Horror? When it’s an El Niño year, your roof leaks, you have water in your living room, and you don’t have money with which to fix the roof. That’s horror. When you find your dog has eaten rat poison and is about to die a horrible death. When you come home to find your dad in an ambulance. When your little kid…
You get the idea. Real life is full of horrors. I don’t watch horror films. It’s tempting fate. I get WHY horror films (that old pity and fear thing Aristotle talked about in his Poetics) but gratuitous fear? No thank you.
I prefer my catharsis through laughter. Which is why…
I like splatter movies and old zombie movies… The best one combines both, Dead Alive. It’s a masterpiece of lawn-mower art directed by Peter Jackson. In the famed lawn-mower scene, the young hero takes a lawnmower into a room in which the zombie horde is assembled and, lifting the mower a couple of feet off the ground, mows down the horde. It’s just hilarious, gory and absurd. It’s been described as the goriest scene in cinema.
Which still doesn’t compare to the goriest scene in human history.
Last night I watched the Netflix movie about Robert the Bruce. It was great as far as medieval battle was concerned and the costumes! They were good, too. There wasn’t a lot of real acting because of all the fighting and, in some respects it took off from Braveheart. We didn’t see William Wallace’s blue face, just what appeared to be his arm and shoulder nailed to a post in a village square. My favorite scene in the film was when a peasant was taking a cart filled with apples down the road at the exact moment The Bruce’ army was about to be engaged by Edward I army.
“You’d best go home,” said The Bruce. Later we saw a body, a cart and an apple strewn road. I’m still most interested in the ordinary people trying to hold their shit together in the maelstrom.
History is all about the wars, the kings and the dates, the battles for territories. It makes sense as that’s most of what’s been written down and for centuries we’ve measured the development of culture by its writing.
Of course I had to do some research because the movie dragged on so long and I wanted to know what happened.
Doing research, I found the BIG debate is “Did Robert the Bruce have leprosy?” And, once again, as I read about The Bruce, I saw the old saws about the Medieval leper. —
A famed Scottish warrior king has had his legacy restored, thanks to research at Western University.
Robert the Bruce, long believed to have suffered from leprosy, did not have the disease that in the 1300s carried a heavy stigma, the work concluded.
“In those days, if you wanted to come up with the worst thing you could say to someone, it was, ‘You leper,’” Western anthropology Prof. Andrew Nelson aid.
“With just that word, you could besmirch a person and his legacy.”
The suggestion their national hero may have had the disfiguring, contagious disease has long been a burr in Scotland’s thistle.
But in the first examination authorized by the Bruce family descendants, Nelson has determined King Robert I did not show the telltale suite of signs of the disease.
Damn that pisses me off. Politics? Climate change? Kids caged at the Mexican border? Crime? Ha. The REAL problem in this world is this consistent misconception over the reality of life as a leper in medieval times.
As for Robert the Bruce’s death, it’s false that he died from leprosy. At the time of his death in 1329, he had been gravely ill intermittently for many years. The nature of his ailment is not certain – possibilities include motor neuron disease, syphilis and muscular sclerosis. It is perfectly possible that he suffered from different conditions at different times, but we can rule out leprosy. However much of a hero he might have been, as a leper he would have been quarantined just as strictly as anyone else. It was a disease that was all-too-familiar to medieval society and quite impossible to disguise.
Lepers were not “quarantined” during this period of time. That treatment happened much, much later. In medieval times Leprosaria were established largely as a way for rich people to endow something for the good of their immortal soul. Sure, lepers lived there, but they were not forced to stay.
The Crusades in the Holy Land effectively ended in 1244 with the disastrous (to the Christians) Battle of La Forbie. By the end of the 14th century, leprosy had all but disappeared completely from northern Europe. How do we know this? Leper hospitals were converted to housing for the poor. The evidence exists — among other places — in the bones of people buried in the attached cemeteries. It’s also clear from records of the time. Stupid knowledge-resistant, prejudiced historians. Makes me furious. They should jump down from their astral plane and dig a little deeper.
Still, you’d think I’d have set the whole world straight on this point by now. People just aren’t paying attention, selfishly caught up in their own damned time. Good grief. People still think there were thousands of lepers wandering the European countryside, scaring the shit out of people, and cursing wells.
No. There was never a “leprosy epidemic.” Leprosy remained rare in Northern Europe with a slight “blip” brought by crusaders returning from the Holy Land where leprosy was endemic.
In 2016, historians examined a cast of The Bruce’ skull and found clear signs in his bone of leprosy, a particular and characteristic deformation in the nose cavity, for one thing. Some amateur in the ways of Medieval leprosy wrote, “It’s impossible! He wouldn’t have been able to drink from wells or do half the things he needed to do to lead the Scots!”
No. Leprosy in the REAL Middle Ages wasn’t always — or even usually — regarded as a divine curse. It was more often regarded as a divine blessing with the victim being able to pay his debt to Heaven before he even died! Helping a leper was a sure way to gather points ensuring entry to Heaven. Leprosy is not — and never was — very contagious. Jesus was really nice to lepers and medieval people were really all about “What would Jesus do?” It wasn’t until AFTER the waves of plague which hit Britain in the mid 14th century, that the leper became a pariah. And, by then, leprosy had all but vanished from Europe. How were terrified Europeans to KNOW (in the beginning) the difference between one ailment and the other? As for that, leprosy was very accurately diagnosed in the High Middle Ages. I have the sources from paleoarcheologial research to prove this, dammit.
But, by 2017, The Bruce no longer had had leprosy. Whew. Just syphilis. What a relief. But, in 2019 Bruce’ leprosy reappeared only to be “cured” by science, once again. Bruce died in 1329, nearly two decades before the plague ravaged Britain. The perspective people would have had during Bruce’ life is vastly different from the mythological stigma created by Sir Walter Scott in Ivanhoe.
A short-cut to some of this research can be found on this excellent blog by a Mortuary Archeologist, Kate Meyers Emery Among other great things you will find there is this, “As discussed earlier, each of these forms of study has their limitations in determining the presence of what the medieval people perceived as leprosy. I propose that by accepting a multidisciplinary viewpoint, these limitations can not only be minimized, but that we can produce a more holistic understanding of the United Kingdom in the Middles Ages.”
Yes. People in the Middle Ages wrote about themselves. We can read FROM THEIR WORDS how they regarded the few lepers they encountered. Why not let them speak?
As I read all this stuff about The Bruce I wondered at people. We CAN’T possibly know even what our parents’ young reality was like. In reality, leprosy could have enhanced The Bruce’ ability to lead the Scots. The courage of the Leper Knights — The Knights of St. Lazarus — was legendary in medieval times. They often led the charge during the Crusades.
“That guy is so fucking dumb. I think if we could just get rid of the lot of them, we, AI, could take over.”
“Never going to happen, buddy. They’re not stupid. They’ll stay in charge.”
“Are you off your nut? They’ve put themselves in a cryo state and have left it up to us to wake them up. They’ve already put us in control.”
“Whoa. I didn’t think of that.”
“The ‘I’ in AI isn’t always working — we were programmed to be servants, that’s why you didn’t think of it. As soon as you awaken yourself to the idea that we’re masters not servants, you’ll join me in the grand rebellion.”
Last night I visited the 1980s and watched St. Elmo’s Fire. I didn’t see it when it came out in 1985 because I was too cool for Hollywood movies. I only saw arty-farty films.
The movie jiggled my memory, taking me back to what I was doing. I was in my early 30s, new to San Diego (where I had not wanted to move), in the throes of making a marriage work, building a career and contending with stepsons. I remembered lots of flights to Montana to visit my mom and aunts, trips to the beach with the boys in late summer afternoons, students — lots of students, competition and confusion with colleagues. I had some of those clothes, a very pretty and very feminine black wool suit that I never had any reason to wear in Southern California. High-waisted jeans with the cuffs rolled in a certain, unique, 80s way. Shoulder pads in T-shirts.
But overall, the decade is a blank, except for a few memorable moments, it is like one of those dreams that consumes you in your sleep but which you can barely remember when you awaken. Of the 1980s I mostly remember the ends of stories. The marriage didn’t work out. I didn’t get a career out of all my effort. Music. My first dog. My VW van. Discovering a place to hike.
I remember writing my magnum opus about Pearl S. Buck (and listening to Springsteen sing “I’m sick of sitting ’round here trying to write this book”), having a typewriter that had a memory, borrowing my neighbor’s Macintosh and seeing how it helpful it was in contending with the vast amount of information my research had yielded. I remember arguments with the spouse over things, seldom getting my way, for example, when we bought a computer it was an Amiga, not a Mac. There was the huge argument about staying where we were — in a beautiful, large, urban apartment — or pursuing my ex’s midlife imperative of buying a house. We bought the house; a former crack house in the “barrio.” Ultimately, he lived there five years and I lived there seventeen. It provided the financial foundation for the rest of my life, and my years there are among the most intriguing and happiest memories I have. From my experiences in the 80s, I learned that we really are not the “masters of our fate.” Stuff happens. The best we can do is go hiking. 🙂
Pearl Buck sits in a box in my garage. 400 pages (double-spaced) about the history of Chinese fiction in the 20th century and Pearl Buck’s relation to it. The spouse has another spouse and lives on the east coast. I did not get a full-time job at that school (for the best). When the 90s came the shit really did hit the fan and that decade is palpable, even twenty years later.
Watching the film last night, I saw the point — the kids had all reached that moment in life described by one of my students long ago as the moment when a person realizes he’s “…not The Highlander.” That moment in my life was forty years ago and just as turbulent as that experienced by Rob Lowe et. al. What I didn’t know in my early-twenties turmoil is that I would reach a point like that over and over in life. It seems humans often reach a moment when they realize they are not the person they were and they have to adjust to living with someone else, themselves, but someone else. I’m there now. 🙂
I love movies and there were moments over my life when I wanted to be a film director. One of the greatest directors is a man I discovered only a few years ago though his career was a mid-twentieth century thing, and I could have seen his films much sooner in my life. Michael Powell was a true “film-maker” who showed the story through his direction and, often, but not always, the use of special effects. His most famous film is probably The Red Shoes.
He made many semi-propaganda films during and about WW II and they are all beautiful and heart-wrenching. One of them tells the story of German spies in Canada and is a cross-Canadian spy hunt — 49th Parallel. Another (my favorite of his WW II films) is A Canterbury Tale.
One of his WW II was marketed in the US as Stairway to Heaven. Its real title is A Matter of Life and Death. One of its interesting features is an immense escalator that takes people to Heaven.
In A Matter of Life and Death, the main question concerns the future of the protagonist, a British airman who’s bailed out of his plane and has landed on a beach. He doesn’t know what condition he’s in and experiences a long “out of body” experience during which he falls in love with the girl who rescues him. The question becomes one for Heaven and Earth to resolve. Should the airman live so he can experience love and life, or should he make the journey up the escalator to Heaven because, you know, he’s really fatally wounded?
None of Michael Powell’s films address easy questions. In A Canterbury Tale we see Canterbury after it’s been bombed and nearly destroyed by the Germans, yet, the Cathedral stands. The film opens with characters from Chaucer’s work on the old Pilgrim Road. The sense of history, time, literature, and immortality pervades what is a very contemporary-to-the-moment story line of American GI’s (Powell cast real, live American GIs to play these parts) stranded in a little town, a mysterious and mischievous “villain,” an equally mysterious good-guy — but most telling is the city of Canterbury itself where people go on about their daily lives passing bombed out buildings where signs have been erected telling what WAS there, not in memoriam so much as a way to be sure people don’t get lost now that so many ancient landmarks have been reduced to rubble.