Sweet Love of Odin

~ Another movie review from memory ~

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 of all, in his masterpiece of miscegenation, “Mandingo.” I don’t know if Mr. Fleischer descends from the illustrious yeast dynasty of the same name, but few directors indeed bake such rich, cinematic Bundt cake from the spumous leaven of bold script and unpredictable casting.

We might be forgiven for believing we already know Ernest 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 simply reprising his signature role as the garrulous, big-hearted skipper – ever up to cunning tomfoolery with his gang of rascals and imbeciles. But here, the maestro slowly reveals his Viking chieftain Ragnar to be a more complex and vulnerable man than 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 or wrong, and forces us – unwillingly at first – to sniff the fingers of our own deepest fears and compulsions, yet without losing our fierce delight in violence and verminality.

Which, of course, is why we go to the Cineplex in the first place.

Only a handful of actors can pull this off – Mr. Heston comes to mind, Cheech & Chong at the height of their powers, six or seven of the Culkins – 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 “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 fading after-image 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 – one cannot help being reminded of “Saving Private Ryan,” except that unlike our skeptical emotional ambivalence to the GI’s floundering in the bloody surf (now, why exactly are they doing this?), we care too much about these shaggy, Viking, frat boys, joyously squeezing life’s sweet, sticky juice from its protesting rind. All too clearly, their bright morning of the rapacious longship and the innocent larking of the dark ages are already giving way to the party-pooping, plague years of pie-faced, 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 suspect that these Thor-worshipping dodos are likewise too good for this earth.

While they sack the castle – looting, butchering, breaking china – a hirsute and cow-horned Borgnine gleefully chases a shrieking and wimpled Queen of England around the dining room table. Round and round they scramble, until tumbling unseen to the flagstones, we hear only the urgent grunts and squeals of their needy love. From this joyous, 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 captured women. The cuckold English King is murdered by the usurper Canomete, the infant Tony put into an escape boat, the Queen dies, Tony’s boat is captured, 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 “basket,” while squeezing out a small, tender roll of bottom meat behind. This gratuitous pandering to certain market segments is totally irreconcilable with the fierce Norwegian winters.

The abundantly talented Kirk Douglas stars as cocky Einar, son of Ragnar, and apparently the only Viking who ever learned to shave (presumably to preserve our appreciation of Mr. Douglas’ 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 had 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 one 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. 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.

I’m going to admit straight out to being a huge Tony Curtis fan. The man’s a chameleon! He can play any role! That said, in this particular instance, I confess to finding Mr. Curtis a tad sullen. Sure, 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 degenerate 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 with lute and song.

* Footnote: Director’s cut version of “Spartacus.” Personally, I don’t like to think of my penis as a snail, but shall leave it to my feminist colleagues to address the oyster issue.

What exactly is the big deal about slavery anyway? 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 redneck with a bullwhip, a fat Roman with a lead mine, or in my case, to a certain wayward part of the body? In the face of Tony’s nonstop disgruntlement, especially after his hand is whacked off by Canomete, I found myself muttering in exasperation, “Get over it, man! Stop with the kvetching and focus on being the best slave possible!”

But if Tony was unrelentingly turgid, oh those Scandinavians knew how to live! Lots of wet, open-mouthed laughter, plenty of good-natured rape, plunder and hatchet murder. Foamy mead streamed endlessly down their long, greasy beards, Shetland ponies crackled and dripped on open spits – yet they exhibited a simple, touching piety too (“Odin!”), and an undeniable commitment to free market capitalism. 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 pallid, politically correct times: a childlike joie de vivre, a fervent love of country right or wrong, and the unfettered heart and grit to sodomise smaller, weaker peoples. One can only pray that the doughty spirit of the current administration is a harbinger of times to come.

The special effects are 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, 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 Tony in “Spartacus” (see squealing pig reference above). Incomprehensibly, even this luxurious act of cathartic fratricide doesn’t enliven his gloom, even though he ends up with Janet Leigh, a kidnapped princess with the most bodacious pair of wabangas you’ve ever seen. Ay Chihuahua! You could stack your entire Tom Clancy Op Center library on top of them! 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 here Ms. Leigh was unusually and provocatively appealing. The scene where Tony ripped her gown right down to her tailbone because she said it was too tight to row the getaway boat (guys, how many times have we heard that one?) certainly caught my attention. No bra straps! This provided a heaven sent opportunity for the princess to slip into something more comfortable – say Tony’s spare hot pants and button-less vest – but here Fleischer uncharacteristically fumbles the ball. In any case, I am not going to compare Marilyn’s rich, soft, pillowy look to Janet’s strong, bold, challenging chest in “Vikings.” Both clearly deserve the highest accolades our society can bestow.

I also love saucy, small-breasted tarts, but in perhaps the movie’s most egregious flaw, the epic was completely lacking in this regard.

Join me next week for another masterpiece of costumery and coiffeur: the beloved 1983 shtetl classic “Yentl.” When it comes to hair and hattery, the Norsemen had nothing on the Hasidim. And Mr. Patinkin gets wet and nude, as our favorite diva sings the greatest Talmud-and-Papa-loving songs of all time. You won’t want to miss it!*

* 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, but – whatever the reason – the master is sorely missed. I remain unsure as to what exactly a yentl is, but even with my thumb heavy on the fast forward button, I was unable to finish the film in one sitting. I definitely do want to see Ms. Streisand climb up on the roof with her fiddle to perform “If I Were a Rich Man,” one of my all time favorites.

By Henry E. Panky