By Christopher Taylor.
Restoring Arthurian Romance in the Twenty-First Century
The overwhelming majority of Arthurian fiction since T.H. White’s defining The Once and Future King (published in 1958) has sought to redefine Arthur in the context of the 4th-6th century: from Sutcliffe’s Sword at Sunset in the 60s, Zimmer-Bradley’s Mists of Avalon, Lawhead’s Pendragon Cycle, through to Cornwell’s Winter King with its subsequent BBC adaptation. Even BBC’s Merlin (which was filmed within a medieval French castle), attempts to maintain a sense of the 4th century origins with costume details like Arthur’s armour of Roman plates cobbled together with Saxon chainmail. Other than the musical Camelot and Disney’s Sword in the Stone (both based on T.H. White), and the Sean Connery/Richard Gere vehicle First Knight, the closest we’ve come to the mythical Arthur has been in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Enter Lev Grossman with The Bright Sword: a story of some of the lesser-known, quirky knights and what happens to them after the end of Arthur’s rule. Our new character, Collum, journeys to Camelot hoping to become a knight, but finds that he’s arrived shortly after the Battle of Camlann (where the majority of the Knights of the Round Table were killed and Arthur was mortally wounded). Collum is a low-born but idealistic young man from a Scottish island. He expects to arrive in a court and need to put on his best airs and graces to fit in with the chivalrous, educated men, but when he arrives he finds the dregs of Arthur’s knights, who are less civilised than he is. The story that unfolds follows these misfit knights as they struggle to decide what to do next. This setup is excellent, and is the perfect way to create a unique Arthur story.
The novel quickly establishes that it is set within the Victorian romantic tradition, setting up a world of medieval chivalry, tourneys, and Christian virtue in Britain pre-Saxon occupation. The knights wear full plate harness, have coats of arms, joust, and quest for holy objects as if they’re from the 12th century. Our ‘Saracen’ knight, Palomides, comes from Baghdad, which wasn’t founded until 762 CE and his Islamic faith shouldn’t exist yet either. At the same time, Arthur is described as reforming Britain from the fractured mess the Romans left it in, and his remaining knights are holding off Saxon invaders (which places the novel around the mid-400s).
For the most part this provides an excellent, mystical backdrop for the novel. When done with a light touch, it places Grossman’s Britain in an intentionally ‘uncanny valley’ that blends familiar with vibrant and new. This mythical Britain is fantastically written and beautifully described, and Grossman brings the world to life. It’s also strangely refreshing to read a novel that presents Arthur and his knights as mythical, anachronistic heroes we all instinctively imagine, because they’re so rarely described that way outside of classic literature or children’s books. One of Grossman’s most intriguing ideas is that myth and legend in Britain starts to emerge as Camelot is established, as if the knights are starting to embody the legends while they’re still alive – as if the much later myths are being projected back through time. There are moments when Grossman pushes the historical details and sly factoids too heavily; I found these asides almost smug, making sure that you know he knows it’s all weird, rather than the simple, naive acceptance required for classic Arthurian myths. However, in general, it’s a beautiful piece of world building that many writers couldn’t pull off.
Grossman isn’t just trying to ape the classical Arthurian tradition. Each of his knights are chosen to examine a range of important diversity topics: identity, sexuality, religion, race, gender, or physical and mental disabilities. This ranges from fairly obvious – Bedivere has one hand; Palomides is a middle-Eastern man – to pulling interesting points from fairly obscure legends and reinterpreting them. Without spoiling anything, when I read a little more into Dinadan, I found a specific episode with Lancelot that made Grossman’s interpretation of the character really clever. This diversity is excellent, but, as with the historical elements, there are moments that feel somewhat heavy-handed and in some places it feels like Grossman is making an argument, rather than offering inclusion for people who are under-represented in fantasy. This is a bit of a shame when the major theme of the book is our unusual characters emerging from the shadows of traditional heroes. Similarly, it feels like certain topics are given more attention simply because Grossman can use them as plot devices, where characters are short-changed because it’s more tricky to examine, and this unfair treatment is frustrating in a book that’s making a point about diversity. Dagonet is portrayed as suffering from depression, but – disappointingly – this doesn’t really go anywhere. Bedivere is superhumanly strong with his one hand, which somewhat undermines any discussion about his physical disability.
On a similar note, each knight needed more time to shine. The only real character development for the knights is in retrospect, told through flashbacks, each titled ‘Tale of Sir…’ (as a nod to Arthurian myths, but generally a simple backstory, rather than an actual quest or tale). Typically, these added nothing that couldn’t have been done with exposition, or in some cases set up an obvious ‘Chekov’s gun’ for later in the story. The flashbacks are where the book really dragged for me, and I started feeling the 600+ pages.
This is my main issue with the novel: the pacing and focus seemed all over the place, with many ideas that could have been cut, and many that were underdeveloped. I’ve enjoyed Grossman’s Magicians trilogy, so I know he’s all about nihilism and dead ends; given that we know Camelot will fall, I was expecting – and hoping – that the thrust of the book would be defining these knights that Grossman found on the cutting room floor, perhaps giving them all an ‘aristeia‘ moment where they overcame their personal demons before Camelot disappeared. But Grossman spends so long in the past that the climactic battles and sacrifices feel unearned, because the knights haven’t moved forwards.
Still, Grossman deserves praise for creating a romanticised Arthurian novel for the modern day. It’s refreshing to read a novel where the knights are presented as the selfless heroes we’ve known since we were children, rather than trying to reimagine them in some realistic or anti-heroic way, while also developing interesting, modern, inclusive characteristics. It makes sense for a modern tale of King Arthur to explore positive values around gender, identity, nationality, religion, respect, charity, virtue, and so on, because that’s exactly what the chivalric tales were written to promote. The novel pulled me along with its absorbing episodes, despite the lumpy moments and occasional heavy-handedness, and, although I was a little disappointed by the final outcomes, I’m not going to forget the characters any time soon.
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