the film invites juvenile and adult viewers to travel back in time, or in a sense, to regress to both the innocence of youth and the imagined simplicity of the Middle Ages. Knights in shining armor remain iconic of a better time, in which the forces of good unify to fight a just battle. The medievalist costumes, the scene with a group of tourists gathered around a pseudo-history lecture at Stonehenge, and the image of a gleaming Excalibur in the hands of the Lady of the Lake rising out of a pond in a London park, as well as other visuals, further draw audience attention this backward-looking cinematic gaze. Because the film is self-

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reflexive and nostalgic, it can use cinematic strategies, such as flashbacks and iconic visuals—such as a school bulletin board memorializing World War II London bombings—it positions itself well to treat subjects such as memory and collective memory, identity, and national identity. Along with entertaining and indulging nostalgia for an imaginary bygone era, both films convey a strong socio-political invitation for change within the younger generation. Conclusions Deeply seated in Jameson’s nostalgia mode of cinema, these movies are just two examples among many juvenile films marked by nostalgia for the historical or legendary “pastness” in general. The fact that the films are Arthurian further deepens the bittersweet longing for the historical and legendary. Arthurian legend has been retold, rewritten, and redrawn for centuries of adults and children. In these two films, modern and medieval are juxtaposed, in an optimistic, nostalgic appeal to an earlier, heroic, unified time, whether it is a toy sword that turns into Excalibur or whether it is the original legendary sword found languishing in a pile of crumbling concrete. Forged in a fictional, legendary, or mythic past that never existed, there emerges a postmodern patchwork of references to literary and popular culture adaptations that are themselves derivative. The underdog is king in these two nostalgic Arthurian films. As in the Guy Ritchie film King Arthur (2017), in which the modernized medieval Arthur is shown as a poor, struggling urban youth who grew up around prostitutes, thieves, and gang members—there is a message of equality, or of upward mobility, showing that anyone of any background socio-economic status could become king, without being (or knowing that they are) a member of the aristocracy. Likewise, with a message about social justice and equality, the most recent filmic adaptation of Robin Hood (2018) is situated in the same vein of nostalgia as it makes compelling socio-political commentary on issues of diversity, economic inequality, and nationalism. Following the recent trends in medieval films grappling with modern problems, in The Kid Who Would Be King (2019), nostalgia for Arthurian literature and chivalric narratives empower the adolescent heroes during a time of political and economic uncertainty. Corresponding to the high school students in Avalon High that are fighting bullies and the forces of evil, young warriors in The Kid also become social justice warriors to fight bullies in their school or all-encompassing forces of evil. Neither film is overt propaganda, but both aim to increase awareness of social or political issues and what might be at stake for young viewers. As seen elsewhere in the present volume, Arthurian legends are nostalgic by nature. The foregoing analyses of these two films demonstrate that there are also didactic

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and optimistic aspects to the enduring Arthurian legends that make them an attractive vessel for cinematic adaptations for a youth audience. Whether it is the American high school fantasy or the British Brexit-era fable, both films are emblematic of the postmodern nostalgia and the connection to a non-historical, imagined, composite past that is so prevalent in contemporary medieval film, television, and media today.18 They depict an undeniable tension between past, present, and future and the challenges faced by future generations. Pastness is pervasive. The past is, of course, idealized and nonexistent, non-existent even in the literary imagination of the past. Though the films are nostalgic and backward-looking, they are forward-thinking and far from being conservative or reactionary. The young characters are shown as agents of change here. The children have an explicitly stated responsibility for the future. Both films present a message of unity in a divisive political climate in Britain and the US, portrayed as unity and equality among different adolescent groups, from bullies to nerds to rival adult political groups. The films are again reusing the Arthurian mythos, which has at its core a story of divisiveness and unification. Both films end with a message of hope for unity and a better future for future generations. Works Cited Abrams, J. J. Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. Lucasfilm, 2019. Aronstein, Susan. Hollywood Knights: Arthurian Cinema and the Politics of Nostalgia. Palgrave, 2005. Bathurst, Otto. Robin Hood. Summit, 2018. Bell, Elizabeth, Lynda Haas, and Laura Sells, editors. From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender, and Culture. Indiana University Press, 1995. Benioff, David and D. B. Weiss, creators. Game of Thrones. HBO, 2011-2019. Blyton, Enid, and Pamela Cox. Malory Towers. 12 vols. 1946-1951 and 2009. Hodder and Stoughton, 2019. Boorman, John. Excalibur. Orion Pictures, 1981. Brown, Noel. Children’s Film: Genre, Nation, and Narrative, Columbia University Press, 2017. Cabot, Meg. Avalon High. Harper Collins, 2005. ______. The Princess Diaries. Harper Collins, 2001. Cornish, Joe. The Kid Who Would Be King. Twentieth Century Fox, 2019. DeCelles, Pierre. Pound Puppies and the Legend of Big Paw. Tristar, 1988.

18 A related phenomenon is explored in recent Arthurian films from directors Antoine Fuqua (2004) and Guy Ritchie (2017) in my: “The King, the Sword, and the Stone: The Recent Afterlives of King Arthur,” in which casting and dialogue also call into question racial and gender stereotypes.

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Dwight in Shining Armor. BYUTV. 2018-. Gillard, Stuart. Avalon High. Disney, 2010. Gordon, Sarah. “The King, the Sword, and the Stone: The Recent Afterlives of King Arthur.” From Medievalism to Early Modernism: Adapting the English Past, edited by Marina Gerzic and Aidan Norrie, Routledge, 2019, pp. 45-56. Gorgievski, Sandra. Le Mythe d’Arthur: de L’imaginaire Médiéval à la Culture de Masse: Paralittérature, Bande dessinée, Cinéma, Beaux-Arts. CEFAL, 2002. Gottlieb, Michael. A Kid in King Arthur’s Court. Disney, 1995. Hails, Sasha and Rachel Flowerday, creators. Malory Towers. CBBC. 2020. Harty, Kevin. Cinema Arthuriana: Twenty Essays. Rev. ed. McFarland, 2010. _____. “Arthurian Film,” 1998, The Camelot Project, edited by Alan Lupack and Barbara Lupack, https://d.lib.rochester.edu/camelot-project. Hutcheon, Linda. “Irony, Nostalgia, and the Postmodern. Methods for the Study of Literature as Cultural Memory,” Studies in Comparative Literature, vol. 30, 2000, pp. 189-207. _____. A Theory of Adaptation. Routledge, 2006. Jameson, Fredric. Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Duke University Press, 1991. Junger, Gil. Black Knight. 20th Century Fox, 2001. Lanier, Sidney. The Boy’s King Arthur, illustrated by N.C. Wyeth, Scribner’s Sons, 1903. Logan, Joshua. Camelot. Warner Brothers, 1967. Matthews, David. Medievalism: A Critical History. Brewer, 2015. Mayberry, Russ. Unidentified Flying Oddball/UK The Spaceman and King Arthur. Disney, 1979. Olsen, Mark. “Joe Cornish on the Brexit Parallels of ‘The Kid Who Would Be King,” 25 Jan. 2019, https://www.latimes.com/entertainment/movies/la-etmn-joe-cornish-the-kid-who-would-be-king-20190125-story.html. Pugh, Tison, and Susan Aronstein. The Disney Middle Ages: A Fairy-Tale and Fantasy Past. Palgrave, 2012. Pyle, Howard, and Lynn Ramey, eds. Race, Class, and Gender in “Medieval” Cinema. Palgrave, 2007. Reitherman, Wolfgang. The Sword in the Stone. Disney, 1963. Ritchie, Guy. King Arthur. Warner Brothers, 2017. Rouse, Margitta, “Rethinking Anachronism for Medieval Film in Richard Donner’s Timeline,” The Medieval Motion Picture: The Politics of Adaptation, edited by Andrew Johnson, Margitta Rouse, and Philipp Hinz, Palgrave, 2014. pp. 57-65. Smorynski, Ron. Alfred: The Boy Who Would Be King. Vols. 1-3. CreateSpace, 2017-2018. Thompson, Raymond H. “The Ironic Tradition in Four Arthurian Films” Cinema Arthuriana: Twenty Essays, edited by Kevin Harty, McFarland, 2010, pp. 110-117. White, T.H. The Once and Future King. Collins, 1958.

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Williams, David John. “Medieval Movies: A Filmography.” Film & History: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Film and Television Studies, vol. 29, no. 1-2, 1999, pp. 20-32. Young, Robert. A Knight in Camelot. Disney, 1998.

Chapter 2

Camelot 3000 and Dracula vs. King Arthur: The uses of limited-run comics as updates of the Arthurian legend for contemporary readers Carl Sell Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania Abstract This chapter explores the way that King Arthur is adapted in very different ways for two limited run comics, Camelot 3000 and Dracula vs. King Arthur. Camelot 3000 (DC Comics, 1983) chronicles Arthur’s destined return and the consequences of such in the year 3000. Mike W. Barr and Brian Bolland introduce aliens, reincarnation, a transgender knight, and other modern themes. In contrast, Adam and Christian Beranek’s Dracula vs. King Arthur is set in the Camelot known to those familiar with the tale. While Camelot 3000 introduces modern issues to the legends, Dracula vs. King Arthur (Silent Devil Comics, 2007) is a classic good versus evil story, pitting the Devil’s chosen, Dracula, against God’s champion, King Arthur. Though Arthur’s challenges are different in each of the comics, they are no less trying as they place Arthur and the Round Table in situations that test the classically held notions of Arthurian legend. Keywords: Camelot 3000; Dracula vs. King Arthur; Arthurian; comics; King Arthur; DC Comics; Silent Devil Comics *** Comics have all too often been received poorly by literary scholars, but the medium is swiftly becoming a source of contemporary scholarship in an attempt to bring the medieval world to contemporary audiences. When we hear the term “comics,” we often associate it with superheroes battling villains bent on taking over the world and long-running character arcs that are, inevitably, rebooted with new authors, artists, and editions. What is too often forgotten about are limited-run story-arcs that have a set narrative with a clear beginning and end. These short runs are perfect vehicles for adapting and updating older

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stories and putting new spins on long-established characters and themes. Many comics, both mainstream and independent, have had Arthurian influences throughout their history, but limited-run comic series are an artform that lend themselves to contemporary updates of the Matter of Britain due to their ability to act as self-contained narratives that become accessible to readers who primarily approach the written word through comics—which is an ever-growing number of people. Why should the medieval world and its heroes be left behind in an age so obsessed with comics and their heroes? H. Alan Stewart writes that comics “can serve as popular vehicles for contemporary interpretations of Arthur” (12). Stewart’s assertion is proved by the fact that limited-run comics can serve double-duty to readers: they adapt stories like King Arthur’s for a new group of readers, and they create a space where authors can play with established stories and characters in very interesting, poignant ways. Two such Arthurian limited-run comics are Camelot 3000, a twelve-issue DC series by Mike W. Barr and Brian Bolland, and Dracula vs. King Arthur, a fourissue independent comic series written by Adam and Christian Beranek and published by Silent Devil. While the original runs of these comics ended in 1985 and 2007, respectively, both series were at once both forward-thinking in terms of subject matter and viewed as oddities by readers of classic comics and those who study Arthurian legend. While parts of each comic are often maligned— most notably in their portrayal of Arthurian women—as a whole, these limited series provide an updated entryway into more established forms of Arthurian literature. As more and more comics present Arthurian themes and plot elements, Camelot 3000 and Dracula vs. King Arthur must be viewed both as products of their times and as appeals to vast audiences that may or may not be familiar with Arthurian stories. Sally K. Slocum writes that “the comic book genre is persuasive and is likely to have an impact on an audience unreached by more traditionally literary works,” creating a new kind of audience who can now access the stories of Arthur (306). While readers well-versed in Arthuriana may be able to find more to enjoy in the pages of these comics, we must ultimately remember that comics such as these must inevitably invite a more general reader into Arthur’s world and, once there, leave the reader wanting to read more stories of Arthur. In his book Superheroes of the Round Table: Comic Connections to Medieval and Renaissance Literature, Jason Tondro describes five categories of Arthurian comics: the “Traditional Tale,” “Arthur as Toybox,” “Arthur as Translator,” “Arthur as Collaborator,” and “Arthur Transformed” (142-43). The three categories that are of particular interest to this study of Camelot 3000 and Dracula vs. King Arthur are the Traditional Tale, Arthur as Translator, and Arthur Transformed. Tondro’s Traditional Tale category consists of comics that “are

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faithful to the conventions of Arthurian romance” and are adaptations that convey traditional stories and elements of Arthurian stories (142). Arthur as Translator is a category that “includes Connecticut Yankee stories and also ‘alternate history’ tales;” while this is usually regulated to superheroes like Iron Man or Batman traveling back in time to Camelot, this can also be interpreted as other historical characters being translated to Arthur’s Britain, which we see in Dracula vs. King Arthur (142). Lastly, the Arthur Transformed category is best defined as “‘Return of the king’ tales which pick up after the death of Arthur” and “take [Arthur] out of his traditional setting,” and this category is exemplified by Camelot 3000 (143). Texts of this nature include, as Michael A. Torregrossa writes, “one of the most vital components of the Arthurian legend,” Arthur’s prophesized return, an element upon which many updated versions of Arthur’s story rely (253). While Tondro’s categories seem relatively independent, they are more fluid than one may think, as parts of each of these categories can and do appear in most Arthurian comics, even those that may seem clearly situated in one of these categories. Camelot 3000 is the best example of the Arthur Transformed category as it picks up in the year 3000, long after Arthur’s death. The story of Camelot 3000 is Mike W. Barr and Brian Bolland’s attempt at “continuing legends chronicled by Sir Thomas Malory,” as the two have written on their collection’s title page (Barr and Bolland). As a result of their attempted continuation, Barr and Bolland rely on Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur for the literary and actual history of their comic series, which means that Arthur’s status as “the Once and Future King” is put to the test. Described by Daniel Nastali as “[a] science-fiction story of an alien invasion of Britain defeated by the reborn King Arthur and his knights,” Camelot 3000 begins with Tom Prentiss reawakening Arthur in the year 3000 (304). The British King is forced to deal with an alien invasion of Earth, corrupt and inept politicians, the quest for the Holy Grail, and the everpresent love triangle between himself, his queen, and his best knight. As Arthur scrambles to create a concerted effort to defend the world from aliens, he must, with the help of a Merlin who is newly freed from his imprisonment at the hands of Nimue, find his most loyal knights in their reincarnated forms. Arthur’s reclamation of Excalibur and his widely publicized drawing of it from the stone and anvil are merely the first steps to his renewed guardianship of the world. With the help of Merlin and Tom, Arthur gathers Guinevere, Lancelot, Kay, Percival, Galahad, Gawain, and Tristan, and establishes a “New Camelot” to serve as the last bastion of hope in the fight against the aliens and the magic of Morgan Le Fay (Barr and Boland). While they are heavily updated for a modern science-fiction experience, all of the traditional elements of Arthurian legend are present in Camelot 3000, which places the comic in the dual categories of Arthur Transformed and

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Traditional Tale, to again use Jason Tondro’s system of categorization. Rather than firmly entrenching it in a single category, Barr and Bolland have updated the traditional elements of Arthurian tales for readers to be able to refamiliarize themselves with the classic episodes of Malory and other medieval sources. Arthurian comics like Camelot 3000 are always in conversation with medieval sources, especially when the creators explicitly connect their work with Malory’s text. Dominick Grace argues that the future setting of the comic “allows Barr significant narrative freedom in his reinterpretation of the Arthurian mythos,” but this is only half-true (21). While Barr and Bolland have their own narrative to tell, they are still constrained by character traits—like Kay’s bullying nature, Percival’s purity, and Galahad’s honor—as well as episodes that are inherent to the narrative: the sword in the stone, Lancelot and Guinevere’s affair, the Holy Grail, and, of course, Arthur’s final battle with Mordred and his subsequent death. However, the changes that Barr and Bolland do make are explained both by their choice of a futuristic setting and the changes to the legend that would appeal to a wider audience than only those who are familiar with Arthurian legends. Barr and Bolland cast a diverse company of knights for Arthur’s second time around: Gawain is reborn as an African family-man, Galahad is reborn as an older Asian man—recasting his role as the young Grail knight of Malory— and Kay is a simple thief from the streets. While some knights are not changed at all, as Lancelot is still French, and some, like the action-hero Guinevere, are knights for the first time, the two characters who invite further exploration are Percival and Tristan. While both knights are reincarnated in unorthodox forms, Percival, the only knight of Barr and Bolland’s New Camelot who is capable of attaining the Holy Grail, begins his new life as an Australian man who is transformed into a “Neo-Man,” changed by a scientific process that Dominick Grace describes as “unexplained but visually impressive,” as it creates hulking, muscle-bound mutants (23). Barr and Bolland write that Neo-Men are “Criminals, dissidents, and undesirables, genetically changed to loyal, virtually brainless servants of the powers-that-be” and are used as an “enforcement tool” for the corrupt politicians running the world (Barr and Bolland 4 Ch. 2). In an odd twist of fate, the Grail knight has been reborn as nothing more than a criminal who has been changed into a hulking, brainless Neo-Man. Percival, however, refuses to harm Guinevere when his fellow Neo-Men attack, causing Guinevere and, later, Arthur and his knights to understand that Percival’s good nature and his knightly purity are still within his hulking, mutated body. Indeed, Tristan defends Percival from Kay’s bullying when she says, “Now hear this, Kay . . . You may not much like Sir Percival’s appearance, but he can’t help that! That doesn’t stop him from being as valiant a knight as any . . . and that’s true for more than just him!” (Barr and Bolland 8 Ch. 4). While

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Tristan’s words apply to more than just Percival, as I will discuss later, Percival’s good heart allows him to be a better knight than all of his fellows, even though he is trapped in the body of a Neo-Man. In an effort to heal Tom’s wounds, Perceval secludes himself in a chapel and prays to God to be allowed to find the Grail once more; when he receives the vision he requests, it is his duty to find the Grail in Arthur’s name (2-5 Ch. 9). Percival’s knightly worth is put to the test when he is asked by the Grail Guardian, who greets Percival as his “beloved nephew,” to choose the correct Grail—a test reminiscent of Indiana Jones, and one that Percival easily passes (16 Ch. 9). After he heals Tom, Percival is himself healed by the Grail, reverting back to his human form, but only to be “freed” as he disappears with the Grail’s Guardian (20 Ch. 9). Percival is still allowed to achieve his knightly duties as Grail Knight, even in his monstrous form. In this manner, Barr and Bolland update Percival’s character to reflect a more modern moral: do not judge others by their physical appearance, but by their actions and worth. As mentioned previously, Tristan’s defense of Percival’s appearance applies to more than just the Grail Knight: Tristan is also referring to herself. While Percival was reincarnated as a criminal who becomes a Neo-Man, the great lover Sir Tristan is reincarnated as a woman. Keeping in mind that Barr and Bolland wrote Camelot 3000 in the early 1980s, this is a particularly bold choice, especially when one considers the fact that Tristan sees herself as a man and still loves the also reincarnated Isolde. Isolde sees no problem with her lover’s female form, and indeed thinks to herself after Tristan’s initial rejection of their love that “only your refusal keeps us apart! I pray we’ll not be kept apart, until it’s too late!” (8 Ch. 7). After a shared kiss, Tristan—hereafter referred to with masculine pronouns in accordance with the gender with which he identifies— cannot accept his woman’s body and instead years to regain the gender he believes himself to be. Jason Tondro writes that “Tristan’s struggle to come to grips with her new gender make[s] her the most interesting character in a large cast” (167). If it were written today, perhaps Camelot 3000 could give a new name to their attempt at, as Tondro sees it, “gender equality;” today, we might call it transgender equality, an attempt at representation in a medium too often associated with cis white males (168). Rather than posit Tristan’s struggle as a “conflict between desire and loyalty” to his perceived gender role, as Tondro interprets it, it is instead a conflict between his identified gender and his assigned sex (172). While a part of it is, perhaps, Tristan’s knightly understanding that a woman must not engage as knights do, that argument falls flat when the reader sees that the reincarnated Guinevere fights alongside her husband and her lover; Tristan’s turmoil seems to result, instead, from his desire to have a body that physically shows the gender he identifies with and his desire to give Isolde the

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love that he believes she deserves—a man’s love. Sexual preference and gender binaries are explored and ultimately complicated and destroyed by Barr and Bolland’s very forward-thinking portrayal of Tristan as a transgender knight— once again showing that the legend of King Arthur has the ability to be accessible to everyone, especially in comic form. Tristan and Isolde’s consummation of their love at the end of the comic’s run does not resolve Tristan’s gender turmoil, but does bring an end to his indecision about his identity (27-28 Ch. 12). If Barr and Bolland had written Camelot 3000 today, the argument could be made that a more in-depth explanation and a more satisfying conclusion to Tristan’s struggle against conceived gender norms could be achieved. Unfortunately, it seems that Tristan’s character development is something that Barr and Bolland, in the 80s, could not bring to a satisfactory conclusion. Dracula vs. King Arthur is an altogether different kind of comic series. Taking full advantage of campy mash-ups, Adam and Christian Beranek orchestrate a legendary showdown between Lucifer’s champion, Vlad Dracula, and God’s chosen king, Arthur Pendragon. Early in the comic, the two rulers are contrasted in panels detailing their lives: while Arthur creates a kingdom based on justice and good deeds, Vlad reigns over a realm of blood, terror, and death. Lucifer comes to Vlad, greeting him as “Dracula,” and offers him the chance to claim the famous Camelot as his own and to shape it into his own image (7-9 Ch. 1). When offered Arthur’s realm in return for fealty to Hell, Dracula scoffs and asks, “Isn’t he only a legend?” and Lucifer replies, “No, he was quite real” (9 Ch. 1). With this conversation, Adam and Christian Beranek create a kind of metatextual moment: Dracula can believe that all of the torments he has suffered are a part of history—including his current conversation with the Devil—but he cannot believe that King Arthur could possibly have existed as, to Dracula, no man could have been so rewarded by God while Dracula himself has been so cursed by fate. Lucifer assigns Dracula his task, saying to Vlad that “You will be transported back to the time of Camelot. There you will seek out the sorceress Morgana. With her help, you will destroy King Arthur” (11 Ch. 1). As a pawn in the everpresent battle between God and the Devil, Dracula is given his legendary vampiric status to gain an edge over the Excalibur-wielding Arthur. To this end, the Beranek brothers have engaged with one of Tondro’s categories of Arthurian comics, Arthur as Translator. Tondro explains this trope as a “method creators use to tap Arthurian myth and simultaneously keep the recognizable visual style of a superhero romance … to transport a protagonist back to Camelot,” usually in the style of Twain’s Connecticut Yankee (151). While Dracula is no Hank Morgan, his corruption of Camelot has similar effects on the Arthurian world, destroying the Round Table and, eventually, causing Arthur’s death. What may otherwise be lost in translation in Tondro’s classification is that both

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Dracula and King Arthur are positioned as superhero elements in a clearly recognizable format in Dracula vs. King Arthur: while both Arthur and Dracula’s history are presented in side-by-side contrast—in keeping with the Traditional Tale category of Arthurian comics—they are also imbued with powers by their deities and are given aid by their respective benefactors, turning each man into a champion for the forces of good and evil. As Arthur is aligned with God, he is presented as a classic superhero, one who is fallible but also uniquely powered to take on Dracula, the character positioned as the villain who tests the King and turns his people, quite literally, against him. While the story of Dracula vs. King Arthur is unique, it combines elements of classic Arthurian tales and the classic motivation in comics of good vs. evil. A troubling part of this comic, however, comes with the authors’ portrayal of Arthurian elements, especially as it is seen by Katherine Allocco in her exploration of “Vampiric Viragoes” in Dracula vs. King Arthur. A problem that Allocco sees with the comic is that: The authors are very sympathetic to Dracula, whom . . . they portray as a romantic hero who had lost everything he loved in the process of realizing a divine plan and whom they contrast with Arthur, a man that possesses everything and deserves none of it (156-57). However, what seems to be lacking here is an exploration of who each character’s benefactor is: Dracula is clearly aligned with the Devil from the first chapter of the comic while Arthur, after a dream, tells his wife that “God spoke . . . The Lord Almighty spoke to me in a dream,” telling Arthur that the Grail is in danger of falling into the hands of evil—Dracula’s hands (11 Ch. 1). While Dracula turns most of Arthur’s court into vampires, Arthur is left to defeat the amassed evil before him—and he does it, eventually killing his son Mordred with a wooden sword given to him by the Lady of the Lake and finally slaying Dracula by decapitation with Excalibur (56-58 Ch. 4). In fact, most of the story in the comics after Chapter 1 is relegated to Arthur, not Dracula; Dracula regains focus only when turning knights and ladies into vampires and making plans for battle and the usurpation of Arthur’s throne. Allocco is particularly troubled by the hypersexualized representations of Guinevere and Morgana after they are turned into vampires by Dracula. This is indeed troubling based on their appearance and clothing, which are made to reveal their bodies more than cover them, specifically in Morgana’s case. Allocco posits that the authors position Guinevere particularly as having no desire to resist vampiric transformation via what she terms “Dracula’s seduction” (157). However, this is when a feature particular to the comic form must be studied: the artwork. Artists Chris Moreno and Jay Fotos portray Guinevere’s turning not necessarily as a true seduction, but as a power of the

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vampiric Dracula. On pages 20 and 21of Chapter 2, Moreno and Fotos create images of Dracula’s hypnotic eyes and lights meant to portray the glamour of the vampire—a traditional power of the vampire in modern and contemporary monster culture—who then proceeds to hypnotize Guinevere: Guinevere is forced to submit through the power of the glamour and not through her own character faults. I cannot argue that the women of the comic are not drawn very alluringly and sexualized; however, Dracula vs. King Arthur does have a decidedly masculine gaze, which can be—and often is—very problematic, specifically to a critical study of the features and characteristics of comics such as these. Perhaps the problem in the representation of Arthurian women in the artwork results from an argued desire to expose the limits of knightly purity and chastity in the comic, but even that falls quite short as an actual explanation for the male gaze exhibited in the pages of Dracula vs. King Arthur. In fact, it is difficult to call to mind an Arthurian comic that does not have some kind of female antagonist, a legacy perhaps left by Malory himself, who originally cast Morgan le Fay as sorceress bent on toppling her half-brother, Arthur, from the throne. Both Camelot 3000 and Dracula vs. King Arthur follow suit, though both series also contain male antagonists in Mordred and, of course, Dracula for the latter comic. It seems as if Arthur’s enemies often align with an unfortunately malecentric gaze, particularly in comics, though there are some Arthurian comics— mostly appropriations of the legend rather than adaptations or continuations— that forego such measures in favor of super-villains, monsters, or other such masculine figures. However, this is often a trade-off: such appropriations often do not contain strong female roles at all, though there are a few exceptions, particularly in DC’s publications. It does seem as though Arthur’s own troubled history with women has seeped into portrayals of his legend, particularly in comics. Whatever the case may be with other Arthurian comics, it is Allocco’s astute observation about the women of Dracula vs. King Arthur that allows us to hone in on an unpalatable element in an otherwise interesting and remarkably different Arthurian comic. Yet, it is elements like the gendered gaze of the female figure in its art that serve to expose one of the most persistent issues with comics: the inability for some art to have a non-gendered, or de-gendered, gaze. This is not to take away from the more focused Arthurian aspects of the comic, but it is a problem that we as scholars and critics must begin to recognize as a problem in comics studies so that this and comics like it can further evolve to continually changing social values and serve to welcome all readers, not just male audiences. As a result of this (perhaps misplaced) desire for the alluring vampiric Arthurian woman, Lancelot and most of Arthur’s other knights succumb to the

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wiles displayed by these women, who then turn the Round Table into undead knights subservient only to Dracula and his Hellish benefactor. Allocco also observes that both “Guinevere and Morgana experience grisly deaths … as just punishments for their adherence to Dracula. Guinevere is decapitated by Arthur … [and] Morgana dies like a soulless demon defeated by a greater sorcerer and immediately banished to Hell” (158). If they are brutally killed just as Mordred and Dracula are, the authors are showing justice done to those who fall under the sway of the Devil and his vampiric threat, not necessarily punishment for willingly becoming vampires—which the women do not seem to do as Dracula used his powers to forcibly turn them and bend them to his will. Rather than siding with Dracula, the Beranaks portray an epic battle between good and evil, God and the Devil, in superheroic terms in a contemporary take on the Arthurian mythos in the pages of their comic series. While there are problems with the narrative—and in limited run comic series, these problems are only heightened by attempting to fit characters and their motivations in so many pages due to their nature as finite narratives—Dracula vs. King Arthur seeks to update both the genres of Arthurian legend and the superhero-villain binary while also attempting to reach a mass market, which include all of the issues which we see in attempts to reach those markets. The audience, no matter their own motivations for reading, must always remember, as Tondro writes, that Arthurian comics are always “speaking to at least two different audiences, one of which is more aware of Arthurian themes and motifs” and the other audience is the general or casual reader of comics (Tondro 146). Comics, notably limited-run series, present a unique way of accessing Arthurian stories, especially considering the mass appeal of comics and comic characters today. While scholars and critics are beginning to study comics more seriously, comics still tend to have a stigma that regulates them to a lesser class of literature—if they are considered literature at all. Comics are a useful tool for the study of Arthurian legend and, as Michael A. Torregrossa writes, “these works chronicling the adventures of the four-color king and his legend deserve to be better known, as examples both of the evolution of the legend and the assimilation of Arthur into popular culture” (253). We as scholars and critics must continue to embrace the dual nature of comics and their necessary updates to the Arthurian legend while also beginning to understand their multi-faceted levels of Arthurian engagement, which is positioned alongside the comics’ engagement with their intended audiences. It is with the study of comics and other forms of new media that our scholarship can find its footing in trends of readership and textual engagement, and so we must continue with our examinations of these updates to the Arthurian—and the medieval—world.

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Works Cited Allocco, Katherine. “Vampiric Viragoes: Villainizing and Sexualizing Arthurian Women in Dracula vs. King Arthur (2005).” The Universal Vampire: Origins and Evolution of a Legend, edited by Barbara Brodman and James E. Doan, Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 2013, pp. 149-64. Barr, Mike W., and Brian Bolland Camelot 3000. DC Comics, 2013. Beranek, Adam, and Christian Beranek. Dracula vs. King Arthur. Silent Devil, 2007. Grace, Dominick. “The Future King: Camelot 3000.” “Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 41, no. 1, 2008, pp. 21-36. EBSCOHost, DOI: 10.1111/j.15405931.2008.00490.x. Nastali, Daniel. “From Camelot to Kaamelott: The Arthurian Legend in British, American and French Comics.” Medieval Afterlives in Contemporary Culture, edited by Gail Ashton, Bloomsbury Academic, 2015, pp. 301-09. Slocum, Sally. “King Arthur is Alive and Well: Camelot 3000 and the Comics.” Moderne Artus-Rezeption, edited by Kurt Gamerschlag, Göppingen, 1991, pp. 305-18. Stewart, H. Alan. “King Arthur in the Comics.” Avalon to Camelot, vol. 2, no. 1, 1986, pp. 12-14. Tondro, Jason. Superheroes of the Round Table: Comics Connections to Medieval and Renaissance Literature. MacFarland & Company, Inc., 2011. Torregrossa, Michael A. “Once and Future Kings: The Return of King Arthur in the Comics.” Adapting the Arthurian Legends for Children: Essays on Arthurian Juvenilia, edited by Barbara Tepa Lupack, Palgrave Macmillan, 2004, pp. 243-62.

Chapter 3

The fate of Artoria: contextually exploring gender, character, and conflict in Fate/Zero Tracey Thomas York University

Abstract In the Japanese anime, Fate/Zero (2011), Arthur is re imagined as Artoria Pendragon, a woman. The Fate franchise is an action-oriented anime where characters (called “masters”) summon a heroic figure (called “servants”) to fight one another to the death and search for the Holy Grail, which will grant the winning master a wish. Artoria is positioned in a backstory is complicated due to differing political views and lack of romantic intrigue, altering other traditional Arthurian motifs. This paper explores the purpose of Arthurian legend in relation to the re-imagining of the Fate/Zero narrative by focusing on the fact that Artoria, the only female servant summoned ,is re-gendered as female and how her gender plays into her dynamic with the male dominated cast. Furthermore, this anime adds a new layer of interpretation that challenges and removes the national connotations tied to Arthur Pendragon for newer, younger audiences. Keywords: Fate/Zero; Anime; Artoria; King Arthur; Arthurian *** “A king is a martyr to their ideals,” says Artoria Pendragon in Gen Urobuchi’s 2011 anime, Fate/Zero (“The Grail Dialogue”). Summoned to fight the Holy Grail War, Artoria—gender coded as a feminized1 version of the mythical King Arthur—exhibits Arthurian traits and ideals of what it means to be a good ruler and a good king, and as Artoria, her character traits reflect traditional Arthurian narrative. Nevertheless, this is not to say that Artoria is an exact representation

1

For the sake of clarity, this chapter will utilize the following terms: sex as the biological designation from birth; gender as the performative social identifier of either masculine or feminine. Masculine and feminine qualities are constructed via culture and society, with pre-set associations.

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of Arthur. Rather, her Fate/Zero back-story complicates Arthurian concepts, with a convoluted mythos surrounding her gender, her lack of amorous intrigue and a love triangle in the anime, and the differing ideological views she holds in comparison to other heroic figures. Therefore, I suggest that Urobuchi’s version of Arthur Pendragon represents an idea, one that subverts time-specific motifs and masculinized Arthurian narrative to update these concepts and principles for contemporary audiences. Despite representing a feminized gendering of Arthur, this does not detract from the audience’s understanding of who Arthur was as a Western mythical figure or his associated, kingly traits. Instead, the idea of “decoding” the gender of Arthur to Artoria suggests that to be kingly, all one must be is chivalrous, kind, selfless, and true in pursuit of their goals. Artoria demonstrates this throughout Fate/Zero through the explanation of her beliefs, her interactions with other characters and the conflicts she engages in with those characters. The History of Fate/Zero Fate/Zero (2011-2012) is a prequel to Kinoko Nasu’s transmedial Fate/stay night (2004) anime and franchise, adapted by author and screenplay writer Gen Urobuchi. Well-received, Fate/stay night spawned a series of spin-offs (one of which is Fate/Zero), sequels, and other derivative works, including light novels and RPGs,2 a game genre that combines detailed textual descriptions, dialogues, and illustrations similar to a comic book but includes multiplechoice decisions and other nonlinear elements that lead to branching narrative paths (Werning). This branch of the Fate franchise utilizes the common element of masters and servants and the Holy Grail War found in other Fate franchise titles. However, it expands the Fate diegesis across media (and temporally in-text) with the Artoria/King Arthur figure as a physical constant.3 Set within the fantasy genre, the Japanese anime Fate/Zero begins a decade before Fate/stay night and recounts the events of the Fourth Holy Grail War in Fuyuki City, Japan. In this world, a secret society of magic users called the Mage’s Association, “in the know” magical families (the Einzbern, Matou, and Tōsaka families), and members of the Church of the Eighth Sacrament select representatives to complete a magical ritual and summon what they term heroic spirits from the past to fight and kill other spirits. These heroic spirits are

2

RPG: stands for Role-Playing Game(s). Artoria appears in other Fate franchises. She is either named “Artoria” or is an entirely different character, wearing the same face. However, whenever she is “Artoria,” she represents King Arthur as a heroic spirit. 3

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servants, and those who call them (and are considered magically worthy) gain the title of master. Over time, master and servant pairs are often violently removed from the War (through their deaths) until one pair remains, completing a scavenger-like hunt for the Holy Grail, a wish-granting device.4 Despite the large cast of seven servants, seven masters, and a slew of secondary helpers or spouses, Fate/Zero focuses predominantly on ex-mage assassin Kiritsugu Emiya, contracted as a contender for the Grail War by the Einzbern family. The Einzbern family specifically contracts Kiritsugu for his abilities, his pragmatic approach to winning the Holy Grail War, and his unorthodox methods; this is on the condition that he uses his wish to grant their wish. In doing so, when calling for their servant, Kiritsugu promises to remain a force of eternal good and dispose of evil. With that pledge, he summons Artoria Pendragon.5 Each master attempts to call forth a heroic spirit that suits not only their personality but also best caters to their strengths as representatives. For the most part, the pairing of the master/servant and their personalities are merely reflective of one another. Yet others, like Kiritsugu, provide layered nuances that the show takes time to tease and develop. What may be unapparent about Kiritsugu’s personality at first later demonstrates how well-suited he and Artoria are when the anime concludes. From the other two leading families, Kiritsugu’s enemy and the primary antagonist, Kirei Kotomine, originally summons Hassan al-Sabbāh, an assassin, until the other servants kill Sabbāh. Tokiomi Tōsaka summons Gilgamesh but is betrayed by both Gilgamesh and his student Kotomine, allowing Kotomine to become Gilgamesh’s master for the latter half of the anime. A representative of the founding families, the unhealthy and mentally unstable Kariya Matou, summons Berserker (later revealed as Lancelot in the final episodes). Other characters summon Iskandar (Alexander the Great), Gilles de Rais, and the Irish folk hero, Diarmuid Ua

Unfortunately, Urobuchi’s Fate/Zero never explains the origin of the Holy Grail War, suggesting that fans seek further pieces of the Fate franchise to learn its origin. Only after fans of the expanded Fate universe watch the other anime and movies, or play the video games, do they learn that the three main families founded the Holy Grail War to revitalize their waning magic. The previous three wars were inconclusive in their victories with the failure of the winning pair to obtain the Grail, seeking each of the families to continue to improve upon their chosen Masters and their abilities to ensure their victories – and none of this is explained in any way during Fate/Zero. 5 For simplicity, henceforth she will be known only by her gendered Arthur name, “Artoria,” and not by her altered spellings of Arturia, Altria, King of Knights, or Saber (which is her fight class). 4

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Duibhne, to round out a variety of heroes, many of them Western in historical context. Despite the large ensemble cast, the anime very much focuses on Artoria, and by association, Kiritsugu. By doing so, Kiritsugu’s principles come into conflict with Artoria’s. As an assassin, Kiritsugu understands success as being tied to violence, while Artoria remains faithful to ideas regarding honor and chivalry. The anime concludes with two servants actively fighting for the Grail: Artoria and Lancelot. In a terse showdown during the final episodes, Kiritsugu defeats Kotomine and experiences an epiphany regarding the Holy Grail. He is the sole character to realize that the Holy Grail is not a wish-granting device, but rather exploits the winner’s desires and twists those by determining the easiest path of actualization, which more often than not results in wide-scale destruction— and in the anime, this is the massive explosion that destroys Fuyuki City. To prevent any further destruction and, ideally, end the Holy Grail War, Kiritsugu orders Artoria to destroy the Holy Grail. Artoria, who never learns the truth of the Holy Grail, resists Kiritsugu’s orders and must be magically compelled, as she maintains the Grail will grant her wish of a utopian society where there is no war, and her people can live together in peace. Ultimately, Kiritsugu and Artoria “win” the war in a Pyrrhic victory, but neither achieve their wishes. In the aftermath of the explosion, Artoria is sent back to her place of origin—the afterlife—where she is forced to fight eternally in the Battle of Camlann. The final image of her in the anime is on a bloody battlefield, alone, surrounded by her dead knights, where she will never achieve the peace that she desired above all. Artoria and the Holy Grail (War): A Quest for Self-Actualization Artoria’s decision to aid Kiritsugu on his quest for the Holy Grail reinforces ties to Arthurian legends through religious iconography and Arthurian motifs, explored through a Japanese anime-tinted perspective of Christianity. Barkman notes, “Most Japanese anime artists feel no qualms about encoding their religious anime, particularly their anime pertaining to Christianity” (27), and Fate/Zero emphasizes the use of particular Christian motifs tied to the King Arthur legend, repurposed to suit Urobuchi and Nasu’s narrative and worldbuilding. While Artoria wields Excalibur, her use of the sword only appears when she is in battle and uses her Noble Phantasm—a specific battle move that draws upon great energy as a final attack to severely impede or destroy her enemy. Littleton notes that the extraction and possession of [Excalibur] ushers in a transformation into a full-fledged and respectable warrior (72), highlighting and confirming Artoria’s kingly authority. The sword announces her as someone capable of respect and strength within the Holy Grail War—but I discuss the role of a female warrior later in this chapter. Instead, while King

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Arthur scholars place incredible importance on Arthurian motifs, like Excalibur, the Japanese deal with Christianity in their anime and manga for literary effect rather than for philosophical debate: symbols, more than syllogisms (Barkman 36). Ergo, while much could be said about Artoria wielding the sword Excalibur, I will instead focus on the Holy Grail itself, the item at the end of the journey in their quest and the wish-granting device that Fate/Zero makes it out to be. To begin, Sterenberg notes that some scholars suggest the search for the Holy Grail represented the quest for self-realization (40) and that in some Arthurian narratives, Arthur spends his time before his final battle ruminating over his past and his decisions that led him to the realization of how his dreams failed. Secondly, in the anime, the Holy Grail does not hold to the same meaning that it does in Christianity. Something that Barkman notes is that the theme of the original harmony between God, man, and nature is not as important as that of longevity (33) in anime that explore Western religions, particularly Christianity. This longevity appears in Fate/Zero with the cyclical reanimation of the heroic spirits, as they appear every time there is a Holy Grail War, the war itself being its fourth iteration, and with the Holy Grail, a symbol that has an extensive history. As such, the codification of the Grail in the anime establishes a layered meaning, a reoccurring concept, and in Fate/Zero specifically, how Artoria continually attempts to achieve her dreams and desires until she is forced to comprehend, through her self-actualization, that these dreams are impossible. Furthermore, it is important to be aware that due to Japanese anime/manga appropriation of Christian religious artifacts that this is not the Holy Grail Western audiences might associate with the word and image. Arthurian legend influenced the Fate franchise’s use of the Holy Grail, but in the legends, it is the blood of Christ, whereas in the anime it is more a generic term for a powerful object that grants wishes, akin to a genie’s lamp (Barkman 37-8). The Grail is omnipotent in the sense that it can grant anything with its unlimited power, but it is not all-knowing. In fact, winners of the Holy Grail will have their wish granted, but perhaps not in the way they want, as the Grail is dependent on the winner’s knowledge and perspective of the world when granting a wish. Therefore, the Grail is not the Cup of Christ, offering happiness, immortality, or health—rather, it becomes an object of magic, otherworldliness, and destruction, a symbol of human weakness. In Fate/Zero, Artoria’s existence is complicated by the fact that she failed to win her battle as “King Arthur” in the past, died, and is now reanimated to the present in the anime, thus connecting to the reoccurring theme of the Grail and its symbolic longevity. Another reoccurrence is the mirrored personalities of servants and their masters, suggesting there are aspects of Artoria that an assassin figure like Kiritsugu shares, especially one who promises to defeat

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“evil” and to be a force of “good.” As viewers, the question of how to define good and evil comes to mind, but the anime creates a distinct definition with Artoria and Kiritsugu through their goals and wants for the Holy Grail War and their occupations. Artoria’s role in the Holy Grail War is an extension of her understanding of the war she participated in as King of Britain; all she desires is peace, and to some degree, that is what Kiritsugu wants as well. In Artoria’s case, she wants to conclude the war she has been waging; Kiritsugu wants to destroy all evil things in the world because of losing someone close to him in the past. Both reasons are sound and can be categorized as “good” reasons for winning the Holy Grail War, and Artoria’s title as king offers additional reassurances of its legitimacy. As such, the partnership between Artoria and Kiritsugu in the quest for the Grail, therefore, becomes a journey of self-discovery for both characters; yet, it is only Kiritsugu who reaches self-actualization when he “wins” the Holy Grail War at the conclusion of Fate/Zero. When the Grail interprets his deepest desire, it juxtaposes Kiritsugu’s desire to save six billion people versus the Grail giving him his daughter and deceased wife back. Kiritsugu realizes the Grail is corrupt and refuses to make his wish. This is where Kotomine takes advantage of his refusal and makes his wish: “If that thing is born, it can answer my every doubt” (“The Last Command Spell”), a desire to know true evil, to validate his sociopathic tendencies, and reaffirm his faith in God and the Church of Eighth Sacraments. Despite Kiritsugu attempting to “do the right thing” in destroying the Grail (which would prevent a Fifth Holy Grail War), the climax of Fate/Zero indicates that those like Kiritsugu and Artoria—two personalities with rigid concepts of honor—cannot, and will not, ever win. In doing the right thing, Artoria lost her knights, her kingdom, and her own confidence as a leader, while Kiritsugu lost his wife, daughter, and opportunity to save the people of Fuyuki City. By never encountering the Grail, Artoria is never directly forced to uncover its corrupted form and thus, retains a different form of self-actualization: one more suited for herself than the Grail’s abilities. Her journey does not end with her acquiring the Grail and being granted her wish. Instead, Artoria must confront her failures (or perceived failures) that are rooted in her character and achieve her own peace without the Grail. Artoria as the Once and Future “King” It seems odd that even her creator, Urobuchi, did not know what a hero looked like when he admitted, “[Artoria] doesn’t look much like a heroine to me” (Kinoko and Urobuchi). The question then is, what does a hero look like, and what does King Arthur mean as a heroic, mythic figure to the servants? Are we, as viewers, meant to separate King Arthur and Artoria into two separate beings,

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or are they one, unfettered by sex? The role of women as heroes is contentious regardless, where strong female leads are often called “Mary Sues” or “selfinserts” as wish-fulfillment for female authors. Worse, when females appear in mediums like video games, those heroic roles are mostly sexualized or trivialized, and when not the heroic lead, females are most likely depicted as victims or as damsels in distress (Castillo 6-7). Even in other mediums (although predominantly found in literature), “a heroine inspires and awaits male heroism, frequently as a damsel in distress; a female hero temporarily takes action to aid male heroes, whether she is a virgin-hero or wife-hero; and a female counter-hero wields power in her own interests rather than in those of males and is often both sexually aggressive and dangerous” (Tolhurst 70, as qtd. in Fries). Where does the heroic, kingly Arthur fit when feminized? Women warriors have long been part of Asian cultures, and Japanese history chronicles the exploits of several women warriors and warrior queens (Hennequin 3); this continues in Japanese anime, video games, and mixed media, including Fate/Zero, where women accept the role of the hero. Hennequin notes that the term “woman warrior” contains an inherent cultural contradiction, as “war is […] one of the most rigidly ‘gendered’ activities known to mankind” (Hennequin 7). Much like Artoria in Fate/Zero, women warriors become mythological, but before they can achieve that, they “had first to become ‘men,’ usually by cross-dressing, to become warriors” (Hennequin 8). However, appearance is not the only aspect of a woman warrior that must be altered, as for a female to become a warrior and enter the arena of the battlefield on equal terms, a female must appear masculine and behave in masculine ways (Hennequin 8). Artoria does this through her clothing: when not in kingly garb, she is in an all-black tailored pantsuit with matching shoes and black gloves, and when she adopts her King Arthur persona, she wears a white-and-blue layered robe that mimics a dress with silver armor layered on top of her arms, legs, and chest. In both instances, her hair is pulled back and up, leaving only her bangs and two pieces in front of her ears loose. She wears no visible jewelry or makeup. Importantly … when women adopt “masculine” traits—traits valued by both sexes—they better navigate the “rapidly changing social roles and expectations” of their contexts (Francis 41, as qtd. from Cox et al. 199), and Artoria, as the only female servant in the Fourth Holy Grail War and a representation of King Arthur, must quickly adapt to the new world she finds herself in, to survive and obtain her wish. Artoria fits the role of the female warrior-hero, as she wields a sword or other weapon for her own ends in Tolhurst’s own words (70), but is also a woman warrior, as “these warriors, though explicitly female, engage in masculine behavior” (which Hennequin notes specifically as war) and that these women must also “exhibit and win praise for womanly virtues and behaviors, like

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beauty and chastity” (Hennequin 8). As King Arthur, Artoria engages in the traditional masculine arena of war on the battlefield by using her sword Excalibur to fight the other servants in Fate/Zero but remains chaste and, according to several of the other male servants, is physically attractive, fulfilling the ‘beauty’ aspect written by Hennequin. Artoria’s dual genders become an intriguing point of the anime, in how she interacts with other characters, but also in how her gender and not her sex reflects the ideological values traditionally connected to King Arthur. The performative role her gender takes on, depending on the scene and situation of the narrative, is how viewers make explicit connections between the characteristics and traits of the Western King Arthur and Artoria so that we can comprehend they are the same. The role of women in Arthurian narratives is, at best, missing to minimal in presence, to at worst, misogynistic. The most famous of all characters, Guinevere, appears as Arthur’s love interest if only to cuckold Arthur and undermine his confidence before his final battle (as described in White’s version). As such, creating a female knight or feminine version of Arthur seems an odd choice for Urobuchi, given the lack of positively written women in the traditional narrative. Yet, Alan Lupack discovered two examples of female knights, both in J. Dunbar Hylton’s story Arteloise (1877) within characters Griselda and Ursula. These women are Grail knights, and according to Lupack, “[t]he motif of a female Grail knight and of a female warrior who succeeded where Arthur and his greatest knights fail is certainly noteworthy” (9). True to form, Griselda rides and fights like a knight, quests for the Holy Grail, and achieves it after she demonstrates courage and remains chaste (Lupack 9). A condition that Hennequin places on women warriors is that, when they perform actions warriors engage in (such as fighting, dealing in vengeance, or commanding others), they are performing as men (10). They additionally exhibit traditional masculine traits like strength and bravery; as Hennequin states, these traits are necessary for combat (10). Similar to Griselda, Artoria fights throughout Fate/Zero: her specific role as a servant is that of a heroic spirit who physically fights on behalf of their master and as an object that enacts Kiritsugu’s will and vengeance, if necessary, on the other masters and servants in the Holy Grail War. Unfortunately, unlike Griselda, Artoria fails in obtaining the Grail—not because of a lack of courage, but perhaps a lack of chastity. Hennequin notes that women warriors maintain a chaste lifestyle, living without censure, which allows these women to be accepted and praised by their societies (10); Artoria remains chaste throughout the anime in the sense that she has no romantic partner. However, her love triangle backstory is more about how her being unable to lead Lancelot and his fellow Knights of the Round Table (due to being too focused on her inclusive utopian hopes for

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Camelot). This causes Lancelot’s distraction with Guinevere, and that led to him straying from his loyalty to Artoria (“The Last Command Spell”). Her purity to her ideals and beliefs of what Camelot and its people should be causes dissent and a lack of strong leadership amongst the Knights of the Round Table—this is the equivalent of her pure ideologies failing. Furthermore, Artoria’s inability to achieve the Grail is merely due to Kiritsugu’s interference— or perhaps, without Lancelot’s wavering attention—indicating that without a male presence, she could have potentially achieved her goal, just like Griselda. Therefore, the parameters of a woman warrior, a female knight, or Artoria and not Arthur Pendragon, suggest the biological sex of the character is negligible overall in comparison to the role and function their gender establishes as Artoria engages with the King Arthur mythos. Despite being re-imagined as a feminine version of Arthur, Artoria maintains the heroic virtues that dominate the Arthurian mythos. With so many different versions of King Arthur, it is hard to narrow down his dominant traits, yet there are a few that seem to appear in all iterations, especially those that Artoria shares. Danielle Gurevitch notes that Malory’s King Arthur is the embodiment of the benevolent king and that “his very name stands for nobility, decency, justice, and respect for his subjects in general and to his knights in particular” (9). Further, this version of King Arthur “proves to himself – as well as to those around him – that kingship is indeed his destiny [and that] to fulfill these expectations, the King develops those sides of his personality that fit the needs of society: he becomes the ‘spotless’ man of honor and public benefactor” (Gurevitch 9). Artoria frequently speaks to other characters of honor, justice, and respect while physically defending her words through examples of respect against the other servants. She also holds herself accountable for mistakes she committed in the past (once they are pointed out to her), and when these mistakes negatively affect others around her, she treats that man with respect and dignity while maintaining her personal honor. One servant who has significant interaction with Artoria is the nameless “Black Knight” until the climax of the anime, when he is revealed to be Lancelot. As the only other Arthurian character in Fate/Zero, Lancelot provides additional depth to Artoria’s character, continuing to reinforce the connection between Arthur/Artoria. Artoria is an object of his affection as Lancelot’s king, elevating her on a pedestal to denote her “specialness;” yet, without Guinevere in the Fate/Zero narrative minus a single mention, the Artoria/Lancelot dynamic becomes a commentary by Urobuchi on the reluctance to commit to goals and that gentleness and compassion breeds contempt. In Fate/Zero, Artoria’s ideals are that of a peaceful, utopian society where no one needs to fight and die. This reflects contemporary treatments of Arthurian legend that frequently focus upon the decline of a community from an ideal state to one of utter collapse

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(Barczewski 169), which Urobuchi utilizes to elevate Artoria’s more feminine Arthurian traits. Barczewski notes that “Arthurian legend was a useful vehicle for displaying these changes,” in which traditional masculinity based on aggressive characters would be swapped out for feminine qualities, while “exploring their consequences, for its central theme focuses on Arthur’s efforts to transform a warrior society based upon bloodthirsty conquest into a realm based upon a gentler, less combative code of conduct” (169). Due to her beliefs, Artoria fears hurting others even if it is for their own good, instead opting to battle all evil within her own person. This is another characteristic of a king that Artoria shares, where the ideal social standards of feudal society, especially the “proper behavior” expected of royalty (nobilis), impede individual freedom (Gurevitch 10), so that a true ruler is not one who controls external matters, but rather one who controls his spirit and desires and overcomes his weaknesses (Gurevitch 11). Artoria maintains these beliefs, but it is not without consequence, as Lancelot’s final words to Artoria explain how he became lost to madness. Viewers learn of some triangle between Artoria, Lancelot, and Guinevere (although it is never explained how or in what context). When Artoria is forced to confront Lancelot, she assumes it is because he loathes her. Instead, Lancelot confesses his love for Guinevere took him from his duties as a knight of Camelot and in his mind, in doing so, he let Artoria down with his inability to commit to her ideals, causing a mental break between Lancelot’s love and duty. Overall, Lancelot never hated Artoria; rather, he hated Artoria’s decision not to punish him for loving Guinevere. This robs Lancelot of the opportunity for repentance based on the consequences of his actions: “You never questioned me for my crimes. You never sought recompense. You simply continued to stand before us in your righteousness. But I desired judgment at your hands” (“Fate/Zero”). By not providing him judgment, Lancelot blames Artoria for the path he took, which steered him to madness. Lancelot is not the only character who questions Artoria’s decisions as king, and these other characters often make direct references to her sex as the reason for her inability to properly lead her people. Artoria feels otherwise, aware that her sex does not define her beliefs or virtues, which include knighthood and chivalry. This is a conscious decision by the creators, as there is no “blurring” of the lines between genders in Japanese anime. Katharine Buljan and Carole Cusack explore the concept of gender boundaries and note specifically that this “motif has attracted a significant amount of attention and strongly appeals to both Japanese and Western audiences” (87). Adam Barkman echoes this, adding, “any deep metaphysical speculation about gender and sex [is] ultimately rendered meaningless by the antirealist metaphysics of Shintō, Buddhism and Taoism, all of which claim that as with everything, gender and

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sex aren’t intrinsically stable concepts, but are as illusionary and changing as everything else” (38), particularly when viewed through a Japanese lens. Therefore, it is easy for Artoria, who may be biologically female, but is able to change her gender depending on what the situation calls for, to use masculine language to describe herself and Diarmuid by saying, “You and I have sworn to settle matters in a manner befitting two knights. Let us keep our pride intact” (“The Mage-Slayer,” bold is my emphasis). In addition to using “knights” to describe herself and Diarmuid, by not pursuing the attack Artoria demonstrates the chivalric attitude of honor on the battlefield. This chivalry is complicated, especially when acknowledging that the servants reflect their masters’ personalities and beliefs. Diarmuid’s master, Kayneth, is magically weak and requires his wife to maintain the mana or energy necessary to sustain a servant in their world. Furthermore, while an adept theoretical magician, Kayneth proves to be militaristically weak because of his honor code and underestimating the amount of violence the other masters and servants would cause in their quest for the Holy Grail. Kayneth’s honor has him envisioning the servant battles as one-on-one duels, reflective of the servants’ abilities and skills as heroes. Instead, Kayneth is unprepared for the quick, stealth attacks undertaken by Kiritsugu and Kotomine, disliking their untraditional and dishonest tactics. To some degree, Diarmuid does not reflect Kayneth’s lesser qualities, but he does reflect his idea of honor duels and upholding traditional values. In the middle of a one-on-one battle with Artoria, when she becomes distracted by the arrival of Iskandar and Castor and is wounded, Diarmuid halts their battle, declaring the intervention of another servant is distasteful. He even uses his magical abilities to heal Artoria so that the next time they fight, they are once more on equal ground. The final critique for both Kayneth and Diarmuid is that, while they both follow this chivalric code, they are the first of the servants and masters killed in the Holy Grail War. This leads viewers to question whether having honor during a battle is an admirable trait or not, and then ask what might happen to Artoria next as the only other character remaining who exhibits this honor code. Or, perhaps, it is just masculine honor that fails these characters, requiring one with gender-fluid traits and abilities to succeed where they fail. Ultimately, while Artoria’s gender becomes less of an issue in the anime for the other characters and more of distinction that sex is not a definitive aspect of Arthurian myth and the associated images and motifs, the anime nevertheless finds a reason to critique Artoria’s “kingly” traits—but the question is if this is because her sex reinforces the biases Iskandar and Gilgamesh have for what they believe a ‘king’ should be. The ease with which Kinoko and Urobuchi slip between the two genders for their character promotes the concept of ‘female masculinity’, which exists in

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shōjo culture, and in manga and anime (Nakamura and Matsuo, qtd. in Buljan and Cusack 88). The idea of female masculinity in Fate/Zero, and by extension, the role of Artoria, reiterates the tropes of female masculinity as “[...] liminal, young, female, not yet adult, strong, capable and independent, courageous and moral” (Buljan and Cusack, 88). Interestingly, Barczewski suggests that contemporary authors view [women in Arthurian literature] as threats to Arthur’s realm who at best distract the knights of the Round Table from the path of virtue and duty and at worst actively plot the downfall of Camelot (166-7). This is reflected in Fate/Zero, as many of the characters are uncomfortable or feel threatened by Artoria and her feminine masculinity. Lancelot became distracted by Guinevere, leading to the destruction of Camelot in Artoria’s backstory; the majority of the male characters, specifically Kiritsugu, Gilgamesh, and Iskandar, question not only Artoria’s role as a king but even her actual identity as King Arthur. Depending on who is questioning her and when, they do this through a variety of ways, ranging from treating her as an object, a naïve child, an enemy, a subject of heretical worship, or a worthy adversary. First, she is dismissed as a leader by Gilgamesh, who recognizes her negative traits and equates her failures to her sex. Gilgamesh initially behaves in a civil manner toward Artoria until she reveals she sought to undo her perceived mistakes as king with the Grail, indicating self-doubt in her leadership abilities. Rather than respecting her as a fellow king, Gilgamesh compares her to his concubines, with misogynistic language to indicate his position over her: “I simply thought that the look of your anguished face was a lovely sight. It was the face of the virgins who showered me with flower petals in my bed. A woman after my own heart!” (“The Grail Dialogue”). Artoria is not held to his standards of kingliness, where a king answers to no one and is worshipped by their subjects. However, Artoria demonstrates through her explanation that she answered to everyone: her fellow knights, her people, and those who elevated her to kingship. A critical aspect of the Arthurian narrative, however, is that Arthur is “rarely allowed to revel in his military success. Peace-making and peace-keeping are more appropriate modes of heroic display for this vir modestus” (Wheeler 11). Artoria maintains the peace by seeking to be responsible to all within Camelot, and that her success was not dependent on her ability as a military leader but as a leader who could maintain the peace of her kingdom. Secondly, Artoria is trivialized by Kiritsugu, who is supposed to be the person most like her as her master. Although Fate/Zero takes place in a world with magic, it is set in real locales or places based on cities and countries in our mimetic world. This is significant, as although Kiritsugu is ethnically Japanese, his career as an assassin took him all over the world, and prior to the start of the Fourth Holy Grail War, he was living with his wife’s family in Germany. Being

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cultured and later geographically settled in Germany, viewers can assume that Kiritsugu is knowledgeable of the Arthurian legends that we as viewers are familiar with. Therefore, it is no surprise that Kiritsugu refuses to acknowledge her existence once Artoria explains she sacrificed her feminized gender identity at the pressure of her contemporaries who demanded her reforms in Camelot (“False Start”). While she was considered “worthy” to withdraw Excalibur from the stone, those who groomed her for a leadership position (although who these people were is never mentioned) felt that a female could not govern a country—a man was needed instead. Artoria, therefore, gives up her identity as a woman and other feminine attributes. However, ironically for the people who groomed Artoria into leadership and Kiritsugu himself, Artoria can slip between feminine and masculine attributes at will when necessary. Further, these attributes and traits still reflect popularized traditional Arthurian traits, meaning that Artoria is substantially truer to herself and the legendary King Arthur than the hyper-masculine King Arthur Kiritsugu expected and believes. While Kiritsugu has difficulty comprehending Artoria’s sex, Iskandar considers Artoria an ineffectual leader without any regard to her sex. In Iskandar’s defense, he appears blind to Artoria’s sex and has no problem connecting Artoria to King Arthur (chiefly given that Arthur would have been far after his time on earth) but believing himself to be more worldly in life, Iskandar attempts to mentor Artoria. He does this upon recognizing the flaws inherent to her ideal of selfless kingship and rebukes her for her naivety: [Artoria], you said you would martyr yourself for your ideals. In life, you must have been something akin to the purest of all the saints; a proud and noble figure at the very least. But who can truly admire the rough and thorny path a martyr must follow in life? Who actually dreams of such an ending? A king must be greedier than any other; he must laugh more loudly, and rage for much longer. And embody the very extreme of all things good and evil... (“The Grail Dialogue”). For Iskandar, his ideals are that a king should be of the people, for the people, leading by example regarding how they should experience their lives. Artoria counters by being a shield for her knights and citizens, which Iskandar thinks is impossible to do as people have diverse needs and wants; she would be incapable of making everyone happy. In all three cases, these men patronize Artoria. Kiritsugu barely acknowledges her as a woman at all, implying a lack of faith in her abilities as a heroic spirit. Gilgamesh and Iskandar try to imply their understanding of how one should rule is the best kind because of their successes in life, inviting the audience to question which of the three are correct in their understanding of how to act, but also whether one can equate a king who lords over others as heroic in

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nature or not. Consequently, Artoria’s relationship with these men in Fate/Zero questions the male-driven Arthurian narrative and motifs, using her gender to generate discussion on the heroic spirit and the role such figures play in society. Lupack emphasizes, “Arthur and his knights are not ideals from another time and place for which there are no parallels in the modern world; they are examples of certain virtues that can be translated into the modern world” (85). Urobuchi engages Arthurian myth and King Arthur for contemporary audiences, especially through feminist and transgender representation in Fate/Zero, to suggest audiences discover their own paths, away from being tied to a perceived fate. Furthermore, Artoria mimics King Arthur’s journey and, as a female, succeeds where others do not. A New Arthur, a New Audience The Western—specifically, British—connotations of King Arthur and his mythic properties are rigidly separated between the fanciful and the real (Kumar 95). Moreover, the myth of King Arthur “link[s] past, present, and future as elements in a fixed chain of being and becoming” (Kumar 96), where Arthur is the rex olim et futurus, “the once and future king”: he was so once, in a defining instance, and so he will be again (Kumar 96). Here, the concept of longevity appears again, but this time in the mythic symbol of King Arthur himself; this is further emphasized by Zia Isola, as she notes the “aristocratic and heroic virtues” and “tropes from Arthur’s masculinized economy of virtue” are fragile conventions that are, in their words, “perennial and unassailable” (34). The concept of Arthur as a reoccurring kingly hero, with dominant traits that survive multiple iterations over time and culture, is tied to specific masculine traits that I suggest Urobuchi and Nasu adapt to Artoria Pendragon in Fate/Zero. This suggests that Artoria’s role as “king,” despite being biologically female, is performative and that her role as “King Arthur” is a product of Western history, established by context and usage (Francis 4). Urobuchi implements this idea of the Once and Future King, providing Artoria with similar characteristics and traits as her masculine counterpart: chivalry, honor, respect, loyalty. Despite being dead prior to the Fate/Zero narrative, Artoria can once again return to the earthly plane and participate in the Holy Grail War, and the next, and the next, and so on. This idea of resurrection ties to longevity in the mythic symbology of the Holy Grail and adds a nuanced layer to Artoria’s position in Fate/Zero mythos of being dead, returning to life, and then being dead again once the Holy Grail War is over. Buljan and Cusack note that “death offers one of the most powerful examples of transformation” (84) and that Artoria’s ability to be the “future king” becomes a literal revival, an example of the reoccurrence that exists in the King Arthur mythos, and in wider Fate diegesis. While the overall Fate franchise

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makes it difficult to pinpoint where someone could start watching (given its often twisting and overlapping realities where the same character can appear multiple times), Artoria remains a common character throughout that links the “once and future king” concept in different iterations across different anime, video games, or light novels. However, Bartlett suggests, throughout his analysis of female characters and characters who exhibit feminized characteristics in Morte Arthure, that femininity is linked with defeat and submission (74). Initially, upon first viewing Fate/Zero, it certainly appears that this echoes Artoria’s position and as a newly, differently gendered Arthur Pendragon and is true. The anime emphasizes this when Artoria is firstly defeated in the sense of not obtaining the Grail, and secondly, when she is summoned as a servant, she is placed in a position of subservience to Kiritsugu; this is concerning as she is the only female servant in Fate/Zero where a woman is solely dependent on the whims of a man, but also because as King Arthur, she was in that position of authority as “King” of Britain due to the raising of her status by the nameless contemporaries that wanted a male leader for Camelot. Furthermore, Urobuchi and Nasu link Artoria’s femininity and feminine gender as defeated and submissive when they utilize the male characters to focus specifically on Artoria and her abilities as a leader: both Iskandar and Gilgamesh feel morally superior in their definition of “king” and subject Artoria to it, but their narrow-minded definitions prevent them from recognizing her strength. Only Diarmuid mimics Artoria’s chivalric attitude, and he alone is the only male character to earn her respect throughout the entirety of the anime. Thus, I find that Urobuchi and Nasu successfully present the opposite: Artoria is someone the audience should use as an example to challenge their own preconceived notions of gender roles when applied to heroes through the other heroic spirits’ questioning of her, thanks to her conviction, ambition, and desire to obtain the Holy Grail. In every instance where Lancelot explains why he blames Artoria for his mental instability or Iskandar and Gilgamesh criticize Artoria for her gender, goals, or beliefs, Urobuchi and Nasu find a way to counter their negativity toward female submission and failure as well as their suggestions that King Arthur’s decisions were poorly made. Bedwell suggests that Arthur and his knights regularly fail to uphold justice in the realm of Camelot and that the failure of justice leads directly to the destruction of the kingdom (4). Further, when the power of King Arthur’s rule relies on the loyalty of his knights for his authority and reputation (Bartlett 63), being unable to dispense justice can be seen as a grave mistake, indeed. Lancelot accuses Artoria of this in Fate/Zero for not punishing him when he fell in love with Guinevere, causing Artoria to realize that she “[...] never even knew the hearts of those who served [her]

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well… Perhaps all this was a punishment meted out to a king who cannot understand others” (“Fate/Zero”). However, the fault is not Artoria’s for failing to punish Lancelot; she loved him and her knights wholly, allowing them the autonomy that she, as a leader, was unable to experience. Instead, it is Lancelot who is at fault for being unable to reconcile love and duty as two separate entities in Camelot, because he failed to maintain his beliefs and ideals. Moreover, the criticism Iskandar and Gilgamesh apply to Artoria in their narrow-minded perspective of kingliness, where she was consumed in her own principles to the point that she lost focus on Lancelot, is again subverted by Urobuchi. Iskandar and Gilgamesh explicitly believe that Artoria lost her kingly purpose, and it is for that reason that she loses the Holy Grail War and her wish to end her battle to obtain peace, because she is not at peace with herself or her actions. However, Artoria remains one of the few characters who focuses entirely on her goal of obtaining the Grail, implying she has not lost her kingly purpose. She made it obvious from the start of her interactions with the other characters that she was in the Grail War to seek peace and that she was chosen as a shield so that her people would not suffer the trauma of war. The fact that this war happens over the Grail itself suggests the entire purpose of the show is, in the words of Kristina Hildebrand, “to signify the search for meaning, empowerment, and the willingness to embrace spiritual values” (103). It is apt Urobuchi utilizes the mythological figure of King Arthur in their primary character in Artoria to explore connections of the Holy Grail myth, as myths concretize in a particular way that people and events display universal or general truths about the human condition (Kumar 95). Out of all the characters, Artoria might fail in obtaining the Holy Grail, but her interactions with Iskandar and Gilgamesh reinforce her commitment to her principles and determination to fix her mistakes as King Arthur, and she comes to learn this truth by the end of the Fourth Holy Grail War. By maintaining this truth on her own, Artoria demonstrates femininity is not a failure, that her submissive role in Fate/Zero is not permanent as she returns to her reality at the completion of the war, regardless. Conclusion Fate/Zero enjoys an exceptional number of awards and sales records for its high production values and being a new entry point for fans of the Fate franchise, with each new “Fate” title captivating audiences with more human interpretations of historical figures, often challenging contemporary audiences to question our understanding of history. Urobuchi and Nasu combine supernatural elements to the real-world struggles of people trying to fulfill their intimate wishes to breathe new life into the mythos of Arthur by entertaining ideas of gender tied to heroic values in the character Artoria Pendragon. As the

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only female servant in the Holy Grail War, Artoria functions in a space that is coded as performatively gendered. As a character that challenges binary norms, Artoria operates as a means for viewers to challenge their preconceptions of what makes a hero and question how heroes are traditionally defined by feminine and masculine traits. As Lupack states, and Artoria Pendragon in Fate/Zero exhibits, “it is not the armor that makes the knight but rather his virtuous and dutiful action” (85). For contemporary and new audiences to the King Arthur myth, changing Artoria’s gender makes her ideals of peace, fixing one’s mistakes, and maintaining one’s convictions accessible to all regardless of sex, so long as the character remains chivalrous, kind, selfless, and true in pursuit of their goals. Therefore, Artoria obscures the line beyond gender and indicates that Artoria and Arthur are the same in Fate/Zero. Most importantly, this makes Artoria Pendragon the true King of Kings, beholden to no one’s fate but her own. Works Cited “False Start.” Fate/Zero, season 1, episode 2, 8 October 2011. Netflix. “Fate/Zero.” Fate/Zero, season 2, episode 25, 23 June 2012. Netflix. “The Grail Dialogue.” Fate/Zero, season 1, episode 11, 10 December 2011. Netflix. “The Last Command Spell.” Fate/Zero, season 2, episode 24, 16 June 2012. Netflix. “The Mage-Slayer.” Fate/Zero, season 1, episode 8, 19 November 2011. Netflix. Barkman, Adam. “Anime, Manga and Christianity: A Comprehensive Analysis.” Journal for the Study of Religions and Ideologies, vol. 9, no. 27, 2010, pp. 25-45. Bartlett, Anne Clark. “Cracking the Penile Code: Reading Gender and Conquest in the Alliterative ‘Morte Arthure.’” Arthuriana, vol. 8, no. 2, 1998, pp. 56–76. DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/art.1998.0014 Bedwell, Laura K. “The Failure of Justice, the Failure of Arthur.” Arthuriana, vol.21 no.3, 2011, pp. 3-22. Barczewski, Stephanie L. “‘I have made his glory mine’: Women and the Nation in the Legends of King Arthur and Robin Hood.” Oxford Scholarship Online, 2011. DOI: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780198207283.003.0006. Buljan, Katharine and Carole M. Cusack. Anime, Religion and Spirituality: Profane and Sacred Worlds in Contemporary Japan. Equinox, 2015. Castillo, Sabrina. Body talk: perceptions of the body and performative roles in Japanese anime, as seen through Scum’s Wish. 2018. Vassar College. Senior Capstone Project. https://digitalwindow.vassar.edu/senior_capstone/741. Cox, Ana Maria, Freya Johnson, Annalee Newitz, and Jillian Sandell. “Masculinity without Men: Women Reconciling Feminism and Male-Identification.” Third Wave Agenda: Being Feminist, Doing Feminism, edited by Lesley Heywood and Jennifer Drake, University of Minnesota Press, 1997.

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Francis, Christina. “Playing with Gender in Arthur, King of Time and Space.” Arthuriana, vol. 20, no. 4, 2010, pp. 31-47. DOI: http://www.jstor.org/stable/232 38216 Fries, Maureen. “Female Heroes, Heroines and Counter-Heroes: Images of in Arthurian Tradition.” Popular Arthurian Traditions, edited by Sally K. Slocum, Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1992, pp. 5-17. Gurevitch, Danielle. “Analytical Psychology Approach to the Love-Hate Relationship between King Arthur and Morgan le Fay in Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur.” Mirator Lokakuu, 2005, https://www.academia.edu/1869927/Analytical _Psychology_Approach_to_the_Love-Hate_Relationship_between_King_Arthur _and_Morgan_le_Fay_in_Malorys_Le_Morte_DArthur https://www.academia.edu/1869927/Analytical_Psychology_Approach_to_the_ Love-Hate_Relationship_between_King_Arthur_and_Morgan_le_Fay_in_ Malorys_Le_Morte_DArthur. Hennequin, M. Wendy. Battle-Brave beyond Women-Kin: Women Warriors in Medieval English Literature. (2006), University of Connecticut, PhD dissertation. Hildebrand, Kristina. “Knights in Space: the Arthur of Babylon 5 and Dr. Who.” King Arthur in Popular Culture, edited by Elizabeth S. Sklar and Donald L. Hoffman, McFarland, 2002, pp.101-110. Isola, Zia. “Defending the Domestic: Arthurian Tropes and the American Dream.” King Arthur in Popular Culture, edited by Elizabeth S. Sklar and Donald L. Hoffman, McFarland, 2002, pp. 24-35. Kumar, Krishan. “1066 and All That: Myths of the English.” National Myths: Constructed Pasts, Contested Presents. Routledge, 2013, pp. 94-107. Littleton, C. Scott. “Some Possible Arthurian Themes in Japanese Mythology and Folklore.” Journal of Folklore Research, vo. 20, no. 1, 1983, pp. 67-81. Lupack, Alan and Barbara Tepa Lupack. King Arthur in America. D. S. Brewer, 1999. Nakamura, Karen and Hisako Matsuo, “Female Masculinity and Fantasy Spaces: Transcending Genders in the Takarazuka Theatre and Japanese Popular Culture.” Men and Masculinities in Contemporary Japan: Dislocating the Salaryman Doxa, edited by James E. Roberson and Nobue Suzuki, Routledge, 2006, pp. 59-76. Nasu, Kinoko, Takeuchi Takashi, and Gen Urobuchi. “Nasu Kinoku X Takeuchi Takashi.” Type-Moon Ace 7,” translated by Molokidan, 2011. www.tsukikan. com/misc/nasu-kinoko-takeuchi-takashi-urobuchi-gen-special-forum.html#f12. Sterenberg, Matthew. Mythic Thinking in Twentieth-Century Britain. Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Tolhurst, Fiona. “Helping Girls to Be Heroic?: Some Recent Arthurian Fiction for Young Adults.” Arthuriana, vo. 22, no. 3, 2012, pp. 69-90. Werning, Stefan. “Manga, Anime and Video Games: Between Adaptation, Transmedia Extension and Reverse Remediation.” Mediascape, UCLA’s Journal of Cinema and Media Studies, 2018, http://www.tft.ucla.edu/mediascape/Fall2014 _MangaGames.html. Wheeler, Bonnie. “The Masculinity of King Arthur: From Gildas to the Nuclear Age.” Quondam et Futurus, vol.2, no.4, 1992, pp. 1-26.

Chapter 4

Gender and class in John Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights Susan L. Austin Landmark College

Abstract John Steinbeck's The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights began as an accurate modern translation of Eugene Vinaver's edition of Thomas Malory's Morte D'Arthur. As the project progressed, however, Steinbeck added more material, notably expanding the roles and personalities of some female characters who travel with Gawain, Ewain, and Marhalt in their triple quest. This paper analyzes changes and additions Steinbeck made as he translated, noting that many changes reflect attitudes toward gender and class that are more consistent with previous works like The Grapes of Wrath, In Dubious Battle, East of Eden, and America and Americans than with his source. It ultimately suggests that Steinbeck lost some of his admiration of the Arthurian characters he had loved as a boy which, combined with the elitism and sexism inherent in Malory, may have prevented him from completing the project. Keywords: Steinbeck, John; King Arthur; Arthurian; Malory; gender; class *** Having loved Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur since he first read it as a boy, John Steinbeck had long wanted to write his own translation of it before he began the work in the late 1950s. The resulting work has not gotten as much critical attention as other Steinbeck works, undoubtedly because it was not published until after his death, and it was never completed. In “John Steinbeck's The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights: A Call for Reappraisal,” Gregory Robinson called for more attention to the work, writing: Steinbeck’s reworking of some of the major themes, his attention to the details of medieval warfare, his modern adaptations to the Lancelot love story, and his own original contributions to the Sir Gawain, Sir Ewain, and Sir Marhalt adventures, produced an ingenious version of the tales (51). Despite keeping the major plot points and setting, as Steinbeck progressed with the project, he

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also added views on women and, to a lesser extent class, that are consistent with the main body of his work. In his “Foreword” to The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights, Christopher Paolini notes that Steinbeck started to add to the tales to make them his own in his fourth and fifth chapters, noting that the dialogue and action become more realistic (viii). As Paolini suggests, Steinbeck’s project started out as a fairly straightforward translation of Eugène Vinaver’s edition of the Winchester manuscript, with occasional added explanations of medieval practices. There is, however, one small change in content that amounts to political commentary early on in reference to Arthur’s conception through the rape of Igrayne (Malory’s spelling). While on a visit to King Uther’s court with her husband, the Duke of Cornwall, Igrayne warns Cornwall that Uther wants to have sex with her and fears “that [she] shold be dishonored” (Malory 3). As a faithful and virtuous wife, she suggests that they leave Uther’s court to escape his unwanted attentions. Uther sees this as rebellion, and military action follows. Unaware that her husband has been killed, she goes to bed with a man she believes to be her husband, but who is really Uther, transformed by Merlin to look like her husband. The widowed Igrayne later agrees to marry Uther after another knight recommends it as a way to restore peace. Dorsey Armstrong has argued that Igrayne is a model of virtuous womanhood for Malory because she understands and acquiesces to her place in a social order in which “women are circulated or ‘gifted’ away— by, to, and for men—serving, in their transfer from one male to another, to reinforce and strengthen the homosocial ties that bind the Arthurian community together” (48). Igrayne accepts that it is her proper place to be “the gift, an object that is exchanged for peace, property, and a means of establishing male homosocial bonds within this patriarchal, kinbased social order” (48). After she and Uther marry, learning of the deception and that Uther is her child’s father, Malory tells us that she “made grete joye whan she knewe who was the fader of her child” (6). Steinbeck’s version, that Igraine’s mind “was easier” once she understood who had fathered her child (12), takes the joy out of it. That she is “easier” rather than easy indicates awareness that having been deceived into sex and married off to a man she had previously rejected, she is not in a comfortable, easy position either way. Armstrong goes on to write, “Igrayne resists Uther’s overtures as long as she is married to another man; upon Cornwall’s death, Igrayne’s resistance dissipates, and she silently permits herself to be the object of masculine exchange, thereby strengthening the chivalric social order” (53). Accepting her place in the social order as a gift, an object without feelings that matter, and doing what is expected of her might seem natural to Malory, but not to Steinbeck.

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Mimi R. Gladstein has pointed out that “in a 1928 letter to Katherine Beswick,… Steinbeck wrote that most male writers provide an erroneous view of women” (120), a fault he hoped to avoid, and that Gladstein offers as a possible explanation for the limited number of female characters in much of Steinbeck’s fiction. She also writes, “we know from his letters to Beswick and Claire Booth Luce that he had a keen understanding of women's objectification long before he explored it in his published works. For he had also written Beswick that women had been forced into patterns of conduct by men” (121). Igraine (as Steinbeck spells the name) has been objectified by Uther’s lust and forced into a culturally acceptable pattern of behavior by the men around her. That she is married to her child’s father and that she was not married to another man at the time the child was conceived (because her first husband was dead) is supposed to fix everything, but Steinbeck knew that it would probably not bring a woman great joy. In a letter to Elizabeth Otis and Chase Horton, Steinbeck described Malory’s version of her as “A whole character – a woman alone” (Acts 349) who did what she needed to do to stay safe. One could argue about how “whole” Malory’s Igrayne truly is because her actions and few words conform so well to what is expected of her, but that one small change of language indicates that although she is part of the nobility, Steinbeck understood that as a woman, Igraine is in a lower class in practical terms because she does not have the choices men do and therefore might pretend joy without feeling it when it is expected of her. Morgan Le Fay, on the other hand, does not conform to gender expectations except when it suits her purpose. Armstrong has written “that Morgan’s position [in Malory] transcends categorization as feminine, as that against which the knights may define their masculinity” (58). In a letter to Chase Horton, Steinbeck expresses his appreciation of Morgan as a character (380), an appreciation for the character and her role that apparently led him to change a chapter title from Vinaver’s edition, “Arthur and Accolon” to “Morgan LeFay.” Morgan is, after all, responsible for the action in the chapter, as it involves a complicated plot designed to have an apparently unwitting Sir Accolon kill Arthur. Part of her appeal to Steinbeck was undoubtedly “the way that she often resists even the circumscribed definition of the feminine generally deployed by Malory’s text; simultaneously and never fully both masculine and feminine in her actions, Morgan poses the greatest threat to the community’s model of gender and social identity” (Armstrong 59). Morgan’s plot relies on both her femininity, in her seduction of Accolon, and in more traditionally masculine leadership, as we see when a dwarf who is her agent sends Accolon Morgan’s instructions, when we learn that she has multiple “secret people” (Acts 131) who work as spies or messengers, and when she quickly gathers “forty trusted followers” (Acts 131). These are her followers, not her husband Uryen’s, as he stays behind, a reasonable separation given that

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only the intervention of their son Ewain prevented Morgan from murdering him in his sleep. Morgan has her own people and her own organization, a form of power that supplements her seduction and use of magic. In this, Morgan follows a pattern in Steinbeck’s fiction that John Ditsky has described, writing that “it is often the women in Steinbeck who dare, even when they fail to conquer when they stoop. They dare by straining against the traces they find themselves in, or, to put it biblically, they kick against the pricks—or their husbands” (n. pag.). Steinbeck begins his chapter “Morgan Le Fay” with nearly a page of description that is not in Malory. He describes Morgan as beautiful, power-hungry, ruthless, and “passionate,” a woman who “joyed in bending and warping men to her will through beauty and enchantment” (119). In her manipulation of men and their desires, Morgan resembles Cathy Ames from East of Eden in a number of ways, though Morgan’s coloring is dark while Cathy’s is fair. Much as he likes Morgan as a character, Steinbeck is critical of her, repeatedly referring to her jealousy and stating that she “loved no one” (119), a detail he adds. Malory’s Morgan apparently does love Accolon. When she learns of his death, Malory tells us “she was so sorowfull that nye hir herte to-braste” (91), that she is nearly heartbroken. Later, she rescues his cousin from a would-be murderer in his memory. Steinbeck keeps the rescue scene, including a comment that she did it out of love for Sir Accolon (133), a contradiction he would perhaps have caught had the section been revised for publication. Like Morgan, Cathy “was not like other people” (EE, Ch. 8, 82). She lies and “learned that by the manipulation and use of [her sexuality] she could gain and keep power over nearly everyone” (EE, Ch.8, 86). She appears incapable of love, abandoning her twin sons as soon as they were born, killing her parents and Faye, the madam who trusted Cathy—then known as Kate—enough to leave her the brothel. John H. Timmerman writes that: Cathy’s essential evil is the evil of lovelessness: instead of affirming life, she perverts and bends life to her darkness. Steinbeck introduces Cathy as a monster (chapter 8), a statement he partly retracts later in the novel (chapter 17). She remains a monster for two reasons. First, she bends and twists life…. Second, she debases sexuality, and in Steinbeck’s fiction human sexuality is always a sign of robust vigor and energetic life (219-220). Kelly-Rae Meyer has observed that “In East of Eden, Cathy is portrayed as the ultimate villain, and in vilifying her, the novel unintentionally points out that her success is due to her determination, drive, and willingness to take on any obstacle” (31-2). In her two attempts to kill Arthur, Morgan too is willing ‘to take on any obstacle.” Meyer concludes that through Cathy/Kate’s “‘masculine’

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qualities … her character challenges heteronormative ideals, and her success in patriarchal society proves that non-normative traits, which are typically unfavorable in women, gave Cathy the drive and determination to prosper within ‘masculine’ expectations” (33). If Steinbeck is a bit more sympathetic toward Morgan, it may be because she is not as successful in her plots, she does not suppress her femininity as Cathy does, and she appears to enjoy her sexuality, as we see when she attempts to seduce Lancelot. Steinbeck’s Morgan is also a better mother, though not consistently so. Although clearly trying to present her in a good light, Ewain hints that Morgan has been neglectful and inconsistent in her parenting, that “her holdings and … special duties” have kept them apart more than she would have liked, “but she has always been kind and even thoughtful” (193). He also says that he’s learned to avoid her when she is in a bad mood, apparently because she is not kind and thoughtful all of the time. One question his comment raises is which one of them really wanted more time together, Ewain or Morgan? Given that Morgan’s “special duties” involve plotting to kill her half-brother and, since she does not physically battle her enemies, that her holdings would probably be relatively secure places where she could have taken a child if she wished to, one implication is that her ambition and need to exert power other women might have left to their husbands matters more to her than mothering her son. The she is “kind and even thoughtful” is a rather lukewarm endorsement of her mothering. His letters indicate that Steinbeck was adding to Morgan’s character in 1959 (380), seven years after the publication of East of Eden. That he made Morgan more like Cathy than Malory’s version, more calculated than loving in her sexuality, that he thought to have Lady Lyne ask Ewain what Morgan was like as a mother, and that Morgan is a more sympathetic character suggests growing awareness that women may have to break with traditional gender norms to gain and maintain power in a world that objectifies them and would limit their choices once they had children. Steinbeck also added a reflection on what a woman having power in a maledominated society might mean to his characterization of Morgan’s nemesis, Nyneve. Armstrong notes that during the battle that Morgan sets up between them, “Although Arthur and Accolon strike the blows, Nyneve and Morgan are locked in combat just as surely as are king and knight” (61-2). In both Malory and Steinbeck, enchantresses Morgan and Nyneve play similar, sometimes parallel but opposite roles, as in that fight scene. It is reasonable to assert on those grounds that Nyneve too “transcends categorization as feminine” in Malory. No damsel in distress, in both works Nyneve uses Merlin’s infatuation with her to learn his secrets then seals him in a cave. She saves Arthur from Accolon and from the poisonous cloak Morgan sends as her second assassination attempt. She cures Pelleas of his love for Ettarde, punishes Ettarde for breaking Pelleas’s heart, then claims Pelleas as her own love. Nyneve

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makes things happen in a society where women are second-class members with limited opportunities. Steinbeck develops Nyneve’s personality and motivations, starting with small additions to her brief time travelling with Pellinore. When they see the body of a woman Pellinore might have saved if he had not been so focused on his quest, “he made grete sorow and wepte” (Malory 74). Nyneve asks why he makes “such doole” but passes no judgment on Pellinore’s behavior. Steinbeck prepares us for the pettiness, misplaced rivalry, and selfishness Nyneve will display in punishing Ettarde for shunning Pelleas, replacing Malory’s question about his doleful behavior with commentary on it, adding, “‘You were sworn to a quest’… ‘I was your quest’” (104). He describes her tone during this scene as detached and lacking sympathy for the victim. Undeterred by the sight of another woman whose corpse has been mostly eaten by wild animals, young Nyneve can only think of herself. Her lack of concern for other ladies is a sign of competition with them for men’s attention, but once she gains power through her attractiveness, much as Cathy does, this changes for Nyneve, in some ways, if not all. Although it is unclear how much time has passed between the scene with Pellinore and the encounter with Pelleas and Ettarde, Steinbeck implies it is quite a while and gives Nyneve additional reason to want Pelleas for her own. Through her, Steinbeck also introduces a motif that will recur when Marhalt reluctantly kills a giant and Ewain reports of seeing Arthur crying in secret atop an isolated tower: that the responsible use of power to help others rather than oneself can bring regret or loneliness. In a fairly long passage, Steinbeck tells us that when she persuaded Merlin to teach her his secrets, “she had wanted power and eminence without control” (162), the kind of self-centered power Morgan exerts. But unlike Morgan, her power leads her to fight the evil she now sees more clearly rather than using it for her own ends. She becomes more traditionally feminine and nurturing in her concern for others. The result is that “her power had made its own control… and rather than making her free, she was a slave to the helpless” (162). She finds that gratitude is not the same as friendship, and having power makes it hard for even those she has helped to trust her. This leaves her “alone and lonely, praised but desolate” (162). Unlike Morgan, Nyneve is capable of love, but her power makes it hard for her to find the companionship of peers because she does not have many. Dooming Ettarde to die of unrequited love because she does not love a man who loves her seems very unfair in an era when many cultures allow women to choose their suitors, but Steinbeck provides some justification, or at least an explanation. Nyneve has been lonely, isolated because of her power, and she has chosen to use her powers for the good of others. In Steinbeck, her good

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deeds justify a happy ending with Pelleas even though she gains it at the expense of another woman. Apart from the greater attention Steinbeck pays to the damsels, Gawain, Ewain and Marhalt’s quest might also have been a way to balance the story of Pelleas and Ettarde, one that disturbed me even before behavior like Pelleas’s became known as stalking. In Malory, Nynyve calls it “the ryghteuouse jugemente of God” (104) on a lady too proud to have mercy, but having mercy would mean accepting the attentions of a man she did not love. Because she is a woman, she is supposed to follow Igrayne’s lead and do what everyone else says she should do. By modern standards, Ettarde’s assessment of the situation when Gawain lies about having killed Pelleas seems reasonable. She says that his death is a “grete pyte for he was a passynge good knight of his body. But of all men on lyve I hated hym Moste, for I coude never be quytte of hym” (Malory 102). She is not happy about his supposed death because she acknowledges that he was a good knight, but she is relieved that he is no longer bothering her. Steinbeck keeps the plot of Pelleas and Ettarde’s story accurate, but adds details to make Ettarde’s position more sympathetic. In Malory, Ettarde is universally criticized. In Steinbeck, Gawain’s unnamed host (Sir Carados in Malory) expresses some understanding of her position. The host reports that Pelleas has moved to be closer to Ettarde, routinely calls to her outside her window and allows himself to be captured and humiliated just so he can see her, all of which has made her hate him rather than merely dislike him (156). In Malory, Ettarde’s attacks on Pelleas are part of a campaign to make him go away, but in Steinbeck, we see that her campaign is instigated not just by unwanted attention but by Pelleas’s invasion of her auditory and physical space. He’s more of a pest in Steinbeck. Gawain correctly informs Pelleas that his approach won’t work and offers his own. Gawain’s approach, telling her Pelleas is dead in the hope that she will suddenly value what she can’t have, is also ineffective, but another strategy inexperienced or youthful lovers might try. Pelleas’s response to finding Gawain and Ettarde asleep in bed is the same as in Malory: he leaves his sword lying across their necks, so they’ll know he saw them, then he gives away his belongings and goes to bed to die, leaving instructions that his heart be sent to Ettarde in a silver dish once he is dead. That Steinbeck embeds this story in a comic rendition of Gawain’s quest lightens the melodrama of Pelleas’s plan. Steinbeck makes the follies of young love or attraction a theme in Gawain’s quest. Steinbeck also adds an explanation for Gawain’s less than honorable performance in betraying Pelleas by spending three days in bed with Ettarde when he was supposed to be persuading her to love Pelleas. Dumped by the damsel he was supposed to quest with for a year, and seeing that Ettarde is

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beautiful and apparently interested, Gawain’s “vanity crie[s] out for conquest” (158). Having been insulted and rejected by one woman, he seduces another to make himself feel better. Human hearts do not always behave wisely when love and lust are involved. Arthur Kinney once wrote, “the rise, flowering, and fall of the Round Table serves Malory as an over-arching metaphor for the biographies of men, of dreams, and of society generally” (16-17). For the most part, that society and those dreams are those of men, but Malory’s tale of “Gawain, Ywain, and Marhalt” does provide a fleeting glimpse at the lifecycle of women when they meet three damsels awaiting knights to quest with for a year. Their ages, fifteen, thirty, and over sixty, represent stages in a woman’s life, but in Malory, we learn little about them or about their lives. Steinbeck, unlike Malory, appears to have wondered why each woman would be there. What are the dreams and biographies that led them to quest? Although Steinbeck does not go so far as to give two of them names so they remain nameless like their predecessors, and one could argue that two of Steinbeck’s damsels fit neatly into traditional gender roles, he develops a personality and a purpose for each of them. Gawain’s companion, the youngest of the three questing damsels, hints at her purpose in questing when she “dropped her eyes and blushed” (148) when she looked at Gawain’s younger cousin Ewain and was angry when Ewain chose another woman. Steinbeck gave her the motivation of many a fifteen-year-old: to meet boys. He also provided a better explanation for why she rides off with another knight while Gawain is fighting shortly after their quest starts. In Malory, it is Gawain’s response to one incident that inspires her departure. They see a knight we later learn to be Sir Pelleas unhorse ten knights then allow himself to be captured and tied in a humiliating manner under his horse’s belly. Gawain expresses his sadness, saying, “this is a dolefull sight to se the yonder knight so entreted”, then expresses surprise that Pelleas appears to be allowing this treatment, that “hit semyth by the knight that he sufferyth hem to bynde him so for he maketh no resistance” (Malory 98). The lady asks Gawain to help him. His response, that “hit semyth he wolde have no helpe” (99), does not appease her. When another knight asks he why she is traveling with Gawain and offers to be her “faythefull knight,” she decides to go with him, saying “I may nat fynde in my herte to be with hym, for right now here was one knight that scomfyted ten knyghtes, and at the laste he was cowardly ledde away. And therefore let us two go whyle they fight” (99). It is not clear in Malory whether she considers Gawain the coward she claims he is in Steinbeck, if she is upset that he did not honor her request to help, or both, but that incident is apparently his one offense and the cause of her departure. Steinbeck gives her more reasons to leave.

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Although Steinbeck’s Gawain chivalrously thanks Ewain and Marhalt for leaving the lady he liked best to travel with him and later supports a different lady in her choice to ride off with the dwarf she loves rather than the handsome knight who wants to fight for her, this is not the Gawain of Sir Gawain and The Green Knight, from whom one might learn “the subtle speech of love” (Harrison and Cooper 34). No, this Gawain provides what is in many ways a model of what not to do on a date. Having missed the non-verbal clues that she wanted to travel with his younger cousin, Gawain blithely assumes she is as happy to be with him as he is to be with her. He starts out well enough. With his damsel riding behind him, he tells her that had one of his companions chosen her, he would have fought for the privilege (149). Given that she was chosen last, this is a considerate comment. Nobody wants to be the last picked, the least wanted. When she does not respond, he quickly goes wrong, however, assuming that she is awed by him and blushing instead of unhappy, assuming that she is too “dazzled” by his “royal position and … aura” (149) to speak. He makes embarrassingly comic attempts to be humble which shows that he is not at all humble; he knows that he is handsome and that being King Arthur’s nephew makes him a bit of a celebrity. Given that she was predisposed against him, guessing that he knows what she is thinking and talking about himself instead of asking her a question to show interest in her as something other than a pretty trophy makes matters worse. When she responds with teenaged passive-aggression and starts kicking his normally calm horse, he comments but does not realize that she caused the horse to stumble. When that doesn’t work, she asks if Ewain is his brother. Missing the point that she is interested in his cousin, he again incorrectly assumes he knows what she is thinking and tells her she’ll like him better because he’s older than Ewain (150). Needless to say, this does not help, and the comedy continues. When they see Pelleas allow himself to be captured the next day, Gawain’s companion is more aggressive and less passive, commenting on the handsome looks of Pelleas and the knight they meet shortly thereafter, her way of letting Gawain know she does not find him attractive. Steinbeck’s Gawain is more explicit about why he didn’t help Pelleas, noting as Malory’s Gawain did that the knight did not appear to want help and adding, “It is not wise or courteous to interfere in other people’s business” (152). His explanation is reasonable and accurate, but when she accuses him of being jealous or afraid, Gawain’s attempts to be courteous to her end. He responds patronizingly, belittling her and insisting that he is “never afraid” (152). As Gawain’s section focused on the vagaries of young love, Steinbeck’s additions to Marhalt’s section focus on a more mature appreciation of compatible companionship. Marhalt tells his companion that he prefers “questing without the heat and cold of young tempestuous love” interfering (164).

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At the beginning of their year together, the words comfort and comfortable appear frequently, often in reference to making the best of questing but also in expressions of compatibility between them. Steinbeck also addresses the question of why they are both adventuring when their age and social position could provide alternatives. When she asks why he has not settled down, he says he’s tried, but “One might as easily reverse a charging horse as change a knight born to his knighthood” (166). In short, he likes it, is good at it, and gets restless when he is not on a quest. Although his damsel does not say why she is questing, the implication is that she, too, is good at it and likes the adventure. She is able to sleep while riding behind a knight on his horse so she can keep watch at night when the knight sleeps (167). She carries a bag with her that contains not just a change of clothes but food, herbs, a pot, medicine, and a water-resistant cloth they can use as a tent. She is experienced and has prepared for problems they may encounter on the trip and also carries a knife that she can use for defense or cooking (165). She has the experience to direct him toward two adventures, one a tournament, the other a troublesome giant. Questing is also an excuse for her to visit friends every year. That they both prefer questing becomes very clear in Steinbeck after Marhalt kills the giant. In Malory, they stay with Earl Fergus, who had been plagued by the giant, for “nye half a yere, for [Marhalt] was sore brused with the giant” (107). Then they ride off to reunite with Gawain and Ewain. In Steinbeck, Marhalt’s skill and experience fighting giants prevent the giant from hurting him, so during their stay, they are both free for the activities they would ordinarily perform at court: she sews, cleans, and directs servants’ work while Marhalt hunts and fishes to bring back food. While their well-matched skills and experience with questing make them compatible and comfortable together on the road, they begin to bicker once they settle into Fergus’s household, mostly as she falls into a fairly stereotypical model of the nagging wife who criticizes his clothing, where he keeps his things, and his weight gain. Noting that he is “restless” as a guest, she suggests that they “build a little castle of our own” (185). His response it to prepare to leave, with or without her. She joins him, although it is mid-winter, and apparently it goes well enough that by April, Marhalt is the one to suggest they might build that castle (187). This time, she rejects the offer and rides off without him. We learn that for all their time together, Marhalt did not learn her name. To him, she is primarily a damsel, a good partner for the quest but not a woman he loves. The implication is that they both prefer traveling to life at court. Perhaps inspired by the question of why a lady of “three score wynter of age or more” (Malory 97) would routinely volunteer to quest for a year with a knight that she met in the woods, Steinbeck came up with one of the most memorable

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and compelling characters in the book, Lady Lyne. In Malory, we learn little about the oldest of the damsels, and like the others, she does not have a name. Ewain chooses to travel with her for the same reason in Malory, because he is “yongyst and waykest of you bothe” and “she hath sene much and can beste helpe me whan I have need, for I have the most need of helpe of you both” (98). There is no indication in Malory that he needs her help or gains anything from her age and experience, however. She takes him to a tournament where he defeats thirty knights and wins a prize, then she takes him to the Lady of the Rock’s castle, where he tries unsuccessfully to negotiate with the brothers who have besieged the Lady, then fights both of them at once and wins. His claim that he needed help was clearly false modesty, or perhaps polite modesty, as the damsel contributes nothing to his victories. Steinbeck clearly saw this as a missed opportunity to both express the value of experience passed from older generations to younger ones and to reflect on the limitations of women’s lives in the past. Shortly after he departs with Lyne, Ewain learns that in choosing her, he has volunteered for knight bootcamp, which includes a rigorous and painful training of his body and harsh criticisms of his armor, strategies, and assumptions. She also violates some of the essential rules for women in Arthurian legend, and Malory in particular. Armstrong has argued that while the Pentecostal oath that Malory’s Arthur requires his knights to take offers explicit protection to women … it also … constructs them as ‘feminine’ in the chivalric sense—helpless, needy, rape-able. The threat of sexual violence— and the need to protect women from it—provides knight after knight with the opportunity to test and prove his prowess and knightly identity…. in affirming his knightly identity and his right to belong to the heteronormative masculine community of the Arthurian court, a knight not only needs a vulnerable, helpless woman, but more specifically, he needs “woman” to signify as vulnerable and helpless” (36). That Lyne understands that chivalry forces women to assume powerless roles they would not willingly assume if they had enough power to change them is reflected in a comment she makes to Ewain that “women invented chivalry, but for their own ends” (205) and they would ban it if they had as much power as men. As long as women are objectified, powerless, and seen as “rape-able” it makes sense for women to encourage the development of a code by which they must be protected. Lyne is neither vulnerable nor helpless and does not need protection. She tells Ewain that she studied the ways men fought and mastered various techniques, but “the accident of [her] girlness” is the only thing that kept her from being a better knight than most men (189). She knows because when she

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was young, she routinely and secretly dressed and fought as a boy until one knight she fought died. She buried the man she had killed and retreated to the gowns and needlework she hated because while killing a man in a fair fight was fine for a knight, it meant execution for treason for a woman (189). The double standard that makes it acceptable for a male to kill another in a fair fight would make her a criminal. Their ability to use magic protects Morgan LeFay and Nyneve, and puts them in the borderline masculine role because their gifts are supernatural, but using her natural gifts would doom Lyne as her abilities threaten the status quo, challenging the validity of requiring women to be passive and subservient while men perform the heroic deeds. She later tells Ewain that “At heart I’m a fighting man” who has “tried manfully to be womanly” (205). Today’s students are often surprised that Steinbeck created a character who rejects traditional gender roles and might have identified as transgender if the term had existed (though most of my students have been sensitive enough to understand they cannot assign that label to her). Those more familiar with Steinbeck’s work should be less surprised. In East of Eden, Steinbeck tells us that as a child, “My sister Mary did not want to be a girl. It was a misfortune she could not get used to. She was an athlete, a marble player, a pitcher…, and the trappings of a girl inhibited her” (320). He had shared his love of Malory with Mary, and they “even talked in their own secret language, using obscure words and terminology from Middle English times” (Valjean 32). The favorite sister with whom he played at being knights and who, for a while at least, wanted to be a boy was likely an inspiration for Lyne, as perhaps was Joan of Arc. In “The Joan in All of Us,” he writes that the appeal of Joan’s story is that it “could not possibly have happened – and did…. Joan is a fairy tale so improbable that…. If a writer were to make it up the story would be howled down as an insult to credulity” (AA 144). He does not make Lyne’s story quite as far-fetched as an uneducated female peasant becoming a successful leader of warriors at a time when neither women nor peasants had any status, and when “To command at all required not only an accepted bloodline, but training from childhood” (AA 145). He gives Lyne the bloodline, presumed by her status as Lady Lyne, and a social position that allowed her to learn by watching those trained from birth. Lyne’s story, though fictional, is more believable than that of the real Joan. Writing Lyne may have been on was of expressing his share in “the little bit of Joan living in all of us” (AA 146). Lyne projects a “little bit” of her strength onto other women, assuming they are secretly like her and wondering what Morgan might have been as a warrior. She makes some rather sexist observations about both men and women, suggesting that most men are “Too soft-hearted” and claiming that any woman

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with a man’s strength would be a better fighter (205). Lyne is not too softhearted, so she assumes other women are not either. Having created a character for whom following her own talents, preferences, and ambitions might be punished by death, it may be that the prospect having to write women who, for the purpose of the story, must be damsels in distress troubled Steinbeck. His Guinevere also feels limited by the domesticity and passivity her society requires of women. She tells Lancelot that she too has wished she were a man at times because embroidering pictures “of the great gallant world” is “not a very satisfying conflict” (227). Relegated to waiting for the men to come back from adventures and tell their tales, her job is to preserve their stories in a tapestry rather than to have adventures of her own. While acknowledging that Steinbeck tried to make his female characters more real, in her study of Guinevere’s evolution as a character in Arthurian legend, Janet Bubar Rich has argued that he is not fully successful, writing: “while Steinbeck strives to expand Guinevere's character, he also limits it to his understanding of the women operating within the social confines of his world. For his depictions reflect his perceptions of women, not the full range of women's capabilities and potential” (13). Later she observes that “Steinbeck's Guinevere does not rise above her gender identification, as her primary sword is her stitching needle” and arguing that the “open-ended conclusion” of the final scene in which Guinevere and Lancelot kiss “invit[es] mythologizing to continue” (60). This reading seems to ignore Steinbeck’s portrayals of other women in the book and commentary on the lives of women that appear periodically in Steinbeck’s later chapters. As Lorelei Cederstrom puts it, “Although the male characters in Steinbeck’s novels frequently respond to the natural world or the female characters in negative ways, these reactions reflect the general devaluation of the feminine in Western culture and do not represent sexism on the author’s part” (n. pag.). Rich quotes part of a May 9, 1957 letter to Elizabeth Otis and Chase Horton, but she stops just short of the sentence in which Steinbeck writes that scholars of Steinbeck’s time reflected the attitudes of Malory’s time, so they can only see her as “a symbol” (Acts 329). He is critical of Malory’s treatment of women in particular, writing, “Malory doesn’t like them much unless they are sticks” (Acts 385). That Steinbeck tried to go beyond the lady as a symbol or stick is reflected in Marhalt’s reflection that, like knights, ladies too must master skills (173). Although most of her activities involve making Marhalt comfortable on the quest and she follows standard gender roles while staying with Earl Fergus, Steinbeck attempts to give those roles value and context. His research into women’s lives shows in passages where he notes Guinevere’s use of imported kohl to darken her blonde lashes and eyebrows (312) and when he explains why the ladies at court carry themselves

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as they do. He describes rigorous training involving whips, “nail-studded harnesses,” and “painful collars” to produce proper posture (310). It is also important to remember that The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights is an incomplete draft rather than a finished work. Steinbeck did not consider the ending we have as an ending, and therefore did not intend to leave room for the “mythologizing to continue”, at least not in quite the way it currently does. As Alan Lupack has suggested, “it seems likely that had the book been finished, a character like Guinevere would have been more prominent” (194). The boredom and powerlessness of women’s lives in Malory also appear in Steinbeck’s version of the four queens who capture a sleeping Lancelot and threaten to kill him if he does not choose one of them as his paramour. In Malory, only Morgan Le Fay appears to have any magical power, but Steinbeck gives all four of them powers (249). Alone in a dark cell, Lancelot wonders why anyone would choose to practice witchcraft or magic. After recalling a time when he was bedridden and helpless as a teenager and imagined having magic powers, Lancelot suddenly realizes why people would want such power and concludes that they are “‘poor unhappy things’” (251). Doomed to be women at a time when women had little control over their lives, these women are left to use what power they have for seduction, magic tricks, and pointless and unfulfilling games to pass the time. Seeing Lancelot in a powerless state, they become predatory, “like wolves about a bleeding slaughter” (246). They transform his dark, empty cell into a beautiful and lush bedroom before his eyes and compete for his attentions with different types of beauty and promises of what they will conjure for him, ending with Morgan, who offers to share the secrets of her power (258). Lancelot is “puzzled and sad” (259), countering her offer with a reminder that she has twice failed to kill Arthur, a reminder that her power is not as absolute as she makes it sound. When he refuses to choose any of them and Morgan questions whether he finds she and her companions beautiful, he tells them he can’t say, pointing out that their beauty is all magic and artificial. He concludes, “your faces are not you” (260). Before competition for Lancelot begins, Morgan unwittingly makes part of Lancelot’s argument for him, explaining that she and her friends “have everything we could wish for… [and] if something we wish does not exist, we have the power to create it,” but also admitting “that playthings are to us very rare” (253). If the power Morgan has to offer were fulfilling, she would not be offering it because she would not be bored. In this, she expresses an idea that appears elsewhere in Steinbeck’s work, the idea that too much comfort breeds decadence and social decay. The theme is notable in America and Americans, which Steinbeck wrote after finding himself stuck on the Malory project. He writes,

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For a million years we had a purpose – simple survival – the finding, planting, gathering or killing or food to keep us alive, or shelter .… This was a strong incentive …. But now we have food and shelter and transportation and the more terrible hazard of leisure. I strongly suspect that our moral and spiritual disintegration grows out of our lack of experience with plenty” (AA 395-396). The boredom of the four queens in their upper-class plenty and leisure resemble observations Steinbeck made about children who are given too many gifts for Christmas, then ask for more: And two days after, the smashed and abandoned ‘things’ are added to the national trash pile, and perhaps the child, having gotten into trouble, explains, ‘I didn’t have anything to do.’ And he means exactly that – nothing to do, nowhere to go no direction, no purpose, and worst of all, no needs. Wants he has, yes, but for more bright and breakable ‘things’ (AA 396). Lancelot is a new “plaything,” a “tidbit” (Acts 245). When he refuses to play their game, they end the illusions and leave him alone in a dark, uncomfortable cell, perhaps to die if he had not been rescued by a damsel needing his help. Steinbeck added passages about the need to stay busy and challenged early in his version of Malory when he was otherwise doing fairly direct translation and periodically thereafter. Even before Arthur pulls the sword from the stone, Steinbeck comments on how tournaments were not mere entertainment, but to keep knights prepared for real battles (15). Explaining how Arthur, Accolon and Uryens ended up lost after chasing a buck, Steinbeck explains that such hunts kept their courage, horsemanship, and dexterity ready for war (120). As noted above, it is not until they are comfortable and unchallenged that Marhalt and his lady get on each other’s nerves. Guinevere, too, keeps her ladies busy, even on holidays when they might expect leisure (314). Steinbeck’s section on Sir Lancelot begins with pages of discussion of the challenge of keeping knights busy to keep them useful, for in peace. Being wealthy and noble does not excuse you from work in Steinbeck. The comments Lady Lyne makes about the self-dubbed Sir Edward and Sir Hugh, the men who besieged the Lady of the Rock, add to the theme, bringing in a pattern Steinbeck would later write about in America and Americans. He concluded that in the era of robber barons: The giants of money were usually the sons of poor men who clawed their way to great fortune, driven by the memory of poverty and hardship. Quite naturally, they protected their children from the experience which had been their driving force, and … the second generation of great

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wealth as a rule went to pieces in weakness, self-indulgence, and stupidity. A few families have continued in power through money, but they are rare. Most of the descendants who have remained rich are protected by trust funds and safeguards, which amount to the same thing as entailment did in the old country (AA 356). In short, he argues that the children of the rich benefited from their birth much as did the knights of old, the knights Steinbeck was writing about in his translation of Malory. Preparing Ewain to fight Edward and Hugh, Lady Lyne tells him they are “good, honest, hard-working, conscientious thieves” whose grandchildren might someday care about honor if the brothers claw their way into gaining the Lady of the Rock’s holdings, but who are unconcerned with honor themselves (208). Chivalry, he suggests, is the product of leisure, of having more time than responsibility, of a class system that separates work from its rewards. Much as Steinbeck admired Malory’s tales and the values of chivalry, Arthurian legends are based on a rigid class structure determined more by birth than by individual deeds or worth. Steinbeck has Lady Lyne comment that Ewain is a knight because he was born into a noble family, not because he has achieved greatness on his own (188). That he proves himself good and honest --except when honesty conflicts with goodness—as well as “hard-working and conscientious” makes him worthy of his title and his privilege, but in his translation of Malory, the author of The Grapes of Wrath and In Dubious Battle expresses some discomfort with the idea that the heroes in Malory were men born to privilege. Ordinarily, Steinbeck’s work favors the hard-working, conscientious types like Edward and Hugh over those who inherit their position, like Ewain. To make Ewain a better knight, Lyne creates an artificial experience of poverty. He sleeps in what amounts to a barn shared with animals (196). His wake-up call is a boot kicking him in the ribs. She feeds him hard, flavorless oat bread (193) and cold, unappealing porridge (196). This training regime is all added by Steinbeck, but the tension between the assumptions about class behind Malory and Steinbeck’s own also appears earlier in the book. In “The Knight with the Two Swords”, he adds to Balin’s story. In Malory, our introduction to him is “there was a poore knyght with kynge Arthure that had bene presonere with hym half a yere for sleying of a knight which was cosine unto kynge Arthure” (39). Steinbeck’s version makes it clear that the fight was fair, but misrepresentation led to the prison sentence (58). That it was a fair fight which would ordinarily not lead to imprisonment and that the lack of a fair trial resulted from his lesser social status are new and meaningful points, emphasized later in the paragraph when a lady assumes Balin doesn’t have the skill to fight well because he is poor and dressed in ragged clothes (59). When, during his quest, Sir Pellinore asks a local man if he has seen the man it is his

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quest to find, Steinbeck adds a sentence to the man’s story indicating that when knights are fighting, “It is not wise for a poor man to be near” (101). Steinbeck adds acknowledgment that the actions of knights may not always be in the best interest of those in the lower classes. Steinbeck also added details in which Marhalt, usually presented as modeling the best of chivalry, behaves badly, threatening to burn down the house of a man who refuses to let him into his home. The outline of the story is the same in Malory: Marhalt and his damsel ask to be sheltered in a cottage and are refused. The cottager tells them that if they “woll take the aventure of youre herbourage” (105)—if they want an adventure with their room—he can take them to shelter. Their guide and the porter of the castle he takes them to share a chuckle about whether they’ll be happy about their stay, indicating that the lord of the manor does not treat knights well. Steinbeck develops this more, having them greeted at the cottage by barking dogs and the cottager defending his home with a boar spear. When he refuses to let them stay, Marhalt accuses him of not being a gentleman, but the homeowner does not budge. Instead, he mocks Marhalt, describing knighthood as “’a childish dream world resting on the shoulders of less fortunate men’” (168). That assessment of class division and the exploitation of the poor workers by the elite would be voiced by sympathetic characters in most of Steinbeck’s work, and it is clear that Steinbeck has some sympathy for this surly man who will only guide them to shelter if they pay him first. Marhalt agrees but threatens to burn the man’s house if he tricks them, to which the man replies, “I know you would. Gentlemen always do” (168). His use of the word “gentlemen” is another attack on chivalry, as the act of burning down the homes of the working class is neither gentle nor chivalrous but an abuse of power similar to those Steinbeck saw perpetrated on dustbowl migrants in California. Writing before The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights was edited and published, Warren French wrote: “ One suspects that a possible reason that Steinbeck couldn’t carry out his projected modernization of Morte d’Arthur is that the vision of the potential ‘perfectibility of man’ that he articulates in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech as prerequisite for ‘Any membership in literature’ long clashed with and finally overwhelmed the nostalgic sentiments Malory’s tales roused in him (10). Perhaps in looking so closely at the tales he loved and the culture behind them, Steinbeck discovered things about them that threatened to make him love them less. In a June 1959 letter, Steinbeck wrote that “Arthur is a dope. It gets so bad that you want to yell – Not that again!” (Acts 384). How heroic is Lancelot for striving to support a dope? Later in that letter, he complains about how literature seems to require its heroes to be stupid and the anti-intellectualism

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implied by that (385). While he reports that he was still enjoying the work at that point, perhaps fear that his favorite, Lancelot, might turn out to be a dope—or worse, “a childish dream resting on the shoulders of less fortunate men”— contributed to his writer’s block. How does one create the miracle transformation of Saint Joan from an insignificant, ignorant peasant to the successful leader of men for Guinevere? Her role in the story is the disloyal wife who destroys the fellowship of the Round Table: would giving her the kind of depth, personality, and motivations Steinbeck created for Lady Lyne make Guinevere more of a villain? If so, what would be the sources of her crime? She was a noblewoman who attracted the attention and love of a king, so like Igraine and unlike Ettarde, she married him as her culture expected a good woman to do. Ettarde’s story serves as a warning against such rebellion. Once married, is Guinevere then doomed to deny love when she finds it? In Malory, her sexuality disrupts the social order, but Steinbeck respected the sexual urge. The assumptions about class and gender that are the foundations of Malory’s work are contrary to the values Steinbeck expresses in most of his writings. Spending so much time in a world where the official good guys have been born into nobility and maintain it with weapons and skills that result from their privileged birth, where women must be helpless and repressed so the men can be heroes, and strong women like Lyne have to keep their strength secret may well have contributed to his inability to complete the work. Works Cited Armstrong, Dorsey. Gender and the Chivalric Community in Malory’s Morte D’Arthur. University Press of Florida, 2003. Cederstrom, Loreli. “Beyond the Boundaries of Sexism The Archetypal Feminine versus Anima Women in Steinbeck’s Novels.” Beyond Boundaries : Rereading John Steinbeck, edited by Susan Shillinglaw and Kevin Hearle, University Alabama Press, 2002, pp.189-204. EBSCO Host. Ditsky, John. “‘Your Own Mind Coming Out in the Garden’: Steinbeck’s Elusive Woman.” John Steinbeck: The Years of Greatness, 1936-1939, edited by Tetsumaro Hayashi, University Alabama Press, 1993. EBSCO Host. French, Warren. “Steinbeck’s Use of Malory.” Steinbeck and the Arthurian Theme, edited by Tetsumaro Hayashi, Kraus Reprint, 1980, pp. 4-11. Gladstein, Mimi R. “Masculine Sexuality and the Objectification of Women: Steinbeck’s Perspective.” Steinbeck Review, vol. 1, no. 1, Mar. 2004, pp. 109123, http://www. Jstor.org/stable/41581952. Harrison, Keith, and Helen Cooper. Sir Gawain and The Green Knight. Oxford University Press, 2008. EBSCOhost. Kinney, Arthur. “Tortilla Flat Revisited.” Steinbeck and the Arthurian Theme, edited by Tetsumaro Hayashi, Kraus Reprint, 1980, pp.12-24. Lupack, Alan. The Oxford Guide to Arthurian Literature and Legend. Oxford University Press, 2007.

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Malory, Thomas, and Eugène Vinaver. Works. Oxford University Press, 1977. Meyer, Kelly-Rae. “Cathy’s ‘Masculinity’ as Survival in Steinbeck’s EAST OF EDEN.” Explicator, vol. 74, no. 1, Jan. 2016, p. 31. DOI: 10.1080/00144940.2015.1133553. Paolini, Christopher. “Foreword.” The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights by John Steinbeck. Penguin Books, 2008. Rich, Janet Bubar. Exploring Guinevere’s Search for Authenticity in the Arthurian Romances : The Thousand-Year Quest of a Mythic Woman to Find Her Historical Embodiment in Film and Literature. Edwin Mellen Press, 2012. Robinson, Gregory. “The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights: A Call for Reappraisal.” Steinbeck Review, vol. 11, no. 1, Mar. 2014, p. 46. http://www.Jstor. org/stable/10.5325/steinbeckreview.11.1.0046. Steinbeck, John, Chase Horton, and Christopher Paolini. The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights. Penguin Books, 2008. Steinbeck, John, Susan Shillinglaw, and Jackson J. Benson. America and Americans, and Selected Nonfiction. Penguin Books, 2003. Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. Penguin Books, 1984. Timmerman, John H. John Steinbeck's Fiction: The Aesthetics of the Road Taken. University of Oklahoma Press, 1991. Valjean, Nelson. John Steinbeck, the Errant Knight: An Intimate Biography of His California Years. Chronicle Books, 1975.

Chapter 5

A kid wizard in King Arthur’s court Zainah Usman Tarrant County College Northwest

Abstract The scholarship on J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter currently speculates on some of the more overt tropes and symbols that are carried forward from Arthurian legend, but fails to dig deeper into some of the narrative intricacies. With its magical intrigue and romantic callbacks to the medieval era, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series carries King Arthur into the 21st century. Arthurian elements as they are described in canonical tellings of King Arthur, especially T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, will be explored in their connection to the Harry Potter universe, including nods to medievalism, characterization, and other various motifs that inform plot, sequence, and structure. Motifs discussed include the status of White’s Arthur and Harry as orphans, magical objects, and the importance of games or contests. Rowling’s secret societies, like The Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army, will be compared to Arthur’s Round Table. Keywords: King Arthur; Arthurian; Harry Potter; Rowling, J.K.; White, T.H., The Once and Future King; nostalgia; magic *** Enormous, vicious-looking dragons were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting - torrents of fire were shooting into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks.1 What follows is a mission to secure a coveted golden egg from the grips of a dragon. A young hero is armed with a magic wand, but is not quite advanced in the art of battling a fifty-foot creature that breathes fire. The stage is set for a tale of mythical monsters, enchanted forests, and castles filled with secrets. The root of such adventurous coming-of-age stories dates back most iconically to King Arthur, a legend filled with tales of magical quests, friendship, and bravery.

1

From Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling, p.326.

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The Arthurian canon manifests itself throughout time under the guise of new but familiar characters and storylines, illustrated prominently in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, where a young Harry successfully captures the golden egg. The scholarship on J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter currently speculates on some of the more overt tropes and symbols that are carried forward from Arthurian legend, but fails to dig deeper into some of the narrative intricacies. The idea that legends such as Arthur resonate with modern audiences is more than just the trope of a knight in shining armor; there are ideologies and boundaries that are drawn within the confines of the narrative structure. From the formation of a Round Table to a secret defense association dubbed Dumbledore’s Army, themes of good prevailing over evil are as vital in the present day as they are in eras past, complete with knights, swords, and charms. Wendy Doniger’s “Can You Spot the Source?” further implies that myths such as Arthur survive the test of time “in a succession of incarnations, both because they are available and because they are intrinsically charismatic” (26). With its magical intrigue and romantic callbacks to the medieval era, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series carries King Arthur into the 21st century. Arthurian elements as they are described in canonical tellings of King Arthur, especially T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, will be explored in their connection to the Harry Potter universe, including nods to medievalism, characterization, and other various motifs that inform plot, sequence, and structure. From Humble Beginnings The archetypal origin story often presents heroes that come from tragic beginnings. Placed in adoptive homes at young ages, Arthur and Harry are removed from lives that would be otherwise filled with castles, magic, and fame. The audience is able to immediately empathize with title characters who grow up without their parents and face challenges at extremely young ages. In T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, we see a young Arthur sent to live with Sir Ector and his son, Kay. Unaware of his noble lineage, Arthur believes his only possible ambition is to become a squire for Kay. Arthur is (somewhat) endearingly referred to as The Wart, an insignificant nuisance who is constantly reminded that he is different: “The Wart was not a proper son. He did not understand this, but it made him feel unhappy, because Kay seemed to regard it as making him inferior in some way. Also, it was different not having a father and a mother, and Kay had taught him that being different was wrong” (White 14). We meet Harry Potter at Privet Drive in a cupboard under the stairs. When his parents are murdered by Lord Voldemort, he is sent to live with his muggle (non-magical) aunt and uncle, who are less than delighted to have the burden on their hands: “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley…were proud to say that they were

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perfectly normal, …the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense” (Sorcerer’s Stone 1). Like Arthur, Harry is brought up in ignorance of his identity and of his noble calling because of circumstances beyond his control, most notably, the people who begrudgingly raise him (Petrina 12). Like the Wart, he is not only misinformed about his identity, but learns from an early age that he is an Other - an outsider to the world around him - with little to no hope of a great future. White’s Arthur grows up knowing he is adopted, placing him in the literary ranks as an orphan. In British literature especially, the trope of the orphan often presents a character free from the constraint of parents or a traditional family unit, who explores the world with a heightened sense of curiosity. From Jane Eyre to Oliver Twist (and Dickens’s many other orphan characters), the orphan protagonist sets out to build their own legacy in unfamiliar territory. David Floyd’s Street Urchins, Sociopaths and Degenerates: Orphans of Late-Victorian and Edwardian Fiction describes the child orphan’s conditions as: lack of family, questions of identity, and exile from social construction (4). Because of this, the orphan child is often in pursuit of their identity; and, without the stability of the traditional family structure, becomes inherently more interesting and unpredictable. Exploring the unknown in less-than-ideal circumstances also sets Arthur and Harry to be naturally-liked leaders, untainted by fame, knowledge, and familial comforts. Responsibility provides them with purpose and is seen as a privilege, not a burden, to the orphaned leader. Harry resembles Arthur not only in being “the chosen one for the magical sword, but also for his qualities as a natural leader, and in an assumption for responsibility, for himself and his peers, that begins at a very early age” (Petrina 12). Harry, like Arthur, finds himself in a castle at an early age, bearing a great burden. For Arthur, it is ruling England; for Harry, it is the expectation of being a great wizard who is to defeat Voldemort (since he has once already thwarted him as an infant). The hero orphans build makeshift families for themselves with friends and fellow castle dwellers gathered for a common purpose—to prove their worth, and look to their leaders for inspiration. Harry can thus be seen as an Arthur incarnate, a great ruler saving England from the forces of evil. Followers of the legend will recall the famous inscription on Arthur’s grave: Hic iacet Arthurus, rex quondam, rexque futurus, meaning, “Here lies Arthur, who was once king and king will be again” (Malory 928). As promised, Arthur does not go away—he is reincarnated in a narrative, in the forms of the heroes that are needed to carry us forward through troubled times.

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Magical Agency: Swords, Wands, and Stones To understand the use of magic in the realms of King Arthur and Harry Potter, we will look at magic as an “agent,” a phenomenon produced by people or objects deemed worthy and capable of producing supernatural effects (Collins 19). With wizards, wands, and enchanted objects, magic becomes the agent that makes an otherwise unbelievable story possible and moves a fantastical plot forward. The pivotal moment that changes Arthur’s life, at this point still a young Wart, is extracting the sword from the stone. Unbeknownst to him, freeing the sword ties Arthur’s then-unknown lineage to King Uther, and secures his place as the rightful King of England. It is also at this moment that he ceases being The Wart and is addressed by all who know him as King Arthur. Terms of address carry weight in Harry Potter’s England as well. Dubbed “The Boy Who Lived,” Harry Potter’s name is known and uttered throughout the wizarding world, though he is very much shielded from this information. Because of his disconnect from this part of his life, he is not afraid to utter “Voldemort,” a name so fearful to those familiar with wizarding history that they can only bear to address him as “You Know Who” or “He Who Must Not Be Named.” Harry is not trying to show bravery by speaking Voldemort’s name boldly; he is simply placed into an unfamiliar world that he is trying to make sense of, and we recognize his humility. In the same way, what makes us root for Arthur is that he does not actively seek the throne; sent by Sir Kay to fetch a sword, Arthur simply comes upon one that happens to be lodged in a rock. Arthur’s only indication that something out of the ordinary is happening is when he claims, “I feel strange when I have hold of this sword, and I notice everything much more clearly” (White 203). This is, of course, the intention: enchanted by Merlin, the sword is more or less “programmed” to answer only to its true owner, much like Thor’s hammer Mjölnir. It is, therefore, not a matter of brute strength, but a combination of magic and destiny. The sword becomes the agent through which it is possible for Arthur to rule England since he is the only one worthy of wielding the enchanted sword. Although at the moment it is set up as a symbolic gesture, possession of the sword itself is important since Excalibur carries magical properties, as suggested by Arthur’s heightened sense of abilities when coming into contact with the sword in The Once and Future King. Similarly, a wand is an agent of magic for a young wizard. Harry’s first trip into Diagon Alley merits a visit to Ollivander’s, a famous wandmaker who matterof-factly states: “it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard” (Sorcerer’s Stone 103). Here, a witch or wizard cannot shop around for the most seemingly powerful wand; it is put forth as more of a mutual relationship where the agent carefully selects its master. Like a young Wart pulling his rightful sword from

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the stone, so does Harry instinctively sense when he has found his rightful wand: “He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand …, brought it swishing down … and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end” (Sorcerer’s Stone 106). It is later revealed that wands do not work as well secondhand or for other owners, as we see with the Elder Wand.2 Like Excalibur, the Elder Wand is a famed weapon of lore and legend that can only be passed to one worthy of its magic. When Lord Voldemort, therefore, finally gets his hands on it, mere possession is not enough. Says Voldemort, “I have sat here...wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must for its rightful owner” (Deathly Hallows 655656). Failing to properly possess the Elder Wand, Voldemort is soon defeated.3 In both worlds, magic is not a power that can be used in equal measure by all who possess it; there are careful instances of magic practiced by those who are worthy of properly channeling magical agents. The world of Harry Potter is also not without its own important swords. Harry, like Arthur, proves he is a true member of his castle designation, Gryffindor, by extracting a sword no one else could; in his case, not Excalibur from a stone, but Godric Gryffindor's sword from Gryffindor's hat (Bethune). In a moment of need, Harry clambers wildly for any kind of help against the Basilisk while in the Chamber of Secrets. A phoenix swoops over him, carrying Gryffindor’s hat, and Harry is successful in his battle when he reaches in to find the legendary sword. Again, he does not go seeking the most powerful weapon at his disposal; rather, he proves himself so worthy of the sword (with his intent to protect his friends and his school) that the sword is brought to him, further cementing his status: “Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the [Sorting] hat, Harry,” says Dumbledore simply (Chamber of Secrets 334). While proving himself worthy of Gryffindor, extracting the sword in this case may not be so much about the magical act itself, but “the sudden and unpredictable nature of the event” (Petrina 7). Like Arthur, Harry does not go looking for powerful

2 “The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up under different names through the centuries,” Hermione explains in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Deathly Hallows 415). Like other wands, the “possessor of the wand must capture it from its previous owner, if he is to be truly master of it,” either by death or disarming (Deathly Hallows 412). While this may encourage wizards to disarm anyone possessing the Elder wand, Hermione correctly points out that “wands are only as powerful as the wizards who use them” (Deathly Hallows 415). 3 It should also be noted that when Harry gets his wand, Ollivander points out that his wand shares a core ingredient with Voldemort’s wand, a phoenix feather, and only two wands like this have ever been crafted. It is one theory that Harry’s and Voldemort’s wands do not work properly against each other for this reason, and may explain why Voldemort cannot easily defeat him in battle.

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weapons to yield, and yet, through twists of fate and destiny, these magical agents find him since he is a worthy seeker. Another instance where Harry’s humble nature leads to triumph is seen in The Sorcerer’s Stone. Pitted against Voldemort, Harry has no way of knowing how to obtain the Stone, which promises its possessor an immortal life. At the climax of the novel, the rivals are armed only with The Mirror of Erised, an enchanted mirror that shows those who look into it their strongest desire at that moment in time. Voldemort gazes into the glass, seeing himself creating an elixir of immortality from the Stone, but is frustrated that it does not show him where or how to actually obtain the Stone. In a moment of desperation, Voldemort pushes Harry in front of the mirror, where he sees his reflection “put its hand into its pocket and [pull] out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the stone back in its pocket - and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow—incredibly—he’d gotten the Stone (Sorcerer’s Stone 363). Through Dumbledore’s powerful and clever enchantment, we discover that a person who wanted the stone for personal gain would only see their reflection using the stone, whereas one who only wanted to find the stone would get it. So, Harry’s humble intentions save him again. What he desires is not brute strength and power (or immortality); he is driven by love and the need to protect his friends and his school—his new home. This is perhaps the same drive that makes Arthur worthy of Excalibur. As White describes him: “Arthur was not one of those interesting characters whose subtle motives can be dissected. He was only a simple and affectionate man” (389). In fact, upon learning Excalibur rightfully belongs to him, Arthur actually bursts into tears at the thought of leaving Sir Ector and Kay, his childhood makeshift family (207). A king not motivated by power and ruthlessness, Arthur proves himself as a fair and just ruler who would use the sword for justice and to protect his friends—not for mindless slaughter or status. Eventually, we do see the fall of Arthur, and Excalibur is returned to its rightful place with the Lady of the Lake. Although Harry chooses not to yield the Elder Wand forever, this is where Harry differs from Arthur; he does not meet a tragic end at a young age instead, the reader is comforted by a future where “all [is] well” (Deathly Hallows 759). Medieval Times (and Places) Part of the magic within the tales of Arthur and Harry Potter emerges from the backdrop of a magical time and place. Our first glimpse into T.H. White’s world in The Once and Future King begins with a castle, specifically “Sir Ector’s castle [in] an enormous clearing in a still more enormous forest” (White 12). A story

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more established in centuries past, the idea of the castle instantly creates a sense of awe and wonder, a place where powerful people reside, and important events occur. This, in contrast with the orphaned Wart and Harry, opens up the narrative to move in exciting directions. As Harry steps foot into Hogwarts for the first time, descriptions of the Great Hall read like a passage from an Arthurian tale: “It was a delicious feast; the hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks” (Prisoner of Azkaban 94). The traditional gathering around a meal paints a grand and familiar picture filled with camaraderie and cheer. Indeed, once the Round Table is established in The Once and Future King, Sir Kay insists that there “will have to [be] special Feasts” to motivate the knights and Arthur himself for their future quests (White 266). Drawn into the comforts of the castle, we are instantly at home in Hogwarts as we are in any story from the Arthurian canon. Within just two short months, Harry admits that Hogwarts feels “more like home than Privet Drive ever had” (Sorcerer’s Stone 211). This seems strange at first, considering the placement of a modern protagonist in a medieval castle; yet, we are willing to overlook it as we are treated to vivid descriptions that satisfy the childhood fantasy of what a wizarding school should look like: “There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump” (Sorcerer’s Stone 163-4). Through Harry’s eyes, we are able to experience the castle with the wonder of a protagonist as new to the magical world as we are. The castle is the ideal refuge, an escape from a world that is moving forward without Harry. With carefully placed callbacks to the time of King Arthur, Hogwarts transports its inhabitants, and its literary audience, back in time: “In spite of the twentieth-century allusion, Hogwarts and its surroundings maintain a perfect equilibrium between the fascination of medievalism and the unobtrusive presence of modern comforts” (Petrina 6). There is a stark divide between the wizarding and muggle (non-wizarding) communities in the Harry Potter universe, despite the fact that many witches and wizards are born into muggle families and would bring with them knowledge of the Other, modern world. And yet, the wizarding world appears to be almost completely isolated. We see the great lengths to which privacy is valued in the protection of Hogwarts, blanketed with enchantments and made impossible to plot on a map. Outside the castle grounds, uses of unsolicited magic are highly regulated by the Ministry of Magic, and there is an entire Ministry branch dedicated to protecting, yet separating, the relationship with the non-wizarding community, going so far as to erase the memories of those who have witnessed accidental magic. In this extreme attempt to protect the magical community,

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witches and wizards appear to be disconnected from many modern comforts and knowledge. The Harry Potter series spans most of the 1990s, a decade in which simple household items like telephones, computers, and cars would be a prevalent part of contemporary society. Yet while the world is moving into the Internet Age, a seemingly advanced race of magical people, who are able to transport themselves at will and transform mice into teacups, remain trapped in the Middle Ages. Wizards rely on magic fireplaces, broomsticks, and a sophisticated teleportation technique known as apparition to get around, and pure-blood wizards such as Arthur Weasley are known to be fascinated by simple electronic items like plugs and telephone cords.4 Perhaps this is a nod to a politically conservative Medieval Era in its commentary on the divide between the magic and non-magic populations. In the Arthurian realm, the knights of Camelot help maintain the status quo: they have access to the best and most advanced technology for their time, and they function in a well-defined power structure, with clearly distinct social classes— an important element of medieval society. Rowling plays around with these boundaries in the modern world, which has a more fluid social structure. Harry, as both an orphan and one who is outside of the simple magic/non-magic binary, essentially doesn’t know his place, causing tension between the wizard and muggle worlds. Having access to both wizarding tools and muggle technology, he walks the line between past and present as he tries to find his place in the world. T.H. White’s The Once and Future King follows Arthur’s journey in a more familiar pattern that allows us to make simpler connections from past to present, through education, friendship, and battle. We are told early on that “there [is] something magical about the time and space commanded by Merlin,” a magical quality to the backdrop of Arthur’s coming-of-age (170). Then there is the idea that magic itself is a romantic, medieval thing, and its followers are deeply entrenched in its roots. For instance, the use of candlelight gives the Hogwarts Castle a romanticized atmosphere, with candles “floating in midair over four long tables...laid with glittering golden plates and goblets” (Sorcerer’s Stone 145). Within the confines of the castle, we do not see wizards

4 Arthur Weasley works for the Ministry of Magic in the Muggle Artifacts office, and is sometimes referred to, with pity, as a muggle-sympathizer. Yet, his upbringing in a pureblooded wizard family allow him only learned knowledge of regular societal advancement. When he reaches the Dursley’s muggle home in London, he remarks on a simple video recorder: “‘They run off eckeltricity, do they?’ he said knowledgeably. ‘Ah, yes, I can see the plugs. I collect plugs’” (Goblet of Fire 46).

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use electric lamps, lightbulbs, or overhead lighting. Furthermore, the wizarding community does not seem to own television sets; in Prisoner of Azkaban, the only mention of a television set is when Harry notices Sirius Black on the muggle news. Wizards track their own news through newspapers like the Daily Prophet. Like all wizarding photographs, the pictures are enchanted and move on the pages; portraits even talk and are interactive. Yet, wizards don’t seem to enjoy media outlets such as television for news, entertainment, or otherwise. We briefly glimpse the Wizarding Wireless Network in The Deathly Hallows; even this is a callback to an earlier time, a scene from history when families gathered around a radio set to hear news of the war. Communication also seems to depend solely on traditional handwritten letters sent by owls. Aside from an alarming number of carrier owls flying around England, one might excuse this quirk; perhaps the secrecy of the wizarding world would be compromised if there were emails being sent about a Ministry of Magic or crumple-horned snorkacks. Or maybe it’s simply hard for us as readers, with a very specific ideal of a magic castle in mind, to imagine students registering at www.hogwarts.edu - to imagine a technology-forward, #wizardworld realm where students download apps to learn spells or simply text each other to communicate. On the other hand, The Once and Future King seems to be self-aware of its time and place: “There were magicians in the forest in those legendary days, as well as strange animals […]There were even a few dragons...which lived under stones and hissed like a kettle (White 18). From Wart’s early encounters with owls and Questing Beasts to popinjays and griffins, White presents a world uncomplicated by the divide between the magical and non-magical. Instead, magic resides in the forest alongside everything else, a regal backdrop to its inhabitants. Everything is described matter-of-factly, including unicorns: “The unicorn was white, with hoofs of silver and a graceful horn of pearl...The eyes, circled by this sad and beautiful darkness, were so sorrowful, lonely, gentle and nobly tragic, that they killed all other emotion except love” (White 258). The conventional Romanticism of the unicorn mirrors the descriptions in Harry Potter of its many magical creatures (unicorns, dragon, hippogriffs), archers confined to the forest (centaurs), and great magicians (Nicholas Flamel). Indeed, upon first encountering a unicorn in The Sorcerer’s Stone, we read: “Harry had never seen anything so beautiful and sad” (Sorcerer’s Stone 255). The juxtaposition of beauty and sadness of a pure and innocent animal echoes the Romantic portrayal of canonical creatures woven into the narratives of Arthur and Harry Potter. In addition to the enchantment of nature and its creatures, there are other conventional signals for romance in the setting; not only are there glimpses of dragons and unicorns on the castle grounds, there is a threshold for the hero to

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cross with the crossing of the Great Lake upon arrival to the castle every September (Petrina 8). Harry passes by the Forbidden Forest and beholds thestrals,5 taking in new information and challenges with each school year. Pair this with the floating candles and drawbridge doors, and it is easy to see that Arthur would feel very much at home in even a modern-day Hogwarts. It is evident that saturating a twentieth-century scene with medieval imagery is preferable to updating the references for a modern audience. It provides a bridge between past and present—the idea that the spellbinding elements of the past never truly faded, but are still with us under the protection of magic. It is the lure of old magic beckoning to us in a new form: the desire to preserve all that is holy within the penultimate image of the long-bearded wizard with the pointed hat, the romance of writing with quills by candlelight, and the callbacks to stone castles and drawbridges. Gyre and Gambol: The Narrative Structure of Games As the establisher of ceremonial beginnings, Arthur inaugurates the tradition of pairing dinner with entertainment. In Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, he pledges “to take no portion from his plate” until a story is told, or until “some chancer had challenged [a] chosen knight, dared him” (188). Sure enough, the Green Knight rides in, in all his emerald glory, to do exactly this. Games help to illustrate the values of the Round Table—sportsmanship, competition, and bravery—in ways other than battle, ways that are both thrilling to the audience and have merit of their own. T.H. White’s Arthur completes every task from hunting for unicorns to searching for the Holy Grail. From an early age, we see every task, however onerous, through the lens of a person who views difficulties as challenges and trials as journeys. With no shortage of sporting tournaments, noble quests, games, and challenges, Harry Potter carries the spirit of Arthurian competition boldly and bravely. The careful narrative crafting of competition reigns supreme in the realms of Arthur and Harry: both friendly and deadly rivalries are woven into the narratives time and time again. Take, for instance, the beheading game in Sir Gawain. The structure of this story, alongside the pattern of Rowling’s novels, follows an “impeccably wrought structure…[a] saga of extreme narrative tightness” (Petrina 105). Set from New Year to New Year, with every holiday detailed in between from All Saints’ Day to Lent, Sir Gawain’s tale is

5 Thestrals are winged, skeletal horses that can only be seen by those who have witnessed death. They pull carriages across the Hogwarts grounds when students arrive at the beginning of each school year. Harry Potter first sees them in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix after having witnessed the murder of Cedric Diggory at the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Prior to this, he thought the carriages were simply propelled by magic.

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sprinkled with details that all somehow “prove crucial at a later point” (Petrina 105). As the humble Gawain begins a quest to seek the Green Knight, having sworn to let him strike his own head with an ax after an agreed-upon period of one year, he meets interesting characters and falls into some carefully-set traps along the way. Though he receives a girdle that he believes will spare his life, Gawain is ultimately saved by acting honorably and speaking the truth. Harry is no Sir Gawain, but he is no stranger to challenges, tournaments, and sheer luck. He receives invaluable enchanted objects that aid his plans time and time again: most notably, the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map, an item that reveals secret passages and plots the whereabouts of every castle inhabitant at any given time. Though he relies heavily on these items to get around the castle undetected, the major conflicts of Harry's adventures are resolved more often by coincidence and assistance from his friends. Rowling’s Goblet of Fire introduces the Triwizard Tournament, a centuries-old Olympic-like event where champions from various international wizarding schools compete in complicated and dangerous tasks for the coveted Triwizard Cup. Harry unwittingly ends up in the tournament and ekes through, like the knight Gawain, with luck, help, and skill. In fact, the second task of the Triwizard Tournament requires him to be underwater for a long period of time to rescue a bewitched hostage. He searches for answers and spells to no avail. On the morning of the task, he is awoken by the house-elf Dobby, who hands him gillyweed (a magical plant that will allow him to breathe underwater) minutes before the task begins. Harry successfully completes the task and is even awarded bonus points for rescuing his competitor’s hostages along the way. Although no harm was to actually befall the hostages and he acted in error, Harry’s “honorable” act is seen as worthy of praise and pushes him into the top ranks of the Tournament as he is awarded points for displaying “moral fiber” (Goblet of Fire 507). As revered as the knights of Camelot are, luck and magic give their quests surprise twists and add unlikely turns. Still, not every challenge is a joust, quest, or tournament. Within the walls of Hogwarts, inter-house rivalry motivates students in the classroom, on the Quidditch field, and in how they compose themselves in the hallways. The House Cup is awarded at the end of every school year to the house (Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin) who has earned the most points. While students can earn points for their house by exceptional performance in class, winning Quidditch games, or simply going above and beyond the call of duty, they can also lose points due to insubordination and breaking the rules. Meant as a motivator, we see what could be an otherwise-unified student body oft-divided in rivalry. The knights of Camelot do not vie for a House Cup, but they do seek the Holy Grail. The Holy Grail, according to legend, only presents itself to one worthy of

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seeing it. Of Arthur’s best knights, Sir Galahad sees the Grail and has a vision that compels him to pray to God. While skilled, Lancelot does not behold the Grail as he continues to live a life of sin, having an affair with Arthur’s wife, Guinevere. In The Once and Future King, Arthur decides to send his knights on a quest to seek the Holy Sepulchre in an attempt to bring a spiritual element to the Round Table (White 434). However, the Grail itself, and its ties to both the biblical and magical, serves as a motivator to other knights to live a life of purity and seek what the Grail has to offer. Indeed, many of the knights return after two years’ time, frustrated in their search. At one point, Sir Lionel, who has previously killed a number of people, concedes that Sir Bors may be pure enough to find the Holy Grail when he chooses to pray instead of engaging in combat with Lionel himself (White 448). In this way, games and tournaments allow for some competition within what is seen from the outside as a homogenous group; it allows one to see individual characteristics emerge under the pressure of competition and the promise of reward. Order of Merlin, First Class The Round Table prides itself on having the best-trained knights in Camelot, but they are nothing without a little magic. The narrative role of Merlin is crucial not only in Arthur’s storyline, but in how magic is woven into the myth of Arthur itself. Merlin is the quintessential wizard in King Arthur’s world. Although other characters are capable of sorcery, like Morgan Le Fay, Merlin remains the go-to standard for generations to come for very specific wizard quirks: long, white beards, pointed hats, an odd sense of humor, and a wealth of knowledge.6 This archetype confirms itself over the ages, from Lord of the Rings’ Gandalf to Harry Potter’s Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore’s resume reads: “Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederacy Of Wizards” (Sorcerer’s Stone 63). We first meet him on Privet Drive, illustrated in perfectly Merlin-esque detail: He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked (Sorcerer’s Stone 10). Here, Dumbledore leaves a young Harry with Vernon and Petunia Dursley, believing he is safe in the care of blood relatives after his parents are murdered

6 From T.H. White’s The Once and Future King: “Merlyn had a white beard which reached to his middle, horn-rimmed spectacles, and a conical hat” (White 221).

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by a newly-returned Lord Voldemort. Dumbledore follows in the footsteps of Merlin, who is responsible for bringing Arthur to Sir Ector. He does not reveal Arthur’s identity to him until he discovers it himself upon extracting the sword from the stone. In the meantime, White’s Merlin serves as Arthur’s mentor, believing that an education is a better foundation for his destiny than royalty: “‘The best thing for being sad,’ replied Merlin, ‘is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails’” (White 183). Perhaps a somewhat more stable father-figure than the original Merlin, Dumbledore takes to mentoring Harry as well, who only learns of his unique background upon getting his letter from Hogwarts. Indeed, it is wizarding education itself that holds together the Harry Potter series and provides a setting and network through which Harry discovers his place in the world. Although intermittently at first, Dumbledore, like Merlin, commits to working with Harry one-on-one as a mentor. It is first seen as the occasional pearl of wisdom: for instance, when Harry worries that he shares similarities to Tom Riddle before his ascent to Voldemort, Dumbledore wisely quips that “it is our choices, Harry, that show who we truly are, far more than our abilities” (Chamber of Secrets 333). Then, in Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore shares his knowledge of Tom Riddle before his ascent to Lord Voldemort and teaches Harry about the seven Horcruxes that must be located and destroyed in order to defeat him. Even after his death, it is Dumbledore’s wisdom that guides Harry time and time again and instills confidence. With their powerful magical capabilities7 and prophetic knowledge, perhaps the most valuable lesson Merlin and Dumbledore offer their proteges is that of love (Sorcerer’s Stone 264). Simply put, “Merlin believed that love and simplicity were worth having” (White 384). One of the most valuable things Merlin offers Arthur in his youth, beyond knowledge, is companionship and a sense of safety. In turn, Dumbledore’s controversial decision to leave Harry with a wizardhating relative is motivated by the fact that he is in a house that carries some of the protection rooted in his mother’s love. Year after year, Harry loathes the long summer months away from the wizarding world; yet, in Dumbledore’s wisdom, the simple act of returning home keeps the forces of evil at bay: “Your mother died to save you. If it is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love” (Sorcerer’s Stone 371). The protection Harry holds from his mother’s sacrifice is one that transcends any magically generated spell, rendering it more powerful than something even Voldemort can overcome. Elizabeth Archibald’s Cambridge Companion to the Arthurian Legend notes the Arthurian telling by way of Chrétien,8 who acknowledges the opposition between love and reason

7 “I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said Dumbledore gently. (Sorcerer’s Stone 264-5). 8

From The Arthurian Romances by Chrétien de Troyes (Dover Publications, 2013).

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that exists in Arthur’s story. Love is a value system that competes with logic, explaining the complicated love story between Lancelot and Guinevere, with little initial resistance from Arthur (49). In a world filled with magic, Arthur and Harry must acknowledge that some forces, like love, are far more powerful and mysterious than the most potent spell or curse. In Rowling’s realm, love creates a literal barrier around Harry that is not meant to be broken until he comes of age at seventeen. Although surrounded by friends and allies, Harry is haunted by the ghosts of those he has lost and often carries the responsibility of facing his enemies and demons alone. This may be a callback to Arthur, who, “like the knights of romance, [decides] to go it alone” when faced with a substantial challenge (Putter 42). This idea is also articulated in the embodiment of Priori Incantatem, a spell embodied in the Resurrection Stone that is illustrated at the end of Deathly Hallows,9 when the final murders committed by Voldemort emerge from his wand in a ghost-like but corporal form: “Less substantial than living bodies, but much more than ghosts, they moved toward him, and on each face there was the same loving smile” (Deathly Hallows 699). Harry hears the voices of his lost loved ones telling him to hold on, that they are with him, “until the very end”—in this case, the actual end of Voldemort’s reign and Harry’s miraculous survival of the most powerful wizard of the time trying to kill him (Deathly Hallows 700). So while he is often lauded for his magical prowess, quick-thinking, and skill, it is essentially love that saves Harry. ...And Other Orders Still, it is not love alone that shields all of the wizarding world from an evil dictator. There is no shortage of duels, fights, and battles in Harry Potter. In Order of the Phoenix, we are introduced to the titular Order of the Phoenix, a secret society founded by Dumbledore to plot against Voldemort (Order of the Phoenix 67). Previously associated with the Ministry of Magic, they operate under the highest security since not everyone accepts Voldemort’s return, and they must therefore be wary of who can be trusted. They are, however, staffed with skilled and well-connected wizards who are trained in the Dark Arts and combat and perform admirably in the Battle of Hogwarts, many risking their lives for the Order. In The Once and Future King, the knights of The Round Table are no strangers to combat and function both as individual knights as well as a well-coordinated

It is also briefly seen in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire after the murder of Cedric Diggory. Cedric’s form appears and asks Harry to take his dead body back to his father once Harry escapes Voldemort. 9

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team: “The Round Table,” said the older [man], “was a good thing when we thought of it. It was necessary to invent a way for the fighting men to express themselves without doing harm” (White 365). While it is hard to imagine that the purpose of a team of knights is to not do any harm, the knights of Camelot did embark on many quests that did not necessitate combat, such as the search for the Holy Grail. However, there is also a sentiment here about sportsmanship; to place emphasis on preparedness for battle, rather than going out and seeking (or starting) one. The Order of the Phoenix, too, does not seek Voldemort or aim to harm; their primary purpose is to defend and protect the innocent, much as a chivalrous knight would. As it is put in The Once and Future King, the knights of the Round Table “knew that the fight was to be fought in blood and death without reward,” that they were preparing for war without traditional glory (White 298). In addition, Gawain’s immediate volunteer as a tribute for the beheading game further reinforces a tight political structure in which such sacrifices were not just considered honorable, but were more or less expected from those with a knight’s rank. Such was the character and determination of this order. Dumbledore’s Army emerges later on in Order of the Phoenix as its own secret society in the wake of Voldemort’s return. While The Order is more of an elite, militarized force, Dumbledore’s Army is founded by students at Hogwarts to meet in secret and ready themselves for upcoming danger by learning defense spells and dueling skills. Echoing the original tenets of the Round Table, the group functions democratically and seeks to empower and prepare all of its members in an otherwise oppressed environment: Harry felt as though he were carrying some kind of talisman inside his chest...a glowing secret that supported him through Umbridge’s classes and even made it possible for him to smile blandly as he looked into her horrible bulging eyes. He and the D.A. were resisting under her very nose, doing the thing that she and the Ministry most feared (Order of the Phoenix 397). Under the reign of Dolores Umbridge, Harry and his friends must work in secret to practice defending themselves against Voldemort during an administration that does not acknowledge Voldemort’s return and therefore does not allow its students to learn skills for defense and protection. As we see across both the Arthurian texts and Harry Potter, one can prepare for justice without actively seeking revenge, a noble tendency that defines our heroes. Once and Future Stories Whether or not one sees Harry Potter as a King Arthur incarnate, it is hard to deny the influence of the legend on the pop culture phenomenon that has

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swept modern culture. Familiar scenes, magical but recognizable archetypes, and the romance of an era long gone - but idealized - give just enough charm to connect the past legend to the present hero, to keep the tropes and ideas moving forward through generations. The foundation of brave warriors and a little bit of magic help a strong leader overcome a troubled past and thwart a potentially evil future. So much of Arthur is preserved by legend, reincarnated in our contemporary culture: we live vicariously through the students at Hogwarts; we wave flags at Medieval Times restaurants. We have sat with Arthur Weasley as the patriarch of his brave sons, wife, and daughter at the Burrow. We are still under the spell of Romantic Medievalism. We are still waiting for our letters to Hogwarts. Works Cited Bethune, Brian. “But She Can't Kill Harry! Or Can She?” MacLean's, 9 July 2007. Academic One File, www.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A166309273/AONE?u= txshracd2560&sid=AONE&xid=181e996a. Collins, Derek. “Nature, Cause, and Agency in Greek Magic.” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974-), vol. 133, no. 1, 2003, pp. 17–49. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/20054074. Doniger, Wendy. “Can You Spot the Source?” The London Review of Books. 17 Feb 2000. Vol. 22 No. 4. 17 February 2000, pp. 26-27. www.lrb.co.uk/v22/ n04/wendy-doniger/can-you-spot-the-source. Floyd, David. Street Urchins, Sociopaths and Degenerates: Orphans of LateVictorian and Edwardian Fiction. University of Wales Press, 2014. Malory, Thomas, Sir, and P. J. C. Field. Le Morte Darthur. D. S. Brewer, 2013. Petrina, Alessandra. “Forbidden Forest, Enchanted Castle: Arthurian Spaces in the Harry Potter Novels.” Mythlore, vol. 24, no. 3 4, 2006, pp. 95–111. Putter, Ad. “The Twelfth-Century Arthur.” The Cambridge Companion to the Arthurian Legend, edited by Elizabeth Archibald and Ad Putter, Cambridge University Press, 2009, pp.36-52. Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Scholastic, 1999. Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Scholastic, 2007. Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Scholastic, 2000. Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Scholastic, 2005. Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Scholastic, 2003. Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Scholastic, 1999. Rowling, J. K. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Scholastic, 2001. “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.” The Norton Anthology of British Literature, vol. A, edited by Stephen Greenblatt, Norton, 2018, pp. 201-255. White, Terence H. The Once and Future King. Ace Books, 2008.

Chapter 6

Chivalry and ambition in Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King Susan L. Austin Landmark College

Abstract In Terry Gilliam’s 1991 film, The Fisher King, successful radio personality Jack Lucas (Jeff Bridges) is called to a quest that will not end until he has learned the lessons of chivalry, notably that the power he gains from having an audience should not be used at their expense, that he should honor ladies, and that he should be charitable, not disdainful toward the less fortunate. His behavior at the beginning of the film is similar to that of the evil Sir Damas of Arthurian legend, who abuses those who are of no use to him. Jack is a figure of the wounded Fisher King from Arthurian legend by way of Robert E. Johnson’s He. His wound is moral and the waste land that is his life will not be healed until he learns that fame and ambition mean nothing without compassion, that all humans should be treated well. Keywords: Gilliam, Terry; Fisher King; chivalry; power; ambition; compassion, trash *** Terry Gilliam’s 1991 film, The Fisher King, is the product of collaboration between Gilliam and screenwriter Richard LaGravenese, and to a certain extent, with the actors throughout the making of the film. The result is a film of unusual depth that even the director may not have fully processed. It takes Jack Lucas (Jeff Bridges) on a quest to learn the lessons of chivalry, including the one that separates Malory’s Sir Outlake from Morte D’Arthur, who “dwellyth worshypfully and is well beloved with all peple” and his brother, Sir Damas, who “is as evyll beloved, for he is withoute mercy, and he is a cowarde” (108. 911). The chivalrous Sir Outlake uses his position to treat people well. Sir Damas seeks to use people, imprisoning knights he captures who refuse to serve him, some dying in custody. Although talk radio host Jack Lucas is less “evyll” than Sir Damas, he uses people without offering any reciprocation, and he is also a

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bit of a coward. As Barry A. Preston put it, “From his position as a radio personality, Jack possesses power, but he utterly lacks compassion” (51). His success at the beginning of the film is based on treating callers to his show cruelly. Failing in courtesy toward ladies, he mocks one female caller by finishing her sentences, repeating the insulting behavior she had called to complain about, and he offends another woman he interviews about her affair with a senator. Shortly thereafter, he refuses to open his limousine window to give charity to a homeless man. In Malory, such failings of noblesse oblige lead King Arthur to give Damas’s lands to Sir Outlake. In The Fisher King, Jack will remain a figure of the wounded Fisher King of Arthurian legend and will never find happiness, no matter how ostensibly successful he becomes, until he accepts the values and challenges of chivalry. A mentally ill man who calls himself Parry (Robin Williams) and believes he is a knight will lead him on a quest that will eventually teach Jack that people deserve to be valued and respected for who they are, not used and then discarded when they are no longer useful. Jack tries to ignore the call to quest, and in the end, he only accepts it to figure out “why, no matter what I have, it feels like I have nothing.” It is his concern for his own well-being that makes him befriend Parry and eventually complete his quest. LaGravenese has said in interviews that he had the idea for a film about two unlikely friends that would be a critique of 1980’s greed and self-absorption. In a 2015 interview with Christopher McKittrick, LaGravenese explained: Things were surreal and changing in ways that were terrible, and then the AIDS crisis happened…. the Eighties felt as if everybody went, ‘Okay, fuck it, let’s just make a lot of money and do blow. It was a yuppie generation and all very narcissistic…. It felt like a very ugly decade, so I wanted to do something about narcissism and sacrifice, which I felt as a word and a concept was growing fainter and fainter in our culture as we were getting closer and closer to a world that kept telling us ‘You can have it all,’ which I think is a tremendous and destructive lie. The characters of Jack and Parry were first inspired by “a handsome young man walking with what appeared to be a mentally retarded young man” who “seemed to have an inseparable bond made not out of blood, but out of choice, devotion and affection” (LaGravenese 124). He found a direction for them after reading Robert E. Johnson’s He: Understanding Masculine Psychology. As Richard H. Osberg has noted, Johnson’s version of the Fisher King story neither follows Chrétien de Troyes, as Johnson claims, nor any other clear precedent (210). As Gilliam noted in his commentary track for the Criterion DVD, Johnson’s version and their differing understandings of grail legend led LaGravenese, Gilliam, and actors Bridges, Williams, and Mercedes Ruehl (Anne)

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to adapt and refine the story further. Chrétien’s Fisher King was somehow wounded in the groin, and his impotence is reflected in the wasting of his lands.1 Had the foolish knight Perceval asked the king about a procession involving the grail, both king and land would have been healed. In Johnson’s version, the king wounds himself as an adolescent who reaches into a fire for some roasted salmon (2). In the film version, we meet the Fisher King first as a boy “blinded by greater visions of a life filled with power and glory and beauty” who tries to retrieve not salmon, but the Holy Grail from a burning fire and suffers a wound that will cripple him until an act of compassion from a fool who offers him a drink from what turns out the be the Grail cures him. There is no explicit mention of a wasteland in the film (though New York appears as one in some scenes); instead, the emphasis is on the pain of the king who believed that he could “have it all.” Clearly, Jack is a figure of the film’s Fisher King, though as we will see later, he is not the only one. Following a Jungian approach, Johnson argues that “Most Western men are Fisher Kings. Every boy has naively blundered into something that is too big for him. He proceeds halfway through his masculine development and then drops it as being too hot” (4). The event for Jack is when one of his callers, Edwin (Christian Clemenson), takes his comment about yuppies—that “they’re repulsed by imperfection, horrified by the banal, everything that America stands for, everything that you and I stand for. They must be stopped before it's too late! It's us or them!”—far too seriously, shooting patrons of a popular restaurant then himself. That Jack then drops his career “as being too hot” and falls into depression indicates that he does have qualities that will lead him to a more chivalrous view of the world, but although Jack “wish[es] there was some way [he] could just pay the fine and go home,” his quest will not be that simple because he is too narcissistic and ambitious to risk sacrificing himself or his goals. A chivalrous knight must be willing to bravely put himself at risk; Jack is a coward who needs to learn that his fear of other people and desire to keep himself safe are part of his problem. Jack is called to his quest by the music in the opening scene, Ray Charles singing “Hit the Road, Jack,” before he has reason to believe that his life must change. He ends his opening radio show by saying, “Thank God I’m me!” but he is not as free or happy as he thinks he is. Gilliam has said that they intentionally created the impression of bars on the walls of Jack’s studio, the source of his power and prestige, and that it is intentional that Jack is separated

1 As Cory James Rushton has put it in Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King.” The Holy Grail on Film: Essays on the Cinematic Quest. Kevin J. Harty, ed. 2015 (143-157), “The Fisher King, in all medieval versions, is a nightmare of ineffective rule made real: a king who cannot perform as king, in any sense of the word” (149).

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from others at the station. As Gilliam put it, “Jack’s world is all about design and it is very photogenic…yet everything he’s in is a cage of one sort or another, or a glass tank…And he’s on his own, he’s not even in direct communication with his crew, who are on the other side of this glass barrier” (Morgan 169). Jack’s studio cage is to keep people out, but it also keeps him in, away, isolated. The limo he rides in is a closed, armor-like shell with only Jack, his agent and, on the other side of the glass, his driver; only people who are useful to him in establishing his status are allowed inside. That his posh apartment, from which he looks down on New York (literally and figuratively) is another cage is established by a shot of him dancing filmed from outside floor to ceiling windows, the frames of which have a cage-like appearance: “it’s a barren environment he lives in, and he’s a prisoner of it….Everything is very anal, it’s all controlled… but by controlling it he’s allowed nothing to get into it. And it becomes a very empty life. He’s a prisoner of his own success” (Morgan 169). Gilliam only mentions the studio, limo, and apartment as cages, but cell-like areas and cage-like spaces with bars recur throughout the film. Within the apartment, we see Jack in a cell-like bathtub. Three years after the shooting, he lives with his employer, Anne (Ruehl), above her video store. The store and apartment are also cages, though this is Anne’s territory rather than Jack’s, and warmer, more comfortable places than his previous home. The only times we see him exiting or entering the apartment, the video store is closed, protected by bars. When we see him inside the store (ostensibly working), he is either in the back room, away from the people, or behind the counter. The one time he ventures into the store itself is nightmarish, with uncomfortable shifts in camera angles and a verbal assault by a customer (Kathy Najimy). He stays in the elevator when he takes the Homeless Cabaret Singer (Michael Jeter) to deliver a message to Parry’s crush Lydia (Amanda Plummer). It is not until near the end of the film, just before the scene in which Jack finally accepts his quest, that he is symbolically free. We see him on the elevator in the mental hospital where Parry is in a coma. In place of a door is what looks like a very tall, white picket fence. It rises to let him out as he prepares to leave his cages behind. He has a lot to work through and a lot to let go of before that can happen, however. Jack’s fall in status is indicated by a camera shot panning down a highrise of the sort Jack lived in three years before. He is no longer literally looking down upon people; he is among the people, but he is not comfortable there. Even in his darkest moments, however, he ponders possible titles for his autobiography. Osberg has argued that Jack’s recurring references to possible titles for the book represent an attempt to end the fragmentation or separation in Jack’s life: “Opposed to the condition of fragmentation (arising in part from narcissism, guilt, and the failure to move beyond infant ego-projection – Jack finds himself frequently rehearsing the title of his autobiography – that is, trying to shape the oral fragments of his life into a coherent narrative) is the

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idea of the book” (203). While that is a reasonable interpretation, that Jack always feels worthy of an autobiography is also an indication that he still feels important enough that others will want to read about his life, that he does not believe himself an ordinary person. In an early scene from Jack’s post-shooting life, Jack, reading a tabloid, drunkenly mutters, “Garbage, people are garbage.” While the comment is quiet and easy to miss --which may be why it has escaped critical attention-- it sums up Jack’s real problem, the one that led to his fall: he, like Sir Damas, thinks of people as garbage, things to be used as necessary and tossed away if they are of no further use to him. They, like the cold, impersonal items in his apartment, are useful to establish his success. Consider his treatment of Edwin, whose frequent calls and failures with women have apparently provided fodder for Jack and entertainment for his listeners. Those comments to Edwin about yuppies are hypocritical, given Jack’s Versace clothing, limo, and glamorous apartment; he is one of the young urban professionals he ridicules, and from what little we see of him with his younger, artist girlfriend (Lara Harris), his comments about how yuppies “can’t feel love; they only negotiate love moments” seem to apply to their relationship as well. He is not one who should be giving advice on romance, but without first-hand knowledge of the woman Edwin is interested in or ever having seen Edwin, he insults both of them by telling Edwin “you’ll never get that tart to your dessert plate.” He laughs at Edwin, not with him. He’s built his career on treating people poorly and assuming there was no harm in that. As Angela Stukator has observed, Jack is at one “end… of a spectrum of appropriate roles for men within contemporary society. Jack, the cynical materialist, accepts exploitation and inequality as inherent social realities. Those who use them as tools are survivors, the rest are victims” (217). One purpose of his cages, as of his dark-windowed limousine, is to keep the victims/ human garbage away from him, as when he refuses to open the tinted limousine window to give money to the homeless man. There is a lot of garbage in this film, literally and figuratively. Osberg has noted that bits of paper frequently blow past characters at key moments in the film: “Neither newspapers not paper scraps, these fluttering, wind-driven sheets of paper resembled nothing so much as pages torn from books” (195). As noted above, for him, they symbolize the fragmentation of the modern wasteland. They also contribute to an impression that there is a lot of clutter and waste in the city, an impression supported further in scenes under a bridge near the East River, a homeless camp, and when Parry stops to pick up a broken cooler or champagne cork while walking down the street. Chased out of new (and age-appropriate) girlfriend Anne’s apartment by cries of “Forgive me!” from the television, which follow him into the street and will

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soon be echoed by a cabbie, Jack drunkenly trips over trash bags on the sidewalk. The action is emblematic of his situation: treating Edwin like trash has tripped him up and has left him uncertain how he can find forgiveness, wondering whether he too is trash. Drunk, his expensive coat newly ripped on his way out the door, clutching a bagged bottle of whiskey, he watches a welldressed man with whom he clearly identifies in conflict a homeless man. Ashamed by his father’s behavior, his well-dressed son addresses Jack as “Mr. Bum” and gives him his Pinocchio doll. The son is modeling the kind of compassionate behavior to all people that Jack needs to learn, but Jack’s quest has just begun. Addressed as a bum, Jack behaves like one. Approaching a glittering, golden statue of William Tecumseh Sherman with grand stone steps covered with litter and sleeping or lounging bodies of the homeless, Jack takes a seat near them at the statue’s base. One detail from this often-discussed scene in which Jack discusses how Nietzsche separated “the bungled and the botched” from those “who are destined for greatness” that usually avoids comment is that he includes Hitler as one destined for greatness. That the statue is of Sherman, a hero to one side of his war but a destroyer to the other, reinforces the point. For Jack, clearly, fame is what matters, not how many people are hurt by it. Having imagined himself among those worthy of a statue, he is now among the trash at its base. Feeling like garbage, one of the victims and not the victor, he decides to dispose of himself but, lacking courage, can’t quite bring himself to do it. Standing on the bank of the East River with a cement block and the Pinocchio doll tied to his foot, he hesitates and is attacked by two young men who arrive in a Jeep (Jayce Bartok and Dan Futterman). He is rescued by the mentally ill Parry and some of his homeless friends. The 1980s brought an increase in the number of homeless people throughout the country due to a growing gap between the rich and the poor, gentrification of neighborhoods which often eliminated the opportunity to rent a room instead of an apartment, and the deinstitutionalization of many patients from mental health institutions.2 Parry, as we later learn, was a professor named Henry Sagan who was severely traumatized when he watched his wife shot by Edwin, her blood and brains spattering over his face in a pattern that will inspire his hallucinations of a red knight who threatens him every time he starts to remember his past life. Released from a mental institution, unable to return to his work because he cannot remember even his name without being

2

For a concise summary of the situation as reported in 1988 by the National Academy of Sciences, see “Dynamics of Homelessness” https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK2 18240/.

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attacked by the knight, he is only kept off the street by the generosity of the superintendent of the building he used to live in who lets him live in the basement. Perhaps recognizing on some level that it was Jack’s lack of chivalry that led to his wife’s death, Parry has dubbed himself a questing knight, his name a variant of Perceval, the foolish knight in Chrétien’s version of the Fisher King. In one scene, Parry also calls himself “the janitor of God,” and figuratively speaking, that is one of his roles in the film. Parry tries to clean up the dangerous area near the river, not to get rid of the litter, but to oppose those who consider the homeless people who frequent the place trash. His quest is to bring chivalry to New York. During the filming, Gilliam told David Morgan, “this isn’t about homeless this film. People will want to pretend it is; it isn’t. It happens to be the background of the thing, but it’s certainly not what it’s about” (Morgan 159). However, earlier in the interview, he said that “At some point, I said that I thought Richard [LaGravenese] didn’t really appreciate or understand the totality of what he had written, of all his themes. But he did on an instinctive, subconscious level” (155). Gilliam, too, may not have been fully conscious of all the themes involved in his film, especially after Bridges and Williams argued for changes in their lines and actions. While homelessness is not a main theme of the film, much of the homelessness of the era is a by-product of an exploitive lifestyle that created greater gaps between the rich and the poor, the lifestyle LaGravenese wanted to critique, and the background it provides is important, especially because it provides context for Parry’s chivalry. Those with power are supposed to treat the poor well, or at least not abuse them. When the thugs in the Jeep attack Jack, assuming that he is homeless, one of them says, “People spend a lot of hardearned money for this neighborhood. It’s not fair looking out their windows to see your ass asleep on the streets,” a sentiment with which Jack agrees. Only those with money are worthy of being seen in the gentrified neighborhood. Robert J. Blanche has noted that a homeless Vietnam veteran’s comment that the man who gives him change “is paying so he don’t have to look” shows that the vet (Tom Waits) “Comprehend[s] fully that commuters supply money both to avoid eye contact (humanizing the poor) and to assuage their guilty consciences” (130). In the limo scene, Jack’s excuse for not opening the window to give the homeless man money is that “A couple of quarters isn’t going to make any difference anyway,” and while it might help the man scrape together a meal, in the long run, he is correct. Donating change does not solve the problems of the homeless, and if the cause of the homelessness is addiction, it may even contribute to the problem. “Humanizing the poor” might provide solutions, but Jack cannot see that he and they are not that different. Part of Parry’s purpose in Jack’s story is to help Jack learn that “you find some pretty amazing things in the trash”—a line altered after Jeff Bridges suggested that Parry “make a tiny chair out of a champagne cork, which Parry offers to Lydia

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as a gift” (LaGravenese 134). Parry will force Jack to look at, listen to, and touch homeless people, to learn that they are not trash and deserve to be treated well. Jack’s situation is, after all, closer to Parry’s than he realizes. His depression is not as severe as Parry’s psychosis, but it did cause him to leave his job and lose his posh apartment. Like Parry, his shelter is based on someone else’s generosity. Courtesy of Anne, Jack is not homeless, but based on what little we see of him ostensibly working in Anne’s video store—drunk (although it is morning) and insulting a customer—he does not earn his keep. We are left to assume she is supporting him; a point reinforced when she tells him that his whiskey is “on the house – like everything else.” Too self-centered to appreciate her, he treats Anne like garbage, staying out all night without calling her to let her know he’s okay, unable to return her professions of love, and frequently insulting her, most notably when, after she talks about what he liked about her when they met, he says “Suicidal paranoiacs will say anything to get laid.” Far from honoring his lady, he is telling her he is using her, a point brutally reinforced later when he is feeling like his old self again, incorrectly believing he has helped Parry by getting him a date with a woman named Lydia whom Parry has admired from afar. Jack’s plan took advantage of Anne’s business, kindness, and time after a long day of work. In one brief happy scene, he thanks her. The next morning, he breaks up with her. He is ready to return to his old life, and she is too middle class to be a part of that. Although living on her charity, he still feels that he, like the nobles of old, is above her, but without any responsibility to her. While Jack is not ready to see that he owes anything to Anne, seeing Parry as “a guy whose wife I killed” and thinking that if he could help Parry, “things would get better for me” makes Parry an object of care, even if Jack’s motives for that are inherently selfish. Helping Parry is a way to make himself feel better. Jack’s first attempt to “pay the fine and go home” to his old life is to give Parry money (likely Anne’s), a strategy he dismissed as pointless in the limousine scene. He should know better, but it’s the easiest way out he can think of. It does not work, of course. As Jacqueline Furby observes: Parry’s response is an act of generosity: he gives the money away to a ‘real’ down-and-out. This gesture highlights the cultural and temporal differences between the two characters; Jack inhabits present-day materialist New York where money is the signifier of status, while Parry lives, at least in his mind, in an antique world of the spirit where hard currency has no currency, and where the duty of a knight-errant is to care for the poor and helpless (82). Although not technically homeless himself, Parry is friends with the homeless, socializing with them, knowing their names, leading them in song, and

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enlisting them as knights in his quest to help the helpless. Cast off by society, they are still humans, not trash, to Parry. As Parry associates with cast-off people, he also collects cast-off objects. They make up his weapons and armor, and even when he is on a date with his adored Lydia, he cannot stop himself from picking up the champagne wire and shaping it into the chair. According to Tony Hood, “The ability to rummage in the trash of the past and to appraise objects not for their lost utility, but for the creative potential in a recasting of their function or the construction of something new … is at the foundation of Gilliam’s narrative, aesthetic and philosophical preoccupations” (39). Parry invites Jack to rummage with him, to learn to find the beauty and potential in the trash, or those some see as trash. That is not his main purpose, of course, but if the Grail in this film is a symbol of love as Gilliam notes in his Criterion commentary, part of the message of the grail quest is “respect for all kinds of life” (which Parry lists along with regular bowel movements and blue blazers as necessities of life), and that is very much what Jack needs. To learn to love people is to learn to see them, to see what they as individuals need. Parry does not need money; he needs a meaningful sign that the world can be safe and saved, and for him, that is the Holy Grail. Although Parry cannot remember his past life without the Red Knight appearing to threaten him, he recognizes Jack after chasing off the thugs who had attacked him, and on some level, he is aware that Jack’s suicide attempt suggests that they have both been damaged by the same incident. Gilliam intentionally made Jack’s first encounter with homeless men unpleasant (Criterion). The homeless men applaud when gasoline the thugs poured on Jack catches fire, and shortly thereafter, Jack is forced to drink from a communal bottle of alcohol, but Parry will lead him to more positive encounters. When, after waking up hung over and disoriented in Parry’s basement, Jack introduces himself, Parry says, “I know.” The connection is undoubtedly why the imaginary floating fairies that Parry talks with tell him that Jack is the One who is chosen to get the Holy Grail, a trophy Parry has seen on the bookshelf of wealthy Langdon Carmichael in an Architectural Digest photograph. Not surprisingly, Jack refuses to take on this quest until he has tried everything he can think of to avoid it. Leaving Parry’s basement, Jack runs into the building’s super (Al Fann), a figure Barbara D. Miller suggests might be a Merlin figure, as he is “the keeper of the hero’s secret identity” (154). He tells Jack Parry’s story and shows him remnants of Parry’s life as Henry Sagan, including pictures and an article on the Fisher King. This leads to Jack’s attempt to offer Parry money, which, as noted, fails. It was a foolish attempt, but at this point, both Jack and Parry are playing both the role of wounded king and the compassionate fool who must heal the king. As Parry

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tries to heal Jack, Jack tries to heal Parry, and each will be healed by healing the other. Jack does not find his easy answer, but he does learn about Parry’s admiration of Lydia, an awkward, unfashionable woman that Parry watches and follows on her breaks from work.3 In casting Amanda Plummer, Gilliam said, “I was trying to find somebody who didn’t look contemporary, with a face that to a modern world is not interesting but to a medieval mind like Parry’s would be beautiful” (Morgan 161). He is also dragged into the world of Parry’s quest, as Parry shows him Carmichael’s castle-like home. Reluctant, Jack tries to make Parry remember his real name. This triggers the first appearance of Parry’s Red Knight, a terrifying vision of smoke, fire, and red with a ferocious-looking mount. At first, reduced to writhing in the street, Parry, knowing on some level that his work with Jack may be the only way for him to recover his sanity, proclaims that the knight is afraid of Jack, perhaps recognizing him as another figure of Perceval, the inexperienced knight from Arthurian legend who without proper training or weapons, kills a Red Knight who intends to claim King Arthur’s lands as his own. With the knight on the run, Parry chases him, and Jack chases Parry, eventually finding him sitting peacefully on a sunny rock where they soon hear cries of distress. Parry responds as a questing knight should, saying a little prayer of thanks and heading off to help. Cory James Rushton has noted that Parry’s prayer includes the possibility that the cries may be male or female, “a means by which Parry’s fair-mindedness can be revealed, his ability to see past the dichotomy of reality/fantasy. When he first hears [the]cries for help, he specifically avoids making a gender judgement” (153). Indeed, “They find not the damsel in distress of narrative convention, but a homeless cabaret singer half-buried in the dirt of the bridle path, surrounded by wind-tossed paper” (Osberg 202). This occasionally cross-dressing, gay, homeless character, listed in the credits as Homeless Cabaret Singer, became more important to the plot during filming. As Gilliam put it, “The character proved to be so strong we had to bring him back again” (Criterion), but adding to his part also added to the symbolic importance of homelessness in the film. Parry was no longer the only homeless person Jack needs to learn to care about. In his commentary on the Criterion DVD of the film, Gilliam emphasizes that when Jack actually touches Parry, getting a hug from him in front of Carmichael’s castle, it is very important to Jack’s growth and eventual recovery. Played brilliantly by Jeter, the cabaret singer forces Jack to touch him, and later,

3 Although Parry’s worship from afar is called stalking in today’s world, it is notable that he does not follow her home or seem to know where she lives, and he does not try to get into her office; his worship is limited to public places and he has not learned her name, a fact Jack quickly uncovers.

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to listen to him and to see him. Having refused to be helped up out of the dirt by Parry, when Jack suggests he wants to be left as he is, the singer says, “I love bleeding in horseshit … how Ghandiesque of you” and offers his dirty hand to Jack in true damsel in distress fashion. We next see them in the waiting room of a hospital, where the singer drapes himself across Jack’s seated body, pieta fashion. Forced to see and touch him, Jack asks him, “When you lost your mind, did it happen all at once or was it a slow, gradual process?” With this, Jack begins to see him as a person, not just trash. For Jack at this point, to be heard and seen by him means that one may also be used by him. When Lydia resists his plan for Parry to meet her courtesy of a free membership and VCR rental from Anne’s video store, knowing that the singer can sing everything from Gypsy, Jack calls him to sing a production number at Lydia’s office. Jack ought to be grateful, but he is more concerned with how it might make him look to others, so once the singer has stepped out of the elevator and away from him, he mutters to no one and anyone, “I can’t believe I’m on a first-name basis with these people.” The date itself goes very well, but Jack’s part in it has been too easy. Anne did a lot of the real work, not only allowing him to exploit her business but agreeing to do Lydia’s nails for her the day and time that everybody else wants her to do it, not when she might have scheduled it. The plan relied on using her and the cabaret singer. Although he did plan it to please Parry, it was also a form of avoidance; it was something Parry wanted, but it was not what he needed, a way for Jack to stay safe. Parry is not healthy enough to allow himself to take the risk of loving and losing again and is chased to the scene of Jack’s rescue by his vision of the Red Knight, he is attacked by the thugs who attacked Jack and ends up comatose and hospitalized. When we see Jack on the radio again shortly thereafter, he is kinder to his listeners and less arrogant, ending his show not with “Thank God I’m me!” but with “From one of the botched to all you bungled out there, I love ya.” The message is humble and loving, but he is still in his cage, still separate from his co-workers and listeners, talking to someone else on the phone after the show, not in person. The content of that phone call also indicates that he still values people, at least in part, for what they can do for him. Referring to a possible syndicated show, he mentions that “Beth’s father set it up.” We never see this Beth, but presumably, she is the “fucking gorgeous” girlfriend he mentions to the comatose Parry while he is deciding to get the Grail, and more upscale in her fashion choices than sexy, middle-class Anne. She also has connections that are useful to Jack, as Anne does not. We don’t need to meet her because we met his first girlfriend earlier in the film. Beth is important as a type and a social resource, not as a person.

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Interestingly, it is the character who Jack referred to as one of “these people” earlier who makes Jack listen to the message he has been so slow to learn. Jack walks past the Homeless Cabaret Singer, who is again in distress, being confronted by police. Ignoring the singer’s pleas for help and claims of friendship, Jack goes to a job interview for a sitcom called Home Free, based on the premise that the homeless are happy and carefree. Hearing the description of the show, Jack rushes from the room to look for the singer, but he is too late, and the singer is gone. As Rushton has noted, his “sudden unexpected revulsion to the project, combined with [the cabaret singer’s] earlier demand for Jack’s acknowledgement, is Jack’s salvation” (154-155). He knows that the homeless man he just walked past has been broken by watching his friends die of AIDS, just as he and Parry were broken by Edwin’s shooting rampage. As Gilliam put it, “He’s Peter and the cock has just crowed three times” (Criterion). Jack appears to finally understand that having done him a favor, this man has the right to consider him a friend who might help him out in return. He is no longer garbage to Jack, but a person. We do not see the singer again, but he has changed Jack’s life and helped prepare him to achieve his quest. As noted above, when Jack arrives at the mental institution, the metaphorical gate to his cage lifts, but he is not yet quite ready to be free. He hides among a group of patients to avoid being noticed by Lydia. He does not engage with them or show concern for them, but they are useful to him as camouflage in this instant. Later in the scene, as he argues with himself over Parry’s staring, unmoving body, he returns to the group, desperate for anyone who can help him. As he is unable to see them as people in need of help, they are similarly unable to see him, and he is left on his own. That one of the patients is now bleeding—the large, dripping, red gash a startling contrast to pale, neutral skin tones, clothing, and walls around him—does not distract Jack from his own problems or inspire a chivalrous urge to help. Finding nobody to help and getting no response from Parry, he finally accepts that he must do what Parry wants and he must act on his own. It is not until then that he realizes he must put aside his narcissism and make a sacrifice that will put his life and his freedom at risk to do what Parry wants him to do because Parry needs Jack to put someone else’s needs before his own. “Jack Lucas has to develop empathy and act out of pure kindness in order to complete his journey. Parry has to overcome the trauma of losing his wife. Jack has to love more and Parry has to love a little less, or at least a little differently” (Root). The grail myth, with its message that healing and rebirth are possible if brave knights act as they should, has helped Parry function throughout his madness after the loss of his wife, but Jack has remained outside Parry’s world. He does not understand it any more than he understands love. As Preston observed, “Parry's invitation for Jack to join him on the Grail quest is nothing

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less than an offer to enter into his own world of madness and myth. In so doing, Jack holds the key to Parry’s salvation, and to his own salvation as well…. Jack is now challenged to become Perceval, the knight who must prove himself worthy, and then accomplish the task of healing the wounded king” (61-62). To cure Parry, Jack has to act like Parry’s idea of a proper knight. Donning Parry’s makeshift armor and following Parry’s plan to break into Langdon Carmichael’s home, Jack risks death, swinging at one point from a rope secured to an anchor hanging not very securely from a pole high up on Carmichael’s castle. Jack has to act with courage for the first time in the film. As Gilliam and others have said, Langdon Carmichael is a figure of the Fisher King—Rushton suggests he is even the “real” one (155)—but he is also a figure of who Jack might have become, a lonely old man surrounded by wealth but isolated in his beautiful castle. That may be why Jack’s first impulse is to try to wake him, even though success would likely mean that Jack would be arrested, a risk he repeats when he intentionally sets off the alarm when he leaves. That Carmichael has tried to commit suicide may be the final lesson for Jack; wealth and success did not buy Carmichael happiness. Jack has taken on the role of fool and knight twice in the same adventure, once because he felt Parry gave him no choice, and the second time because he just wanted to help someone in trouble. He has finally acted in a chivalrous manner. When we see him again, he is still in Parry’s clothes, his usually-confined hair is down and flowing, and he is singing with Parry and the other patients, smiling. Having learned the lessons of chivalry, risking himself for others and realizing that true success involves treating others well, he is finally ready to be “well beloved with all people,” including himself. He is ready to admit he loves Anne and that life might be a lot more fulfilling if he does not take himself and his fame so seriously. Success is not about what he has but who he has. Works Cited Blanche, Robert J. “The Fisher King in Gotham: New Age Spiritualism Meets the Grail Legend.” King Arthur on Film: New Essays on Arthurian Cinema, edited by Kevin J. Harty, McFarland, 1999, pp. 123-139. Furby, Jacqueline. “The Fissure King: Terry Gilliam’s Psychotic Fantasy Worlds.” The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Karen Randall, Anna Froula, and Jeff Birkenstein, WallFlower Press, 2013, pp. 79-91. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=e000xna&AN=581811&sit e=ehost-live. Gilliam, Terry. The Fisher King. TriStar, 1991. Criterion, 2015. Hood, Tony. “Grail Tales: The Preoccupations of Terry Gilliam.” The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Karen Randall, Anna Froula, and Jeff Birkenstein, WallFlower Press, 2013, pp.32-41. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost. com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=e000xna&AN=581811&site=ehost-live.

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Johnson, Robert A. He: Understanding Masculine Psychology (Revised edition). Harper & Row, 1989. LaGravenese, Richard. “The Search for the Holy Reel.” The Fisher King: The Book of the Film. Richard LaGravenese. Applause Books, 1991, pp.123-137. Malory, Thomas, and Peter J. C. Field. Le Morte Darthur: Vol. 1. D. S. Brewer, 2013. McKittrick, Christopher. “Richard LaGravenese and The Fisher King.” Creative Screenwriting, 22 June 2015, creativescreenwriting.com/richard-lagravenese -and-the-fisher-king/. Miller, Barbara D. “‘Cinemagicians’: Movie Merlins of the 1980s and 1990s.” King Arthur on Film: New Essays on Arthurian Cinema, edited by Kevin S. Harty, McFarland, 1999, pp. 141-166. Morgan, David. “Interviews with Terry Gilliam.” The Fisher King: The Book of the Film. Edited by Richard LaGravenese, Applause Books, 1991, pp. 153-171. Osberg, Richard H. “Pages Torn from the Book: Narrative Disintegration in Gilliam’s The Fisher King.” Studies in Medievalism, vol.7, 1995, pp. 194-224. Preston, Barry A. Myths and Movies: a Mythographical Methodology of Motion Picture Analysis. 1996, University of North Texas. MA Thesis, https://digital. library.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metadc279362/: Root, Andrew. “Divinity on the Upper East Side: Heroic Transformation in The Fisher King.” Bright Wall/Dark Room, Issue 48, June 2017, https://www.bright walldarkroom.com/2017/06/12/divinity-on-the-upper-east-side-heroictransformation-in-the-fisher-king/. Rushton, Cory James. “Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King.” The Holy Grail on Film: Essays on the Cinematic Quest, edited by Kevin J. Harty. 2015, pp.143-157. Stukator, Angela. “‘Soft Males,’ ‘Flying Boys,’ and ‘White Knights’: New Masculinity in the Fisher King.” Literature Film Quarterly, vol. 25, no. 3, July 1997, p. 214. EBSCOhost,libcat.landmark.edu:8443/login?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/l ogin.aspx?direct=true&db=aph&AN=9710306906&site=eds-live.

Chapter 7

Democratic dreams and the death of Arthur, king Adrienne Major Landmark College

Abstract Films about King Arthur reimagine a mythical past with the anxieties and wishes of the present imaginary, and then broadcast these anxieties and wishes. This chapter analyzes four big screen, live action productions of King Arthur’s legend that have come out over the turn of the century to show how they both explicate and contain the defining myths of their political moments: Excalibur (Boorman 1981); First Knight (Zucker, 1995); King Arthur (Fuqua, 2004) and King Arthur, Legend of the Sword (Ritchie, 2017). Each of these films appear more or less evenly across the years, on average one every decennial. Each appear within a cataclysm of American geopolitical action. Because of the Arthurian subject matter, each provides more questions than conclusions for their political moments. Arthur in America becomes a discordant tune that reveals a separate death of democratic dreams in each reincarnation of the king. Keywords: King Arthur; Arthurian; film; Excalibur; First Knight; politics; democracy *** Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurum The legend of King Arthur balances a series of oppositional tropes, constantly deconstructing itself: might for right and internecine successionary battles; the round table with no one at its head and the king who unites the kingdom under the authority of his sword; the quest for the sanctification of the Grail and the dissolution of the kingdom through neglect; the king who is killed in battle as his kingdom crumbles beneath him and the king who will return in the hour of need. Peter Ackroyd suggests that this impossible congruence of possibilities is uniquely Arthurian in its imagination, melding as it does the melancholy assurance of its bitter ending with the incongruously optimistic mandate to choose that mythic path:

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It is the kind of stoicism which has been seen as characteristic of AngloSaxon poetry, perhaps nowhere better expressed than in “The Battle of Maldon” where the most famous Saxon or English cry has been rendered— “Courage must be the firmer, heart the bolder, spirit must be the greater, as our strength grows less.” That combination of bravery and fatalism, endurance and understatement, is the defining mood of Arthurian legend (115). This mood is understandable in an ancient nation, well used to overcoming or at very least assimilating to the vicissitudes of fate. What is odd is that such a melancholy legend, laced with such failure at its core, should become a foundational myth for the United States, a country that prides itself on can-do optimism and refuses to allow itself to fail. And yet, decade after decade, particularly of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, Arthur has been reincarnated to play out the nation’s dreams of itself, both on page and on screen. And ever since the close identification between the Kennedy White House and the musical Camelot, such identification has included, most particularly, the political center of the country. This, at least, is not surprising: the Arthur myth deeply concerns questions of authority and power and how power ought to be wielded. Little wonder, then, that Hollywood turns to Arthur whenever questions of the uses of power and what constitutes legitimate authority raise their heads. Norris Lacy identifies “well over 100 Arthurian films” (130) in the Hollywood canon as of his cataloging in 2009. Susan Aronstein selects a representative thirty-five films to review in her “Arthur’s American Round table: The Hollywood Tradition” (2007), ranging from Knights of the Square Table (1917) to SpongeBob SquarePants: Lost in time (2006). In concluding her review, Aronstein suggests that “Hollywood Arthuriana is an ideologically loaded, contested genre. Its history…calls us to heed Umberto Eco’s warning about the dangers of our fascination with the medieval past: “Since the Middle Ages have always been messed up” it is critical that we ask “what Middle Ages” (or what Arthur) “‘we are dreaming of’ (1986: 68)” (508). In his review of Arthuriana, Nickolas Haydock suggests that a close reading of Arthurian films will give us insight into the collective imaginary of this nation through the lens of Hollywood. Drawing upon Siegfried Kracauer’s Theory of Film, he posits mass entertainment to be “the distilled expression of collective desires which serve not merely to reflect but also to intensify ideals such as patriotism, nostalgia for charismatic leadership or a belief in the historical destiny of nations” (526). And Thomas Shippey concludes his analysis of Antione Fuqua’s King Arthur (2006) by remarking that “Hollywood…may do more harm than it knows. Too many Hollywood rewritings of history are not only silly, they are dangerously silly” (323).

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Films about Arthur reimagine a mythical past with the anxieties and wishes of the present imaginary, and then broadcast these anxieties and wishes, exponentially amplifying that resonance and contributing to the collective unconscious that is the spirit of the age. The complexities and contractions in the Arthurian legends create a space that is capable of carrying the narratives that we design in our own times. To answer Eco’s inquiry, the “…Middle Ages that we are dreaming of” are our own. We sink time and treasure into forcing the questions of our times into Arthurian dress and then, overset by the tragedy of the vessel, flee in horror from the ideas we therein reveal. In this chapter, I will analyze the four big-screen live-action productions of King Arthur’s legend produced over the turn of the century to demonstrate how they both explicate and contain the defining myths of their political moments: Excalibur (Boorman, 1981); First Knight (Zucker, 1995); King Arthur (Fuqua, 2004) and King Arthur, Legend of the Sword (Ritchie, 2017). Each of these films appears more or less evenly across the years, on average one every decennial. Because of the Arthurian subject matter, each provides more questions than conclusions for their political moments. Arthur in America becomes a discordant tune that reveals a separate death of democratic dreams in each reincarnation of the king. Masculine Anxiety and the Fetishization of the Sword The late 1970s in Britain and the US were marked by the failure of liberal policy to withstand the onslaught of a mythology demonizing the collective and supporting “rugged individualism” as both a bromide and a curative to the economic ailments of high inflation, unemployment, and the perceived failure of the “nanny state.” In addition, in British politics, a new woman who earned her sobriquet of “the iron lady” took firm hold of the British politics of the right. In the United States, where masculinity holds a much stronger central position, the passage of the equal rights amendment through the house and Senate in 1972 brought on a vigorous backlash of anti-feminist rhetoric and misogyny, ironically led by Phyllis Schlafly, another strong woman. Onto the screens of Britain and America in 1981 bursts John Boorman’s Excalibur, marked by virulent anti-feminism, resolutely un-ironic masculine anxiety, and an obsessive focus on the sword as its central image. Undeniably a box-office sensation, Excalibur spoke to nations in decline, suffering from severe economic recessions, and worrying about the state of their empires. The film begins in a mythic and aimlessly violent past. With a backlit shot of armored warriors scrabbling in battle on a muddy, rock-strewn hill of no determinate strategic worth, hacking one another with halberds, charging and countercharging, ragged banner accosting ragged banner with no discernible cause or side, Boorman’s “Dark ages” (so identified in the opening crawl) rage in meaningless slaughter. From the smoke and the shadows, we see Merlin’s

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concerned face and hear Uther’s voice declare, “I am the strongest; I am the one!” Uther (Gabriel Byrne) is, as it happens, not the one: the crawl calls for a unifying king, but Uther’s first act under the auspices of a peace newly minted by the power of the sword Excalibur is to betray the hospitality of Tintagel and rape the wife of his host while his host is killed in yet another meaningless battle. The arc of the film is one in which mindless violence and meaningless struggle are superseded by a short time (the span of Arthur’s early years and the establishment of Camelot) by meaningful struggle, which then devolves again into internecine wars of madness and succession. Despite the promise of the crawl that the dark ages are ended by Arthur (Nigel Terry), the film itself declares that violence and death are the only constants in this mythic world and that the promise of Camelot, Arthur, the round table, the grail and Excalibur itself is merely hiatus. The anxiety of the moment can be seen in the fraught sexual politics of the film. Masculinity is shielded throughout as if it can only exist within a carapace of steel. Knights are constantly in armor—not only on the battlefield, but also at the feasting table, at the wedding celebration and even in the bedroom. As Arthur establishes Camelot, and peace is celebrated throughout the land, the knights’ armor changes from a dull grey to a polished silver but is never reduced from the full, plate-metal sheathing with dangling rondels first seen on the armies of Uther Pendragon a generation ago. Merlin (Nicol Williamson) never appears without his steel skullcap, presumably protecting his own most vulnerable and important organ. On the other hand, women are clad in loose, flowing and delicate dresses, which offer them no protection and leave an uncomfortable impression as we watch them embracing the fully armored knights. Images of Uther—disguised by Merlin’s magic as Igrayne’s husband Gorlois (Corin Redgrave), duke of Cornwall—in full plate armor raping Igrayne (Katrine Boorman) in time to the death throes of her husband are among the most painful and appalling in the film, depicting as they do the doubled politics of rape as entertainment and the masochistic, one-sided power relationship between masculine and feminine that the film consistently supports.1 Arthur is a product of this rape. His own son, Mordred (Charley Boorman/Robert Addie), is the product of another, perpetrated upon Arthur himself by his half-sister, Morgana (Helen Mirren). Morgana, having learned, perhaps from her observation of Uther’s rape of Igrayne, uses the shape of Guinevere (Cherie Lunghi) in her own rape of her brother.

1 Laurie Finke and

Martin Shichtman provide a fascinating analysis of Boorman’s casting of his daughter as Igrayne, and his refusal to confront the sexual politics of his film in their essay, “Remediating Arthur” (see especially pp. 490-492).

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The film focuses its symbolic energy on the sword. Merlin describes the Excalibur as a weapon made to “heal, not to hack,” but during the course of the film, precious little “healing” occurs. The Arthurian ideal of “might for right” is the oblique referent here—however, the film never shows the sword engaged in this pursuit. The sword in the hands of Uther unites kingdoms but is lost in his death. In the hands of Arthur, the kingdom is once again united, but then weakens under the combined forces of peaceful inattention and sexual dalliance. Indeed, the imagery of the sword throughout the film is one of hypersexualization. It is thrust into stones, between lovers, and, in one memorable moment, broken during a duel with Lancelot (Nicholas Clay) and cast away in disgust (Arthur proclaims, “I have used it wrongly, for selfish purposes!”). This exquisite foreshadowing demonstrates the principle use of the sword during the height of Arthur’s reign: as a calling card thrust into the rock between them during Lancelot and Guinevere’s forest tryst. Finally, at the behest of an Arthur now mortally wounded by the spear thrust of his son, the sword is cast by Perceval (Paul Geoffrey) into the lake to usher Arthur off to Avalon. There it and King Arthur leave the country, just starting to return from its long illness, in chaos. The Round Table in this film serves primarily as a glorified feasting and trysting spot. We hear that Lancelot is much missed from the “committee meetings” held around its circumference; we, however, see only the feasting, trysting and betrayals that belie such activities. If the sword is sexualized masculinity, then surely this table is the feminine center of the film: luxurious, a place for scheming and betrayal, and ultimately too weak to hold the kingdom together. Indeed, it is the combination of feminine sexual power and fear of that feminine that marks the destruction of Camelot, round table, sword and all. The Arthur that this film spends most of its time on is not the boyish Arthur finding the origin of his powers in friendship and forgiveness, nor the doughty Arthur at the height of his powers, his Queen beside him and his enemies at bay, but a king grown old in middle age, his court riddled with scandals, himself rendered powerless, sickly, jealous and selfish through, as we see, the machinations of women. Guinevere, he sees, “betrays” him through her adoration of Lancelot. Arthur responds by allowing his country to wither away while he morns the loss of Guinevere’s undivided love. Morgana uses her sexuality first to get herself a child through Arthur’s unassuaged obsession with Guinevere and then to lure Merlin into his own sexually induced entrapment. Lacking masculine guidance, we see the kingdom falling further into chaos and concomitant barbarism. Arthur, deciding that he himself is his country and that the only way to heal his country will have been to heal himself, sends his knights off on a quest to find the holy grail. This quest, along with Arthur’s own illness, drives his knights into hysteria and furthers his country’s descent into feminized ruin.

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Indeed, the pessimism of this film can be read as a response to a perception of the feminization (read weakening) of traditional power centers; representational democracies in the grip of recession, energized by anxieties of feminized power with all of the suspicion of a patriarchal culture to that power source even when the feminized power uses masculinist tropes and myths in order to secure its centrality; a moment when the horizon looks bleakly like the barge heading off to Avalon with no faith in the future. Arthur may return—indeed, the film suggests that he will—but not to this time and not to this failed place, this destroyed Camelot, this Democratic despair. Democratic Dictator? Hollywood waited fifteen years before producing another film in the Arthurian oeuvre. Jerry Zucker’s First Knight posits a Guinevere (Julia Ormond) who is the queen of Leonesse, a small kingdom threatened by a hostile take-over from the warlord (and ex-round table knight) Malagant (Ben Cross). To save her realm, Guinevere contracts a marriage with Arthur (Sean Connery), whose kingdom of Camelot has the strength to protect Leonesse. On the way to her marriage, Guinevere’s train is ambushed by Malagant, and she herself only escapes thanks to the come-by-chance help of Lancelot (Richard Gere), here not a knight at all, but a roaming mercenary and part-time huckster. Thus is the Arthurian triangle set up, as Lancelot toys with exploiting Guinevere’s obvious sexual interest in him, yet continues to ride, swim and run to her rescue as needed. This particular triangle is never fully consummated, however, and no question of Morgana/Mordred is allowed to enter into the picture. Of all the wide-screen Arthurs under review, this film is the least “Celtic” in its approach.2 Here there is no magic, no lady of the lake, no mystic grail quest and no wizard. Excalibur is named but has no special properties. No stones are mentioned. Instead, this Arthur is muscularly “Christian” in its imagination. Crosses abound on the screen, from an opening shot of a cross set above a burning church to the cross device on the shields of the knights of the round table to the carefully framed shot of Camelot that focuses on three of the crosscut windows in the walls as the army troops off to rescue Leonesse from the hands of merciless invaders. Important scenes take place in the chapel, as Lancelot holds vigil for his knighthood, and Arthur wrestles with first the kidnapping and then the betrayal of Guinevere. God is constantly invoked, in blessing and petition, most often by Arthur and usually in reference to

2

For a thorough exploration of “romantic celticism” see Thomas Shippey, “Historical Fiction and the Post-Imperial Arthur” in A Companion to Arthurian Literature, edited by Helen Fulton (2009), pp. 449-463.

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Lancelot. This relationship is manifest in such lines as “God uses people like you” and “you risked your life for another: there is no greater love.” In this film, as played by Sean Connery, Arthur is at the end of a successful reign. Zucker presents him as an elder statesman or priest, calm and measured, a living embodiment of the ideals of Camelot. He has established his kingdom, unified his lands, created the sui-democratic mechanism of the round table, and is now at leisure to take a bride. He is confident in his power and the ideals of his court and shows these off to the much younger Guinevere. He is the oldest Arthur of the films; and the most autocratic. True to the ethos of this Camelot, when Arthur dies, there is no promise of return. His funeral barge is set alight as the camera lingers on the sad but stern faces of Lancelot and Guinevere. Hope here is immediate, not postponed indefinitely into some mythic future need. Arthur’s legacy is that of handing kingdom, sword, table, and Guinevere herself over to Lancelot, confident that Lancelot and Guinevere will carry on the ideals of Camelot. This Camelot is not weakened by internecine warfare nor destroyed by the attempted invasion of Malagant. Instead, it rises more completely unified because its people have worked together in concert with its knights to cast off the invader. As with Excalibur, we have a unification theme—in this case, however, not one of uniting brutal overlords into a loosely sprawling alliance that will crumble back into chaos at the disintegration of its leader. Instead, the unification is between populace and leadership, and one that can only happen with the death of Arthur. Indeed, First Knight is so troubled by the signifier of Arthur that its only resolution lies in getting rid of him so that Camelot (and by extension Leonesse) can coalesce behind newer, more democratic leadership. The underlying irony is that Arthur, although set up both by casting choice and by filming to be the sage leader who ushers in democratic ideals through the institution of the round table, is nevertheless himself the presiding obstacle in the way of democratic ideation in his autocratic abnegation of those very ideals. I want to explore closely two examples of this self-contradictory presentation: those of the prize kiss and the Round Table. Connery’s Arthur, this general who has created and maintained the strength of Camelot through his relentless leadership, constantly betrays the very ideals he claims to champion. We see this in Arthur’s first betrayal of these ideals at the gauntlet scene. Here, as part of the celebration of Arthur’s betrothal, men are invited to run a gauntlet of spinning swords and clubs. The prize for success had been “to meet the King,” but at the appearance of Arthur and Guinevere to observe the contest, the prize changes “to kiss the Queen,” a prize benevolently sanctioned by Arthur. Here, in short, Arthur is prepared to give away that which later he will pay for with both his life and his kingdom—he prostitutes Guinevere’s kiss for any one of the gathered multitude who can beat the

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gauntlet. This is all very egalitarian. The contest is open to all, knight and commoner alike, and only Guinevere is afforded no choice in the context. Her kiss will be taken as the prize by whoever makes it first through the gauntlet. True to the dynamics of the film, it is Lancelot who wins the prize—Lancelot, who has already attempted to entice Guinevere to kiss him, who has already rescued Guinevere once from an attempted abduction by Malagant, and in whom Guinevere, unbeknownst to Arthur, is increasingly interested. At this point a stranger to Arthur, Lancelot’s claiming a kiss from Guinevere is politics—a play for the crowd engineered and employed by Arthur in a farce of that egalitarianism that Arthur claims to champion. Lancelot refuses to take his prize, and the worth of the Queen’s kiss is placed in escrow. It is not until later in the film when Lancelot and Guinevere have nobly decided that they cannot stay in Camelot together, and he, Lancelot must leave, that Lancelot claims his kiss. However, that kiss that had been in public a play for that public, now in private is a violation of a vow. Arthur, beholding the kiss, now values the prize he would have given away to any of the hoi polloi— including Lancelot—now re-evaluates the worth of the prize, and decides that it must be reneged. The gifted kiss has become a commodity that is no longer valueless but rather worth a kingdom, or, at very least, two lives, as Arthur charges both Lancelot and Guinevere with treason against himself and places them on public trial for their lives. In this re-evaluation, Arthur betrays the autocratic calculus of worth: when something is worthless, it is obtainable for anyone. When that very same item becomes personally valuable, it is unfathomable that it should be granted to any of the populace. The people are valued in this nascent democracy only when their worth can be measured by nothingness. This worthiness/worthlessness trope is further amplified in the use and imagery of the Round Table. The First Knight Round Table is small, with only thirteen seats, clearly meant for the elite of the elite—a representative rather than a comprehensive collection of knights. The table’s surface is scored like a pie into thirteen segments with space for each knight’s sword to be placed, naked blade pointed to the center, on the table during council sessions. The center of the table contains an eternal flame, around which is inscribed the motto “In serving each other we become free.” The film plays with the tropes of freedom and service, especially during council scenes. The idea of the round table is that it has no head, and each council member or knight has equal sway and precedence. Yet, in the scenes set at the table, Arthur constantly overrides his knights’ council and abrogates their decisions without consideration of their merits. When he invites Lancelot to join the table, for instance, the knights argue against it, suggesting that nothing is known about the stranger and pressing the king to enter a discussion before he issues the invitation. “Enough,”

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Arthur grunts, shutting the knights down with a gesture. Furthermore, when the knights and Arthur sit at their designated seats around this table, there is no room left either for a petitioner or for a Queen. Guinevere is marooned on the outside of the table, at the backs of the knights—as is any petitioner but Malagant, whose place at the table is still set, and at which he seats himself when dealing for Leonesse. In the brotherhood of knights, the knights only are allowed at the table, even when the country in question belongs not to them but to the Queen. Ironically, the only knight Arthur listens to at all is Malagant, who takes the thirteenth seat he himself had repudiated and continues to repudiate throughout the council. Him at least, Arthur allows to speak and to question, and to whom he does the favor of an answer. It is here, as has been pointed out separately by both Nickolas Haydock (2005) and Tom Shippey (2007) that we get to the troubling political heart of this film: Malagant makes a play for Leonesse, harrying its borders, turning its people into refugees, seeking to use it as a stepping stone to his ultimate goal: the capture of Camelot. He comes to Arthur to demand by what right Arthur protects the country—not even his own country—from Malagant’s incursion. The exchange leads us uneasily into the questions America and its allies grappled with during the Desert Shield/Desert Storm campaigns of ’91-92. Arthur: You know the law we live by. And where is it written that beyond Camelot live lesser people—too weak to defend themselves—let them die? Malagant: Other people live by other laws, Arthur. Or is the law of Camelot to rule the entire world? Arthur: There are laws that enslave men and laws that set them free. Either what we hold to be right and good and true is right and good and true for all mankind, under God, or we’re just another robber tribe. Haydock and Shippey both point out the proto-western chauvinism this exchange entails. “It’s right because we need to be right, because if our ideals are wrong then we ourselves are no better than that which we fight” creates a disturbing tautology that both the film and American foreign policy shy away from. The film weights Arthur’s argument with the idea that God is the justifier here, and we find ourselves in the midst of an elision between Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “just laws” and “unjust laws” and the responsibility to choose between the two ethically. Shippey highlights the cultural relativity of Arthur’s God and his tacit assumption of universality. The audience is left to presume that Arthur is correct and that for these reasons we should indeed have spent our proverbial blood and treasure in saving Kuwait from the exigencies of Saddam Hussein. However, with the death of Arthur and the claiming of a more democratic future for Camelot under Lancelot and Guinevere, the film could also be said to aim some questioning tendrils at the assumption of manifest destiny. Does the world of Arthur—the single leader whose word only is right—

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prevail upon his death, or does it develop outward into a world where Guinevere is included at the table, and the people are part of the value? Freedom through Monarchy Whereas 1994 had us wondering whether a successful desert shield/desert storm campaign had been the right thing to do, 2004 saw us in an altogether different position in a war against the same enemy as Arthur returns again. The 9/11 terror attack had shocked the United States into outbursts of militant patriotism; the idea that “they hate us for our freedom” widely bruited. It plunged into a war with Afghanistan and shortly thereafter reopened the war with Saddam Hussein in Iraq. It is in this context that Antoine Fuqua’s King Arthur was brought to the big screen with the otiose claim to tell the true, historically authoritative story. This Arthur (played by Clive Owen) is a general in Roman Britain, in charge of Sarmatian contract troops who fight as indentured mercenaries for Rome in the outskirts of its empire. Rome, an aged, tired, retiring superpower, whose Pelagian ideals have been deeply lodged within the breast of Arthur but largely traduced by the Roman authorities, is in a prolonged retraction. One of the territories to be left to its own devices in this withdrawal is Britain, an outpost along the fringes of the empire. Fuqua sets a complicated table. Arthur himself is half Roman, half Briton, imbued both with the philosophy of Pelagius and the fighting capabilities of Hannibal. His “knights” are a band of contract fighters whose families for the past 200 years (according to the introductory montage) have ceded their eldest sons to Rome with the promise that for twenty years of fighting, they will be able to return to their homes on the steppes. These men, given the familiar names of Round Table knights: Lancelot, Tristram, Dagonet, Bors, Gawain, Galahad, have reached the end of their contracts and are looking forward to ridding themselves of their indenture. Rome is represented by a doublecrossing bishop, Germanus (Ivano Marescotti), who plays on Arthur’s Roman idealism and betrays the terms of the Sarmatian indenture by demanding that the knights undertake a final, probably suicidal, mission. Roman Britain itself is threatened by enemies both within and without. Indigenous tribespeople (called “Woads” in the world of the film) seek their own freedom from Roman rule. And the barbarians at the gate are the Saxons, here a genocidal onslaught

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of warriors out to perpetrate Sherman’s march across northern Britain in the name of racial purity3 and conquest. For Fuqua’s Arthur, questions of loyalty, fealty and service are foremost. How can he remain loyal to his men and to Rome at the same time? To whom does he owe fealty—to the Rome that he has never seen, whose ideals he imagines to be universal? To the land that he has lived in and fought over, but which lacks a coherent government? And for what cause should he serve? The stories of the knights are simple—as told in a voice-over narration by a posthumous Lancelot (Ioan Gruffudd), they want their freedom from Rome, and they want to return to the land of their origin, remembered in a series of flashbacks in the opening montage. This film, however, is most concerned with Arthur. What are his choices? How will he make them? What will his choices mean to him, to Rome and to the nascent creation of “Britain”? In Fuqua’s vision of Arthur, we see an altogether stronger and more morally compelling man than Boorman’s sickly and crippled king, and a deeper, more conflicted Arthur than Zucker’s confident, authoritarian ruler. Nor is the Round Table neglected. We learn that Arthur has designed it himself for his knights and petitioners to sit with him at council. The camera pans the room, revealing a generous table that rounds a circumference, taking away the massive, unused center that is the design flaw of a round table. This table is large enough to accommodate both knights and petitioners. Its many empty seats betoken a diminution in Arthur’s knights across the years of battle in Britain. The shape itself disconcerts the bishop, who can determine no discernable head or position of authority from whence to wield his power. The audience is given space to chuckle at his expense as he stares around the table and reconsiders his strategies. Although this is the only scene with the table, both the foregrounding of its design and presentation at the beginning of the film reinforce the character and nature of Arthur. This is a king who leads from within and whose concerns are for the integrity of his soldiers. Arthur’s wrath at Rome’s betrayal of his knights, his fissured loyalties and his determination to fulfill his own terms of service are carefully explicated in this scene. We see him arguing with the bishop, supporting his men until he cannot withstand the power of Germanus’ Roman blackmail. We see him breaking the news to his knights, listening to them, agreeing with yet overriding their arguments of necessity. We behold his council with Lancelot as both try to see their way out

3 Tom

Shippey discusses the disturbing connections between codified good and evil and ethnic identity throughout the film in his essay, “Fuqua’s “King Arthur”: More Mythmaking in America.” See especially page 322.

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of the mission, and both determine, out of loyalty to one another, to continue the imposed mission. Arthur and his men leave the fortifications of Hadrian’s wall (and the bastion of the empire) to venture through an ambush by the indigenous Woad and to the estate of a Roman senator, whose rescue is the further price extracted by Rome for the knights’ freedom from indenture. In an over-determined scene, Arthur first frees the peasants under punishment by the petty and appropriately sadistic senator, then rescues the senator and his family—much against the will of the senator—from the advancing Saxon, and finally rescues Guinevere (Kiera Knightly), here a princess of the Woad, who was going to have been walled alive into a tomb along with other indigenous people whom the senator has captured. Although “freedom” had been a tenant of the film from the beginning, marked by the Sarmatian’s celebration of the anticipated end of their indenture and return to their now mythical homeland, in this scene, the idea coalesces as the central determination of the film. Freedom from tyranny is represented by the release of the village leader. Freedom of the empire’s citizens from the Saxon horde is represented by the rescue of the senator’s family. And the freedom of the indigenous people of the land itself is signified in the exhumation of the entombed Woads. The repeated reverberations of the theme of freedom become increasingly and ironically jarring as the film relentlessly pursues and trumpets it. Finally, the trope collapses under the weight of its contradictions: having waved goodbye to the retreating Romans, massacred the Saxons and cremated the majority of the Sarmatians who fell “in a battle of their choosing” as Bors (Ray Winstone) rather fulsomely reassures us, the crowd cries “freedom!” even as it crowns Arthur and Guinevere absolute king and queen. The irony of that ending, the white wedding of Guinevere (Lancelot safely dead, so no fear for the destruction of King Arthur’s rule through that particular folly) and the crowning of a monarch under whom the shouts of freedom are chanted while the entire crowd assembled kneels on bended knee marks the anxiety surrounding the idea of freedom that undergirds the entire script. Shippey identifies fully fifteen scenes in which the concept of freedom is “meant to be stressed or decisive” (315). Bear in mind that this count is only for pivotal scenes—mention of “freedom” as a reward, a goal, a cause or a natural state occurs at least once in every scene of the film. Both Shippey and Haydock emphasize that neither Fuqua nor script writer David Franzoni wrote intentionally about the second Iraq war, which hadn’t started when the script was written. However, the hyper-valorization of freedom read, when the movie was released, as a justification for that war (ersatz to “liberate” Iraqis from their cruel dictator) and still reads today as an overdetermination of the “freedoms they hate us for.”

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Overdetermination or not, in these days of #Blacklivesmatter, it is vital to note Antoine Fuqua’s importance as a Black director taking on this particular Arthurian story. Medievalists have rightly been taken to task about the risks of the white nationalist uses of our material: the focus of Arthur stories on an enchanted England exemplifying white power and unity. Fuqua turns this tale on its head and brings a devastating subtext to the conscripted knights fighting wars that are not their own in homage to a capricious empire that has held their enslavement for over 200 years. The parallel between this conscription and American nationhood should not be overlooked. Nor should the complexity of the “freedom” ideal be diminished. If in 2004, “freedom” looked a little too forced, too in line with the propaganda of a state battle in which neither Fuqua nor his writer took part, in 2020, it looks like a dream deferred. Accumulation: a Grifter’s Arthur Arthur’s return today is Guy Ritchie’s chaotic epic King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. After two films that have de-emphasized Excalibur, Ritchie brings the focus back to the sword as the key to the power of the Pendragon dynasty. A confused back story told in narrative flashbacks has the sword forged from the now-deceased Merlin’s magical staff and able to be wielded only by Uther Pendragon (Eric Bana) or his direct descendants. Another back story, told yet again in a series of narrative flashbacks repeated in greater and greater detail throughout the film, gives us Uther as a noble king, uniting his realm through protective force and killed by the evil machinations of his scheming brother, Vortigern (Jude Law). Here is no suggestion of the rape of Ygrayne, but the vision of a caring queen murdered as the royal family flees a palace coup. In an absolutely odd twist to a familiar story, Uther’s own dying act is to toss the sword into the air so that it plunges into his back as he himself becomes the stone from which the sword must be pulled. The sword is here a super-weapon, able to kill astonishing numbers of (invariably black-clad) soldiers in a single blow when wielded by a Pendragon with the proper force. However, as useful and as powerful as the sword is, the central concern in this film (as far as it can be said to have one) is the creation of Arthur and the maturation of his ability to wield the sword. Having watched the violent deaths of his father and mother, the child king floats, like the lady of Shallot, down the river from Camelot to “Londinium,” where, Moses-like, he is taken in from his boat and mothered by the city’s whores. In a flashback montage (clearly one of Ritchie’s favorite techniques), we watch Arthur’s growth from a young child earning pennies at odd jobs to the head of a local gang of enforcers, taking protection money from the city’s tradesmen and smugglers alike. The emphasis of this montage is on the accumulation of wealth, from a small box of pennies to a secret chamber containing chests of gold as Arthur (Charlie Hunnam) gains in

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maturity, martial arts, and street cred. In parallel during the montage, we watch Vortigern consolidating his own power, increasing the ranks of his “blacklegs” fascist army, and unfurling the mandatory red and black banners that provide an instant short-cut symbol of totalitarian-regime-with-concomitant-humanrights-abuses. Arthur, during this montage and throughout the film, wears white; Vortigern sports black, anachronistically business-like attire. Although the montage is clearly meant to show the contrasts between Arthur and Vortigern, it ends up emphasizing their similarities instead. Both are willing to use the force of their personalities and their personal charisma to enhance their power. Both are obsessed with the accumulation of power. Both see treasure as the stigmata of success. Both stop at nothing to achieve their ends. Indeed, the film itself recognizes their kinship when, during the inevitable dialog that takes place in the final duel, Arthur declares to Vortigern, “You made me. You ask what gave me such drive? You did.” By this, we are given to understand that had Vortigern not killed Arthur’s parents and turned the kingdom into a police-state, Arthur would have been a run-of-the-mill effete princeling instead of the street-smart grifter that he has turned out to be. However, we can also hear echoes of the father-confusion that so enamored George Lucas—the evil father/progenitor who creates the son who will, Oedipus-like, destroy him. Like the opening montage, the primary arc of the film will follow both Arthur and Vortigern in parallel. Arthur as he struggles to control the sword and the legacy it bequeaths on him while engaging in a series of guerilla actions and assassination attempts, and Vortigern as he struggles to hold his kingdom together and rid himself of the threat of the “born king,” or lost heir of Uther. In a Cinderella-like turn, Vortigern rounds up all the young men of the kingdom of a certain age to try pulling the sword from the stone upon its reappearance from the water. Arthur is gathered up in one of these sweeps, of course, and upon pulling the sword from the stone, is immediately knocked flat by its unleashed power, over which he has no control. This response ushers in a series of trials for Arthur, guided by a mage who continues to ask, analyst-like, “did you see all that you needed to see?” as Arthur copes with the series of flashback scenes of his parents’ deaths. The final spasm of Arthur’s reluctant journey toward kingship is his rejection of the sword and all it entails by hurling it into the mud at his feet. At this point he has finally been able to tap the sword’s full power without being hurled into flashbacks, and has seen its destructive potential in the battle at the martial arts center. He has also lost one of his closest friends and companions and sees no possible way forward against the power of Vortigern. This is the requisite baptism/rebirth scene as the hero throws away the power only he can use. Convinced by the mage that he must recover the sword and claim his throne, he scrabbles for the sword in the swamp and is pulled into deep water by the

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lady of the lake, who makes an additional plea to his nobility of purpose and the innocence of the victims lost and to be lost if he indeed rejects this power. Cleansed of self-doubt and the selfishness of private existence, Arthur is pushed back out of the clinging swamp mud of rebirth. By this time, it will have become apparent that Ritchie has sewn together a pastiche of a film that nods to so many precedents that it has difficulty making its way on its own. It has Peter Jackson’s giant fighting elephants, Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey, and even William Golding’s Rodents of Unusual Size (ROUSes). It has evil uncles with fascistic tendencies and innocent whores. It has bands of brothers, aristocratic old guards unable to get behind the ideas of a new regime, guerilla fighters, oriental martial arts mentors, Oedipal ideas and daughter-sacrifice. It has the erection of a magical phallic tower, the completion of which will grant its builder unlimited power, and at its destruction, its replacement with a round table. Like Arthur films before it, Ritchie’s Arthur is scarily prescient—the grifter king who wins his money through petty extortion, and his power through appealing to the masses while being supported by the old aristocracy against an established yet corrupt political system has something to say about how and why Donald Trump continues to dominate US politics, and even speaks something of the absurdities inherent in the resurgence of Boris Johnson. Clearly, Arthur is a story that wants to be told, porous enough to hold both our highest ideals and our deepest anxieties. Directors, producers, and audiences look forward to the latest rendition and are alike both amused and disappointed when his avatars fail to live up to the medieval imaginary reached for by the public. Indeed, each Arthur film seeks to create a “democratic” Arthur, a man of the people. However, what is really wanted is not a man of the people at all, but someone who is better than the people, who can lead a world adrift in changing times into a promise of regeneration and renewal. Arthurian mythology does this. Hollywood’s Arthur won’t, because of the freighted burden of kingship and the ideals of democracy. Arthur’s incarnations never leave this earth and, as a result, leave our fantasy world bereft of the very thing that Arthur is most known for: pain and struggle, yes, but also nobility, virtue, and noblesse oblige. In striving to make Arthur at once human and extra-human, and in seeking to locate within him the hopes and fears of the political moment, King Arthur indeed comes again when the country is most in need. And alas, his ideals and his vision continue to fail. Works Cited Ackroyd, Peter. Albion: the origins of the English imagination. Doubleday, 2002.

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Aronstein, Susan. “Arthur’s American Round table: The Hollywood Tradition” The Cambridge Companion to the Arthurian Legend, edited by Elizabeth Archibald and Ad Putter, Cambridge University Press, 2009, pp. 496-510. Boorman, John. Excalibur. Warner Bros, 1981. Eco, Umberto. “The return of the Middle Ages.” In Travels in Hyperreality, translated by W. Weaver. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1986, pp. 59-86. Finke, Laurie and Martin Schichtmann. “Remediating Arthur.” A Companion to Arthurian Literature, edited by Helen Fulton, Wiley-Blackwell, 2009, pp.481-495. Fuqua, Antoine. King Arthur. Buena Vista Pictures, 2004. Haydock, Nickolas. “Digital Divagations in a Hyperreal Camelot: Antoine Fuqua’s King Arthur.” The Cambridge Companion to the Arthurian Legend, edited by Elizabeth Archibald and Ad Putter, Cambridge University Press, 2009, pp. 120-132. Lacy, Norris J. “The Arthur of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries” in The Cambridge Companion to the Arthurian Legend, edited by Elizabeth Archibald and Ad Putter, Cambridge University Press, 2009, pp. 120-132. Ritchie, Guy. King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. Warner Bros, 2017. Shippey, Tom. “Fuqua’s King Arthur: More Myth-making in America.” Exemplaria, vol. 19, no. 2, 2007, pp. 310-326. Zucker, Jerry. First Knight. Columbia Pictures, 1995.

Chapter 8

Killing Arthur: revising the Perceval myth in “Kingsman: The Secret Service” Erin Mullally Le Moyne College

Abstract Arthurian tropes appear throughout the 2014 film, The Kingsman: The Secret Service. The Kingsmen agents are called knights and adopt names of knights from Arthurian legend. They serve the British crown and their leader, “Arthur,” but this Arthur is a villain whose betrayal of his knights at the end of the film is where the film’s deep skepticism of authority and of the elite hits the hero, Eggsy, the hardest. Not only does the clear villain abhor the masses, but Arthur, the one who is meant to save the world does too. When the king turns evil, what are his knights to do? That the knights themselves remain true to the code, and remain true to their mission, is the democratizing message of the film itself. This essay explores the implications of a villainous and elitist Arthur within the Arthurian tradition as a whole. Keywords: Kingsman; King Arthur; Arthurian; film; elitism; democracy *** Arthurian tropes are sprinkled liberally throughout the 2014 film Kingsman: The Secret Service. An anonymous reviewer offers this plot summary on IMBD: “A spy organization recruits an unrefined, but promising street kid (Eggsy) into the agency's ultra-competitive training program, just as a global threat emerges from a twisted tech genius.” What is this threat? Valentine, in order to decrease the world population, embarks on a scheme to convince the world’s elites to allow him, through cell phone wizardry, to trigger people to attack each other at his command. The elite (due to a special implant located behind the ear) will be fine, but the masses will be made to destroy themselves. Guided by Harry Hart/“Galahad” (Colin Firth) and trained by “Merlin” (Mark Strong) in the Kingsman organization, Gary “Eggsy”’ Unwin (Taron Egerton) transitions from a lost teen into a martial spy, just like the

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father he never knew, Lee Unwin, and he brings about the downfall of Valentine (Samuel L. Jackson). The Kingsman agents are called knights, and they serve not only the British crown but their own leader, “Arthur” (Michael Caine). Directed by Matthew Vaughn and based on the comic The Secret Service, by Mark Millar and Dave Gibbons, the film is the first in a franchise (a trans-media “Millarverse”) including the comics, subsequent films, video games, and novelizations. Allusions to Arthur in plots only loosely about King Arthur are nothing new; the scope of Arthurian literature through the centuries has contained many stories focused on the exploits of characters only peripherally identified with Arthur himself and his court.1 As Norris Lacy notes, “the Arthurian myth, for better or for worse, is constantly being remade” (34). Rebecca and Samuel Umland stress that the “mythopoeic nature of the legend … extends from written representations to visual representations, and this--far from serving as a detriment to the legend’s survival--guarantees its constant vitality in the general culture” (xi). When Harry Hart/Galahad points out that “the suit is the modern gentleman’s armor” or that “the Kingsman agents are the new knights,” the audience is well aware of the type of militant yet chivalric world to which those sentiments refer. Like many contemporary films with an Arthurian flair, this film is not bound by the “tyranny of tradition” (Umland 4); it is not retelling a precursive King Arthur plot. The Kingsman is not, explicitly, then an Arthurian film but rather a pastiche or an intertextual collage: an action film, a spy thriller, a bildungsroman, a satire. Its Arthurian components add a unique depth to old character tropes and conventional action sequences. Two elements of Arthuriana that are distinct, though, are the development of the hero, Eggsy, as a new Perceval and the film’s characterization of Arthur as the ultimate betrayer of his knights and his country. As a Perceval figure, Eggsy develops into an Arthurian hero in ways similar to his medieval predecessor, but minus the Grail quest narrative arc so central to Perceval’s moral development. And Arthur as villain is new; the revelation of Arthur’s betrayal of his knights at the end of the film is where the film’s deep skepticism of authority and of the elite hits the hero, Eggsy, the hardest. Not only does the presumptive villain Valentine abhor the masses, but Arthur, who is meant to save the world, does too. The ramshackle kid, from the wrong side of town, is the world’s hope for salvation. +++

1 Countless medieval romances exist where Arthur is, at best, a secondary character. Just a few examples are Erec and Enide, Percival, Lancelot, Cliges, or Merlin.

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In the opening moments of the film, we witness the sacrificial death of an elite soldier; he throws himself on a captured terrorist who is wired with a bomb. His death saves the lives of his comrades. This soldier, we learn, was a candidate for a position in the Kingsman as “Lancelot,” a position subsequently taken up by another. It is the death of this second Lancelot (killed by Valentine’s assassin Gazelle while attempting a hostage rescue) that prompts a renewed search for yet another Lancelot, a search for which Eggsy becomes a candidate. The first of the candidates for this position, seventeen years prior and dead before we see his face, was Eggsy’s father, Lee Unwin. Though the weight of the name “Lancelot” here seems as if it will be significant, I argue instead that the film’s narrative arc and Eggsy’s character development instead rest on tropes inherent within the Perceval plot line. Soon after the death of Lee Unwin, we see Harry Hart visiting Lee’s widow and young son. Their apartment, though modest in size, is clean and tidy, with modern furniture and cheerful Christmas decorations. Michelle Unwin (Samantha Womack) is dressed modestly and tastefully, with a gold cross around her neck. Her hair is in a chic bob and her makeup is simple. Her young son, also clean and neatly dressed, plays with toys on the floor near her. While offering his condolences for Lee’s death, Harry attempts to hand her a medal: “I would like to present to you this medal of valor. If you look closely on the back, there's a number. And as a more concrete gesture of gratitude, we'd like to offer you a... Let's call it a favor. The nature of it is your choice. Just tell the operator: ‘Oxfords, not Brogues.’ And then they'll know it’s you.” Michelle refuses to take the medal: “I don’t want your help! ….. I want my husband back!” Harry then turns to the child. Bending down to Eggsy’s level, he hands the child the medal: “You take care of this, Eggsy. Alright? [Eggsy nods] And take care of your mum, too.” This password, as I will explore later, is the first hint of the significance of clothing for the elite Kingsman. Eggsy has the medal and knows the password when we next see him, seventeen years later. But his life has clearly not continued along the same ordered path our initial encounter with him might have suggested. When next we see Michelle, her hair is longer and messy, her neckline lower and her makeup smudged. She looks tired. Michelle’s second husband is Dean (Geoff Bell), a rough man with a quick temper. When we see them together, they are in the same flat as previously, but now it is cluttered with boxes of electronics (Dean’s source of income?). Every surface is littered with detritus, and the furniture, unchanged, is now outdated and rickety. Dean is antagonistic with Eggsy, though Michelle seems blind to his aggression. Their infant daughter Daisy cries in her crib near the kitchen, receiving no attention. Michelle’s circumstances have changed for the worse; while still in the same apartment as the one she shared with Lee, her life now seems chaotic and violent. She is

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ineffective at protecting her son from Dean or his thuggish friends; she is also unable to protect herself from Dean (her black eye at the conclusion of the film attests to his violence towards her). The Perceval story is at its heart a bildungsroman, the maturation of an uncouth, unskilled knight into one of the significant members of Arthur’s court, whose quest is the Holy Grail. As with all medieval Arthurian tales, the development of this character and his particular plotline bends and weaves through numerous distinct texts over several centuries and in different European nations. For the purposes of this essay, I will stick with the story as it originates with Chrétien de Troyes, a late 12th c. French poet associated with the courts of Marie de Champagne and with Philip d’Alsace, Count of Flanders. He has five surviving poems: Érec et Énide [ca. 1165], Cligés [ca. 1176], Le Chevalier de la Charrette (Lancelot), Le Chevalier au Lion (Yvain) [ca. 1177? 1179-80?], and Le Conte du Graal (Perceval). This last poem is unfinished, likely due to Chrétien’s death (Hinton, intro). Subsequent authors wrote continuations of the Perceval Grail plot, which finally culminates in Thomas Malory’s late medieval compilation of the legend in his Morte D’Arthur. Each of these redactions of the Perceval story retain important character and plot points, keeping some essential elements of the character consistent through the many iterations of the story. The character as Chrétien develops him is full of potential, but prone to significant errors of judgment. Like Eggsy, Perceval is the son of a deceased knight, raised by his mother in isolation and in ignorance of knighthood generally and of courtly manners specifically. As an adolescent, when he encounters a knight for the first time, he believes the shining creature is an angel, if not God himself: “I’ve never before met a knight,” said the boy, “nor seen one, nor ever heard tell of one; but you are more beautiful than God! Would that I were like you, so shining and so well formed” (Chrétien 383). The casual blasphemy of his remark points to the spiritual growth necessary for this future grail knight, but it also signifies his awareness of the extreme hierarchical differences in their respective stations. Escaping from the threatening Dean and vague Michelle, Eggsy heads to The Black Prince pub, where his friend there complains of Dean, and Dean’s “friends,” who are at the same bar, overhear and take offense.2 Here, Eggsy’s impulsive nature emerges; after being threatened by those friends, the trio leave. Eggsy has stolen their car keys and embarks on a joyride. His driving skills are fun to watch, but, unsurprisingly, the car chase ends with Eggsy in custody.

2

The pub, of course, is named after England’s lost medieval heir to the throne, Edward, Black Prince of Wales (1130-1376), adding another subtle trace of medievalism to the film.

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When offered one phone call from jail, Eggsy pulls out his father’s medal and calls the number on the back, eventually blurting out the required password, “Oxfords, not Brogues.” Eggsy emerges into the sunlight after the night in jail wearing a baseball cap, a bomber jacket, polo shirt and jeans, with his father’s medal on a chain around his neck. Harry waits for him, wearing a doublebreasted Navy suit and fashionable sunglasses. The contrast between the casually dressed young man and the tailored Harry signifies the contrast between their social and economic positions. No other man in Eggsy’s life seems to dress so well or so formally; Harry is no street thug like Eggsy’s stepfather Dean, whom we see variously dressed in a dingy tank top or athletic gear. We don’t see Harry’s shoes, but the password suggests he’s wearing Oxfords. The call for Oxfords over Brogues is obviously appropriate in one context; the tailor shop “The Kingsman” serves as a secret spy location, and to call such a place with a password linked to fashion works. But the call is also for a type of formal shoe with no decorative detailing (broguing) and an instruction on how to choose and style male formal wear. The password is Harry’s first instruction in becoming a kingsman, a password he will understand once he is in the tailor shop, becoming acquainted with the sartorial trappings of his new life. Harry introduces himself to Eggsy outside of the jail by revealing not only his name, but two pertinent pieces of information: “My name is Harry Hart. I gave you that medal. Your father saved my life.” The camera focuses on Eggsy’s face, on his apparent surprise at this news. There has been no suggestion in the film that Eggsy knew his father had died a hero, only that his father had died in military service. The next scene is of the two of them in the now-familiar Black Prince pub, where Harry points out Eggsy’s many failures: “Huge I.Q., great performance in primary school. And it all went tits up. Drugs, petty crime, never had a job.” We even learn from Harry that Eggsy was “First prize, regional under tens’ gymnastics, two years in a row. Your coach had you pegged as Olympic team material” and that later in life, “halfway through training,” Eggsy quit the Marines. As Harry points out, Eggsy has excuses for each of these failures. The most significant excuse, though, is for his decision to drop out of military service: Because my mum went mental, banging on about losing me as well as my dad. Then we wouldn’t be cannon fodder for snobs like you, judging people like me from your ivory towers with no thought about why we do what we do. We ain’t got much choice, you get me? And if we was born with the same silver spoon up our arses, we’d do just as well as you, if not better.

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This is an action movie; it’s helpful to have some context for why the young hero seems so proficient in such a large number of unusual skills. Of course he’s very intelligent, daring, comfortable with weapons and combat, and possessed with Olympic-level gymnastic prowess. Of course he currently has no employment nor any significant emotional ties other than to his troubled mother and his infant half-sister. And of course, he’s hostile to the rich “snob” before him, born with that proverbial “silver spoon.” Eggsy’s perception that he, and those like him, “ain’t got much choice” is telling. When Harry asks why he gave up his hobbies, Eggsy points out that “when you grow up around someone like my stepdad, you pick up new hobbies pretty quick.” These new hobbies are the pitfalls of the urban underclass: “drugs, petty crime, never had a job.” The stacks of electronic equipment in Michelle’s apartment now have a clearer origin. And Eggsy’s anger at his father’s death is palpable; though Harry calls Lee “a brave man” and “a good man,” Eggsy regards his father’s death as avoidable. For him, Lee was “cannon fodder,” anonymous and expendable. In the Perceval plot, the young knight Perceval had first encountered is seeking other knights and maidens and does not receive any helpful news from the boy; recognizing this knight’s frustration, Perceval points out his mother’s laborers in a nearby field as a possible source of information for the questing knight. They, however, provide a reason for Perceval’s surprising ignorance: “they were well aware that if these knights had explained to him what knighthood was he would want to become a knight, and his mother would go mad with grief—for they had sought to keep him from ever seeing knights or learning of their ways” (Chrétien 385). Perceval’s mother would go “mad with grief” should he become a knight as his father was, and Eggsy’s mother “went mental” while he was in the marines; both mothers actively steer their sons away from the profession that killed their fathers. Yet, both young men are instinctively drawn along the same path as their fathers before them. Eggsy is not totally ignorant of his own father’s career in the military, but he is ignorant of the Kingsman. If, as Harry Hart points out to Eggsy early in the film, and as I noted earlier, the “suit is the modern gentleman’s armor,” then Harry is dressed as brilliantly as any knight when Eggsy first meets him outside of the jail. The sartorial contrast between the two men—Harry and Eggsy—in their initial encounters highlights their respective social status, and Eggsy’s willingness to chat with Harry at the pub points to Eggsy’s desperate desire for more information about his late father. Harry is Gornemant, the brilliantly dressed knight/teacher, while Eggsy is the rustic Perceval, at a loss for how to improve his life but quietly desperate to cast off the everyday clothing of his station.

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In Chrétien’s story, after Perceval meets this unknown knight, he returns to his mother and demands some answers. She reveals that “you were destined for knighthood, fair son, had it pleased God to protect your father and others close to you. There was no worthier knight, no knight more feared or respected, fair son, than your father in all the Isles of the Sea…..I have suffered a very bitter life since he died. You were all the consolation that I had…” (Chrétien 386-7). For Chrétien, this maternal over-protection is unwise and ultimately unwelcome, limiting Perceval’s possibilities in the wider world. Though Michelle Unwin does not seem to shelter her son as completely as Perceval’s mother does, she clearly limits his potential. He attributes his lack of a military career to her fear, and even the halt to his gymnastic talents was while he was competing in the “regional under tens” seems attributable to her. It seems unlikely to have been the child Eggsy’s choice to limit that potential. Yet both Perceval’s mother and Michelle Unwin do what they can to shield their sons from the way of life that killed their husbands; both try to keep their children safe in an unsafe world, and both fail to do so. Both seem to lose social status as a result of their protective measures. Though apparently the son of a landowning mother (recall the laborers in the fields), Perceval grows up far from the aristocratic world and is mocked for his rustic ignorance and his general poverty. His mother has clearly fallen from her previous social/economic position as the wife of a knight: “I have suffered a very bitter life since he died.” Michelle Unwin could have spoken that same line to her own son. While Perceval’s mother remains a single woman as a widow and Michelle enters a new relationship with the thuggish Dean, both women have suffered in the years since their husbands’ deaths. Their father’s untimely deaths prove a legacy too great to remain hidden forever for either Perceval or Eggsy. Thus, Lee Unwin’s long-ago death proves a lingering influence on Eggsy’s present. He is arrogant but untested, hostile about criticism and defensive about his failures: “If we was born with the same silver spoon up our arses, we’d do just as well as you, if not better.” His class defines for him the limits of his future; though he has never finished anything and blames his underclass upbringing for his failures, he exudes confidence that he could be better than those above him on the class hierarchy. Not until Eggsy sees Harry in action, demolishing the same thugs who had bothered Eggsy the previous night (begging the question: are there no other bars in this part of London in which to have a quiet conversation?), does he have an intimation of who Harry might really be and what his father might actually have been doing before he died. The suit Harry wears masks his martial abilities while allowing him to openly carry the weapons of his trade—gadgets such as x-ray glasses, a bulletproof umbrella, and a watch loaded with amnesia

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darts. Just as a suit of armor is the visible sign of a knight’s skills, Harry’s fitted suit turns out to be a sign of his particular skills. The ease with which Harry subdues the thugs in the bar impresses Eggsy as much as it surprises him. Harry seems about to leave after being threatened, but instead locks the bar’s doors before “taking out” a handful of aggressive young men; the film’s refrain, “Manners maketh man,” is first spoken here. This violence is in contrast to the inherent violence of Eggsy’s world; it is controlled, it is elegant in its way, and it is extremely effective. When Eggsy leaves his violent, troubled home to meet Harry at the Kingsman Tailor shop on Savile Row, we see he has begun his rejection of his previous, aimless life and the pointless violence in his domestic situation. Like Perceval, who exclaims to his knight, “would that I were like you, so shining and so well formed,” Eggsy will get his own fitted, fashionable suit to emulate Harry. That refrain, “manners maketh man,” is Eggsy’s second crucial instruction from Harry, after “Oxfords, not Brogues.” Like the fashion claim, this one too is suggestive of an inherently self-made man. The origins of the phrase seem to be late medieval, attributed variously to William of Wykeham (1324-1404) or William Horman (1440-1535). The veracity of this authorship is uncertain. The phrase itself, “good maners makeþ man,” appears in “Urbanitatis” (1460-1475?), a list of maxims for good behavior.3 In essence, the phrase suggests that a man’s behavior determines his worth; his actions define him. For Eggsy to adopt either or both phrases as his own requires only education and training, not blue blood. In Chrétien’s Perceval, the young man repeatedly is referred to as foolish, rash and impatient; his lack of education and training is commented on by all who meet him: “None who saw him thought him wise, but everyone who observed him considered him handsome and noble” (Chrétien 393). Even King Arthur remarks, of the unlearned boy, “Had someone instructed the boy and taught him enough of weaponry that he could use his shield and lance a little, no doubt he would have made a fine knight” (Chrétien 397). Arthur is an advocate for Perceval here and throughout the story, believing in his inherent worth--a relationship that will be lacking between Eggsy and Arthur in Kingsman. In

3

I could find no textual source for these authorial claims, including within William Horman’s Vulgaria, a 1519 collection of sayings. See http://www.archive.org/stream/fifteenthcentury00 nelsuoft/fifteenthcentury00nelsuoft_djvu.txt for the Vulgaria. However, the internet repeats these two names as the origin for the phrase often. One nice cite for these claims is: https://www.importantindia.com/23792/manners-maketh-man/. The phrase “good manners makeþ man” can be found in “Urbanitatis” in The Babees Book, Early English Text Society, p. 14 https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=hvd.hngdrr&view= 1up&seq=166

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Chrétien’s story, Perceval struggles on alone until he eventually happens upon a tutor, Gornemant of Gohort, who instructs him in martial skills and chivalry. Eggsy, in contrast, has guidance from Harry immediately and then from other instructors, namely Merlin, from the moment he decides to adopt the doublebreasted suit as his own armor. A paradox lies at the heart of the Perceval story; an aimless youth who all recognize as untrained works hard to attain a particular set of skills that will not only benefit himself, but also many others. Yet this is not simply any young man who works his way up a dangerous hierarchy, but the son of a warrior, himself a valued member of an elite group to which his child eventually desires entry. The Perceval story both valorizes a meritocracy and repeatedly emphasizes aristocratic lineage: all who see Perceval recognize his nobility, despite his foolish naivete. This tension is at the heart of many romance plots; Chaucer summarizes this paradox nicely in his tale from the “Wife of Bath,” when the young, rapist knight is chided on the nature of gentility by the loathly lady: “he is gentil that dooth gentil dedis” but of course she was saying this to a knight, one already part of the aristocratic hierarchy (120). This same paradox is also at the heart of Kingsman: The Secret Service. Eggsy is acutely aware of his class and scornfully dismissive of the “snobs” from the “ivory tower,” blessed with those, admittedly uncomfortable, “silver spoons.” Yet, he wants admission into this exclusive club and works hard to attain it. But his entre is not random; it is because he is Lee Unwin’s son that this chance is available to him at all. Every other candidate for the available kingsman position seems to be upper class; he alone appears to have working-class origins, with his clothing style, street smarts, and accent. But nurture never trumps nature in a romance plot; the true essence of the hero will shine through, despite his shabby origins. So it is with Eggsy who quickly rises to the top of the group of candidates. Among all of the candidates for the Lancelot position, two other students stand out as well. Eggsy is Harry Hart/Galahad’s candidate. Roxy (Sophie Cookson) is the kingsman “Perceval’s” candidate, and their leader, “Arthur,” himself puts forth Charlie (Edward Holcroft) as a potential kingsman. Charlie is an overt snob, with all of the stereotypical negative attributes of the upper class on film; he is well-dressed and well-educated, but affected, snide, selfcentered and a tad lazy. While Roxy accepts Eggsy for who he is, Charlie serves as a personal antagonist for Eggsy during his candidacy for the Kingsman. Fittingly, it is these final three left to compete for the position of Lancelot. Individually tested on their loyalty to the secret spy group, Charlie fails, betraying information on the spies (albeit to one testing the candidates’ loyalties). As he is escorted out of the program, his last words are, “My dad’s

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going to hear about this!” The privilege and nepotism implied in such a remark signify his unworthiness for the position, but also point to the inherent elitism within the program. Eggsy might be the only candidate for a Kingsman position who does not have such a father to whom to apply for redress, yet, obviously like the others, he is in this competition too because of his father. We are unsurprised, then, to see Charlie in Valentine’s secret lair, having betrayed not only the test of Kingsman loyalty, but actively participating in Valentine’s plan to eliminate everyday citizens. The antagonism between Charlie and Eggsy is a smaller variation of the conflict at the heart of the film. Valentine’s desire ostensibly is to save the planet from the depredations of humanity. Conveniently, the wealthy and powerful—who agree with his plan— are exempt from his murderous plot; their agreement is signaled through the film by a small scar behind the ear. +++ That Arthur dies is central to the legend, and in all early accounts, he dies in battle against a treacherous foe. From the late 10th c. “Annals of Wales” (Annales Cambriae) from the entry for year 537: “The Battle of Camlann, in which Arthur and Medraut fell: and there was plague in Britain and Ireland” (“Arthurian Passages”). Emerging from the creative flourishes of Geoffrey of Monmouth, in his Historia Regum Britanniae, c. 1136, Arthur is killed in battle with his treacherous nephew Mordred, after first defeating the villain: “And even the renowned king Arthur himself was mortally wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avalon to be cured of his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine, the son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second year of our Lord's incarnation” (“Arthurian Passages”). All later medieval narratives that reference Arthur’s death, including the final masterpiece of medieval Arthuriana, Malory’s Morte D’Arthur (1485), include Arthur’s demise in an English civil war, hastened by the romantic betrayal of his wife Guinevere, but ultimately at the hands of his nemesis and kinsman, Mordred. In the Morte, Arthur dies in battle, in hand-to-hand combat against Mordred: the kynge ran towarde Sir Mordred, cryyng … “Traytoure, now ys thy dethe-day com!” …whan Sir Mordred saw Kynge Arthur he ran untyll hym with hys swerde drawyn … and there Kyng Arthur smote Sir Mordred undir the shylde, with …hys speare, thorowoute the body… And whan Sir Mordred felte that he had hys dethys wounde he threste hymselff with the myght that he had up to the burre of Kyng Arthurs speare, and … he smote hys fadir, Kynge Arthur … uppon the syde of the hede, that the

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swerde perced the helmet and the tay of the brayne. And therewith Mordred daysshed downe starke dede to the erthe. Kynge Arthure felle in a swoughe to the erthe (923-924, Book 21, chapter 4). Though betrayed, wounded, disheartened, and exhausted, Arthur in Malory is always valiant and righteous, a fallen man in a fallen world, and yet always the heroic king England needs. It is he who battles the traitor Mordred; treason is the fault of the enemy, even when that enemy is often represented as his son. Nepotism has no place when the fate of the kingdom is at stake. And he is active on the field of combat; Arthur does not merely send others into harm’s way but fights at their side. Arthur is always loyal to his country and his countrymen. And when he dies, it is to a sword wound on the side of the head. Arthur’s life in film, and his death, is much the same. As Kevin Harty notes, “What is most notable about cinematic depictions of the Arthuriad is the number of films that simply ignore the death of Arthur” (“Roll” 243). Many films stop short of depicting his end, or they play with the Breton Hope, the idea that Arthur is dead and yet will return. Ultimately, Harty concludes that cinema arthuriana . . . offers no single version of the death of Arthur. Indeed, what Malory would call ‘the most piteous tale of the morte Arthur saunz guerdon’ (p. 1155) is at times not a primary, nor even any, concern of cinema arthuriana. For some filmmakers, the death actual of Arthur is a nonstarter. For them, the one offers too few cinematic possibilities; the future is, of course, another story (and film) (“Roll” 248). In other words, the few films that depict Arthur’s death keep his death consistent with the overall narrative; Arthur’s death is tragic, and his loss is not just a loss for Camelot but for all of England, for all time. But Arthur does die in Vaughn’s film, and his death is justified and welcome. Arthur becomes, in the world of the Kingsmen, not only a failed leader, but a traitor to his “knights” and a symbol of the dangerous arrogance of elite culture. Legendary Arthur is consistently good. In most, perhaps all, redactions of the Arthurian plot, King Arthur is, at heart, noble and courageous and willing to fight and die for his country and his countrymen. I know of no other depiction of Arthur where Arthur himself is or becomes a villain, an enemy of the people he is charged with protecting, whose death is deserved and welcomed. As such, the world that director Vaughn creates here develops a very different picture of England’s legendary hero. The world of the Kingsman is distinctly British and explicitly modeled on the conventions of the Round Table (in contrast to other fictional spy “worlds” like James Bond or Jason Bourne). The wizardry of Merlin is technological. The

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knightly competitions of jousts and tournaments become the competition among the students to become the newest member of the organization, with the real battles happening on the international stage (The Middle East, Argentina, the Alps). The explicit representation of Old World, masculine, upper-class luxury forms the basis for our initial understanding of Arthur’s persona. After the assassination of the second Lancelot by Valentine’s henchwoman, Gazelle, Harry Hart enters a dining room to discuss the need for a new Lancelot. This room has dark green walls, wood accents and framed portraits and hunting scenes on the wall. Arthur points out that Harry’s original choice for Lancelot seventeen years earlier (Eggsy’s father Lee) “Wasn’t kingsman material”; he was “not one of us.” The “us” here does not mean international spy or brave soldier; it is a taxonomy of class. Lee was not from the upper class, and his widow Michelle’s economic fall into the underclass (her “unwinning”) after Lee’s death signifies the inherent vulnerability of her social and economic position early on. Harry responds to Arthur’s concern: “With respect, Arthur, you’re a snob. The world is changing. There’s a reason aristocrats developed weak chins.” Eggsy called Harry a snob in their first conversation, and in the first conversation we see between Harry and Arthur, Harry calls Arthur one. While the implications are similar, Harry’s quip suggests a failure of lineage, with inbreeding leading to a “weak chin,” though a “weak chin” colloquially could also suggest a lack of character. Thus, the retort suggests Arthur needs to lighten up and accept “new blood” into the Kingsmen for the benefit of them all. These opposing viewpoints—that a Kingsman’s value originates either in his aristocratic birthright or in his elite training—frame the personal conflict between Eggsy and Charlie during their competition for the Kingsman position. Arthur champions Charlie, the embodiment of privilege, while Harry remains true to form and champions Lee’s son Eggsy. That Harry is “Galahad” in the organization is intriguing; traditionally, the Grail knight par excellence, Galahad is the purest member of Arthur’s court, the one who, with Perceval, finally discovers the Grail (Matarasso 275-84). Harry always believes Eggsy is capable of succeeding; Arthur consistently refuses to see Eggsy’s worth. The final test to determine whether Roxy or Eggsy will win the title of Lancelot is subtle. Eggsy is called in to see Arthur. He waits in a leather armchair before a cheerful fire; Eggsy and his dog, JB, enter and sit. Arthur comments: “As much as it pains me to admit it, Eggsy, but I think that one day you might be as good a spy as any of them.” It seems like an olive branch, praise for Eggsy’s accomplishments thus far. Arthur then reaches for a gun, points it at Eggsy for a tense moment before releasing it, saying, “Take it.” Arthur takes a sip of his drink, points to JB and says: “Shoot the dog.” The scene cuts to Roxy, with her own dog in another room, receiving the same order from

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Merlin: “This weapon is live; shoot the dog.” Another cut, and Eggsy points the gun at the dog, and the scene moves back and forth between his tormented face and the dog’s until Eggsy begins to shake his head. Arthur smirks: “Give me the gun.” Eggsy turns towards Arthur, still pointing the weapon. Then we hear a gunshot. Arthur remarks: “At least the girl’s got balls.” We know Roxy has passed the test. Eggsy hands the gun to Arthur and Arthur says: “Get out; I knew you couldn’t make it.” When Eggsy, silent this whole time, pauses at the door, Arthur tells him, “Go home.” Eggsy has failed the final test; the new Lancelot will be Roxy. Both recruits are facing a challenging decision and a direct order from a superior. That Arthur points the gun at Eggsy for a moment, and Eggsy repeats that gesture after failing to shoot the dog, symbolizes the not-so muted hostility between the older man and this young upstart. Arthur’s praise of Eggsy at the beginning of the scene is obviously false, given the parting lines that he “knew you couldn’t make it.” His belief in Eggsy’s inferiority has been maintained; his casual dismissal of Eggsy’s masculinity by noting that “at least” Roxy has “got balls” turns his class-based antagonism into something more personal. Of course, Eggsy did fail; he cannot or will not follow a direct order when it conflicts with his own will. Yet, the audience is on Eggsy’s side. When the camera pans between Eggsy’s face and the little pug, the dog’s big eyes seem to beg for rescue. When Eggsy turns and points the gun at Arthur, we’d far rather see Arthur shot than the pup. Before the audience knows of Arthur’s betrayal, we are against him; we would not have been shocked if Eggsy had killed Arthur—a pompous and dismissive man, for sure, but for the audience, still a man innocent of serious wrongs. We align ourselves with Eggsy against the unfeeling, autocratic Arthur. But this is not the last encounter between Eggsy and Arthur. After seeing Harry murdered by Valentine on video, Eggsy goes to see Arthur in the same dining room where we had first seen him. Arthur reassures Eggsy that Valentine’s confession to Harry just prior to murdering him was recorded and that identifying information has been passed on to appropriate channels. Arthur invites Eggsy to sit: “Join me in a toast...to Galahad.” This is and should be surprising; a previously seen toast to a deceased kingsman included all of the knights. After sitting and while Arthur pours two drinks, Eggsy sees the scar on Arthur’s neck, the tell-tale sign of collusion with Valentine’s plot. Eggsy gestures to the portraits behind them, causing Arthur to turn away for a moment; Eggsy switches the drinks. They toast Galahad, both draining their glasses. Then Eggsy asks: “Harry says you don’t like to break rules, Arthur, why now?” Then Arthur remarks, “Once he [Valentine] explained, I understood . . . mankind is the virus . . . a culling is the only way.” The choice of the word “culling” is chilling, with its connotations of discriminating slaughter. While

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Arthur speaks, he invites Eggsy to be part of this new world. He refuses, and Arthur activates the poison he believes is in Eggsy’s drink. Yet, of course, Arthur is the one who dies. As he dies, he calls Eggsy a “dirty little fucking prick” in a Cockney accent. Of course, Michael Caine—Arthur—is famous for his distinctive Cockney speech, and to hear Caine, in all his Cockney glory, is always a delight. But as Arthur, this dying revelation is surprising. Arthur is unveiled as not authentically aristocratic but as a working-class kid in disguise. His snobbery, his elitism, eerily mimics the snobbery and elitism of the film’s explicit villain, Valentine, a self-made tech billionaire. Arthur and Valentine both command skilled militias, have seemingly vast financial resources, and international clout despite secret agendas. And both, despite modest origins, despise the common man. Both have become gatekeepers; having worked to reach the pinnacle of society, they seek to hold the line and prevent others from following in their footsteps. The two most elitist men in the film don’t emerge from the upper class but rise to it. Eggsy is a direct challenge to both, not just in the obvious good guy/bad guy dynamic of an action film, but in his youthful rise through the ranks to become as specialized as they. Throughout the film, Harry Hart consistently preaches a meritocratic view of the world: He notes, when Eggsy questions why his heroic actions have never been reported to the press: “A gentleman’s name should only appear in the paper’s three times—when he’s born, when he marries and when he dies. We are first and foremost gentlemen.” Several minutes later, though, he clarifies his idea: “Being a gentleman has nothing to do with the circumstance of one’s birth; it’s something one learns.” At his death, Arthur—whose “real” name is Chester King—becomes just like everyone else. The irony of Arthur’s death is that he himself benefited from the implied meritocratic ideal of the gentleman that Harry so consistently espoused; while his rise within the Kingsman organization is unknown, his dying curse reveals his common origins. To be a gentleman, even to be Arthur of the Kingsman, is indeed “something one learns.” In his work on the “cinema Arthuriana” and the surprising locations of the Arthurian myth in modern film, Kevin Harty remarks that “the myth of Arthur as once and future king has held the Western imagination for more than a millennium. With each retelling, Arthur does indeed return, but the many returns of Arthur have also transformed the myth surrounding that return. The myth continues to evolve, and each age remakes Arthur in its own image to meet its own needs” (“Looking for” 60-61). That Arthur in this film is an elitist traitor who is rightfully eliminated suggests that Arthur, “Rex quondam, Rexque futurus” (King once and King in the future), might not be the particular Arthur our age desires. In an era that demands equality, in a film that rejects the

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conception of the elite, Arthur himself must be rejected. Yet, even here, the conventions of romance are maintained: the new elite—Eggsy in particular—is both born to fulfill his role as a Kingsman and works to attain it. At the heart of the meritocratic ideal that the film espouses—that anyone can become a gentleman—is the concurrent fear that if one does so, one could become like Arthur or Valentine. During the film, we see Valentine repeatedly court the world’s wealthy and powerful. Those who join him get an implant behind the ear that will protect them from his plot, but those who reject this plan are imprisoned. Throughout the film, various world leaders and celebrities are reported on the news as missing. One of those missing elites is a Scandinavian Princess. Princess Tilde (Hanna Alström) refuses Valentine’s plan. At dinner with Valentine and the “Scandinavian Prime Minister,” the Prime Minister (Bjørn Floberg) says of the plan: “I think this is quite brilliant.” Stunned, she responds to Valentine, “You are completely crazy,” before castigating, in Swedish, the Prime Minister.4 She is led away, her bodyguards murdered by Gazelle. We see her again at the conclusion of the film, imprisoned in a cell, amongst many other cells labeled with the names of the other missing celebrities. The elected official is enthralled by Valentine’s plan—yet another man who has apparently risen to prominence through his merits—while the royal woman denounces the plan as crazy. While stopping Valentine’s plan, Eggsy opens the window to her cell; she asks to be released and he asks for a kiss (“I’ve always wanted to kiss a princess”). Of course, the battle isn’t finished, so he closes the window because he “needs to save the world.” She promises sex if he returns successful. Before the credits roll, he returns to her cell, champagne and glasses in hand, and closes the door behind him. The almost obligatory “James Bond” romantic encounter between Eggsy and the Princess cements his status as the suave “gentleman spy.” She confers a type of aristocratic glamor on Eggsy. Not only does the hero get the girl, he literally gets a princess. The film ends with the central paradox of meritocracy versus lineage intact. Harry Hart is presumed dead, a loss keenly felt. But Chester “Arthur” King also is dead; this “regicide” is deserved and celebrated. As such, Eggsy, as a modern Perceval, is left at a crossroads. He is a young man without a mentor and a modern knight without a king. Perhaps, like his medieval predecessor, he will leave off the duty to save the world from evildoers and seek instead a spiritual awakening in the search for the Holy Grail. But that is for iterations of the

4

For a translation of her Swedish: “As for the prime minister, (I'm) shocked that you're even considering this. You're elected by the people! It's your job…” see: https://movies. stackexchange.com/questions/34403/what-does-the-swedish-princess-say-to-the-primeminister-in-kingsman

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Perceval plot after Chrétien’s initial development of the story; Chrétien’s Perceval is unfinished. His Perceval never finds the Grail, and thus, theoretically at least, his adventures never end. So, perhaps, as is more likely in modern action films, this modern Perceval will replicate the first; Eggsy simply will continue on a new quest, with a new villain in Kingsman: The Golden Circle (2017) and any other subsequent adventures. Works Cited Anonymous. Plot summary of Kingsman: The Secret Service. IMBD, www.imdb. com/title/tt2802144/plotsummary?ref_=tt_stry_pl Chaucer, Geoffrey. “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” in The Canterbury Tales. Riverside Chaucer edited by Larry Benson, Houghton Mifflin, 1986. Chrétien, William W. Kibler, and Carleton W. Carroll. Arthurian Romances. Penguin, 1991. Harty, Kevin J. “Looking for Arthur in All the Wrong Places: A Note on M. Night Shyamalan's ‘The Sixth Sense.’” Arthuriana, vol. 10 no. 4, 2000. Harty, Kevin J., “Roll the Final Credits: Some Notes on Cinematic Depictions of the Death of Arthur.” The Arthurian Way of Death: The English Tradition, edited by Karen Cherewatuk and K. S. Whetter, Boydell & Brewer, 2009, pp. 241-248. Hinton, Thomas, editor. “Introduction.” The Conte du Graal Cycle: Chrétien de Troyes' Perceval, the Continuations, and French Arthurian Romance. Boydell & Brewer, 2012. Lacy, Norris. “Mythopoeia in Excalibur,” Cinema Arthuriana: Essays on Arthurian Film, edited by Kevin Harty, Garland, 1991, pp.34-43. Malory, Thomas, and Peter J. C. Field. Le Morte Darthur: Vol. 1. D. S. Brewer, 2013. Matarasso, Pauline Maud, trans and ed. The Quest of the Holy Grail. Penguin Books, 1969. Reprinted 2005. Umland, Rebecca A. and Samuel J. The Use of Arthurian Legend in Hollywood Film: From Connecticut Yankees to Fisher Kings. Greenwood Press, 1996. “Urbanitatis.” The Babees Book, edited by Frederick James Furnivall. Early English Text Society, 2020. https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=hvd.hngdrr &view=1up&seq=166. Vaughn, Matthew. Kingsman: The Secret Service. Twentieth Century Fox, 2015.

Chapter 9

The death of the Fisher King in Iris Murdoch’s The Time of the Angels Susan L. Austin Landmark College

Abstract In The Time of the Angels (1966), Iris Murdoch redeploys Arthurian legend to explore morality and abuse of power. Carel Fisher is a figure of the wounded Fisher King. His wound is moral rather than physical. An Anglican priest who has lost the faith that might have provided moral guidance, Carel maintains the position a priest, but he has been assigned to a church mostly destroyed by World War II bombings. With no parishioners outside his household, Carel isolates and controls his daughters and housemaid. The rectory -- surrounded by a bombed-out waste land, obscured for most of the novel by fog, with its door guarded tenaciously -- proves as impenetrable to Carol’s brother and church officials as is the Grail Castle to unworthy knights. Twisting Arthurian legend, the death, not the healing of the Fisher King is necessary to restore the land and futures of those in his household. Keywords: Murdoch, Iris; The Time of the Angels; Fisher King; morality; women; power; Arthurian; religion, death of *** Alan Lupack has noted that T.S. “Eliot’s treatment of the wasteland and of the figure of the wounded Fisher King had a tremendous impact on later writers, particularly novelists, who saw that in the myth Eliot had adapted the perfect symbol for modern society and its ills” (266). Although Lupack does not mention Iris Murdoch specifically, in The Time of the Angels (1966), Murdoch uses the myth of the Fisher King in precisely that way, to reflect on what she saw as society’s modern ills, especially the challenge of maintaining morality in the absence of faith. She also uses it as commentary on the need to see others as they really are and on the potential for abuse of power in closed communities, all of which are recurring themes in her work.

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Peter Conradi has pointed out that Murdoch is “normally a relaxed if not careless symbolist” (Saint 174). Fiona Tomkinson has observed that in the more explicitly Arthurian novel, The Green Knight, Murdoch uses some patterns and details from her source, but some “pieces of the Gawain story are ironically inserted into Murdoch’s narrative” (83). The Arthurian symbols and motifs used in The Time of the Angels are used in a relaxed manner, often ironically, and include many elements of the Fisher King myth: a wasted land, a wounded king figure living in a mysterious castle-like building, at least two symbolic Grails, and questors seeking in vain to get inside the castle. Although many Grail legends attribute the wasting of the land to either the infirmity of the king or the actions of the questing knight, Jessie Weston’s From Ritual to Romance notes that “In three cases the misfortunes and wasting of the land are the direct result of war” (18). While the overall argument of Weston’s book is no longer considered valid, it is useful here because Murdoch was likely to have read it, if only as background for reading Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” and war has led to wasting of the land in Murdoch’s book.1 The action of The Time of the Angels takes place in a section of London that was heavily bombed during World War II and awaiting reconstruction, specifically, in a rectory isolated both by the destruction and removal of the buildings nearby and because it is engulfed by fog much like The Great Smog of 1952, which lasted for five days and was so dense that people could only see a few feet in front of them. On her first trip outside the rectory, housemaid Pattie O’Driscoll finds “a waste land” (22).2 This wasteland, destroyed by war, is in need of rebirth. Metaphorically, “Murdoch clearly equates this isolated house…with modern man’s solitary condition in a world where God is dead and religion is dying” (Rice 132). Perhaps the most ironic use of the Fisher King myth is in the character of Carel Fisher. Conradi notes that his “first name means ‘cloistered enclosure.’ His second makes him the impotent (fisher) king of a sterile land” (Saint 171). Carel is one of the most sinister of Murdoch’s enchanter figures (those who control those around them by force of will and personality). Carel’s wound is spiritual and moral rather than physical. An Anglican priest who has lost the faith that might have provided moral guidance, and whose daughters, Muriel and Elizabeth, speculate “might [eventually]… be carried off to hell … by the devil” (TTA 38), Anne Rowe writes that he represents “forces of unregulated selfgratification” and is “the Nietzschean priest of no god… the ultimate product

1 Similarly, I will later refer to Emma Jung and Marie-Louise Von Franz’s study of the grail as a work that a multi-lingual intellectual of her era and interests would likely have read. 2 For in-text citations, titles of Murdoch works will be cited as follows: The Time of the Angels will be cited TTA; Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals will be cited as MGM; “The Sublime and the Good” will be cited as SG.

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of the despair of the age, the Kantian man-god, who is ‘offspring of the age of science’” (“The Dream” 143). Carel maintains the position and the cassock of a priest and guides Pattie through an unholy catechism, but he has been assigned to a church with only a Christopher Wren tower and unconsecrated hall remaining (TTA 13). As Peter Webster observed, the ruined church “is both symbol and backdrop against which Murdoch develops her theme of the loss of faith and the directionless search for something with which to replace it.” Avril Horner writes that Carel’s “nihilism, Murdoch suggests, is one aspect of the mid-twentieth century crisis of faith that has followed on the heels of the Holocaust. It seems to portend not only a secular, but also an amoral society, which would be Gothic in its embrace of evil” (79). Carel Fisher, who holds both his housekeeper, Pattie, and one of his daughters in sexual thrall, is spiritually rather than physically impotent, and Conradi concludes, “His death, by virtue of his punning surname, promises a restoration of fertility to the wasteland” (Saint 178). The land, which cannot be reborn while Carel remains in the rectory, needs to recover from the physical destruction and the people need to find ways to prevent an “amoral society” without guidance from priests. It is Carel’s physical fertility and immoral behavior that create the main mystery of this story and the Grail for which his brother Marcus seeks. Their ostensible niece, Elizabeth, is really Carel’s daughter, courtesy of an affair with his late brother Julian’s wife. Carel uses Elizabeth’s physical disability to keep her away from Marcus and so isolated from the world that the live-in caretaker’s son, Leo Peschkov, doesn’t know that she exists until Muriel tells him about her. In his 1966 New York Times review of the book, Walter Allen complained that “All but the two major characters are beautifully rendered. We can walk around them; we are taken inside their minds. Their motives are understandable. This is not true of the key figures, Carol (sic) and Elizabeth.” This is consistent with the mystery that envelops the Fisher King character and the Holy Grail—both being subject to random appearances and disappearances and both being more often sought than found. Elizabeth is the main Grail figure, the “treasured possession” (TTA 131) over whom Carel and his official daughter, Muriel, struggle for control and for whom Marcus seeks in vain for most of the novel. Others attempt to see her, but no one outside the household does until the end of the book. Muriel describes her cousin as “the delicate pure heart of the household, its kernel of innocence” (TTA 38). She is passive, however, and her innocence has been violated. For her part, “Elizabeth … is truly imprisoned in this house as well as in her invalid’s body corset and her limited physical freedom” (Alban 70). Her passivity is also consistent with the dissociation sometimes observed in incest victims. When her abuser enters the room, she checks out of the conversation with Muriel, “gazing… upon the floor with a tense

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conscious expression which almost immediately became smooth and vacant” (180). Carel tells Muriel that Elizabeth “has become incapable of reading” (TTA 130) and “has come to live much more in her mind” (TTA 131). This Grail, like the religion that inspired the Grail myth, is powerless. Faith cannot heal in this novel. When she unsuccessfully attempts to reveal Elizabeth to Leo, Muriel inadvertently discovers the answer to the question Chrétien’s Percival failed to ask when he first met the Fisher King. Had Percival asked whom the Grail served, he would have cured the illness of that king and restored fertility to the wastelands surrounding his castle (114, ll. 3585-3607). In Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals, Murdoch noted that “the Grail is a sexual symbol” (141). Carel Fisher’s Grail is a sexual vessel, ironically taboo; Elizabeth serves Carel. Muriel’s revelation of that sexual relationship and the corruption of that “pure delicate heart” begins the process that will lead to the death of the king/enchanter, expulsion from and destruction of the rectory, and rebirth for the female characters and the bombed wasteland. The need for Carel’s death also shows the irony in using Arthurian legend, with its emphasis on the powerful defending the powerless, as a system open to abuse of power. Deborah Johnson noted that “The novel … shows… how Iris Murdoch is concerned [about] certain kinds of socially and culturally induced female misery…. Her use of such authorial devices as male narration, multiple and elaborate plot-structures, Gothic setting and mythological frameworks allows her to write about these experiences with a certain control and detachment” (66). Combining the Arthurian with the Gothic and certain elements of fairy tale points out that traditional mythologies are often based on inequality and oppression, that women are often passive, acted upon with limited opportunity to act.3 Zohreh Sullivan wrote that The Time of the Angels and Murdoch’s other Gothic novels “are crucial to an understanding of her treatment of evil, the dangers of fantasy, and the problem of the discovery of others which is the only means to achieve human community” (568). “The two most ‘Gothic’ novels, The Unicorn and The Time of the Angels, with their persistent images of bowers, mirrors and tapestries, recall Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of Shallot’ but pose the question, as Tennyson’s poem does not, of why the lady was imprisoned in the first place” (Johnson 67). The answer, at least in part, is that the traditional stories and gender roles make it possible, if not likely, that women will be controlled and will accept the role of damsel in distress.

3

For a more thorough discussion of Murdoch’s use of fairy tale motifs, see Lisa M. Fiander’s Fairy Tales and the Fiction of Iris Murdoch, Margaret Drabble, and A.S. Byatt. P. Lang, 2004, pp 87-104.

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Disney’s princesses were popular while Murdoch was writing, long before they were required to display strength or independence. Murdoch’s disapproval of the passive princess myth is clear when the thoroughly untrustworthy Leo expresses nostalgia for “the days when girls were secluded…. cloistered, shut up, never seen” (TTA 66), when it would have been easier to find what he imagines as his ideal woman, “a virgin, a girl who had been kept away from everybody, absolutely shut up and hidden…. a sort of sleeping beauty … and I’d be the first man that she saw” (TTA 67). For Murdoch, the egotism and lack of concern for anything his sleeping beauty might have suffered or missed show that he is attracted to a fantasy. Murdoch was critical of Arthurian legends in general, writing that “They have an intense but untragic atmosphere.” Although she considered “Malory’s writings… beautiful,” she complained that “Malory’s women are semi-magical charmers, worthy of being celebrated by pre-Raphaelite painters.” She contrasts them to Shakespeare’s women, who she sees as “free individuals, brilliant images of a liberation which then lay (in many contexts still lies) in the future” (MGM 141). Leo wants the one-dimensional, semi-magical charmer, not a real woman who has experienced real pain. His fantasy requires that she have been deprived of a full life. Even Muriel, who participates in Elizabeth’s isolation by bringing her meals and what limited information she hears from the outside world, “worried sometimes about the degree of seclusion Elizabeth seemed to accept as natural” (TTA 39), yet she shares an identification with the isolated princess role, reflecting that she and Elizabeth “treated [former] friends as a pair of sophisticated princesses might have treated the children of their servants” (TTA39) and hoping that “one day [Elizabeth’s] prince would come” (TTA 41). As Tammy Grimshaw has noted, “From a feminist perspective, Murdoch’s portrayal of Carel’s power could be interpreted as representing the patriarchal power of larger society” (155). The roles both women play have been determined by their father and a culture that encourages female passivity. The figurative castle they inhabit is threatened, unstable, and slated for destruction. One brick wall destroyed in the bombing has been replaced by cement, and the interior structure is also compromised, leaving a crack in a wall to Elizabeth’s room that is big enough to spy through. The underground trains that rumble beneath the rectory add to the gothic sense of discomfort. They also inspire Muriel’s recurring nightmare of being “in a lonely place [that] might have been a temple…threatened by something dark from the ground” (TTA 43). She is, of course, living in a lonely place that used to be attached to a temple and that is governed by a corrupt phallic presence that creates rumblings in their domestic life. It may be the trains rushing beneath the ground, or perhaps the devil coming from hell to take Carel away.

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The trains are not wholly negative, however. Although they took Pattie’s father away from her, a job with the underground being his excuse for leaving Pattie’s mother, she sometimes imagines he is on one of those rumbling trains (TTA 34). Although this is not a path Pattie follows, the thought suggests the possibility of reconciliation with her earthly father and an end to her orphaned state. The trains also represent the new world that is inexorably encroaching on the crumbling ruins of the past. For Murdoch, that past includes belief in God and the power of the Church, both so important in Arthurian tales. Carel’s church is literally crumbling and must come down to make way for the future. While it stands, however, Carel’s cloistered, would-be castle is hard to get into. The rectory, with its door guarded tenaciously by Pattie, proves as impenetrable as is the Grail Castle to unworthy knights. In addition, the rectory, like the Fisher King’s castle, can be hard to find, and there are times when one literally cannot see it. Emma Jung and Marie-Louise Von Franz noted that the Grail castle appears in “an otherworldly domain” (66), “Or else…it is to be found in the everyday world but concealed by a magic haze, and it only becomes visible under special conditions and to particular people” (67), as happens when Chrétien’s Perceval arrives at the spot where he is supposed to see the Fisher King’s castle but can’t at first (97, ll. 3045-52).4 Quite often, Carel’s rectory is invisible due to the fog which persists through most of the book, a fog that Muriel notes makes it feel as if the Rectory is “besieged” (TTA 37) as a castle might be besieged. At one point, Muriel leaves for a walk and “Immediately the Rectory was lost to sight” (TTA 60) in the fog. On an evening trip to the rectory, Marcus bumps into it without seeing it (TTA 74). While the fog is part of the everyday world, Carel appears to have chosen to believe the rectory is part of the “otherworldly domain.” He tells his brother Marcus that he and Elizabeth are “not in your world” (TTA 78,79), that “It is only by some metaphysical mistake that we can apprehend each other at all” (TTA 79). Carel has also decided that Muriel belongs to the everyday world and seeks to isolate his victim further, as he first urges Muriel to get a job, then tells her to find another place to live. In his biography of Murdoch, Conradi notes that “Fogs feature in [Murdoch’s] novels as a concrete metaphor for obfuscation, or a bewitchment of the intelligence” (351). That the fog seeps into this castle is a sign that people who might resist or expose Carel’s bewitchment are not welcome.

4

His cousin later tells him “A knight could ride …For twenty-five leagues straight along the road you’ve come, And never find decent Lodging” (110, ll. 3469-74), which tells her Perceval has been the Fisher King’s guest.

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As Webster’s description from above suggests, “directionless” searches are common in this novel, and ironically, the questing knights deemed unworthy of entrance by Carel and his household—Carel’s brother, Marcus, Althea Barlow, and Norah Shadox-Brown—are all shunned as “do-gooders” (TTA 42) by Carel’s daughters, Muriel and Elizabeth. That this castle focuses on keeping do-gooders out while they are the only ones allowed in the Grail castle in myth is, of course, a commentary. Carel represents a religion, which in the context of the book is no longer viable and a church which, although it created beautiful works like the Wren tower and was integral to the myths guiding Malory, also at times abused its power to control people, as Carel does. The first do-gooder/questor we see turned from the door in what becomes a comic pattern is Anthea Barlow. Although we know from the beginning that she visits on behalf of the church, it is only at the end we learn that she is “a psychiatric social worker” (TTA 229) sent by the Bishop to evaluate and report on Carel’s mental health. Anthea’s quest is to heal the spiritually wounded Carel either through psychiatry or possibly love since she also turns out to be the mysterious woman the three Fisher brothers loved and fought over years before, but with a new last name the surviving brothers do not recognize. Her quest fails, like Perceval’s, as a result of unasked questions, or more specifically, unread messages. Nobody reads the notes she leaves or letters she sends; in her one successful entry into the rectory, she leaves snowdrops, presumably a gift designed to tell Carel who she is, but Pattie first decides not to deliver them, then accidentally crushes them. Althea’s attempts at good deeds go beyond trying to heal Carel, as she turns out to also be trying to help Leo find a positive path. Pamela Osborn argues that although she remains a comic figure, she is also a Christ figure who “subtly and quietly causes reality to infiltrate the rectory. It is Anthea’s gift of snowdrops, an intentional reminder of the outside world, that elicits a moment of clear vision for Pattie … a chance for Pattie to see reality amidst …. her controlled and illusory life with Carel” (160-61). Osborn notes that she has a similar effect on Marcus and that all might well have gone better if she had been taken seriously before Carel’s death. Marcus, too, is a do-gooder, trying to solve the problem that has driven Carel mad by writing a book tentatively titled “Morality in a World without God” (TTA 71), a project that sounds similar to Murdoch’s The Sovereignty of Good, which echoes throughout the novel. Having been turned from the rectory door many times, he is at first determined to see his brother. When he first gains entrance, via the coal cellar, he crawls, like a penitent knight, though in this case, a comic one covered in soot (TTA 76). Throughout this visit, Carel, like God, remains unseen, a voice and a guiding hand in the darkness courtesy of a power outage, but the darkness of the rectory and of the coal dust on Marcus’s clothes and face suggests that this is not a place to find enlightenment. Hilda Speer suggests it

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“is a metaphorical fall into the pit of hell and his comic emergence into an even more palpable darkness, to be confronted there by the visible incarnation of the devil himself (63). As time goes on and he is denied access to Elizabeth, Marcus becomes determined to see her, thinking of her much as Muriel does, as “a … dazzling point of pure innocence” (TTA 90), a contrast to the darkness offered by his brother. Although he never succeeds in talking to Elizabeth, he does in the end catch sight of her, and the ending implies that while largely unsuccessful in his quest for Elizabeth, Marcus may finally be successful in love, as he and Anthea make plans for dinner and he decides not to take up lodging with his friend Norah Shadox-Brown, who had decided for him that he should move into a flat in her building. Practical, if also a bit controlling, Norah recommends Marcus consult a lawyer (TTA 20) about seeing Elizabeth since, legally speaking, she is ward to both Marcus and Carel. Her quest at the rectory is to speak to her former student, Muriel, who has not responded to a letter she sent encouraging Muriel to find a job (TTA 42). Muriel, preferring to remain cloistered in her fairy tale, writing bad poetry and working on jigsaw puzzles with Elizabeth, is actively avoiding her. Although she is patronized by and written off as unimaginative by both Muriel and Marcus, Marije Altorf observes that “it is Norah, who time and again understands the problems and acts appropriately” (87). She provides financial support for both caretaker Eugene Peshkov and his son Leo and “understand[s] from the very beginning that the situation in the isolated vicarage is detrimental for the two young women” (Altorf 88). Although she never gets inside the rectory, Muriel eventually speaks to her as her dream world falls apart. As noted above, there is a second Grail in the novel, a lighter version of the wounded Fisher King, and a second set of questors. Eugene Peschkov lives in a basement bomb shelter in the rectory and is the caretaker of the property. He is a double to Carel, a figure of light rather than dark, but he has been wounded by revolution, war, and the disapproval of his son, Leo, who has accused him of having “the mentality of a servant” (TTA 46), an insult designed to be particularly galling to a man born into privilege on a pre-revolutionary Russian estate. His one souvenir of that time, and his prized possession, is an icon. It reminds him of his “six golden years” before the revolution, which “remained an endless source of light” (TTA 53)—a time when he remembers loving and being loved and pampered by everyone around him (TTA 52). Like Carel, he too practices some religious rituals and burns incense for his icon, but for him, it is explicitly a symbol of the past, the happy time in his life before his family was forced to flee Russia.

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When the icon disappears, it sets off the second set of quests. People seek Eugene’s icon for various reasons, but his Grail is achievable: everyone who looks for it—Leo, Marcus, Muriel, and Pattie—eventually gains at least temporary custody of it, and Eugene gets it back in the end. Although he never gets to see Elizabeth, despite his access to the Rectory, Leo is one of the few in this book who achieves his main quest, which is to regain the cherished icon he stole and sold. This is one explicitly labeled a quest (TTA 109), and he achieves it through lies and deception. Thus, even the parallel Grail quest is ironic in this book. Having sold it to an antique store for far less than they are willing to sell it back for, Leo calls upon his former teacher, Marcus, and persuades him to buy it back with an elaborate tale involving an engagement and a gambling loss. We never know which of Leo’s stories are true, except that he has lied to get money and that he is lying to Marcus. Leo is perhaps like the worldly, unworthy Gawain of later grail stories, admitting that he has “proved to be a fool as well as a knave” (TTA 126) for stealing from his father, then selling an icon worth 300 pounds for a mere 75, but the tale succeeds and Marcus buys the icon. Ironically, it is only when he is carrying Eugene’s icon and let in by an electrician—a reminder of the power outage and Marcus’s comic first entry— that Marcus gains a dignified entrance to the Rectory. When he departs, shaken by his conversation with Carel, Marcus leaves the icon in Carel’s study. As Muriel is rejected by her father, who demands she move out of the rectory, she is also rejected by Eugene, with whom she has persuaded herself she is in love. Eugene “hated her English alienness, her absolutely unconscious superiority” (TTA 117) when she interrupted an argument he was having with Leo. As he dislikes her, he also dislikes the gift she buys him as consolation for the missing icon. The red Russian box, which she thought “might cheer [him] up a bit” (TTA 117), leaves Eugene crying uncontrollably and feeling “unutterable pain and loss” (TTA 118). Although he hates it at first, Muriel’s gift ends up being instrumental in healing Eugene’s wounds when he realizes that it reminds him of the death of his pet dog. Anne Rowe tells us that “The description of Eugene’s icon in The Time of the Angels was drawn from Rublyov’s celebrated icon in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow.…this icon … served as a symbol of the dangers of consolatory dreams for Murdoch” (“Near the Gods” 70). Thomas Rice Jackson sees the box as filling in the memories of his childhood, bringing Eugene the knowledge he needs to leave the Rectory and be reborn in the world: Eugene’s value-based love system is contained by the icon that he associates with the love of his mother and the security of his childhood in pre-revolutionary Russia…. After he surfaces and acknowledges the

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second reality of his childhood, the memory of death encoffined in the box, he can free himself from his self-enclosed world …now carrying both the icon and the box with him” (134). In helping Eugene remember that his life in Russia was not entirely happy, Muriel too becomes a do-gooder, albeit for the selfish reason of wanting to impress the man she hardly knows but believes that she loves. Having compared Muriel to Perceval because she discovers who the book’s Grail serves, a better figure for her might be Galahad. She is virginal and not really tempted by the “frightfully good-looking” (TTA 9) and sexually active Leo, who claims to have fallen in love with her, in part because of her virginity (TTA 187). Murdoch tells us that although she “had occasionally become attached to older men in what she thought of as a silly sentimental way” (TTA 40), at 24, she is not attracted to men her own age. She, like Galahad, is never really tempted (Kennedy 209, Radulescu 336).5 When Marcus finally sees Elizabeth—at a distance, as Lancelot sees the Grail in the Vulgate cycle—Muriel is carrying her at first, and they both disappear into a taxi, much as Galahad disappears with the Grail having fully achieved his quest. She is less successful in her quest for the icon, carelessly leaving it on a hallway table for Pattie to find and return to Eugene, but she is guided by true concern for her cousin as opposed to the illusion of her love for Eugene. Muriel’s similarity to Galahad is also ironic. Despite her virginity, her motives and actions are not always pure. She inadvertently provides the sleeping pills with which Carel kills himself, and finding him unconscious, she chooses not to call for help or to try to revive him. As Grimshaw observes, “While perhaps having good intentions in attempting to protect her sister from further abuse, Muriel has been both directly and indirectly complicit in bringing about her father’s death, leaving the reader highly ambivalent about the moral tenor of her actions” (160). What Grimshaw fails to note is that although Muriel does want Elizabeth to have a more normal life, she also sees herself as controlling it. Gillian Alban offers a less positive view, that Elizabeth “is eventually released by [Carel’s] suicide only into a mutual bondage with Muriel, the two enchained together eternally” (Alban 70). She also intentionally destroys the love Pattie had begun to find with Eugene by telling him Pattie has recently had sex with Carel.

5

Knowing how little she knows of Eugene, how he dislikes her and finds her unattractive compared to the full-figured Pattie (TTA 59), readers can identify her crush on him as one of those silly attachments. For Murdoch, “Love is the perception of individuals. Love is the extremely difficult realisation (sic) that something other than oneself is real” (SG 215). Eugene is as much a fantasy for Muriel as Elizabeth was for Leo.

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If Muriel begins the process of Carel’s demise, Pattie’s words and actions continue the process. The illegitimate daughter of an Irish woman and a possibly Jamaican stranger, Pattie, put up for adoption when her mother marries and later orphaned, is one of the few in the book who does still believe in God. Unfortunately for her, she also experiences Carel as “the presence of God”(TTA 27). Finally feeling loved despite her race and orphaned state, Carel becomes “the whole world to her” but also teaches her “what it was like to be a slave” (TTA 29). She is only freed when she learns that Carel has been sleeping with Elizabeth. The thought that with Muriel gone, Elizabeth and Carel will be living “like a married couple [with her as] their servant” (TTA 211) finally allows Pattie to leave, leading Carel to commit suicide and leaving the door to the rectory unguarded. Pattie’s quest for belonging has a more hopeful and successful conclusion, as she leaves to join an aid organization in Africa. Many critics tend to accept Carel’s interpretation that in The Time of the Angels, only the “terrible” angels (TTA 173) are left to take over after the death of God. Lisa Fiander describes the book as “virtually bereft of optimism” (16, 131). Certainly, the last words we hear from Muriel’s consciousness, that “There would be no parting from Elizabeth now. Carel had riveted them together, each to be the damnation of the other until the end of the world” (TTA 222) leave a sense of doom, but Muriel has just had a series of shocks and has not had much time to process them when she has that thought. Norah’s assessment of her, that “She’s naturally a strong-willed high-principled person” (TTA 17) combined with Muriel’s earlier comments that “my father rather exaggerates [Elizabeth’s disability]. He tends to keep her a bit too cooped up….I think Elizabeth ought to see more people” (TTA 141) leave room for hope. It is in part Muriel’s strong will that makes both Carel and Eugene reject her in favor of the more readily controlled Elizabeth and Pattie. In a 1977 interview with Michael Bellamy, Murdoch said, “I think that people create myths about themselves and are then dominated by the myths. They feel trapped, and they elect other people to play roles in their lives, to be gods or destroyers or something, and I think that this mythology is often very deep and very influential and secretive…” (138). The question left at the end of the novel is whether Muriel and Elizabeth will continue to believe the stories Carel created or whether Muriel will follow up on her plans to break Elizabeth’s isolation, thus creating new, more empowered stories for them to live by. Grimshaw writes, “Murdoch may have intended to show during the majority of this novel that patriarchal power can limit women and impede their freedom, but aimed to demonstrate at the close of the narrative that women also have power of their own and are by no means unequivocally confined by this gendered power dynamic” (161). That the book ends with the do-gooders in charge is a positive sign that the women of the novel are or can become more like Shakespeare’s “free

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individuals.” Heather Widdows has noted that in Murdoch’s philosophy, the challenge in “perceiving higher realities means that those who are more enlightened are likely to be regarded with suspicion and misunderstood (101). Misunderstood throughout the novel, Anthea has finally delivered her message. Also misunderstood, no-nonsense Norah has taken on ill-disciplined Leo and found Eugene a new place to live. Construction teams arrive to rebuild the neighborhood. Pattie, in becoming an aid worker, has joined the dogooders. The Wren tower is gone but new life can begin. Yes, Eugene sees Anthea Barlow crying at the end, but tears for the past can make way for growth in the future now that characters are seeing “higher realities” than the one Carel created. As the fog lifts, the destruction of traditional European, male-dominated culture—religion and mythology that enforce the idea of females as passive Grail-like vessels, and the physical structures created by that culture—leads to a time of new birth for the female characters who had been dominated and silenced by it, and to their delivery into a new world. This is an unusual ending for a Murdoch novel, as her women often do not escape male domination, but the past is literally crumbling, and even the beautiful Christopher Wren tower and romances like the Fisher King will have to be destroyed to make the city new. In The Time of the Angels, new birth is both possible and necessary, but for that to happen, the Fisher King must die, leaving the world to the do-gooders, those who honor the best parts of chivalry without seeking power for themselves or exploiting the faith of others, seeking a moral path, as Marcus does through his book, and helping others, as Norah and Anthea, then Pattie choose to do. Works Cited Alban, Gillian M. E. “Female Subversions of Male Power in A Severed Head and The Time of the Angels.” Iris Murdoch and her Work: Critical Essays, edited by Şule Okuroğlu, and Mustafa Kirca, Stuttgart: ibidem-Verlag, 2010, pp. 67-79. eBook Academic Collection (EBSCOhost). Allen, Walter. “Anything Goes.” The New York Times on the Web, September 25, 1966, NY Times Review, http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/12/20/specials/ murdochangels.html. Altorf, Marije. “Murdoch, or What It Means To Be A Serious Philosopher.” Δαίμων. Revista Internacional de Filosofía, nº 60, 2013, pp. 75-91. Bellamy, Michael O., and Iris Murdoch. “An Interview with Iris Murdoch.” ContemporaryLiterature, vol. 18, no. 2, 1977, pp. 129–140. JSTOR, www.jstor. org/stable/1208039. Chrétien et al. Perceval: The Story of the Grail, translated by Burton Raffel, Yale University Press, 1999. EBSCOhost. Conradi, Peter J. Iris Murdoch: A Life. W. W. Norton, 2001.

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______. The Saint and the Artist: A Study of the Fiction of Iris Murdoch. Harper Collins, 2001. Fiander, Lisa M. Fairy Tales and the Fiction of Iris Murdoch, Margaret Drabble, and A. S. Byatt. P. Lang, 2004. Grimshaw, Tammy. Sexuality, Gender, and Power in Iris Murdoch’s Fiction. Fairleigh Dickinson Press, 2005. Horner, Avril. “Refinements of Evil: Iris Murdoch and the Gothic” Iris Murdoch and Morality, edited by Anne Rowe and Avril Horner, Palgrave Macmillan, 2010, pp. 70-85. Johnson, Deborah. Iris Murdoch. Harvester, 1987. Jung, Emma, and Marie-Louise von Franz. The Grail Legend, translated by Andrea Dykes, Putnam, 1970. Kennedy, Edward Donald. “The Grail in French Arthurian Romance.” A Companion to Arthurian Literature, edited by Helen Fulton, Wiley-Blackwell, 2009, pp. 202-217. Lupack, Alan. Oxford Guide to Arthurian Legend. Oxford, 2007. Murdoch, Iris. Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals. Penguin, 1992. ________. “The Sublime and the Beautiful.” Existentialists and Mystics, edited by Peter Conradi, Penguin, 1999, pp. 205-220. ________. The Time of the Angels. Penguin, 1987. Radulescu, Raluca L. “Malory and the Quest for the Holy Grail.” A Companion to Arthurian Literature, edited by Helen Fulton, Wiley-Blackwell, 2009, pp. 326-328. Rice, Thomas Jackson. “Death and Love in Iris Murdoch’s The Time of the Angels.” Critique, vol. 36, no. 2; Proquest Central, 1995 pg. 130. Rowe, Anne. “Near the Gods: Iris Murdoch and the Painter Harry Weinberger.” Iris Murdoch Connected: Critical Essays On Her Fiction And Philosophy, edited by Mark Luprecht, Univ Tennessee Press, 2014, pp. 57-71. eBook Academic Collection (EBSCOhost). _______. “‘The Dream that does not Cease to Haunt us:’ Iris Murdoch’s Holiness.” Iris Murdoch and Morality, edited by Anne Rowe and Avril Horner. Palgrave Macmillan, 2010, pp. 141-154. Speer, Hilda D. Iris Murdoch. Palgrave Macmillan 2007. Sullivan, Zohreh T. “The Contracting Universe of Iris Murdoch’s Gothic Novels.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 23, no. 4, 1977, pp. 557–569. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/ stable/26282046. Tomkinson, Fiona. “Intertextuality in The Green Knight.” Iris Murdoch and her Work: Critical Essays. Edited by Şule Okuroğlu, and Mustafa Kirca. Stuttgart: ibidem-Verlag, 2010, pp. 81-90. eBook Academic Collection (EBSCOhost). Webster, Peter. “Christopher Wren in the Wasteland.” Webstory: Peter Webster’s Blog https://peterwebster.me/2017/02/13/christopher-wren-in-the-wasteland/. Weston, Jessie L. From Ritual to Romance. Dover, 2011. Widdows, Heather. The Moral Vision of Iris Murdoch. Routledge, 2016.

Chapter 10

When Arthurian heroes fall: adapting moral failure and Christian redemption in the BBC’s Merlin Leah Hamilton Xavier University

Abstract The BBC’s show Merlin has been analyzed primarily in terms of how this retelling of the Matter of Britain accommodates modern audiences by embracing themes of multiculturalism and feminism. Christianity is conspicuously absent. The omission of the Christian tradition as the worldview of the characters is a logical adaptation for modern audiences, but introduces a problem for Arthurian protagonists. They are not only presented in the Medieval texts as paragons of virtue, but also characterized as fallible humans whose stories and conflicts often stem from personal weakness, moral failings, and conflicting values. Late Medieval audiences navigate this duality by recognizing that these characters can be both sinful humans and redeemable heroes through Christianity and penitence. By contrast, in Merlin some of the most famous plots from the Arthurian tradition become nearly unrecognizable, raising questions about modern audiences' receptivity to narratives of moral failure and subsequent redemption for ideal heroes. Keywords: BBC Merlin, secularization, Christianity, redemption; TV; King Arthur; Arthurian *** The BBC’s show Merlin, an incredibly popular and long-running adaptation of the medieval Arthurian legends, has been analyzed by scholars primarily in terms of how this retelling of the Matter of Britain accommodates modern audiences

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by embracing themes of multiculturalism and feminism.1 In focusing on those elements, scholarship has thus far neglected to analyze in detail the effect of another key divergence in the show: Christianity is conspicuously absent, and religion consists almost solely of vague references to an “Old Religion” associated with both magic and druids. The omission of the Christian tradition as the worldview of the characters is a logical adaptation for most modern audiences, but introduces a problem for Arthurian protagonists. They are not only presented in the medieval texts as paragons of virtue, but also characterized as fallible humans whose stories and conflicts often stem from personal weakness, moral failings, and conflicting values. Late medieval audiences navigate this duality by recognizing that these characters can be both sinful humans and redeemable heroes through Christianity and penitence. By contrast, in Merlin there is clearly preservation of many of the characters’ exemplary status, but some of the most famous plots from the Arthurian tradition (Lancelot and Guinevere, the Grail) become nearly unrecognizable in the show. The changes to these retold stories raise questions about modern audiences' receptivity to narratives of moral failure and subsequent redemption for ideal heroes. Theorists including Sarah Cardwell, Thomas M. Leitch, Peter Lev, and David L. Kranz have championed approaches to analyzing film and television adaptations that are ideally suited to Arthurian tales: rather than emphasizing a single text as source, these theorists advocate for analyzing the adaptation in terms of its departures from and additions to a tradition of retelling the story, emphasizing hybridity, intertextual studies, and Cardwell’s view on “the gradual development of a ‘meta-text.’”2 Using an intertextual approach, this chapter is an examination of the re-casting of specific medieval Arthurian stories in Merlin3 in order to nostalgically evoke the medieval tradition while omitting explicit references to religious morality. The writers accommodate 21st century viewers by altering even familiar plots significantly, by replacing themes of penitence with an emphasis on the protagonists’ naiveté and good intentions, and by placing far greater emphasis on the role of social

1

Examples include David Tollerton, Philippa Semper, Jennifer C. Edwards, Cindy Mediaville, Joseph Brennan, Anne Howey, and Dragoş Manea. 2 Sarah Cardwell describes this succinctly in Adaptation Revisited: Television and the Classic Novel, “What is (an) Adaptation?” pp. 25-26, Thomas M. Leitch in “Where Are We Going, Where Have We Been?” Peter Lev in “The Future of Adaptation Studies,” and David L. Kranz in “Trying Harder: Probability, Objectivity, and Rationality in Adaptation Studies.” 3 There are clear allusions to and adaptations of Geoffrey of Monmouth (who is included as a character), Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Chrétien de Troyes’ Perceval, The Story of The Grail, and Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.

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relationships between characters as a source of forgiveness and societal restoration. These adaptations not only hold implications for plot and characterization, most notably for the central protagonists Merlin (Colin Morgan), Arthur (Bradley James), and Guinevere (Angel Coulby), but they also suggest means by which 21st century viewers may be willing (and at times unwilling) to reconcile a desire for ideal heroes with the reality of human heroes’ inevitable failures and shortcomings. As scholar Julie McGonegal paraphrases J.M. Coetzee in her book, Imagining Justice: The Politics of Postcolonial Forgiveness and Reconciliation: “If the gods have died…how can the aim of absolution previously met by religious ritual now be achieved?” (160). How to Apologize, and Why: The Process and Role of Penitence When analyzing the ways in which the BBC’s show Merlin adapts and expands the Arthurian tradition’s characterization of redemption, an overview of the three-part process of penitence is useful. According to medieval Catholicism, the theology and praxis most closely associated with the medieval Arthurian characters, there are three essential steps involved in the process of effectual penitence: as Dante scholar John D. Sinclair puts it, there must be “contrition of the heart, confession of the lips, and satisfaction by works” (Sinclair 128), and these three steps must be characterized by “sincerity,” “anguish,” and “ardour,” respectively (Sinclair 129). Giving private confession and completing private penance was enough to assure restoration to Communion and the church body “as long as proper restitution was made” (The Essential Catholic 72). Since medieval writers drew on this robust tradition where sincere penitence could be achieved privately and result in a credible, supernatural transformation of one’s character and very soul, medieval writers could then develop dramatic narrative arcs where heroes might commit almost any crime and still be credibly restored to their full heroic status by the end of the tale. In modern reconciliation research, the same three-part model of penitence is echoed by scholars: to achieve “naturally occurring forgiveness” (Worthington, “Pyramid Model,” 108), wrongdoers are expected to identify their responsibility, issue a sincere apology, and complete an appropriate level of atonement. The perceived humility of the wrongdoer is likewise essential to establishing sincerity (De Cremer 239). Despite these apparent similarities, however, modern audiences are deeply suspicious of confession and repentance. In his book Troubling Confessions: Speaking Guilt in Law and Literature, Peter Brooks explains that modern “social and cultural attitudes toward confession suffer from uncertainties and ambivalences… We want confessions, yet we are suspicious of them” (3).

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Audiences resist the idea that humans can or do readily change their essential selves, and so are instead more likely to view a dramatic narrative arc as revealing a character’s true nature, whether heroic, villainous, or simply flawed. When a modern writer dramatizes a hero’s fall and then redemption, the skeptical reader must be satisfied by the hero’s sincerity, anguish, and ardor. Without the option of any form of divine redemption, believably dramatizing a credible change to the character’s nature becomes extremely difficult. For this reason, although the erasure of Christianity from the Arthurian stories in Merlin may at first seem to create for writers the easier task of needing only to satisfy viewers of their heroes’ good qualities and not have those characters live up to any religious ideals, the omission of God as a party with whom the author may reconcile his characters adds a formidable layer of complexity to storytelling, as the only options remaining for effectual penitence are somehow credibly demonstrating that significant change is indeed possible, or alternatively that any wrongdoings are not indicative of the character’s essential nature. With no ability to invoke a divine voice to confirm the sincerity of repentance or to give the final word on a character’s behalf, modern writers have their work cut out for them: when redeeming an exemplary character, they must persuade the audience of the hero’s sincerity, anguish, and ardor—and they must accomplish this without the medieval recourse to divine redemption and restoration. Determining circumstances under which modern viewers are likely to forgive wrongdoing is exceptionally difficult. Theorists, including Jacques Derrida (59), Thomas L. Shaffer (130), and theologian Emmanuel Levinas (Kaplan 262), suggest dishearteningly that true forgiveness and restoration may never be fully possible apart from religion. Kenneth I. Pargament and Mark S. Rye state that “forgiveness is more than a method. It is a value, and, for many, a religious value… [one can] not believe in forgiveness, just as some do not believe in God, astrology, or the stock market” (72). The BBC’s Merlin takes on this formidable challenge of preserving its exemplary Arthurian protagonists by means of three primary strategies. First, some of the most familiar plots are altered conspicuously, in order to sidestep the issue of forgiveness entirely; second, themes of penitence are replaced by an emphasis on excusing the main protagonists’ actions; and third, when wrongdoings by heroes cannot be omitted or excused, they are followed by extreme demonstrations of humility in order to satisfy observers of their sincerity.

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Three Strategies for Adaptation in Merlin: omission, excusing, and dramatic humility Omission as an Adaptation Strategy The first strategy is simply to omit or eliminate character flaws from the three primary heroes (Merlin, Arthur, and Guinevere). The writers of Merlin draw on themes and events described in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s De gestis Britonum or Historia regum Britanniae and Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur for multiple episodes, yet they alter these primary characters’ stories to eliminate elements that might make them morally dubious to audiences, thus reducing the need for audiences to forgive particular flaws or shortcomings in the three primary heroes. For example, despite medieval writer Geoffrey of Monmouth (Michael Cronin) appearing as a recurring fictionalized character in the show, an obvious homage to his version of the Arthurian legend, Merlin receives an entirely new origin story. The troubling conception tale that Geoffrey of Monmouth relates (where Merlin is born to an incubus who is literally invisible when he impregnates a nun) is almost unrecognizable in Merlin (167-8). Some of the changes may certainly be attributed to the fact that Christianity is omitted from the show, rendering nuns and demonic forces thematically inappropriate, but the powerful thematic resonances for explaining the singularity of Merlin that Geoffrey of Monmouth’s origin story holds could have been preserved in a retelling where Merlin is fathered by means of magic and similarly mysterious circumstances without any mention of religion. Instead, the writers sidestep any question of a dark and, in some measure, inhuman parental legacy for Merlin by presenting him as the son of a generous, self-sacrificing peasant woman named Hunith (Caroline Faber) and an absent father (clearly suggested to be the source of Merlin’s magical abilities) who is eventually revealed in the second series to be a persecuted “Dragonlord” named Balinor (John Lynch) (S2Ep13). Much like this sanitized origin for Merlin, the back story for Uther Pendragon (Anthony Head) is likewise softened a great deal; however, achieving credible forgiveness in the eyes of modern audiences for the betrayal of marriage vows or for hypocrisy in using magic for Arthur’s conception will not prove simple. Even dramatic changes to the story are not sufficient to preserve the king as a heroic figure, and so Uther Pendragon is presented in Merlin as being of an essentially mixed character. The writers of Merlin draw on the stories of Uther’s relationship with the wife of the Duke of Cornwall (Gorlois, portrayed by Colin Maher) presented by Geoffrey of Monmouth and Sir Thomas Malory, and they tone down the story

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(and Uther’s culpability) considerably for the television show. While Merlin’s Uther does sleep with Gorlois’s wife, it is a brief affair and certainly not accomplished in the manner of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s dramatic narrative: involving a magical disguise to impersonate Gorlois while having the duke killed after having violently ravaged the duchy of Cornwall. Moreover, Gorlois’s wife (Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Ygerna, or Sir Thomas Malory’s Igrayne, and traditionally the mother of Arthur) is renamed Vivienne in the show, allowing this episode to be recast as a moment of weakness that begets the problematic Morgana (Katie McGrath), and not the backdrop for Uther’s relationship with his beloved Ygraine (Alice Patten) and the conception of their heroic son, Arthur. The hypocritical use of magic for Arthur’s conception in the show Merlin arises out of Uther’s overwhelming desire to have a child with the infertile Ygraine—and he is severely punished for his hypocrisy (which must be Uther’s wrongdoing, as magic is not characterized as inherently evil in the show) by the resulting death of his wife during childbirth. All of these elements make Uther more palatable to a modern audience, yet they do not redeem him entirely. While these adaptations change Uther’s legacy, as he is now the father of Morgana (or Malory’s Morgan le Fay), and Arthur’s half-sibling relationship with Morgana is then through his father and not his mother (Malory’s Igrayne), they do not spare Uther from devastating repercussions that move him further and further from a heroic and idealized position as king of Camelot within the show. As tensions escalate during the first three seasons, Morgana regularly threatens never to forgive Uther (S1Ep8, S1Ep10). Uther seems to agree with this sentiment in some measure, stating succinctly, “I do not seek her forgiveness” (S1Ep8). The writers do portray Uther’s occasional attempts at penitence and forgiveness for his original wrongdoings and subsequent sins, particularly in “To Kill the King” (S1 Ep 12) and in the wake of his subsequent wrongdoings, which primarily stem from his overly zealous persecution of magic practitioners after Ygraine’s death. Nevertheless, in each instance, it is made clear that characters within the show—Morgana in particular, but also Gwen—are not satisfied by Uther’s sincerity, anguish, and ardor in making amends. In sharp contrast, the medieval presentations of Uther include misdeeds heaped upon misdeeds, yet Uther regains and maintains his status as heroic king with almost no discernible effort on the part of the writers. Even Geoffrey of Monmouth’s most troubling version of Uther’s actions against Gorlois and Ygerna lead directly to Arthur’s conception and birth; the simple facts of Uther’s sadness at the loss of Gorlois and his great love for Ygerna (208) seem to excuse his behavior effectually in just a few scant lines (208). In Malory’s version, much of the problem is conveniently resolved by a deft loophole in the timeline when

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the Duke of Tintagel attacks King Uther’s men and is slain “thorowe his owne yssue… more than thre houres” (3.30-33) before Uther lies with his wife and conceives Arthur. The reader can walk the well-worn path of a troubling hero being redeemed. In comparison, the modern show Merlin presents a far less culpable Uther who by rights should be much easier for writers to redeem in the eyes of audiences. The king’s character is nonetheless permanently tainted by his shortcomings (nearly all of which can be traced directly to those two misdeeds of adultery and hypocrisy) to the point where, in Series Four, the writers ultimately have no more use for Uther than to portray him as nearly catatonic with guilt, yet still beyond even the forgiving Guinevere’s pardon, before he finally sacrifices himself to save Arthur’s life—with no clear suggestion that even that act redeems him fully for character or for viewers. After observing the adaptations to Uther’s story and how even those profoundly mitigating changes to his narrative do not readily permit his medieval arc of a swift return to ideal and heroic status, it may be no surprise to note that this strategy of eliminating characters’ flaws is used all the more in Merlin when adapting stories that involve the three central heroes’ conduct. This trend suggests that modern audiences may have particular difficulty forgiving an ideal hero any betrayal or hypocrisy and notably includes omissions even of Malory’s more innocuous examples of questionable behaviors, such as Arthur fathering Borre or Merlin’s unwise infatuation with Nyneve. The strategy of simply omitting character flaws from the heroes’ plots is most conspicuous in the show’s adaptation of Lancelot and Guinevere’s adulterous relationship, suggesting that redeeming exemplary characters after such an act of betrayal would be extremely difficult to accomplish—and perhaps best avoided entirely. It cannot simply be explained away by the family-oriented nature of the show or the apparent youth of the primary heroes. Arthur is often violent and kills enemies without hesitation, and while graphic sexual scenes would certainly not be in keeping with the tone and audience for the show, the story of Guinevere’s relationship with Lancelot could have been presented in a manner comparable to the sexual tryst portrayed in Series Five between Gwaine (Eoin Macken) and the turncoat spy Eira (Erin Richards) (S5Ep12). Instead, the numerous changes to this famous story may well be due to the fact that, as Uther’s example demonstrates, redeeming these two characters to exemplary status in the eyes of modern viewers after such an act of betrayal without the means of Christian penitence may be too challenging to even attempt. In Sir Thomas Malory’s famous version of Launcelot and Guenivere’s relationship, there are quite a few sins to atone for: the two meet after Guenivere is already married to King Arthur, and at first “Quene Gwenyvere had [Launcelot] in grete favoure aboven all other knyghtis, and so he loved the

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Quene agayne aboven all other ladyes” (190.15-17).4 This is a troubling but apparently defensible position, though it is quite possible that Launcelot is not to be believed when he responds to rumors repeated by Morgan la Fay by describing Geunivere as “the treweste lady unto hir lord lyvynge” (194.26-28). The sinful nature of this relationship between Launcelot and Guenivere is confirmed during “The Sankgreal,” though, when Lancelot is “overtakyn with synne, that he had no power to ryse agayne the holy vessell” (694.7-8) and then “he wyst well God was displesed with hym” (695.17-18). Launcelot’s confession to a hermit only describes the wrongdoing of loving Guenivere “unmesurabely” (696.19), battling solely for her “were hit ryght other wronge” (696.21-22), and not for God “but for to wynne worship and to cause me the bettir to be beloved” (696.22-23). At this point in the narrative, there seems to be no unforgivable transgression on Launcelot’s part: the sin of lustful obsession and these resultant sins of wrongful motivation and selfish pride are taken seriously, but Launcelot’s character is praised even in the very speeches when a hermit prescribes avoiding the queen to combat the knight’s being “defouled with lechory” (697.33). Launcelot devotes himself to penance (698.3-4), and restoration seems simple and complete. There is no suggestion that the reader questions Launcelot’s sincerity or the efficacy of the knight’s penance. The story might well have been resolved in those brief lines, but Malory leaves no doubt in the reader’s mind about Launcelot’s lack of success in following through on that penance in the opening of “The Tale of Sir Launcelot and Queen Guenivere:” “Sir Launcelot began to resorte unto Quene Gwenyvere agayne, and forgate the promyse … that he made in the queste… so they loved togydirs more hotter than they dud toforehonde” (790.10-17). The nature of the transgression is further spelled out when “Sir Launcelot wente to bedde with the quene and… toke hys pleasaunce … untyll … the dawnyng of the day” (852.21-23). In keeping with these greater transgressions, and the immense fallout that leads directly to the death of King Arthur, Malory nonetheless redeems both characters swiftly and effectually by means of Christian penitence: Guenivere became a nun and showed so much repentance that “people mervayled how vertuously she was chaunged” (929.1-6). The narrator states that her subsequent promotion to “abbas and rular” is simply “as reson wolde” (930.2-3), implying that this penance is not only sincere, sufficient, and efficacious, but also that it is logically more virtuous than the penance of other nuns at Amesbury. This abrupt change of character does not ring false for Guenivere and is indeed entirely in keeping with the Christian tradition of redemption; when Guenivere

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Editor’s note: The variations in the spelling of Guinevere in this section reflect the variations in Field’s edition of Malory.

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(after first encouraging him to marry) ratifies Launcelot’s commitment to follow the same path upon his visit to her cloister (933.17-20), Launcelot’s change in character from requesting one last illicit kiss to wearing a religious habit takes the space of a single tearful day and night, and just a few lines (934). Malory takes one final step to assure the reader that Launcelot’s penance is, like Guenivere’s, not just sincere in anguish and ardor, but in fact exemplary; Launcelot’s death is accompanied by hagiographical visions: of angels, a smiling corpse, and “the swettest savour” (938.18-19). In adapting the striking, involved story of Launcelot and Guenivere (and using the spellings “Lancelot” and “Guinevere”) for modern audiences, the writers for Merlin have their work cut out for them. They first use the same strategy that Malory used for reducing culpability for Uther’s character: they relocate the entirety of Guinevere’s relationship with Lancelot so that it occurs not only before Guinevere’s marriage to Arthur, but also well before Guinevere and Arthur develop a relationship stronger than a passing flirtation. This change in the timing eliminates much of the sting of betrayal (and treason) that is present throughout Malory’s narrative, which is particularly helpful for characterization as Guinevere bears the full burden of being the primary female exemplary hero in Merlin. This change alone seems insufficient for a modern audience, though, as the show goes much further in altering the story. Guinevere and Lancelot’s flirtation appears only in a few episodes, developing from mild infatuation in Series 1 Episode 5 to their first kiss in Series 2, Episode 4. After that first kiss, even before the episode concludes, Lancelot leaves Camelot to allow Guinevere and Arthur’s romance to develop without interference. After Arthur and Guinevere have their first public kiss, at the end of Series Three, Lancelot appears in just one more episode before his character dies. The show does include one betrayal in Series Four, when Guinevere and Lancelot kiss on the night before Guinevere’s wedding to Arthur, but the writers are taking no chances with their exemplary heroes: not only is Lancelot a shade, resurrected by the necromancy of Morgana and without any will of his own, but apparently even Guinevere cannot be characterized as an exemplary hero who has a shared kiss (while still unmarried) and with a former romantic interest who was presumed dead: even under these extreme circumstances, pains are taken to establish for viewers that Guinevere is also enchanted by a bracelet and bears no culpability. Excusing as an Adaptation Strategy A second strategy used in the show Merlin is excusing the primary characters’ wrongdoings in order to preserve the heroes’ status as exemplars and neatly avoid the task of trying to persuade modern audiences that these wrongdoings

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are not actually glimpses into the darker “true nature” of these heroes. It is helpful to note Robert D. Enright and Catherine T. Coyle’s distinctions “between genuine forgiveness and other concepts sometimes confused with it, such as: pardoning, condoning, excusing, forgetting, and denying” (141). It is excusing that is in view here, and in the show, it often includes finding ways in which the character is not really to blame for missteps or to minimize how wrong those missteps actually are in order to preserve the ideal heroes’ status. For Arthur, this method is particularly exemplified in Series 1 Episode 11, “The Labyrinth of Gedref,” when the prince kills a unicorn despite Merlin’s protests, causing Camelot to be cursed. Instead of undergoing a traditional punishment or penance, Arthur instead goes through a series of trials. Because trials are not actually punishment or a penitent process of contrition, confession, and restitution, the testing suggests that Arthur’s culpability itself is still being assessed. Ultimately, the judgment passed is not that Arthur was wrong to kill the unicorn and should atone (or even that he has atoned during the course of the episode), but instead that he is (and apparently has always been) “pure of heart.” This is a clever move, as the process of testing has explicitly not brought about a questionable change in Arthur’s essential character, which is the outcome of medieval penance for the knights who are shriven and repent, but instead, according to Anhora (Frank Finley), keeper of the unicorns, “[Arthur] has proven what is truly in his heart,” and the consequences are erased entirely when the unicorn is then brought back to life. It may seem here that the BBC’s Merlin is portraying a more optimistic view of the heroic Arthur, but it likewise betrays a pessimism about modern viewers’ ability to fully forgive a character and to believe in their capacity for change as credible and effective for restoring a character to the position of exemplary hero. As with Arthur, Merlin’s youth and innocence are likewise emphasized, and many of his missteps are attributed to inexperience and lack of knowledge or even to ‘flaws’ that are arguably an excess of virtue instead of any troubling element within his essential character. Merlin demonstrates again and again that his heart is just as “pure” as Arthur’s, and there is no sign of the mysterious character presented in the medieval stories where Merlin’s motives are at times unclear, and his actions questionable; all ambiguity about the nature of Merlin’s character is firmly replaced by an unfailingly well-meaning and dedicated bodyguard and servant to Arthur. Merlin is regularly punished for his efforts to cover up his own secret efforts to save Camelot, and his emphatic innocence contrasted with his constantly being in trouble due to his ineptitude at lying (another virtue presented in lieu of character vices) is a potent source of humor for viewers. Merlin does regularly create potent problems for others when he

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executes impulsive plans, but his unassailably good motives keep him from being viewed as culpable or his character as suspect. This dynamic plays out particularly clearly in S1 Ep 13, ominously titled Le Morte d’Arthur, when Merlin tries to save Arthur’s life. In his zeal to protect Arthur and the destiny of Camelot and Albion—a significantly “once and future” name that looks ahead to a mythic future, while recalling by Geoffrey of Monmouth’s description that Britain had been called Albion before Brutus renamed it after himself (72)—Merlin’s error can also be seen as a virtue: he trusts the dragon Kilgarrah’ and the promise that he “will do anything” to save Arthur. The open-ended promise is a notoriously foolish misstep in any Arthurian narrative, but regularly associated with virtuous knights who are without the guile to see the possibility of it ending in betrayal. Chrétien de Troyes emphasizes this theme in Erec and Enide when Erec encounters the loyal Maboagrain who unwisely swore an oath to obey his lady without first asking what it was (111), and the action throughout Marie de France’s Bisclavret follows the title character’s promise to answer any question she might ask him (68). In both cases, the fault lies more with the person laying the trap. In Merlin’s case, his youth further excuses his impulsiveness when he is so focused on saving Arthur that he rejects warnings from Gaius (Richard Wilson), promising boldly that, “Whatever the price is, I will pay it gladly.” When Merlin discovers that he has unwittingly made this promise on behalf of another, and in fact his mother’s life will be taken in order to spare Arthur’s, his complaint to the dragon reveals another virtuous fault: “I thought you were my friend.” An exemplary hero can likely be excused the fault of trusting in friendship overly much, and this failing may even be praiseworthy. The nobility of this ‘failing’ is underscored when Merlin concludes the episode by saving both his mother and Gaius from the evil Nimueh (Michelle Ryan), calmly stating, “You should not have killed my friend.” Befitting the finale of the first series, Merlin loses some of his innocence—but he does not lose even a hint of his unsullied character. Later in the series, the writers must grapple with the fact that their heroes have demonstrably gained experience and lost much of their innocence and naiveté. Merlin can still say that he did not know the consequences when unchaining the wrathful dragon Kilgarrah (voiced by John Hurt) since the dragon’s attack is without precedent in his lifetime, but in other instances, the characters clearly do have full knowledge of their actions and the likely repercussions. In these episodes, the faults of the heroes are minimized by circumstances and context. Context is used to excuse Arthur in Series Five, Episode Four, “Another’s Sorrow.” Arthur makes peace with the invading King Odin (Finton McKeown)

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but does so not by means of forgiveness. Instead, stating that “the blood will never wash off,” Arthur counters Odin’s refusal to make peace because Arthur killed his son with “You killed my father. We have both lost much at the other’s hand… I am offering you the chance to end this.” The truce that follows is therefore predicated on the idea that equally grievous wrongs may cancel each other out, and neither party repenting or being forgiven. In Series Five, episode five, Arthur’s defense to the Disir (Frances Tomelty, Sian Thomas, and Helen Schlesinger) for his persecution of magic and rejection of the Old Religion includes apologizing for both himself and his men insulting the Disir and “behaving with arrogance and stupidity,” but that confession is immediately followed by a request for Mordred’s life to be saved by the Disir because he is “a young man whose only crime was to sacrifice himself for his king” (5.5). Even in the midst of confession and apology, Arthur is excusing Mordred’s actions, if not his own. When the Disir set the price of Mordred’s survival at Arthur’s conversion to the Old Religion, Arthur’s decision not to yield on the subject is excused by his anguished and sincere consideration of embracing magic: “Perhaps the old ways aren’t as evil as we thought.” Arthur’s willingness to solicit Merlin’s opinion on the subject, not knowing that Merlin is privy to a prophecy that Mordred will one day kill Arthur, demonstrates the king’s sincerity even while making the wrong decision about magic. Merlin’s duplicitous advice that “There can be no place for magic in Camelot” is also excused: he is merely protecting his king, just as Mordred did earlier in the episode. Arthur meaningfully words his verdict to the Disir as “I cannot do as you ask,” instead of stating that he has made a choice. When the Disir decree that Arthur has “sealed [his] fate and that of [his] kingdom,” both Arthur and Merlin are nonetheless portrayed as blameless for the objectively wrong decision to keep magic outlawed—one which leads directly to Arthur’s death and that of many of the citizens of Camelot. Dramatic Humility as an Adaptation Strategy A third strategy used in the show involves the main protagonists demonstrating dramatic humility, often including an offer to die, in order to credibly demonstrate the sincerity of their contrition. In the medieval Arthurian tradition, common methods of demonstrating sincerity include yielding in battle to an equal or worthier opponent, enduring the danger of mortal combat, and of course, in the case of Gawain and the Green Knight, the hero is willing to accept the beheading he has earned in a ritual exchange of blows. However, the show Merlin’s emphasis on more extreme postures of humility may betray the modern anxiety that Peter Brooks raises in his book Troubling Confessions: Speaking Guilt in Law and Literature, that confessions are performative, fighting against the deep suspicion of hearers, and not simply

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constative (McGonegal 161). In other words, modernly, without a performance that credibly demonstrates the sincerity of a character’s contrition, it may well be called into question. Merlin sums up this theme when speaking to Guinevere in Series 1, Episode 12, about Uther’s role in the death of her father: “If you had the power of life and death over Uther, would you kill him for what he did?” Gwen’s response suggests that even Merlin merely posing this question has given her new insight, and her simple response (“No”) serves as a realization for both characters: it reveals Gwen’s true feelings, apparently to herself as well as to viewers, and her suggestion that a lack of forgiveness leading to Uther’s death “would make me as bad as him” persuades Merlin to attempt preventing Uther’s murder. The writers raise this question again and again in the show —does the offer of a character’s very life make clear to characters and viewers that they do in fact possess a willingness, however grudging, to forgive and restore that character?—to bring this clarity about the precise satisfaction they require of a penitent person. The act of offering the wronged party the right to name the terms for satisfaction and restitution can thus indicate sincerity of contrition and compel the wronged party to admit any possibility of forgiveness and redemption short of death. The theme of characters expressing their willingness to die in order to convey sincerity of contrition can be observed in many instances throughout the show. There is in some measure the pervasive sense that life is cheap in this fictional world, as exemplified by the plot’s regular inclusion of fights to the death and public executions. This does not lessen the impact of those examples when various characters’ willingness to die is presented to characters and viewers as evidence of the sincerity of their contrition, though. For example, Gaius offers his life at the end of Series One in part as explicit atonement for his questionable actions during the time when practitioners of magic were being killed by Uther Pendragon (S1 Ep 13). Likewise, Uther begging Morgana’s forgiveness in S1 Ep 12, both for having Guinevere’s father killed and for his harsh demeanor and actions while raising Morgana, is immediately followed by an attempt on Uther’s life (orchestrated by a now-regretful Morgana) in which Uther’s penitent posture and protection of Morgana demonstrate the credibility of his penitence (his ardor of satisfaction) through his willingness to die—and he is very nearly killed by the assassin before Morgana saves him. This strategy is most often used in Merlin when characterizing Arthur. After killing the unicorn, Arthur drinks what he believes to be poison to show that he is sincerely penitent. This willingness to die seems necessary to express Arthur’s “purity of heart” and is demonstrated again in Series Two, Episode Eight, “The Sins of the Father,” one of the show’s two apparent adaptations of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Chandler 104). Arthur accepts the challenge to fight an

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unidentified knight who turns out to be Morgause (Emilia Fox) and loses in battle because he gallantly allows Morgause to recover during battle and retrieve her sword. Morgause offers to spare Arthur’s life in return for his meeting her three days later and following through with a challenge, and when she gives Arthur directions for finding her, she states, apparently in relation to her sparing his life, “You showed yourself to be a man of honor.” Arthur’s purity of heart is apparent once again, yet that is not sufficient: Arthur must not only act honorably, but also take his place at the chopping block, a plot point that serves to demonstrate the credibility of Arthur’s humility after defeat, despite making little sense otherwise without the Beheading Game included in the episode. Morgause, like the Green Knight, does not behead Arthur, and instead, she praises him as a man of his word. In Episode Ten of the Fourth series, “A Herald of the New Age,” Arthur once again demonstrates the sincerity of his contrition in a dramatic fashion. Arthur admits culpability in leading a brutal raid and offers much evidence to prove his sincerity, not only by risking his life when he enters the forest at night to offer apologies to a representative of the Druids (Nicholas Croucher), but also by kneeling to accept deadly retribution. Arthur clearly believes he will be executed, and when he does not flinch or move to protect himself after the Druid draws his sword, the Druid embraces Arthur, forgiving him instead of beheading him. Arthur is left visibly shaken—but because of his performance of humility, there is no question for viewers regarding the sincerity of his contrition, anguish of his confession, or ardor of his satisfaction. This repeated offer of one’s life to establish a credible confession may leave viewers with a sense that forgiveness is in the eye of the beholder—and that does seem to be a message in the BBC’s Merlin. If the action of repenting requires sincerely offering (and perhaps losing) one's very life in order to be viewed as credible, then perhaps one can never be fully assured that contrition will be accepted and societal restoration possible. Emphasizing this anxiety, the five series of the show concluded with a prolonged confession and plea for forgiveness from Merlin to the dying Arthur over hiding his magical abilities for years. Surely Merlin could have allowed Arthur to die in peace without this sort of reverse deathbed confession, but instead, Merlin’s efforts suggest, apparently rightly based on Arthur’s response, that he has no assured path to restoration without Arthur’s pardon, even though Merlin’s wrongdoing is literally the heroic use of his magical abilities to save Camelot. Merlin is hard-pressed to demonstrate his sincerity and ardor to Arthur’s satisfaction, even though he repeatedly puts his life in danger to bring Arthur safely to Avalon.

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Forgiveness is delayed until finally, in Arthur’s last words, he grants full restoration to Merlin by saying: “Everything you’ve done, I know now, for me, for Camelot, for the kingdom you helped me build.” Arthur’s eventual forgiveness does confirm viewers’ expectations for his character as well as their perspective on Merlin, but only after such an extreme delay that it is suggestive of a potent anxiety that viewers may well share with Merlin: perhaps without any form of universally accepted path to redemption and restoration, even extreme forms of humility and penitence may be insufficient to achieve restoration. Moreover, even when absolution is finally granted, perhaps it carries with it only Jacques Derrida’s vision of “forgiveness without power: unconditional, but without sovereignty” (59). All may not be lost, though. Julie McGonegal suggests more hopefully in her book Imagining Justice: The Politics of Postcolonial Forgiveness and Reconciliation the possibility that fiction and interpretation may play “a powerful, indeed, pivotal role in inaugurating the possibility of reconciliation” (13). She cautions against over-relying on fiction as a tool for social change, but maintains that it may be a powerful tool nonetheless: “If it is too hasty and too dangerous, then, to foreclose on the possibilities of literary texts, to idealize literature as unequivocally empowering or inherently democratic is of course also to exaggerate its effectivity” (13). In this way, the BBC’s Merlin may effectually engage in fiction’s work of “engaging the work of memory” which McGonegal suggests “is imperative to the task of opening up the possibility of forgiveness and reconciliation” (15). This discourse and its potential for inspiring cultural echoes and the new possibility of a very real path toward reconciliation among viewers may then be a key avenue through which Merlin’s retelling not only expands the Arthurian tradition in the manner of Sarah Cardwell’s vision of an ever-growing ‘metatext,’ but also offers an imaginative vision of how modern culture might regain its lost access to the “powerful prosocial phenomenon” of forgiveness and reconciliation (Baumeister, Exline, and Sommer 79). The show may well “remember the past for the sake of rerouting the future” (McGonegal 14-15) and perhaps even bring about that future without an interminable wait for the return of a once and future king. Works Cited Baumeister, Roy F., Julie Juola Exline, and Kristin L. Sommer. “The Victim Role, Grudge Theory, and Two Dimensions of Forgiveness.” Dimensions of Forgiveness, edited by Everett L. Worthington, Hope College, 1997, pp. 79-104. Brennan, Joseph. "‘You Could Shame the Great Arthur Himself’: A Queer Reading of Lancelot from BBC’s Merlin with Respect to the Character in Malory, White, and Bradley." Arthuriana, vol. 25, no. 2, 2015, pp. 20-43. OhioLINK Electronic Journal Center, rave.ohiolink.edu/ejournals/article/342572825.

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Brooks, Peter. Troubling Confessions: Speaking Guilt in Law and Literature, University of Chicago Press, 2001. Cardwell, Sarah. Adaptation Revisited: Television and the Classic Novel, Manchester University Press, 2002. Chandler, Erin. "Pendragons at the Chopping Block: Elements of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in the BBC’s Merlin." Arthuriana, vol. 25, no. 1, 2015, pp. 101-112. OhioLINK Electronic Journal Center, rave.ohiolink.edu/ejournals /article/342559938. De Cremer, David, and Barbara C. Schouten. “When Apologies for Injustice Matter: The Role of Respect.” European Psychologist, vol. 13, no. 4, 2008, pp. 239–247. Social Sciences Citation Index, doi:10.1027/1016-9040.13.4.239. De France, Marie. The Lais of Marie de France, translated by Glyn S. Burgess and Keith Busby, Penguin Books, 2003. De Troyes, Chrétien. Arthurian Romances, translated by Carleton W. Carroll, Penguin Books, 2004. Derrida, Jacques. “On Forgiveness.” On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, translated by Michael Hughes, Routledge, 2001, pp. 25-60. Edwards, Jennifer C. "Casting, Plotting, and Enchanting: Arthurian Women in Starz’s Camelot and the BBC’s Merlin." Arthuriana, vol. 25, no. 1, 2015, pp. 5781. OhioLINK Electronic Journal Center, rave.ohiolink.edu/ejournals/article/ 321662196. Enright, Robert D. and Catherine T. Coyle. “Researching the Process Model of Forgiveness Within Psychological Interventions.” Dimensions of Forgiveness, edited by Everett L. Worthington, Holland, Hope College, 1997, pp. 139-162. The Essential Catholic Handbook of the Sacraments, Liguori Publications, 2001. Geoffrey of Monmouth. The History of the Kings of Britain, translated by Lewis Thorpe, Penguin Books, 1966. Howey, Ann F. "Arthur and Adaptation." Arthuriana, vol. 25, no. 4, 2015, pp. 3650. OhioLINK Electronic Journal Center, rave.ohiolink.edu/ejournals/article/ 342533900. ______. “Medievalism and Heroism in Arthurian Literature for Young People.” Medieval Afterlives in Contemporary Culture, Bloomsbury, 2015. Kaplan, Leonard V. “A Poetics of Transgression and Forgiveness.” Transgression, Punishment, Responsibility, Forgiveness, edited by Andrew D. Weiner and Leonard V. Kaplan, University of Wisconsin Law School, 1998, pp. 250-265. Kranz, David L. “Trying Harder: Probability, Objectivity, and Rationality in Adaptation Studies.” The Literature/Film Reader: Issues of Adaptation, edited by James M. Welsh and Peter Lev, The Scarecrow Press, Inc., 2007, pp.77-102. Leitch, Thomas M. “Where Are We Going, Where Have We Been?” The Literature/Film Reader: Issues of Adaptation, edited by James M. Welsh and Peter Lev, The Scarecrow Press, Inc., 2007, pp. 15-34. Lev, Peter. “The Future of Adaptation Studies.” The Literature/Film Reader: Issues of Adaptation, edited by James M. Welsh and Peter Lev, The Scarecrow Press, Inc., 2007, pp. 335-338. Malory, Thomas, Sir, and P. J. C. Field. Le Morte Darthur. D. S. Brewer, 2013. Manea, Dragoş. “The Shadow upon the Screen: Merlin (2008-2012) and the Matter of Britain.” University of Bucharest Review: Literary & Cultural Studies

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Series, vol. 3, no. 2, Dec. 2013, p. 146. Complementary Index, libproxy.xu.edu: 2048/login?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=ed b&AN=91582559&site=eds-live&scope=site. McGonegal, Julie. “The Agonistics of Absolution: Responsibility and the Right of Grace in J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace.” Imagining Justice: The Politics of Postcolonial Forgiveness and Reconciliation, McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009. Ebook. login.nocdbproxy.xavier.edu/login?url=http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx ?direct=true&db=cat01903a&AN=xav.b2749553&site=eds-live&scope=site. Mediavilla, Cindy. "From ‘Unthinking Stereotype’ to Fearless Antagonist: The Evolution of Morgan le Fay on Television." Arthuriana, vol. 25, no. 1, 2015, pp. 4456. OhioLINK Electronic Journal Center, rave.ohiolink.edu/ejournals/article/3426 36888. Pargament, Kenneth and Mark Rye, “Forgiveness as a Method of Religious Coping.” Dimensions of Forgiveness, edited by Everett L. Worthington, Hope College, 1997, pp. 59-78. Semper, Phillipa. “‘Camelot Must Come Before All Else’: Fantasy and Family in the BBC Merlin.” Medieval Afterlives in Contemporary Culture. Bloomsbury, 2015. Shaffer, Thomas L. “Forgiveness Disrupts Legal Order.” Transgression, Punishment, Responsibility, Forgiveness, edited by Andrew D. Weinder and Leonard V. Kaplan, University of Wisconsin Law School, 1998, pp.127-137. Sinclair, John D. The Divine Comedy: Volume 2: Purgatorio. Oxford University Press, 1961. Tollerton, David C. "Multiculturalism, Diversity, and Religious Tolerance in Modern Britain and the BBC’s Merlin." Arthuriana, vol. 25, no. 1, 2015, pp. 113-127. OhioLINK Electronic Journal Center, rave.ohiolink.edu/ejournals/ article/342562014. Worthington, Everett L. Jr. “Empirical Research in Forgiveness: Looking Backward, Looking Forward.” Dimensions of Forgiveness, edited by Everett L. Worthington, Hope College, 1997, pp. 321-340. _____. “The Pyramid Model of Forgiveness: Some Interdisciplinary Speculations about Unforgiveness and the Promotion of Forgiveness.” Dimensions of Forgiveness, edited by Everett L. Worthington, Hope College, 1997, pp. 107-138.

Index

A A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, 6, 7, 16 Accolon, v, 55, 56, 57, 67 Alban, Gillian M.E., 146 Alfred the Boy King, 4 Allen, Walter, 146 Allocco, Katherine, 34 Altorf, Marije, 146 America and Americans, 66, 67, 71 Armstrong, Dorsey, 70 Aronstein, Susan., 22 Arthurian Romances, 71, 164 Artoria, vii, 35, 37, 38, 40 Avalon High, vi, vii, 2, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 15, 21, 22, 23

B Balin, v, 68 Barkman, Adam, 51 Barr, Mike W., 27, 34 Bell, Elizabeth, 22 Bellamy, Michael O., 146 Beranek, Adam, 34 Black Knight, 23 Blyton, Enid, 15, 22 Bolland, Brian, 27, 34 Boorman, John, ix, 16, 19 Brennan, Joseph, 163 Brexit, 3, 13, 18, 22, 23 Brooks, Peter, 164

Brown, Noel, 22 Buljan, Katherine, 51

C Cabot, Meg, 22 Caine, Michael, 120 Camelot, vii, 2, 4, 5, 8, 9, 14, 15, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 34, 154, 157, 158, 159, 160, 162, 163, 164, 165 Camelot 3000, vii, 25, 26, 27, 29, 34 Cardwell, Sarah, 164 Castillo, Sabrina, 51 Cederstrom, Loreli, 70 Chandler, Erin, 164 Chrétien, x, 95, 122, 124, 125, 126, 127, 134, 138, 159 Conradi, Peter J., 146, 147 Cornish, vi, 14, 19, 20, 23 Cox, Pamela, 22

D De Cremer, David, 164 De France, Marie, 164 Derrida, Jacques, 164 Disney, vi, 2, 6, 7, 9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16, 17, 23, 24, 139 Ditsky, John., 70 Dracula, vii, 25, 26, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34 Dracula vs. King Arthur, vii, 25, 26, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34

Index

168

Dwight in Shining Armor, 6, 23

E East of Eden, 56, 64, 71 Edgerton, Tarin, 119 Edwards, Jennifer C., 164 Eliot, T.S., 135 Enright, Robert D., 164 Ettarde, 57, 58, 59, 70 Ewain, 53, 56, 58, 61, 62, 63, 64, 68 Excalibur, ix, 2, 7, 10, 11, 13, 16, 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 27, 30, 31, 134

F Fate/Zero, vii, 36, 37, 51 Fiander, Lisa M., 147 Field, 88, 102, 134, 156, 164 First Knight, ix, 108–12 Firth, Colin, 119 Fisher King myth, x, 136 French, Warren, 70 From Ritual to Romance, 136, 147 Fuqua, Antoine, ix

G Galahad, 27, 144 Gawain, 27, 53, 59, 60, 61, 62, 70, 136, 143, 150, 160, 164 Gilliam, Terry, viii Gladstein, Mimi, 70 Gordon, Sarah, 23 Gorgievski, Sandra, 23 Grace, Dominick, 28, 34 Grimshaw, Tammy, 147 Guinevere, 27, 28, 29, 31, 33, 65, 66, 67, 70, 71, 150, 151, 153, 155, 157, 161

H Harrison, Keith, 70 Harry Potter, viii, ix, 17, 73, 74, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88 Harty, Kevin, 6, 17, 23 Holy Grail, vii, viii, x, 27, 28, 37, 137, 147 Horner, Avril, 147 Howey, Ann F., 164 Hutcheon, Linda, vi, 23

I Igraine, 54, 55, 59, 70, 154 Imrie, Angus, 16 Isolde., vii, 29

J Jackson, Samuel L., 120 Jameson, Fredric, vi, 2, 5, 23 Johnson, Deborah, 147 Jung, Emma, and Marie-Louise von Franz, 147

K Kaplan, Leonard V, 164 Kay, 14, 27, 28 Kennedy, Edward Donald, 147 King Arthur, Legend of the Sword, x, 115–17 Kingsman, ix, x, 119–31 Kinney, Arthur, 70 Kinoko, Nasu, 52 Kranz, David L., 164 Kumar, Krishan, 52

Index

169

L Lacy, Norris, 134 Lancelot, 2, 14, 15, 27, 28, 32, 53, 57, 65, 66, 67, 69, 144, 150, 155, 156, 157, 163 Lanier, Sidney, 4, 23 Le Fay, Morgan, 27, 56, 66 Leitch, Thomas M., 164 Lev, Peter, 164 Lupack, Alan, 23, 52, 70, 147 Lupack, Barbara, 23

M Malory, vii, 3, 4, 14, 15, 16, 27, 28, 53, 54, 55, 56, 58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 139, 147, 150, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 163 Malory Towers, 15, 22, 23 Manea, Dragoş, 164 Marhalt, 53, 58, 60, 61, 62, 65, 67, 69 Matthews, David, 23 McGonegal, Julie, 165 Mediavilla, Cindy, 165 Merlin, x, 2, 8, 10, 13, 14, 16, 17, 18, 27, 54, 57, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 155, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165 Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals, 136, 138, 147 Meyer, Kelly-Rae, 71 Miller, Mark, 120 Mordred, 8, 10, 12, 15, 28, 31, 33, 160 Morgana, 15, 18, 30, 31, 33, 154, 157, 161 Morte D’Arthur, vii, 16, 70, 153

Murdoch, Iris, x, 135, 136, 138, 139, 140, 141, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147

N Nakamura, Karen, 52 Nastali, Daniel, 27, 34 Nyneve, 58, 64

O of Monmouth, Geoffrey, 16, 150, 153, 154, 159, 164

P Paolini, Christopher, 71 Pelleas, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61 Pellinore, 58, 68 Perceval, ix, x, 27, 28, 29, 140, 141, 144, 146, 150 Pound Puppies and the Legend of Big Paw, 7, 22 Pugh, Tison, 23

R Radulescu, Laruca L., 147 Rich, Janet Bubar, 71 Ritchie, Guy, ix, 18, 21 Robinson, Gregory, 71 Round Table, ix, 2, 3, 8, 9, 13, 14, 18, 26, 30, 33, 34, 60, 70 Rowe, Anne, 147 Rowling, J. K., viii

S Semper, Phillipa, 165 Shaffer, Thomas L., 165 Silent Devil, 26, 34

Index

170

Sinclair, John D., 165 Slocum, Sally, 34 Slocum, Sally K., 26 Smorynski, 4, 23 Spear, Hilda D., 147 Star Trek, 16 Star Wars, 5, 17, 22 Steinbeck, John, vii, 53, 70, 71 Sterenberg, Matthew, 52 Stewart, H. Alan, 26, 34 Stewart, Patrick, 16 Strong, Mark, 119 Sullivan, Zohreh T., 147

Tondro, Jason, 26, 28, 29, 34 Torregrossa, Michael A., 27, 33, 34 Tristan, vii, 27, 28, 29 Twain, 4, 6, 7, 15, 16, 30

U Ulfyus, 54 Unidentified Flying Oddball, 7, 23 Urobuchi, Gen, vii Uryen, 55 Uther, xi, 15, 54, 55, 153, 154, 155, 157, 161

V

T The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights, vii, ix, 53, 54, 66, 69, 71 The Boy’s King Arthur, 4, 23 The Essential Catholic Handbook of the Sacraments, 164 The Fisher King, viii, 89–102 The Green Knight, 61, 70, 136, 147, 150, 160, 164 The Joan in All of Us, 64 The Kid Who Would Be King, vi, 6, 7, 9, 11, 13, 14, 20, 21, 22 The Lais of Marie de France, 164 The Once and Future King, viii, 23 The Sovereignty of Good, 141 The Time of the Angels, x, 135, 136, 138, 143, 145, 146, 147 The Unicorn, 138 Thompson, Raymond H., 23 Timmerman, John H., 71 Tollerton, David C., 165 Tomkinson, Fiona., 147

Valjean, Nelson, 71 Vaughn, Matthew, 120

W Webster, Peter, 147 Werrning, Stefan, 52 Weston, Jessie L., 147 White, T.H., viii, 16 Widdows, Heather, 147 Williams, David John, 24 Womack, Samantha, 121 Worthington, Everett L., 165

Y Ygerna, 154 Ygraine, 154

Z Zucker, Jerry, ix