Although I have been told that our word 'cat' comes from the Roman word for dog, the OED states it is a "common European word of unknown origin". That's my dad's OED, the huge mimeographed condensation of the complete work, which you have to read with a magnifying glass. It's some years old now, but essential, especially when your own Shorter Oxford is missing A-M.
Just don't drop it on your foot.
There is a Latin word catulus, which means puppy. I suppose it's conceivable that a cat might be referred to by a word that indicates 'small dog'. Online sources claim 'catta' as the Latin word. Apparently, it appears in Martial (c75CE). It doesn't, however, appear in my Latin dictionary. It's the Pocket Oxford, second edition, first published 1913. Do I need to upgrade it? Are there new Latin words? (Let's bear in mind that I only bought the new Shorter Oxford English when a) it was on sale and b) I got fed up of not being able to find words like dyslexia.)
It occurred to me today that cats are increasingly popular as pets despite being largely redundant in terms of their (presumed) original purpose. Whether we brought them to live with us so they could kill the rodents that destroyed our crops, or they came to live with us because we attracted the rodents they wanted for food, we'll probably never know. Maybe they just wanted to warm themselves at our fires. It doesn't help that some 180,000 irreplaceable Egyptian cat mummies were sold as fertiliser in the C19th. Priceless information about the origins of the domesticated cat, used to grow crops that their descendants would presumably guard.
I often hear of farmers who have two types of cat. The indoor cats, which are fed and taken to the vet, and the farm cats, which take care of themselves. Perhaps this split has always existed in farming communities and wherever grain is stored: cats that are pets, and cats that work for a living. Perhaps cats hunted in the granaries of the Roman legions, and aren't mentioned simply because everybody would expect them to be there, as common as the air we breathe.
There's a book I'd love to own, The Domestic Cat in Roman Civilization, that might answer the question of the military cat. Unfortunately, it hasn't got past my wishlist.
Which brings me to the question, how much do you need to know to write your Roman novel? Does it matter if you put cats on your farm, in your granary, in your character's house? It does seem entirely possible that the ancient Romans weren't fond of cats as pets. If you're keeping pet birds, of which the Romans kept many, a cat is likely to cause problems.
I think I must have been aware of the unpopularity of pet cats among the Romans when writing early drafts of my novels, because I gave specific reasons why the protagonist's family estate is overrun with cats. His mother is from Egypt, where of course cats were revered, and has introduced them. I feel safe!
And ponies? Next time :).
8 September 2011
1 September 2011
Cowardice? Pragmatism!
My antipodean friend and I were scoping out British literary agents today, and ended up on a site belonging to a prominent and successful agent whom I won't name. While reading said agent's client list, I ran across a name that seemed vaguely familiar. When I clicked through, I recognised the covers of this author's books instantly.
I bought one a few years back, started reading it, and hated it. I then wrote a short but blunt review on Goodreads, indicating my displeasure. It wasn't reasoned and cogent. It was angry. It included the words 'slight' and 'trivial'.
We're all entitled to our opinions. It's a free country. Opinions are like arseholes--everybody has one.
But is it a good idea publicly to express a powerful dislike of a book written by an author repped by an agent you intend to approach, one day, with a view to them representing your own modest efforts? Aye, there's the rub.
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> oh [author's name redacted]
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> yeah i started reading [title redacted], and hated it
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> i seem to remember i wrote a not very nice review on GR
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> probably shouldn't query [agent's name redacted] either then!
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> they don't want clients who diss other clients
[13:56] <@Lyren> by that logic it probably rules out EVERY AGENT
[13:56] <@DragonSlayer> yep
[13:56] <@Lyren> therefore it's not acceptable
[13:56] <@DragonSlayer> i have heard it tho
[13:56] * @Lyren rips up that rule and feeds it to the dragon
[13:56] * TheDragon munches happily.
[13:56] <@Lyren> once you are a client it's different
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> they google you tho
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> we know this
[13:57] <@Lyren> we do?
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> well, they do
[13:57] <@Lyren> if they have enough time to read EVERY THING YOU HAVE EVER WRITTEN ON THE WEB they are in the wrong job
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> lolol
As you can see, my antipodean friend talks a lot of sense. Yet part of my brain is trying to tell me that, while a reasoned but not complimentary review may be acceptable, one that is basically a slam, might not be. There's also part of my brain that suspects that letting my honest blunt Yorkshire opinions out for a run on the internet will one day come back to bite me hard in a delicate place.
As you can see, the parts of my brain need reintegrating.
I went back and looked at the review I'd written. It was worse than I remembered. I thought about the ease with which it could be found. I thought about the paucity of agents in the UK and the huge numbers of people who query them.
And, reader, I edited the review.
I didn't change the star rating. I didn't change the shelf from 'gave-up'. But I deleted most of what I had written.
Maybe it wasn't a question of 'cowardice or pragmatism'. Maybe it was both.
I bought one a few years back, started reading it, and hated it. I then wrote a short but blunt review on Goodreads, indicating my displeasure. It wasn't reasoned and cogent. It was angry. It included the words 'slight' and 'trivial'.
We're all entitled to our opinions. It's a free country. Opinions are like arseholes--everybody has one.
But is it a good idea publicly to express a powerful dislike of a book written by an author repped by an agent you intend to approach, one day, with a view to them representing your own modest efforts? Aye, there's the rub.
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> oh [author's name redacted]
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> yeah i started reading [title redacted], and hated it
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> i seem to remember i wrote a not very nice review on GR
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> probably shouldn't query [agent's name redacted] either then!
[13:54] <@DragonSlayer> they don't want clients who diss other clients
[13:56] <@Lyren> by that logic it probably rules out EVERY AGENT
[13:56] <@DragonSlayer> yep
[13:56] <@Lyren> therefore it's not acceptable
[13:56] <@DragonSlayer> i have heard it tho
[13:56] * @Lyren rips up that rule and feeds it to the dragon
[13:56] * TheDragon munches happily.
[13:56] <@Lyren> once you are a client it's different
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> they google you tho
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> we know this
[13:57] <@Lyren> we do?
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> well, they do
[13:57] <@Lyren> if they have enough time to read EVERY THING YOU HAVE EVER WRITTEN ON THE WEB they are in the wrong job
[13:57] <@DragonSlayer> lolol
As you can see, my antipodean friend talks a lot of sense. Yet part of my brain is trying to tell me that, while a reasoned but not complimentary review may be acceptable, one that is basically a slam, might not be. There's also part of my brain that suspects that letting my honest blunt Yorkshire opinions out for a run on the internet will one day come back to bite me hard in a delicate place.
As you can see, the parts of my brain need reintegrating.
I went back and looked at the review I'd written. It was worse than I remembered. I thought about the ease with which it could be found. I thought about the paucity of agents in the UK and the huge numbers of people who query them.
And, reader, I edited the review.
I didn't change the star rating. I didn't change the shelf from 'gave-up'. But I deleted most of what I had written.
Maybe it wasn't a question of 'cowardice or pragmatism'. Maybe it was both.
25 August 2011
A Visit to Brodsworth Hall and Gardens (Part 2 of 2)
As all the statues at Brodsworth were purchased at the same time, in 1865, it was interesting to see how much the ones standing outside had decayed, and how well-preserved, in contrast, were the ones inside. As photography was not permitted inside the house, I can't show you the smooth, gleaming statues dotted around it. But I can show you something of what I saw outside.
This statue is slowly but surely being taken over by lichen. According to one of the people who 'show' the house, there's a possibility that the statues might be cleaned up and the lichen removed. That would be a shame, as natural weathering gives the statues character. It's also futile.
That's such an archetypal fish--despite the lichen--that it leaps out at you. I'm a FISH! The roughened stone gives it texture, if not life. Soon, hundreds of tiny spiders will leave that knot of silk in the web of the lower hand, and crawl everywhere.
These folds of cloth have also acquired texture, but in this case it makes them look less naturalistic. Those lumps and bumps and rough spots are not very clothlike. The drape and fold is beautifully represented, though. It almost looks as if you could tuck your hand into the 'pocket' of cloth.
Here are two of the statues from which these details come in full:
This one reminds me very much of 'a nymph surprised while bathing', although she doesn't look wet. Maybe she would on a rainy day.
This one makes no attempt at modesty above the waist (or indeed for some distance below it), but at the same time she's drawing the viewer's attention to the fish above anything else.
This statue seems to be holding a goose (or possibly a swan). Note how the lichen looks like a spray of leaves or flowers over her shoulder. I love the foot just peeping out from under her tunic.
Here's the back of another statue--possibly one of the Seasons, although there's not much evidence to support that idea. It's easy to make shapes out of the flowers in her garland. Can you see the alien's head, for example? Or the tiny lady on her arm? Also, that arm looks strong. I wouldn't want to get in her way.
Brodsworth was interesting, if only for the experience of 'how the other half' live, the other half in this case being the idle rich. They spent their time breeding horses, yacht racing, and being waited on hand and foot. It's another world.
This statue is slowly but surely being taken over by lichen. According to one of the people who 'show' the house, there's a possibility that the statues might be cleaned up and the lichen removed. That would be a shame, as natural weathering gives the statues character. It's also futile.
That's such an archetypal fish--despite the lichen--that it leaps out at you. I'm a FISH! The roughened stone gives it texture, if not life. Soon, hundreds of tiny spiders will leave that knot of silk in the web of the lower hand, and crawl everywhere.
These folds of cloth have also acquired texture, but in this case it makes them look less naturalistic. Those lumps and bumps and rough spots are not very clothlike. The drape and fold is beautifully represented, though. It almost looks as if you could tuck your hand into the 'pocket' of cloth.
Here are two of the statues from which these details come in full:
This one reminds me very much of 'a nymph surprised while bathing', although she doesn't look wet. Maybe she would on a rainy day.
This one makes no attempt at modesty above the waist (or indeed for some distance below it), but at the same time she's drawing the viewer's attention to the fish above anything else.
This statue seems to be holding a goose (or possibly a swan). Note how the lichen looks like a spray of leaves or flowers over her shoulder. I love the foot just peeping out from under her tunic.
Here's the back of another statue--possibly one of the Seasons, although there's not much evidence to support that idea. It's easy to make shapes out of the flowers in her garland. Can you see the alien's head, for example? Or the tiny lady on her arm? Also, that arm looks strong. I wouldn't want to get in her way.
Brodsworth was interesting, if only for the experience of 'how the other half' live, the other half in this case being the idle rich. They spent their time breeding horses, yacht racing, and being waited on hand and foot. It's another world.
18 August 2011
A Visit to Brodsworth Hall and Gardens (Part 1 of 2)
On Saturday August 13th, I decided we should all go out 'somewhere' for the afternoon. After some research, my husband choose Brodsworth Hall and Gardens, South Yorkshire. He had two reasons why this was a good choice. Firstly, it was nearby, and, secondly, as English Heritage members, he and I would get free entry, and would only have to buy a ticket for my father. Paying for dad proved somewhat expensive at £8.10 for a senior citizen--a concession of a full 90p.
The house has been preserved as it stood in the 1980s, although at times you could be forgiven for thinking it stands as it was in the 1880s. Much of the furniture and fittings is original, and there's a real sense of time standing still. Unfortunately, I have no photographs of the interior, because we were told at the door photography is forbidden except in the grounds. As a photographer who is a hobbyist but who takes her hobby seriously, this kind of restriction has me hopping up and down in frustration. Sometimes, there are excellent reasons to restrict flash photography, for example to protect delicate fabrics. There is in my opinion no good reason ever to have a blanket ban. Sell me a photographic license if you absolutely insist, but don't tell me I can't take photographs at all. It removes at least half the fun from any visit anywhere.
You'll therefore have to imagine the eviscerated armadillo that had been lined with red fabric and turned into a basket, its nose and tail joined together for the handle. You'll have to visualise for yourself the marvellously-preserved Victorian kitchen, with at least four ranges for the maid to blacklead, rotary knife grinder, and patent clockwork spit. Not to mention the two huge canterburies that stood on the landing to the bedrooms.
If you've ever read about a billiard room in a novel and wondered what it might look like, the one at Brodsworth is a wonderful example. It has red leather seats fitted to two walls, a scoreboard, and a magnificent billiards table set up for snooker. It's almost worth visiting the hall just to fill in that particular gap in your knowledge.
Enough however of the frustration of the baulked photographer.
Apparently, when fitting out the house, the family bought a job lot of forty statues at the Dublin Exhibition of 1865. Some appear here and there in the grounds but others are in the house. The size of a house that can accommodate life-size statues should stagger the mind, although it was hard while going from room to room to keep a sense of scale. I was excited to find on returning home that the catalogue to the exhibition is available online. Would it be possible to match up any of the statues we saw with their descriptions?
Exhibitors included P. Magni
No. 7(a). 'David throwing the sling' - Statue in marble. No. 16. 'The Reading Girl' - marble statue. (Owned by the Stereoscopic Company). No. 18. 'Hush, don't wake my baby' - Group in Marble. offered for sale 600-0-0. Address given as Milan. No. 28. 'The Swinging Girl' - marble statue. Offered for sale 1,500-0-0. No. 37a. 'The Young Soldier'- Group in Marble. No. 37b. 'An Infant'- statue in marble. No. 38. 'The Drawing Girl' - marble statue. No. 122. 'The Dance -Marble statue'. Ofered [sic] for sale 500-0-0. No. 123. 'Music - Marble Statue'. Offered for sale 500-0-0. No. 126. 'Harmony - Marble'. No. 263. 'First steps - Marble Statuette (Upper Central Hall). Offered for sale 300-0-0.
Even without a photograph to remind me, I know I saw a 'swinging girl' in the house. Could that have been Magni's statue? It is described in John Werge's "The Evolution of Photography" thus:
Another piece of exquisite beauty and daring skill in marble is 'The Swinging Girl' by Pietro Magni, of Milan, the sculptor of 'The Reading Girl' which attracted so much attention in the International Exhibition of 1862. The figure of the girl swinging is beautifully modelled and entirely free from contact with the base; and is supported only by the swing attached to the branch of a tree, and the hand of a boy giving action to the subject.
That certainly sounds like the statue I saw. Perhaps the curators would like to add that information to the statue's base. It would go elegantly alongside Please Do Not Touch.
The family of Swiss Huguenot Peter Thellusson, whose fortune came at least in part from the slave trade, were sporting types, fond of dogs, horses, and yachting. There is a pet cemetery in the hall's extensive grounds, and one room has many portraits of their dogs on its walls. This love of dogs is also reflected in the statues that guard steps in the grounds.
Days before visiting the hall, I had been reading an English Heritage booklet about Lullingstone Roman Villa, in Kent. The booklet features a mosaic excavated in the villa that portrays the four seasons (although only three seasons have survived). One extant season is Spring, depicted with a swallow on her shoulder. So, when I saw this statue in the hall's grounds, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that here, again, was Spring.
The Dublin Exhibition catalogue lists an entry for a statue of Spring by V. Vela (of Turin, as it transpires). Could this be another match?
Alas, no. In 1866, the Illustrated London News featured a photograph of Vela's Spring statue, and it is most definitely not the one I photographed at Brodsworth. Further, the catalogue lists no other statues entitled 'Spring'.
So, is this Spring with a swallow on her shoulder?
Hard to say. But it does illustrate the dangers of jumping to conclusions.
The house has been preserved as it stood in the 1980s, although at times you could be forgiven for thinking it stands as it was in the 1880s. Much of the furniture and fittings is original, and there's a real sense of time standing still. Unfortunately, I have no photographs of the interior, because we were told at the door photography is forbidden except in the grounds. As a photographer who is a hobbyist but who takes her hobby seriously, this kind of restriction has me hopping up and down in frustration. Sometimes, there are excellent reasons to restrict flash photography, for example to protect delicate fabrics. There is in my opinion no good reason ever to have a blanket ban. Sell me a photographic license if you absolutely insist, but don't tell me I can't take photographs at all. It removes at least half the fun from any visit anywhere.
You'll therefore have to imagine the eviscerated armadillo that had been lined with red fabric and turned into a basket, its nose and tail joined together for the handle. You'll have to visualise for yourself the marvellously-preserved Victorian kitchen, with at least four ranges for the maid to blacklead, rotary knife grinder, and patent clockwork spit. Not to mention the two huge canterburies that stood on the landing to the bedrooms.
If you've ever read about a billiard room in a novel and wondered what it might look like, the one at Brodsworth is a wonderful example. It has red leather seats fitted to two walls, a scoreboard, and a magnificent billiards table set up for snooker. It's almost worth visiting the hall just to fill in that particular gap in your knowledge.
Enough however of the frustration of the baulked photographer.
Apparently, when fitting out the house, the family bought a job lot of forty statues at the Dublin Exhibition of 1865. Some appear here and there in the grounds but others are in the house. The size of a house that can accommodate life-size statues should stagger the mind, although it was hard while going from room to room to keep a sense of scale. I was excited to find on returning home that the catalogue to the exhibition is available online. Would it be possible to match up any of the statues we saw with their descriptions?
Exhibitors included P. Magni
No. 7(a). 'David throwing the sling' - Statue in marble. No. 16. 'The Reading Girl' - marble statue. (Owned by the Stereoscopic Company). No. 18. 'Hush, don't wake my baby' - Group in Marble. offered for sale 600-0-0. Address given as Milan. No. 28. 'The Swinging Girl' - marble statue. Offered for sale 1,500-0-0. No. 37a. 'The Young Soldier'- Group in Marble. No. 37b. 'An Infant'- statue in marble. No. 38. 'The Drawing Girl' - marble statue. No. 122. 'The Dance -Marble statue'. Ofered [sic] for sale 500-0-0. No. 123. 'Music - Marble Statue'. Offered for sale 500-0-0. No. 126. 'Harmony - Marble'. No. 263. 'First steps - Marble Statuette (Upper Central Hall). Offered for sale 300-0-0.
Even without a photograph to remind me, I know I saw a 'swinging girl' in the house. Could that have been Magni's statue? It is described in John Werge's "The Evolution of Photography" thus:
Another piece of exquisite beauty and daring skill in marble is 'The Swinging Girl' by Pietro Magni, of Milan, the sculptor of 'The Reading Girl' which attracted so much attention in the International Exhibition of 1862. The figure of the girl swinging is beautifully modelled and entirely free from contact with the base; and is supported only by the swing attached to the branch of a tree, and the hand of a boy giving action to the subject.
That certainly sounds like the statue I saw. Perhaps the curators would like to add that information to the statue's base. It would go elegantly alongside Please Do Not Touch.
The family of Swiss Huguenot Peter Thellusson, whose fortune came at least in part from the slave trade, were sporting types, fond of dogs, horses, and yachting. There is a pet cemetery in the hall's extensive grounds, and one room has many portraits of their dogs on its walls. This love of dogs is also reflected in the statues that guard steps in the grounds.
Days before visiting the hall, I had been reading an English Heritage booklet about Lullingstone Roman Villa, in Kent. The booklet features a mosaic excavated in the villa that portrays the four seasons (although only three seasons have survived). One extant season is Spring, depicted with a swallow on her shoulder. So, when I saw this statue in the hall's grounds, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that here, again, was Spring.
The Dublin Exhibition catalogue lists an entry for a statue of Spring by V. Vela (of Turin, as it transpires). Could this be another match?
Alas, no. In 1866, the Illustrated London News featured a photograph of Vela's Spring statue, and it is most definitely not the one I photographed at Brodsworth. Further, the catalogue lists no other statues entitled 'Spring'.
So, is this Spring with a swallow on her shoulder?
Hard to say. But it does illustrate the dangers of jumping to conclusions.
11 August 2011
The Roman Bath Inn Museum, York
The area on the Nottinghamshire/Lincolnshire border where I've been staying on and off for a couple of years now is a bit light on Roman remains you can go and visit. Fortunately, neighbouring Yorkshire is a lot richer. Take for example this small museum I chanced upon while visiting York.
(My husband took this photograph for me on a later day as I completely forgot something so basic!)
The Roman Bath Inn hosts part of the surviving structure of the bath house included in the legionary fortress built by Legio IX Hispana (the Ninth Legion) between 71 and 74 CE. The bath house was discovered in 1930 during works to expand the inn's cellars. To reach the museum, you go down a lot of steps, which in itself is instructive as to how far below present ground level the Roman era can now be found.
Entrance to the museum costs £2.50. For that you get to borrow a laminated sheet with some basic information about how the remains were found and a little of York's Roman history, the opportunity to take all the photos you like, lots of information on labels around the museum, and the chance to try on reproduction armour then see yourself in a mirror. You also get a card entitling you to half-price entry to some of York's other small museums that is valid for a year. Good value for the price of a coffee.
Floor of the caldarium. This was the hot steam room. Heat was provided by a furnace at the far end of the bath complex, and it travelled around the baths through a hypocaust, ie an open area underneath the caldarium that allowed air to circulate. The caldarium floor was raised on stacks of tiles (known as pilae), seen in more detail here.
You can also see one of the flues that the heated air passed through.
Pride of place in the museum is given to these tiles that were recovered during the excavation of the bath house (rather than of the cellar the inn had hoped to build). On them you can see a legion stamp, rather like the arrow-shaped mark the British government used to put on everything it owned--or thought it did, plus some hobnail sandal-marks left by legionaries who carelessly walked over the tiles while they were drying.
Detail of legion stamp.
Detail of hobnails. Fantastic!
This is a composite of two pictures, as you can probably tell from the funny-shaped sign.
I had great fun trying on the armour--well, the helmets, anyway, as I had a feeling the body armour might not fit--and hefting the reproduction scutum. I tried holding that in two different ways. First, with my palm up and then with my palm down. The latter felt easier, so perhaps that's how Roman soldiers held their shields. Usually in pictures or statues their hands are hidden so you can't tell.
The museum also has a shrine to the household gods, a display of Roman foodstuffs, a model of the fifty-acre fortress of which this is only a part, and a small shop. As you enter you can see an overview of York's population through the ages, starting with the 5000-odd legionaries who founded the city. Well worth a visit.
(My husband took this photograph for me on a later day as I completely forgot something so basic!)
The Roman Bath Inn hosts part of the surviving structure of the bath house included in the legionary fortress built by Legio IX Hispana (the Ninth Legion) between 71 and 74 CE. The bath house was discovered in 1930 during works to expand the inn's cellars. To reach the museum, you go down a lot of steps, which in itself is instructive as to how far below present ground level the Roman era can now be found.
Entrance to the museum costs £2.50. For that you get to borrow a laminated sheet with some basic information about how the remains were found and a little of York's Roman history, the opportunity to take all the photos you like, lots of information on labels around the museum, and the chance to try on reproduction armour then see yourself in a mirror. You also get a card entitling you to half-price entry to some of York's other small museums that is valid for a year. Good value for the price of a coffee.
Floor of the caldarium. This was the hot steam room. Heat was provided by a furnace at the far end of the bath complex, and it travelled around the baths through a hypocaust, ie an open area underneath the caldarium that allowed air to circulate. The caldarium floor was raised on stacks of tiles (known as pilae), seen in more detail here.
You can also see one of the flues that the heated air passed through.
Pride of place in the museum is given to these tiles that were recovered during the excavation of the bath house (rather than of the cellar the inn had hoped to build). On them you can see a legion stamp, rather like the arrow-shaped mark the British government used to put on everything it owned--or thought it did, plus some hobnail sandal-marks left by legionaries who carelessly walked over the tiles while they were drying.
Detail of legion stamp.
Detail of hobnails. Fantastic!
This is a composite of two pictures, as you can probably tell from the funny-shaped sign.
I had great fun trying on the armour--well, the helmets, anyway, as I had a feeling the body armour might not fit--and hefting the reproduction scutum. I tried holding that in two different ways. First, with my palm up and then with my palm down. The latter felt easier, so perhaps that's how Roman soldiers held their shields. Usually in pictures or statues their hands are hidden so you can't tell.
The museum also has a shrine to the household gods, a display of Roman foodstuffs, a model of the fifty-acre fortress of which this is only a part, and a small shop. As you enter you can see an overview of York's population through the ages, starting with the 5000-odd legionaries who founded the city. Well worth a visit.
4 August 2011
The Eagle (not) of the Ninth (with SPOILERS)
I missed "The Eagle" when it was in cinemas, so had to wait patiently for the DVD release in order to watch this Film 4 co-production. The film is based on the 1954 novel by British author of children's historical fiction, Rosemary Sutcliff, "The Eagle of the Ninth".
Sutcliff's book has been a favourite of mine for many years. It's that kind of intense relationship with a book, a childhood favourite that has retained its appeal into adulthood, that makes any film of the book problematic. I definitely wanted to see "The Eagle", and have been hoping the book would be filmed for many years, but at the same time I was concerned what the filmmakers might *do* to 'my' book. The filmmakers themselves might well say that in such circumstances, they can't win. They're probably right.
Since watching the film, which I've now done twice, I've attempted to separate out my concerns about the film qua film, and the film as 'a film of the book'. Not, I regret, with much success. So I think it's important to put out there, as it were, the fact that I'm not even pretending to be objective in this situation. My favourite book, what have they done to you?
There are SPOILERS in this blogpost for both the film and book. You have been warned.
In writing the screenplay, Jeremy Brock (The Last King of Scotland; Mrs Brown) seems to have wanted to create an action film. I note that in imdb "The Eagle" is categorised as Adventure and Drama, which seems about right for the film I saw. And if the book doesn't have sufficient action, why, then let's interpolate some, even at the expense of the drama. The film is pacy, occasionally violent, and...well...it's not Sutcliff's book.
Of course, it couldn't be. If you try to translate a book wholesale to the silver screen, you get, well, you get...Harry Potter, where pace and drama are sacrificed to woeful authenticity. Enough said about that.
How, then, did I find the film defective as a film of the book? Well, for a start, it sets up an idiot plot. In Sutcliff's book, Marcus Flavius Aquila, a centurion in the Roman army who's been invalided out because of a war wound, and his former slave, Esca Mac Cunoval of the Brigantes, set out to pursue a rumour that the Eagle of the Ninth Legion, lost in the wild country beyond Hadrian's Wall, may be in the hands of a British tribe who might in the future use it as a potent weapon against Rome. The quest is personal to Marcus because his father was the Ninth's Primus Pilus, with personal responsibility for the Eagle. "Eagle lost, honour lost; honour lost, all lost". If Marcus can retrieve the Eagle, not only will he protect Rome from its potential as a weapon, he will keep faith with his father, and clear his name.
Because the country beyond Hadrian's Wall is hardly safe for Romans, Marcus travels in disguise, as a Greek eye-doctor, with Esca for his sword-bearer, a role the tribes will recognise. In the film, however, it appears that Marcus and his slave Esca, the morning after hearing the rumour that the Eagle is in tribal hands, leap onto their recognisably-Roman horses and rush off past Hadrian's Wall, to spend their time riding up to the local tribespeople and going, "Psst...seen a Roman legion?".
And I'm not exaggerating much.
In the book, Marcus has learnt something of the local language. In the film, he sits on his horse looking Roman while Esca does all the talking. The only reason this idiocy doesn't get them instantly killed is because Brock doesn't allow it to happen. Instead, he invests the film with 'action' and 'drama' by inventing a spurious sub-plot about 'rogue warriors'. Who they are and what their motivation might be is never explained; they exist solely to attack Marcus and Esca and so liven the film up a bit.
Okay, that's unfair. They also exist to help explore one of the themes that the film is putting forward, about sparing life. Marcus saves Esca's life when he's at the mercy of a gladiator in the arena, and, when the rogue warriors attack, Esca spares a life because he can't bring himself to kill a 'warrior' who is merely a youth, not much more than a child. Marcus kills him instead, although he is presented as having some difficulty with it. This theme surfaces later in the film, when Esca persuades Marcus to spare the life of a child who might betray them, only to watch the child being sacrificed by his tribe because he has betrayed them. Clearly the theme can't be meant to be 'don't bother sparing anyone's life', but quite what it is, I'm not sure. The film seems to thrash around a bit when it comes to themes.
The theme of Sutcliff's book, on the other hand, is clear. The book is about faithfulness, about keeping faith. Sutcliff explores her theme through the main plot, and through sub-plots, through character after character. I may not have realised this as a child, but it's obvious to me now. Pia Fidelis reads the gold bracelet Marcus is given by Rome in recognition of his service.
Back to the idiot plot. Marcus and Esca fall out with each other in the wild and scream some Latin insults. Although Esca was able to spot a few rogue warriors lurking around in a wood earlier in the film, he is now utterly unaware of the presence of what looks like a few hundred tribesmen on open ground. Convenient for the plot, that inattention, as of course the tribesmen, not being idiots, get a bit suspicious about this Roman chatter.
Here the film indulges in its most trite moment. Marcus, the slave-owner, becomes the slave, a reversal that you don't see coming only because you can't imagine anyone would do something so obvious, so out of keeping with the book, and so--well, wouldn't Marcus rather die than be a slave? I think he would. I think the Marcus and Esca of the book would have stood back-to-back and gone down fighting.
This Marcus however accepts his new role, and swears revenge on Esca, as he's apparently too dumb to realise it's a plan to keep him alive. Maybe his war wound was hurting so much it clouded his judgement.
More idiot plot follows when the two adventurers just seize the Eagle from the sacred place and dash off with no plan whatsoever for how they're going to evade their pursuers. Unsurprisingly, therefore, they don't. However, this does open the way for one of the few interpolations that I thought were an improvement on the book. When Marcus founders, Esca runs off and collects up deserters from the Ninth who have become tribesmen, and brings them together to defend their Eagle one last time. It's a truly moving moment in the film and one that evokes the theme and the spirit of Sutcliff's book. She might even have kicked herself for not having thought of it.
I'll draw a veil over the cinematic ending, and suggest that, if you're watching this film on DVD, you stop it at the funeral pyre scene and skip to the alternate ending. You'd thank me. Really.
As for the theme of the film...you decide. I can't make it out at all.
Sutcliff's book has been a favourite of mine for many years. It's that kind of intense relationship with a book, a childhood favourite that has retained its appeal into adulthood, that makes any film of the book problematic. I definitely wanted to see "The Eagle", and have been hoping the book would be filmed for many years, but at the same time I was concerned what the filmmakers might *do* to 'my' book. The filmmakers themselves might well say that in such circumstances, they can't win. They're probably right.
Since watching the film, which I've now done twice, I've attempted to separate out my concerns about the film qua film, and the film as 'a film of the book'. Not, I regret, with much success. So I think it's important to put out there, as it were, the fact that I'm not even pretending to be objective in this situation. My favourite book, what have they done to you?
There are SPOILERS in this blogpost for both the film and book. You have been warned.
In writing the screenplay, Jeremy Brock (The Last King of Scotland; Mrs Brown) seems to have wanted to create an action film. I note that in imdb "The Eagle" is categorised as Adventure and Drama, which seems about right for the film I saw. And if the book doesn't have sufficient action, why, then let's interpolate some, even at the expense of the drama. The film is pacy, occasionally violent, and...well...it's not Sutcliff's book.
Of course, it couldn't be. If you try to translate a book wholesale to the silver screen, you get, well, you get...Harry Potter, where pace and drama are sacrificed to woeful authenticity. Enough said about that.
How, then, did I find the film defective as a film of the book? Well, for a start, it sets up an idiot plot. In Sutcliff's book, Marcus Flavius Aquila, a centurion in the Roman army who's been invalided out because of a war wound, and his former slave, Esca Mac Cunoval of the Brigantes, set out to pursue a rumour that the Eagle of the Ninth Legion, lost in the wild country beyond Hadrian's Wall, may be in the hands of a British tribe who might in the future use it as a potent weapon against Rome. The quest is personal to Marcus because his father was the Ninth's Primus Pilus, with personal responsibility for the Eagle. "Eagle lost, honour lost; honour lost, all lost". If Marcus can retrieve the Eagle, not only will he protect Rome from its potential as a weapon, he will keep faith with his father, and clear his name.
Because the country beyond Hadrian's Wall is hardly safe for Romans, Marcus travels in disguise, as a Greek eye-doctor, with Esca for his sword-bearer, a role the tribes will recognise. In the film, however, it appears that Marcus and his slave Esca, the morning after hearing the rumour that the Eagle is in tribal hands, leap onto their recognisably-Roman horses and rush off past Hadrian's Wall, to spend their time riding up to the local tribespeople and going, "Psst...seen a Roman legion?".
And I'm not exaggerating much.
In the book, Marcus has learnt something of the local language. In the film, he sits on his horse looking Roman while Esca does all the talking. The only reason this idiocy doesn't get them instantly killed is because Brock doesn't allow it to happen. Instead, he invests the film with 'action' and 'drama' by inventing a spurious sub-plot about 'rogue warriors'. Who they are and what their motivation might be is never explained; they exist solely to attack Marcus and Esca and so liven the film up a bit.
Okay, that's unfair. They also exist to help explore one of the themes that the film is putting forward, about sparing life. Marcus saves Esca's life when he's at the mercy of a gladiator in the arena, and, when the rogue warriors attack, Esca spares a life because he can't bring himself to kill a 'warrior' who is merely a youth, not much more than a child. Marcus kills him instead, although he is presented as having some difficulty with it. This theme surfaces later in the film, when Esca persuades Marcus to spare the life of a child who might betray them, only to watch the child being sacrificed by his tribe because he has betrayed them. Clearly the theme can't be meant to be 'don't bother sparing anyone's life', but quite what it is, I'm not sure. The film seems to thrash around a bit when it comes to themes.
The theme of Sutcliff's book, on the other hand, is clear. The book is about faithfulness, about keeping faith. Sutcliff explores her theme through the main plot, and through sub-plots, through character after character. I may not have realised this as a child, but it's obvious to me now. Pia Fidelis reads the gold bracelet Marcus is given by Rome in recognition of his service.
Back to the idiot plot. Marcus and Esca fall out with each other in the wild and scream some Latin insults. Although Esca was able to spot a few rogue warriors lurking around in a wood earlier in the film, he is now utterly unaware of the presence of what looks like a few hundred tribesmen on open ground. Convenient for the plot, that inattention, as of course the tribesmen, not being idiots, get a bit suspicious about this Roman chatter.
Here the film indulges in its most trite moment. Marcus, the slave-owner, becomes the slave, a reversal that you don't see coming only because you can't imagine anyone would do something so obvious, so out of keeping with the book, and so--well, wouldn't Marcus rather die than be a slave? I think he would. I think the Marcus and Esca of the book would have stood back-to-back and gone down fighting.
This Marcus however accepts his new role, and swears revenge on Esca, as he's apparently too dumb to realise it's a plan to keep him alive. Maybe his war wound was hurting so much it clouded his judgement.
More idiot plot follows when the two adventurers just seize the Eagle from the sacred place and dash off with no plan whatsoever for how they're going to evade their pursuers. Unsurprisingly, therefore, they don't. However, this does open the way for one of the few interpolations that I thought were an improvement on the book. When Marcus founders, Esca runs off and collects up deserters from the Ninth who have become tribesmen, and brings them together to defend their Eagle one last time. It's a truly moving moment in the film and one that evokes the theme and the spirit of Sutcliff's book. She might even have kicked herself for not having thought of it.
I'll draw a veil over the cinematic ending, and suggest that, if you're watching this film on DVD, you stop it at the funeral pyre scene and skip to the alternate ending. You'd thank me. Really.
As for the theme of the film...you decide. I can't make it out at all.
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