Vive “Versailles”!

Speaking of Charles II (see Diana), his Bourbon cousins, Louis and Phillippe, figure prominently in the latest period drama to have taken over Chez Ru and Ter: a rollicking, racy, extravagantly produced series about life in the Sun King’s court, aptly titled “Versailles”.

I spied the title in the Movie Channel listings one night in July and realized it was episode three of a series in its second season. Second season?? How had we missed the first? And was it worth watching in any case? Rather than risk being completely lost by watching episode three live, we discovered the first two episodes available on demand and promptly fell under its spell. Alas, season one was not listed, neither could we order it from Amazon (it shows on the European sites, but won’t ship to Canada).

I have no idea which of the angels prompted me, but I suddenly remembered that the Greater Victoria Public Library loans DVDs of everything from popular TV series (like NCIS) to obscure European productions, all for the price of nothing! I immediately got online and to my ecstatic delight, “Versailles - Season One” was not only in the catalogue, copies were available! I renewed my library card the same morning (the central branch is across the street from my office) and Ter and I were set for marathon viewing over the next few weekends.

We’re caught up as of this writing, with two episodes to go in Season Two. I can’t gush enough about this series. Seventeenth century royalty is an obsession of mine, but honestly, this show is so well written, acted, directed and produced (they film in the palace itself, among other French locations) that it deserves to be gushed about. I did spend a good part of the first few episodes trying to place the guy who plays Louis—Ter finally Googled him and discovered he’s the same actor who played Athelstan on “Vikings” (a waste of his talent, if you ask me)—and the fellow who portrays his younger brother, Phillippe ... okay, even if he wasn’t stunningly gorgeous, he’s brought that character to life in a way that history has failed to do. By reputation, “Monsieur”, as he was called in the day, was a mean, vindictive, cretinous little man, but in this series, he comes across as vulnerable and sympathetic, if not a complete fool in love. His relationship with his brother is alternately painful and magical, as are his affair with his lover, the incorrigible Chevalier de Lorraine (brilliantly played as a baroque David Lee Roth), and his marriage of political convenience to a German princess.

The main focus is on these relationships, as well as the usual court intrigue brought about by Louis’ decree to have all the nobles in France reside where he can see them. Ninety percent of the story is allegedly based on historic record, but these days, alternate history is as prevalent as alternate fact. I’m willing to forgo some things in favour of artistic license, but really, if the outrageous antics of Louis XIV’s dissolute and devil-worshipping court is halfway accurate, I’m more than a little peeved that my beloved Charles was criticized for not keeping on top of his gang in England at the same time.

He makes an appearance at the end of the first season, by the way. The actor wasn’t tall enough, his eyes were blue, and the voice was all wrong. You can’t play fast and loose with the image of my king and come out unscathed—but that’s my only issue with this fabulous, opulent, fascinating show. Series for which I fall this hard are generally cancelled after the first year. Best news of all: Season Three began filming in April 2017!

The Sunday Post

How’s 2017 treating you so far? I’m still dealing with a relapse of my arthritis, but every day and in every way, I’m getting better and better. My attention has been diverted from pretty much everything except surviving, though— and my writing has suffered as a result.

Imagine my dismay on reviewing last year’s creative files and noting that nothing in my “finished” folder was dated 2016! I wrote all right, but everything I worked on remains unfinished. My bones can only be responsible for the latter part of the year. What the heck happened in the first three quarters to prevent me from completing a single project?

There’s no point in rehashing time already lost. As Ragnar Lothbrok would say, “Don’t look behind you; that’s not where you are going.”

Going forward, however, I’ve given up the idea of writing on weekday evenings. It just doesn’t happen. That leaves a precious few hours over a “sometimes two, sometimes three” day weekend in which to slough off the workaday energy and get back in touch with my Muse. Sometimes she cooperates, sometimes not. Genius cannot be predicted.

All I can do is make a writing plan for the future. I can commit to this much:

First priority: whatever project I am working on (currently the tale of Caius and Aurelia, which continues to beguile).

Second priority: Comfortable Rebellion. Ter has suggested that I limit myself to one post per week. Keeping up with more than that has proven a challenge for both me, the writer, and her, the reader. (Okay, one of my readers, but she has a point when she says she gets boggled when she does check in and finds half a dozen pieces awaiting her equally precious downtime.) so we came up with the idea of “The Sunday Post”, a commitment I can keep—I think—by scheduling my writing hours accordingly.

Third priority: writing exercises. I’m not done with “Diva”, and I’ve collected a few photographs that inspired me to ask the question, “What, who, where, when and why?” (or is that five questions?) It’s encouraging to feel that spark of curiosity again, and my fourth priority falls in line with the third:

Make time for the Muse on a workday. I may not manage a full blown “artist date”, but surely I  can devote one lunchbreak per week to tea and a half-hour of scribbling. Whether a two-bite piece of fiction or next Sunday’s post emerges in that time makes no difference; I just want to reconnect with my imagination, to gain a little momentum for the weekend, and to remind myself of what’s really real ... ’cause a lot in my life of late isn’t.

With love,

Viking Visdom

I admit, it’s harder to keep the faith when I’m hurting. This darned human experience sure gets in the way of my being a divine spark.

Thank the gotts for diversions like season five of Vikings. The character of Ragnar Lothbrok, played so hideously/beautifully by Travis Fimmell, continues to beguile. In almost every episode, he drops a line worthy of remembering not just because of his delivery, but because the words apply—seriously—to my own life.

Take the argument he got into with his grown son Ivar, for instance. Ivar is historically known as “Ivar the Boneless”. None of the saganistas knows for sure why, so the series’ writer has depicted the character as a cripple. He hauls himself around on his hands, dragging his useless legs behind him and fighting like all get out to be considered as normal as his well-formed brothers. The kid isn’t particularly likeable. He certainly isn’t a sympathetic character, not with that attitude.

Anyway, Ivar goes on a raiding voyage to England with his father and nearly dies in a shipwreck. He and Ragnar, along with the other survivors, end up trekking inland from the beach, and because of Ivar’s disability, he falls behind. Ragnar stays with him, but finally loses his patience and demands that the boy quit trying to be normal. “Let yourself be a cripple!” he says. Naturally (to me, anyway), Ivar loses his temper. They get into a fight, shouting into each other’s faces, the boy screaming that he can be normal. Ragnar screams back that he can’t be normal because he isn’t normal, and “only when you accept that, can you become great.”

Blink.

That line hit me as hard as Ragnar telling his sons in an earlier episode, “Don’t look behind you. That’s not where you are going.”

I embarked on this series because Ter was curious about it so I thought I’d go along in support. The first season was so awful that I have no idea why we came back for season two, but that was when things got interesting. I still consider it one of the funniest shows on TV—the scenes between Ragnar and King Ecbert of Wessex are truly priceless—but pearls are present if I listen closely ... and I maintain that Fimmell’s portrayal of Ragnar makes it all worthwhile. He has the best lines and he delivers them brilliantly. I can’t say I’ve learned everything about life from Vikings, but I’ve sure picked up a few gems to get me through my recent struggles.

Uff da!

A Patient Man

The first season of Vikings was hilariously painful, but once our hero, Farmer Ragnar, through a series of strategic manoeuvres, became King Ragnar, things got a little interesting. A new cast of characters in England (specifically Wessex) expanded the story in season two, and I have to admit, I kinda like the shifty King Ecbert because I cannot for the life of me figure out his game. In season three, the Vikings tried to take Paris, which brought in another band of individuals, mostly a pushy Frankish princess and a nutty Mercian queen, but through it all, Ragnar has maintained his magnetic mystique.

Four episodes into season four, and I’m hooked.

Is it possible for an actor to earn an Emmy by saying nothing? Travis Fimmell probably has fewer lines per episode than any other actor in the series, yet he owns every scene he’s in whether he speaks or not. He can simply sit and stare, and I’m enthralled. It’s not like he’s eye candy, either—he modelled when he was younger, but he’s matured into, well, a Viking. Age and scruffiness haven’t dimmed the wattage in his smile, though. When he flashes teeth, it’s like panning along the bench at a World Cup hockey game. The beauty in a Viking smile is unparalleled.

Let’s just forget that he’s actually Australian.

The annoying characters have remained so, alas, but Ragnar’s enigmatic methods have appeased my frustration with them. Floki the Nutcase, for instance, has bugged the h*** out of me for three seasons, but crossed Ragnar last year by making a deluded gaffe and has paid dearly for it—to the point where he may have been driven sane (not a typo) while awaiting the killing blow that hasn’t come yet.

Then there’s Princess “My Father Was A Gott” Aslaug, who replaced Lagertha as Ragnar’s wife in season two—why, I still can’t fathom because Lagertha kicks serious butt and I may just have answered my own question. In any case, Aslaug has also crossed Ragnar and is paying the consequence. The honeymoon is definitely over.

Firstborn son has grown up and is fighting to prove worthy of Dad’s affection. First wife now rules over a neighbouring community but I think she’s still in love with Ragnar so we’ll see where that leads, especially since he’s become so disenchanted with Aslaug. Older brother Rollo, whose jealousy of Ragnar is eclipsed only by his idiocy in trying more than once to overthrow him, is stranded in Paris and being wooed by the local aristocracy in hope of keeping the barbarian horde from crashing the city gates. I’m pretty sure he’ll oblige them just to piss off his little brother.

And through it all, Ragnar watches in patient solitude, listening, assessing, planning and swiftly executing. He’s a complicated man, seldom lovable, sometimes infuriating, always entertaining.

And he has the best lines. Last week’s episode had him speaking directly to the camera:

“I am constantly torn between killing myself, or everyone around me.”

I - love - this - guy!

The Singing Sword

Three novels ago, I wrote a scene wherein Lucius is test driving a new sword. I’m no expert, but you needn’t be one to know that a soldier will have specific preferences when it comes to weaponry, and that he’ll likely own more than one example of his favourite make/model. Being an outlaw, however, my hero left most of his gear behind when he escaped Imperial justice in Treason. One broadsword returned with him to Castasia, and though this part is not recorded anywhere in the story, he immediately proceeded to drive the local craftsmen crazy with his quest to replicate its equal. By the time the aforementioned scene was written, he had resorted to the black market to obtain the rare crucible steel, and recruited a foreign smith familiar with the material to forge him a new sword. His requirements were, in his mind, simple, but even as I wrote the scene, I questioned whether such an elite weapon was believable given the technology of his time.

A decade later, I have the answer: a resounding YES!

Lucius’s sword of choice is my fantasy equivalent of the Ulfberht—a high-end broadsword that was forged in northern Europe between the ninth and eleventh centuries. The Vikings didn’t make them, but more than a few Scandinavian warriors managed to get their hands on one during the lifetime of the Volga trade route. It was the Rolls Royce of weapons, and also appears to be a fine example of medieval branding: if it wasn’t marked “Ulfberht”, it wasn’t the real deal. Production spanned two centuries, so it a single smith wasn’t responsible for the line; it seems that a Frankish monastery owned the copyright. There were even knockoffs, easily identified nowadays by a misspelled name and a blade of inferior steel, though they must have sold for as much as the genuine article. The high carbon content made the blade both strong and flexible, and a groove known as the fuller enabled the larger weapon to retain the lighter weight of a smaller sword. It’s the perfect sword for Lucius, and now I know I wasn’t dreaming when I wrote it.

Phew. I write fantasy because I want to rule my world, but some details demand a basis in this reality, else the reader—and I have done it myself—will hitch up and go, Huh? It’s especially gratifying to know that something as vital as the brand of sword my hero wields in battle actually did exist … though I do wonder how I “knew” about it beforehand!

Uff Da

Ter and I went to see the Vikings exhibit at the museum on Monday. Aside from being über-cool in general, the set up was clustered into themes rather than running a chronological sequence—describing how they operated in society, religion, war, shipbuilding, etc. I’m no sailor, but from an engineering perspective, how they accomplished what they accomplished on the water is as astounding as the Egyptians building the pyramids. Crossing the north Atlantic now is dangerous; packing the wife and kids into a longboat and trying to skim the surface to Newfoundland 1000 years ago … what’s the Viking word for “crazy”? We took a break halfway through to hit the IMAX, then finished up by pillaging the gift shop. Well, I didn’t buy anything, but I’m a cheap Scot, not a Viking. Ter maybe kinda halfway sorta is, as we suspect her maternal grandfather was of Swedish descent. They didn’t make 6' 5" Finns in his generation and he was a big dude. Mind you, Ter was a little girl when he died. Everyone is big to a six-year-old.

It was helpful to see the artifacts and whatnot, though, as we’ve been watching the TV series Vikings on History channel. The series is produced and written by Michael Hirst, whose fast and loose play with historical facts in the name of fiction made me immediately suspicious of what he might try to pass off as an accurate depiction of 10^th century Scandinavia. Turns out he’s not that far off the mark, though the series itself makes me scratch my head because the characters are regrettably either ho-hum or out-and-out unlikeable. The main character, played by Australian Travis Fimmell, consistently has me torn between worshiping him and knocking him in the knuts—and don’t get me started on the female characters. His first wife is awesome, but why he dumped her for the second still escapes me. They had princesses in Viking times, too, and I don’t mean of the royal variety.

Today is Thorsday, named for the God of Thunder, which is eerily appropriate given the headache that’s beating a tattoo against my frontal lobe this morning. I hate when life happens on vacation. Can’t let it stop me, though—I’m on a roll with the Russians, so Tylenol is down and I’m eager to delve deeper into the unfolding tale of Viktor and the royal family. The ballroom didn’t get done yesterday; the third scene took a hard left and dumped me into an unexpected and very emotional recollection. I’m at the stage where I’m wondering where this is going and it has me mildly panicked about the purpose of the piece. After much mulling and mental wrangling, I believe I see an ending—hopefully happy, but knowing my style, probably not. Best I can foresee is bittersweet. I’m trying to keep everyone alive except for the one who, ironically, is emerging as the main character. So it appears that this story is about love, loss and healing. Nothing new in the literary world, I guess, but it’s foreign turf for me because there are no vampires and no magical powers along to give it some supernatural pizzazz. It’s all about the people. Plain, normal, fragile mortals. I really hope I can do it—do them—justice.