![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I've found I cradle things that make me weak
The last two days of the week were very busy with appointments and then Saturday it snowed, which was unnecessary. I have been self-medicating a lot with classical art and movies off TCM. The former involves visiting the MFA, downloading collection and exhibition catalogues from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and re-reading Mary Renault's The Bull from the Sea (1962), incidentally confirming that I really don't like it very much. It doesn't hold the same deep numinous charge as The King Must Die; it's a bitter novel, a more disjointed one, and its repeated themes of failure and decline feel like a stacked deck rather than the toppling balance of tragedy. I'm not convinced that every mythological appearance by Theseus after the Labyrinth needed to fit into the same book. I like her Oedipus, but not her Antigone; I keep forgetting about the Kentaurs and the Lapiths; for all his brotherly comradeship with Theseus, Pirithoos never registers as vividly as any of the Cranes or even the doomed year-kings of Eleusis and Naxos in the first novel. The heart of the novel is the love of Theseus and Hippolyta and that works, I think, partly because Renault writes them like a queer romance. To Hippolyta, she gives the king's death of the consenting sacrifice. She is less generous to Phaedra than even Seneca. I have moved on to Fire from Heaven (1969), which is all kinds of romantic about Alexander, but at least doesn't make me scream about Olympias.
(In the meanwhile,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
strange_selkie tags things like this for me, which just makes everything better.)
I am about a dozen movies behind on reviews I wanted to write, so these are sort of the thumbnail sketch notes of some recent highlights. Enjoy.
Even TCM couldn't tell me how Wonder Man (1945) ended up as unmemorably titled as it did. It's a shame, because the movie kept me at my computer until two in the morning. In his second feature film, Danny Kaye double-stars as a mild-mannered classical historian possessed by the ghost of his nightclub entertainer twin brother in order to testify against the gangsters who whacked him. It's a classic slapstick premise—the shnook sharing a body with the tummler—but it's played much less broadly here than in many of Kaye's later vehicles, so that we're actually sorry that mile-a-minute wild card Buzzy Bellew got dumped off a bridge in Prospect Park before he could finally tie the knot with fellow dancer Midge (Vera-Ellen) and his posthumous reappearance is a visible catastrophe for the contentedly geeky Edwin Dingle, who's quite happy researching the history of human knowledge and cooking at home on a first date with librarian Ellen (Virginia Mayo). Some of the possession scenes are comic body horror. Some are just cute, as when Edwin's inexperience with alcohol gives his dybbuk brother a wicked hangover. The finale is when things get totally out of hand, as they should. Grand opera is involved. If you ever wanted to know where Tom Lehrer's self-interrupting "I am never forget" shtick in "Lobachevsky" came from, it's this movie. I would love to know if Kaye brought the routine with him from vaudeville: a Russian singer with hay fever who has to perform "Ochi Chornya" next to a giant vase of flowers.
The primary virtues of Born to Dance (1936) have nothing to do with the plot, which is a kind of proto-On the Town following the adventures of three sailors on shore leave and the women two of them are attached to; they are the dazzling athleticism of Eleanor Powell, the comedy dancing of Buddy Ebsen and the scene-stealing interjection of Reginald Gardiner as a Central Park beat cop who fancies himself the Toscanini of imaginary orchestras, and the fact that James Stewart can actually sing.derspatchel and I watched the film partly just because we had no idea he'd ever been in musical comedy. He's no triple threat, but he acquires himself well. He can waltz a little, tap a little; he doesn't need to do much more with Powell's firecracker thirty-second-notes there for the camera to marvel at. Singing, he has a light, sweet, earnest sound, very much in the same register as his speaking voice; Cole Porter picked him and defended him against dubbing by the studio. I didn't realize he'd introduced "You'd Be So Easy to Love," but there it is. ("I've Got You Under My Skin" also comes from this movie, but I am incapable of not thinking of that song as definitively performed by the Muppets. I admit I was also distracted by the presence of the Sparton "Bluebird" radio prominently in shot. I'd last seen it in the MFA.) I recognized Ebsen by his dancing. I didn't know what he looked like; I knew he'd been cast originally as the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz (1939), then swapped roles with Ray Bolger for the Tin Man and then famously suffered an allergic reaction to the aluminum-based makeup and dropped out of the film altogether. So when we got to the first major dance number and out came this lanky ragdoll who looked like he never knew what his knees were doing and the direction of his feet surprised him, I knew who it had to be. He has one of the most endearing unibrows I've ever seen. Apparently he grew up to be in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), but I feel like the trauma occasioned by Mr. Yunioshi wiped out a lot of that film for me.
Here are two things we didn't know about White Zombie (1932) when we started watching it: it's the first zombie feature film and it's good. The zombies are the Haitian folkloric kind, under the control of plantation owner/self-taught bokor Bela Lugosi who employs his former enemies as mindless bodyguards and runs his sugar mill on the unsleeping labor of black and white bodies, enslaved even after death; it's pre-Code horror, so a grisly scene shows us the brutal indifference with which Legendre's zombies become literally grist for the mill. It's fantastically atmospheric, shot like a silent film with expressionist shadows and crystalline camera work. The sound work is brilliant when it's relying on effects and accompanying music; dialogue scenes are frequently so clunky that I wondered briefly if the movie had started life as a silent and been awkwardly brought up to date halfway through, but I think it's mostly that the technology was rudimentary and two of the four leads were visibly most comfortable in scenes where they don't have to talk. They're very good when they're not talking, though, while Lugosi's mannered, menacing delivery makes him perhaps an even more mesmerizing villain than Dracula. A perfect ending is strongly implied and then completely averted, leading both of us to wonder if the studio had actually stepped in at the last minute. It's worth seeing even so, and way less racist than I was expecting from the title. In retrospect, I am even happier that I screened Rob Zombie's "Living Dead Girl" (1999) as a short before the feature.
I had wanted to see The Citadel (1938) ever since I caught five minutes out of the middle on TCM in 2012. It was worth the wait, even if it turns out to be one of those movies that feel slightly like two different stories shoved into the same two hours. I haven't read the 1937 novel by A.J. Cronin, so I can't say whether the two halves are better integrated there. (I was able to verify that the movie and the book fridge different characters and I dislike both deaths for different reasons, so we're back to the discussion about how representation should not be a zero-sum game. I understand that when your subject is medical incompetence, the stakes are going to be disability or death, but I still object on grounds of liking both characters.) In the first, Robert Donat is an idealistic young doctor newly arrived at a Welsh mining village where the bureaucracy is so corrupt that the company finds it more cost-effective to keep replacing miners than to replace the old leaky sewer that's giving them typhoid in the first place; initially timid, he's encouraged to activism by the friendship of cynical, hard-drinking Ralph Richardson, a man who knows his way around a Molotov cocktail, and eventually the love of schoolteacher Rosalind Russell, who's as much fellow-researcher as wife. He's acknowledged the best doctor the valley ever had, but presently his scientific righteousness edges out his ability to hear the concerns of the community he serves, and his most important research goes for naught when a clash of personalities busts up his laboratory. In the second, he's a disillusioned young doctor newly arrived in London where the medical establishment is so corrupt that he finds himself paid more for slapping a spoiled heiress out of a temper tantrum than he ever received for his painstaking experiments proving the link between long-term exposure to coal dust and lung disease; initially principled, he's encouraged to a kind of professional coasting by the social connections of old schoolfellow Rex Harrison, very sleek and plausible, and the successful model of high-society surgeon Cecil Parker, whose patients are all very wealthy and very healthy and very generous. He does little harm, being paid for his well-developed bedside manner, but he doesn't do much good, and it takes his wife and his best friend calling him on it with tragic results before he wakes up. The happy ending is a reclamation of his ethics and a balance achieved between furthering knowledge and helping people in need, but the story feels like it zigzags a bit getting him there. The five minutes I'd seen only included Donat, Russell, and Harrison, so Ralph Richardson came as a delightful surprise, turning the character actor's trick of taking a stock figure and making them three-dimensional. He's the actor of whom my husband most reminded me when we met.
Stage Fright (1950) was a Hitchcock film I'd never heard of, a backstage murder mystery that verges at several points on self-parody before resolving into genuine and marvelous suspense; it stars the unusual combination of Jane Wyman, Michael Wilding, Marlene Dietrich, and Alastair Sim. The protagonist is a RADA student who finds herself playing too many roles after impulsively agreeing to help a fellow-student who claims to have been framed for murder, posing as substitute maid and dresser to the cabaret star her friend swears really committed the crime while pretending to the investigating detective inspector—with whom she is forming a decidedly unprofessional bond, having met him as herself before knowing his job—that she has no connections whatsoever to the case. There's also the small matter of having stashed her friend on her father's houseboat (later in the spare room of her mother's town house, which doesn't help matters when the detective comes to tea) and finding herself susceptible to blackmail by the actual dresser, who saw right through her initial pretense of being a journalist trying to get a woman's-eye view on the story. Everything comes to a head on the stage, as it should. In the meantime a lot of theater in-jokes fly around, Marlene Dietrich performs the number that Madeline Kahn spoofed in Blazing Saddles (1974)—"The Laziest Girl in Town"; Rob and I both failed to keep from interjecting "Can't you see she's pooped?" and "Everything below the waist is kaput!"—Alastair Sim steals all of his scenes as a father magnificently indulgent of his daughter's amateur sleuthing, being the sort of man who's still personally offended that the Revenuers never came after him for smuggling two casks of brandy twenty years ago, Kay Walsh steals all of her scenes as a confidently unscrupulous woman with a skewering eye for class condescension, and it took me until IMDb to recognize Michael Wilding from Cottage to Let (1941). I am delighted that he was a romantic lead; with his thin height and his narrow, sharp-nosed profile, he could as easily have been typed as rabbity ganglers like Freddy Eynsford-Hill or shady informants rather than London's finest, but no, very popular star of British film in the late '40's and '50's.
I am probably going to go watch some other obscure movie now. [edit] TCM is temporarily not playing on my computer, so we watched a DVD of Monsieur Hulot's Holiday (Les Vacances de M. Hulot, 1953), a favorite film of Rob's which I had not seen since 2010. It's the most relaxing movie I know that ends with an unplanned explosion of fireworks.
(In the meanwhile,
strange_selkie tags things like this for me, which just makes everything better.)I am about a dozen movies behind on reviews I wanted to write, so these are sort of the thumbnail sketch notes of some recent highlights. Enjoy.
Even TCM couldn't tell me how Wonder Man (1945) ended up as unmemorably titled as it did. It's a shame, because the movie kept me at my computer until two in the morning. In his second feature film, Danny Kaye double-stars as a mild-mannered classical historian possessed by the ghost of his nightclub entertainer twin brother in order to testify against the gangsters who whacked him. It's a classic slapstick premise—the shnook sharing a body with the tummler—but it's played much less broadly here than in many of Kaye's later vehicles, so that we're actually sorry that mile-a-minute wild card Buzzy Bellew got dumped off a bridge in Prospect Park before he could finally tie the knot with fellow dancer Midge (Vera-Ellen) and his posthumous reappearance is a visible catastrophe for the contentedly geeky Edwin Dingle, who's quite happy researching the history of human knowledge and cooking at home on a first date with librarian Ellen (Virginia Mayo). Some of the possession scenes are comic body horror. Some are just cute, as when Edwin's inexperience with alcohol gives his dybbuk brother a wicked hangover. The finale is when things get totally out of hand, as they should. Grand opera is involved. If you ever wanted to know where Tom Lehrer's self-interrupting "I am never forget" shtick in "Lobachevsky" came from, it's this movie. I would love to know if Kaye brought the routine with him from vaudeville: a Russian singer with hay fever who has to perform "Ochi Chornya" next to a giant vase of flowers.
The primary virtues of Born to Dance (1936) have nothing to do with the plot, which is a kind of proto-On the Town following the adventures of three sailors on shore leave and the women two of them are attached to; they are the dazzling athleticism of Eleanor Powell, the comedy dancing of Buddy Ebsen and the scene-stealing interjection of Reginald Gardiner as a Central Park beat cop who fancies himself the Toscanini of imaginary orchestras, and the fact that James Stewart can actually sing.
derspatchel and I watched the film partly just because we had no idea he'd ever been in musical comedy. He's no triple threat, but he acquires himself well. He can waltz a little, tap a little; he doesn't need to do much more with Powell's firecracker thirty-second-notes there for the camera to marvel at. Singing, he has a light, sweet, earnest sound, very much in the same register as his speaking voice; Cole Porter picked him and defended him against dubbing by the studio. I didn't realize he'd introduced "You'd Be So Easy to Love," but there it is. ("I've Got You Under My Skin" also comes from this movie, but I am incapable of not thinking of that song as definitively performed by the Muppets. I admit I was also distracted by the presence of the Sparton "Bluebird" radio prominently in shot. I'd last seen it in the MFA.) I recognized Ebsen by his dancing. I didn't know what he looked like; I knew he'd been cast originally as the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz (1939), then swapped roles with Ray Bolger for the Tin Man and then famously suffered an allergic reaction to the aluminum-based makeup and dropped out of the film altogether. So when we got to the first major dance number and out came this lanky ragdoll who looked like he never knew what his knees were doing and the direction of his feet surprised him, I knew who it had to be. He has one of the most endearing unibrows I've ever seen. Apparently he grew up to be in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), but I feel like the trauma occasioned by Mr. Yunioshi wiped out a lot of that film for me.Here are two things we didn't know about White Zombie (1932) when we started watching it: it's the first zombie feature film and it's good. The zombies are the Haitian folkloric kind, under the control of plantation owner/self-taught bokor Bela Lugosi who employs his former enemies as mindless bodyguards and runs his sugar mill on the unsleeping labor of black and white bodies, enslaved even after death; it's pre-Code horror, so a grisly scene shows us the brutal indifference with which Legendre's zombies become literally grist for the mill. It's fantastically atmospheric, shot like a silent film with expressionist shadows and crystalline camera work. The sound work is brilliant when it's relying on effects and accompanying music; dialogue scenes are frequently so clunky that I wondered briefly if the movie had started life as a silent and been awkwardly brought up to date halfway through, but I think it's mostly that the technology was rudimentary and two of the four leads were visibly most comfortable in scenes where they don't have to talk. They're very good when they're not talking, though, while Lugosi's mannered, menacing delivery makes him perhaps an even more mesmerizing villain than Dracula. A perfect ending is strongly implied and then completely averted, leading both of us to wonder if the studio had actually stepped in at the last minute. It's worth seeing even so, and way less racist than I was expecting from the title. In retrospect, I am even happier that I screened Rob Zombie's "Living Dead Girl" (1999) as a short before the feature.
I had wanted to see The Citadel (1938) ever since I caught five minutes out of the middle on TCM in 2012. It was worth the wait, even if it turns out to be one of those movies that feel slightly like two different stories shoved into the same two hours. I haven't read the 1937 novel by A.J. Cronin, so I can't say whether the two halves are better integrated there. (I was able to verify that the movie and the book fridge different characters and I dislike both deaths for different reasons, so we're back to the discussion about how representation should not be a zero-sum game. I understand that when your subject is medical incompetence, the stakes are going to be disability or death, but I still object on grounds of liking both characters.) In the first, Robert Donat is an idealistic young doctor newly arrived at a Welsh mining village where the bureaucracy is so corrupt that the company finds it more cost-effective to keep replacing miners than to replace the old leaky sewer that's giving them typhoid in the first place; initially timid, he's encouraged to activism by the friendship of cynical, hard-drinking Ralph Richardson, a man who knows his way around a Molotov cocktail, and eventually the love of schoolteacher Rosalind Russell, who's as much fellow-researcher as wife. He's acknowledged the best doctor the valley ever had, but presently his scientific righteousness edges out his ability to hear the concerns of the community he serves, and his most important research goes for naught when a clash of personalities busts up his laboratory. In the second, he's a disillusioned young doctor newly arrived in London where the medical establishment is so corrupt that he finds himself paid more for slapping a spoiled heiress out of a temper tantrum than he ever received for his painstaking experiments proving the link between long-term exposure to coal dust and lung disease; initially principled, he's encouraged to a kind of professional coasting by the social connections of old schoolfellow Rex Harrison, very sleek and plausible, and the successful model of high-society surgeon Cecil Parker, whose patients are all very wealthy and very healthy and very generous. He does little harm, being paid for his well-developed bedside manner, but he doesn't do much good, and it takes his wife and his best friend calling him on it with tragic results before he wakes up. The happy ending is a reclamation of his ethics and a balance achieved between furthering knowledge and helping people in need, but the story feels like it zigzags a bit getting him there. The five minutes I'd seen only included Donat, Russell, and Harrison, so Ralph Richardson came as a delightful surprise, turning the character actor's trick of taking a stock figure and making them three-dimensional. He's the actor of whom my husband most reminded me when we met.
Stage Fright (1950) was a Hitchcock film I'd never heard of, a backstage murder mystery that verges at several points on self-parody before resolving into genuine and marvelous suspense; it stars the unusual combination of Jane Wyman, Michael Wilding, Marlene Dietrich, and Alastair Sim. The protagonist is a RADA student who finds herself playing too many roles after impulsively agreeing to help a fellow-student who claims to have been framed for murder, posing as substitute maid and dresser to the cabaret star her friend swears really committed the crime while pretending to the investigating detective inspector—with whom she is forming a decidedly unprofessional bond, having met him as herself before knowing his job—that she has no connections whatsoever to the case. There's also the small matter of having stashed her friend on her father's houseboat (later in the spare room of her mother's town house, which doesn't help matters when the detective comes to tea) and finding herself susceptible to blackmail by the actual dresser, who saw right through her initial pretense of being a journalist trying to get a woman's-eye view on the story. Everything comes to a head on the stage, as it should. In the meantime a lot of theater in-jokes fly around, Marlene Dietrich performs the number that Madeline Kahn spoofed in Blazing Saddles (1974)—"The Laziest Girl in Town"; Rob and I both failed to keep from interjecting "Can't you see she's pooped?" and "Everything below the waist is kaput!"—Alastair Sim steals all of his scenes as a father magnificently indulgent of his daughter's amateur sleuthing, being the sort of man who's still personally offended that the Revenuers never came after him for smuggling two casks of brandy twenty years ago, Kay Walsh steals all of her scenes as a confidently unscrupulous woman with a skewering eye for class condescension, and it took me until IMDb to recognize Michael Wilding from Cottage to Let (1941). I am delighted that he was a romantic lead; with his thin height and his narrow, sharp-nosed profile, he could as easily have been typed as rabbity ganglers like Freddy Eynsford-Hill or shady informants rather than London's finest, but no, very popular star of British film in the late '40's and '50's.
I am probably going to go watch some other obscure movie now. [edit] TCM is temporarily not playing on my computer, so we watched a DVD of Monsieur Hulot's Holiday (Les Vacances de M. Hulot, 1953), a favorite film of Rob's which I had not seen since 2010. It's the most relaxing movie I know that ends with an unplanned explosion of fireworks.
no subject
no subject
That's what happened here—I remembered not liking it, but thought I would give it another try. I liked it even less.
But I'd be very interested in why you see it as a queer romance.
This should be an essay, but I am not well-slept enough for it, so you're going to get a textbrick with quotes instead. I apologize in advance.
Two reasons, mainly. One, that while Hippolyta does not characterize herself as other than female, she is very strongly coded male through the norms of Renault's Archaic Greek culture and Theseus' perceptions of her, which form the voice of the narrative. It's there as early as The King Must Die, when Theseus describes "Amazon girls from Pontos, proud-faced and slim, free-striding, with slender fingers hard from the bow and spear, who looked you in the eye as cool and measuring as young princes at war." When he sees Hippolyta and her warriors for the first time in The Bull from the Sea, he thinks again that "[t]hey looked like slender princes in the flower of youth, who meet after the hunt to drink wine and hear the bard . . . They worked briskly, like strong young men, not flinching at the bloody entrails; and the fighting sense in me warned me that they were warriors." Their beauty is androgynous: "Their thighs were taut and sleek, the legs long and slender; their shallow breasts were as perfect as wine-cups turned on the wheel. All over they were gold with sun, not skewbald from wearing clothes," like men who exercise naked, not women who cover themselves up. When he hears Hippolyta's voice for the first time, calling out to her lover whom she is about to defend by shooting one of Theseus' men, her voice is "cold, wild and pure like a boy's or a bird's." Even when he thinks of her in feminine terms, they are not human terms: "She was like the Moon Goddess, deadly and innocent; gentle and fierce like the lion." Theseus' greatest praise for the woman he loves is masculine: "She is more than queen. She understands the sacrifice that goes consenting. There is a king's fate in her eyes . . . A king, truly, lived in this white-haired girl."
(It's unclear whether her own culture would view her in this liminal way: as warrior-guardian of the shrine of Artemis at Maiden Crag, her title is "King of the Maidens." Since it's mentioned elsewhere in The Bull from the Sea that the Sarmatian women fight alongside the men, however, I suspect Renault's Amazons fall within the gender norms of their own people, just somewhat to one side of the spectrum.)
I hate LJ-comment limits.
no subject
Second, that their relationship is not gender-normative for the culture they live in—and in fact causes Theseus' masculinity to come into question. Hippolyta is not a traditional object of heterosexual desire; he does not treat her like one. They fight side by side, they hunt together; she only wears Athenian women's clothing in the late stages of her pregnancy and her own Scythian dress otherwise, marking her as an ethnic outsider as well. Pirithoos' reactions express it most directly: "She was never his notion of a girl; if she had been a youth, indeed, he would have settled to it more easily, and half the time in those early days he treated her like a boy of some kingly house over whom I had lost my head." Women in the royal household call her "a freak of nature"; Theseus understands how his behavior toward her makes him seem and decides he doesn't care. "They had taken it for granted that I meant to break her in, and till I had made a house-woman of her like any other, would feel myself half a man. As for my manhood, I reckoned it was proved by now and I could leave such cares to others; for the rest, one does not clip one's hawk and put it in the henyard. For her I was man enough." She is never entirely integrated into the Athenian court. The fact that he continues to treat her like a royal warrior and not like a prize of war is one of the causes: "It had made a good [tale], that I had bedded even the Lady of the Amazons and got her with child. But when time passed and she lived my queen in all but name; when they saw that by my choice she would have had that too; then their faces altered . . . She had served the Goddess; and I had not tamed her." The people who take most readily to Hippolyta and who most easily accept and celebrate her place in Theseus' life—consort, fellow-fighter, mother of his son, not queen of Athens—are the survivors of the Bull Court, who are already out of the mainstream themselves. "[T]hough they were mostly men who made so long a journey, they had known the fellowship where maids and men had lived by what was in them . . . They honored Hippolyta from the heart, for what she was, not with the lips from fear of me." Their affirmation of their commitment is the notably modern-sounding "We are what we are." They repeat it to one another before Theseus' marriage to Phaedra (who is very feminine, "a little Cretan lady . . . with the pretty airs and graces high-born ladies are taught in Crete") and before they go into battle together against the Sarmatians and the Scythians, Renault's version of the Amazonomachy in which Theseus will ready himself to die for his people and Hippolyta will take his death instead, the king's sacrifice.
(It seems significant somewhere in here that Hippolyta is bisexual; her successor among the Moon Maids is her former lover Molpadia, whose life she was in the process of saving when Theseus first saw her. The concept doesn't surprise Theseus: "I had heard in Crete that the Amazons are bound in love to one another; some said they took vows, and chose for life." But he has to make the connection first that she is an Amazon; initially he assumes that the princely girls on the shore of Pontos will have even more kingly men behind them, the real contenders and arbiters. "If these are the women, what are the men like? Surely, a race of heroes. If they come it will be a battle for bards to sing about . . . Slowly the truth came home. There would be no men of her tribe to fight for her. No; I had met the warrior I must win her from. She with her weapons and her lion's pride." He recognizes her rights to herself; the only higher authority is the god in whose hand he feels they both lie. She uses the same language to talk about the goddess. All her life, she has only those two lovers, one from either side of the binary. Theseus kills Molpadia in battle when Hippolyta is dead.)
Still hate LJ-comment limits.
no subject
no subject
I'm conflicted about Hippolyta, and I'm surprised how strong my feelings still are, now that you recount her character vividly. On one hand, she's allowed to be a complete person who does things I care about and has priorities I can admire. Mary Renault writes a lot of horrible (and horrible-because-femme) weak underhanded villainous women, and weak spongy characterless non-villain women. See also: every woman in The Persian Boy. I mean, Renault even writes MEDEA as a grungy witch who is easily chased off by a young guy acting assertive. Medea. So Hippolyta is a nice change of pace. You can see why Theseus is so into her, and I don't say that about a lot of love stories, because most love stories assume the woman is a pair of tits who is there to marry the hero.
On the other hand, I kind of hate Renault for doing the smarmy thing where Theseus is fighting Hippolyta to win Hippolyta, and she's going all-out while he's holding back and trying not to hurt her. That took a lot of fun out of their relationship for me, and it was hard to overcome the patronizing qualities and start enjoying it later on.
(Yes, I am giving a free pass to the fact that they start having sex while she's his prisoner. Somehow that doesn't bother me as much as Theseus' being all "Aww, bless, I'm gonna have to beat her without putting a scratch on her gorgeous chassis, look at how seriously she takes this...") (note to casual passers-by: not an actual quotation.)
For me, nothing in the book quite lived up to the one reference that Theseus gives in The King Must Die:
"After I had ceased to seek her, only then I found her, riding in her Scythian trousers bareback among the spears. Though she was taller than the girls of the Bull Court, yet she was fine-boned, and light to carry. Twice I have carried her off a battlefield in my two arms. Even the second time, though the dead weigh heavier than the living.
"I have seen her hold a leopard alone upon her spear. But me she never harmed after that javelin wound when first I took her, which I am glad to carry since it is all of her I have. Then, and once more unknowing, when she gave me a son six feet and three fingers high. But the Maiden Goddess, whom she had served in arms, and the gods below were good to her; before she could see the end, they closed her eyes with darkness."
no subject
You have summarized pretty much the entire problem of The Bull from the Sea.