Nearer, Sweet Odin, to Thee

In Director Richard Fleischer’s 1958 epic, “The Vikings,” we glimpse the first hints of dark genius that would later burst so spectacularly into bloom in his dementedly Orwellian “Dr. Doolittle,” in the claustrophobic cannibalism of his “Soylent Green,” and, perhaps most flagrantly, in his masterpiece of miscegenation, the gorgeous “Mandingo.” I don’t know if Mr. Fleischer descends from the illustrious yeast dynasty of the same name, but few directors indeed can bake such rich, cinematic Bundt cake from the fermenting pretzel dough of bathos, overwrought scripting and lunatic casting.

We might be forgiven for believing we already know Ernie Borgnine from his star turns in “McHale’s Navy,” and “McHale’s Navy, The Movie.” And at first glance, the subtle Mr. Borgnine does appear to be reprising his signature role as the garrulous, big-hearted skipper – ever up to cunning tomfoolery with his gang of light-fingered rascals and jibbering imbeciles. But here, the maestro slowly reveals his Viking chieftain Ragnar to be a more complex and vulnerable man than Lt. Commander McHale, one who stares long and hard into the barking charnel pit of the world – and then, grabbing our elbows, pulls us into his gleeful jig of anticipatory pleasure. Ragnar frees us from the bourgeois inanities of right and wrong, and forces us to sniff the fingers of our own deepest fears and compulsions, and ultimately surrender to our fierce inborn delight in violence, violation, vulgarity, venality and over-all human verminality.

Which, of course, is why we go to the Cineplex in the first place. (Indeed, the German film-maker Werner Herzog calls these "the five V's of video.")

Only a handful of actors can pull this off – Larry David comes to mind, Cheech & Chong at the height of their powers, three or four of the more overripe right-wingers in Congress – and we watch enraptured as Mr. Borgnine effortlessly dominates a movie packed like Raisinettes with supposedly bigger stars. When his Ragnar is forced by evil King Canomete* to jump into a pit of wild, starving curs – an act transformed into moral triumph by his joyous shout of “I'm comin' Odin!” – something magical and lighthearted disappears. To our confusion and dismay, the life of the party had to leave early to feed the pets, and we are left haunted by the ghostly pentimento of his vivid presence.

*Footnote: The pallid Canomete in “Vikings” brilliantly fulfills the small, but vital role that Captain Binghamton played with such nuance in “McHale’s Navy.”

The epic opens with a tour de force of sheer, visceral impact as the horde of Vikings sacks the royal castle of England – they're looting, killing, breaking the crockery for no reason, and leaving the toilet seat up. These are strong, young, virile, violent men in their prime - joyously squeezing life’s sweet, sticky juice from its protesting rind - yet an underlying melancholy runs through the scene like the plaintive moan of a bassoon. All too clearly, their bright, dark-ages morning of the bestial longship is already giving way to the party-pooping, plague years of medieval Christianity. Much like young Chris Walken in “Deer Hunter,” who just liked “to look at the trees,” (as one prescient viewer in my theatre shouted, “He’s toast!”), we know that these shaggy, frat-boy troglodytes too are destined for extinction. (Or worse, they'll grow as fussy and morose as Max von Sydow in "The Seventh Seal.")

But, meanwhile, back at the castle, an exuberant, leering, cow-horned Borgnine gleefully chases the hysterical, wimpled Queen around the dining-room table. Round and round they scramble, a playful game, until tumbling unseen to the flagstones, we hear only the urgent grunts and squeals of their needy love. From this happenchance coupling of two great bloodlines, Tony Curtis shall be born.

Events now begin to move swiftly. Ragnar and Queen separate – theirs was a doomed love: she’s an uptight, married, churchgoing shrew; he’s a pagan commitment-phobe with a happy jones for liquor, shiny metals and captured women. Her husband, the cuckold-King, is murdered by the usurper Canomete, the infant Tony put into an escape boat, the Queen expires of nervous vapors, Tony’s boat is captured on its way to Biarritz, and Mr. Curtis grows up a miserable slave to his father’s brutal Norsemen -- but with the royal cipher of England hanging unnoticed around his neck. His only clothing is a pair of extremely short, tight, hot pants, which subtly highlight his bulging, personal "attributes” -- engendering the nickname "Giblets" among his slavemasters -- while squeezing out a small, tender roll of bottom-meat behind. This rude pandering to certain market segments is totally irreconcilable with the harsh Norwegian winters.

The brilliant Kirk Douglas stars as cocky Einar, son of Ragnar, and evidently the only Viking who ever learned to shave (presumably to preserve our appreciation of Mr. Douglas’ distinctive chin-dimple). Your archetypical only child, Einar spends most of his time standing around in a wide-legged, hands-on-hips, look-at-me stance, often tossing his head back with forced, raucous laughter. More than anything, he reminded me of a Realtor friend who has watched “The Wild Bunch” a few too many times.

Kirk and Tony do not suspect their kinship as half-brothers, maybe because one is the chieftain’s heir and the other cleans latrines with an abalone shell, but under Fleischer’s subtle direction, they unconsciously treat each other like siblings. For example, Kirk has Tony staked out in the fjord for giant crabs to eat, and Tony launches his pet eagle at Kirk’s face to peck out and eat his left eye -- i.e., the same competitive tomfoolery any parent has seen a thousand times.

That’s the first five minutes of the movie! Historically speaking, my only quibble is that the actual Ragnar Lodbrok had two other sons, Healfdene and Hubba, who make no appearance whatsoever.

Let me admit straight out to being a huge Tony Curtis fan. The man’s a master chameleon, an unearthly changeling, the Fred Thompson of his time! That said, in this particular instance, I confess to finding Mr. Curtis a tad sullen. I mean, what happened to the breezy, insouciant Tony of "Those Daring Young Men in their Jaunty Jalopies"? Sure, OK, here he’s a brutalized, motherless slave, but he was a slave in “Spartacus” too, and never exhibited this sulky truculence. Even when propositioned by the dissolute bi-sexual, Crassus, with his lip-smacking delight in both “snails and oysters,”* or disemboweled like a squealing pig outside the gates of Rome, he was ever the sweet, blithe optimist, ready to whip out his lute and play a merry tune.

* Footnote: The snails and oyster scene is only found in the Director’s cut version of “Spartacus.” Personally, I don’t like to think of my penis as a snail (much less as giblets), but shall leave it to my feminist colleagues to address the complicated oyster issue.

Is it politically incorrect to ask, what exactly is the big rumpus about slavery, anyhoo? Was it really so awful? When one strips away the class polemics, aren’t we all slaves to one thing or another? And does it make a tangible difference whether that is to a fat redneck with a bullwhip, a fat Roman with a lead mine in Thrace, a Blackberry cellphone, or in my case, to a certain willfully wayward body part? In the face of Tony’s increasingly tiresome dyspepsia and disgruntlement, especially after his hand is whacked off by Canomete, I found myself muttering in exasperation, “Get over it, man! Stop with all the peevish mewling, and focus on being the best menial drudge possible!”

But if Tony was unrelentingly turgid, oh those Scandinavians knew how to celebrate life! Lots of wet, open-mouthed laughter; plenty of good-natured plundering and high-spirited butchery. Foamy mead dripped endlessly down their long, greasy beards and unskinned caribou ever turned and crackled on open spits – yet they exhibited an undeniable commitment to free-market capitalism, an almost sexual delight in heavy weaponry, and a deep simple piety too, touching in such apelike brutes. ("Loki is the co-pilot of my rapacious longboat.") As these proto-Republicans sprayed ale out their rancid blow-holes and dandled squealing, underage slave girls on their hairy knees, I couldn’t help thinking that we’ve lost something vital in these milque-toast times: a childlike joie de vivre, a fervent love of country right or wrong, and the unfettered heart and manly grit to sodomise smaller, weaker peoples -- repeatedly, with gusto, and generating ample rewards to the bottom line.

The special effects were a bit weak by today’s standards. After Tony’s hand is lopped off, his arm remains the same length, only the shirt cuff is extended another five inches. It waves around like an elephant trunk trying to catch a peanut, and that is a little distracting. I also noticed that Vikings drank out of reindeer horns, and wondered how one ever put them down without spilling – especially on a long ship. The bonus track on the DVD should have addressed this question.

Mr. Curtis ultimately guts Mr. Douglas in retaliation for the crab episode, or perhaps for what Kirk did to Giblets in “Spartacus” (see squealing pig reference above). Incomprehensibly, even this luxurious act of cathartic fratricide doesn’t lighten his petulance, even as he ends up with Janet Leigh, a kidnapped princess with the proudest bosom this side of Gina Lolobrigida in a tight sweater. Ay Chihuahua! A man could build an entire belief system on such a foundation! Frankly, with Ragnar out of the picture, Janet becomes our main focus of attention, and we find ourselves gulping our beverages like Bavarians whenever she makes an appearance.

Now, normally, I’d take Marilyn Monroe over Janet Leigh, but this time Ms. Leigh was unusually appealing -- she had a real Princess Di thing going: aristocratic, but vulnerable; and lovely, firm and fragrant as an honeydew melon in July. I still catch my breath remembering the scene in which Mr. Curtis ripped Ms. Leigh's evening gown right down to her tailbone. (She said it was too tight to help row the getaway canoe, uh huh.) Yikes! No bra straps! This provided a heaven sent opportunity for the princess to slip demurely into something more comfortable – say one of Tony’s spare t-shirts (I love that look, especially when she's coming out of the bedroom all sleepy and tousle-haired) – but here Fleischer uncharacteristically fumbles the ball. In any case, I am not going to compare Marilyn’s lush, rich, pillowy softness to Janet’s strong, bold, challenging posture in “Vikings.” Both clearly deserve the highest accolades our society can bestow.

I'm also crazy for saucy, small-breasted tarts, but, sadly, the epic was completely lacking in this regard.

Join me next week for the beloved 1983 shtetl classic “Yentl.” Just as in Fleicher's Norse epic, our next film features an astounding display of eccentric hair, hattery and haberdashery, but instead of Kirk Douglas and Vikings, we have Mandy Patinkin and Hasidim! And Ms. Streisand sings the greatest Talmud-and-Papa-loving songs of all time before climbing the roof to perform the classic “If I Were a Rich Man”...yiddy diddy diddy dee!

* Footnote: As far as I could tell amid the profuse facial chaparral, Mr. Curtis does not appear in “Yentl” - perhaps he couldn’t master the accent. Furthermore, I remain confused as to what exactly a "yentl" is -- but I'm thinking some kind of tasty blintz or cabbage-stuffed noodle.

Henry E. Panky