Unlike in the days of yore, it’s rather uncommon to sit at a tavern and overhear the local take on Sir Gawain or debates over which Elaine, precisely, was involved with Sir Lancelot. Instead, we rely primarily on Hollywood’s interpretation of these myths, many of which shaped our concepts of what makes a King Arthur story a King Arthur story. But the fact we’re still making movies and shows, books and short stories, on the same topic, is rather astonishing.
Collectively, the Arthurian canon is referred to as the Matter of Britain in terms of its medieval literary cycle. This begins with the earliest mentions of Arthur as a warlord, and not a king, and ends with the full-fledged works encompassing all the characters we know and recognize now: Lancelot, Gawain, Guinevere, Morgan le Fay, and those hallmarks of the narrative including the Round Table, Excalibur, and the departure to Avalon. Most people might consider King Arthur as simply a vague medieval legend, but in truth, the inception of the Matter of Britain goes back to at least the 6th century, to Wales specifically. Emerging out of the oral tradition, by the 12th century, Arthuriana is well established. Though it is called the Matter of Britain, much of the works in the canon are broad, including locales across the British Isles and Continent.
While myriad theories or Arthur’s actual historical evidence exist within history, he and his knights, nonetheless, grow alongside the history of the countries that would eventually be known as Great Britain and France. With each age, and each new interpretation, elements become solidified in the greater story. To the surprise of many, and indeed the name of the course of study, we have the French—and Chrétien de Troyes—to thank for many of the most recognizable aspects of the legends today: from Lancelot du Lac to the Round Table, from Excalibur to the Holy Grail, this very “English” tale is, in fact, a cross-cultural collaboration. By the time Sir Thomas Malory shows up in the 15th century, he’s trying to collate centuries of French tales into one overarching story, taking the stories back to England once again. In every case, every retelling, we learn not just about how the myth is changing, but how the world itself is changing along with it.
This is by no means uncommon. In fact, the popularity of the Matter of Britain has waxed and waned since the Middle Ages. And cinema forever changed the modern perception of Arthur and his court in the 20th century.
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court released in 1949 and was based on Mark Twain’s book of the same name. What’s important to note is that Twain’s Yankee was not a straight-faced interpretation. It’s a satire. The book, which was published in 1889, came at a time when the Victorians were having their own Arthurian craze, in no small way inspired by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood and figures like Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Twain sought to mock the breathless romanticism of his time with the bare truths of the “Dark Ages”—heavy armor, dim and gullible people, terrible politics, and in need of an American industrialist to save them from themselves.
Twain’s story was never a favorite of mine mostly for its incessant punching down of the medieval period and embracing of “superior” American industrial ideals. Though it certainly has some credence in terms of time-travel stories, and as a real standout in its time—where most medieval retellings were, indeed, above and beyond in terms of vapid, unquestioning presentations of Camelot and chivalry—it is firmly rooted in its own era.
The 1949 film features Bing Crosby, of all people, and it is, of course, a musical. And it is a sweet, gauzy retelling that has almost none of the teeth in Twain’s original material.
By the time we enter the 1960s, the Matter of King Arthur explodes into the page, on Broadway, and then to the silver screen. First, we begin with, arguably, my favorite Arthurian novel, The Once and Future King by T.H. White, published in 1958. White still infused his book, a compilation of shorter novellas, with wonderful humor and intentional anachronism. Though there are buffoonish characters, and plenty of ridiculous moments, White still treats the characters of his tale with respect. They are complex, unique takes on the standard fare Arthurian cast, including a very ugly Lancelot.
Of course, much of that is lost in translation in the 1967 film musical adaptation, Camelot. Listen, I am not against musicals in any way, having grown up in the throes of musical theater in my teens. And, at the time, Lerner and Loewe—the librettist and composer—were among the best in the business. Yet aside from Richard Harris’s nuanced, sad-eyed Arthur, the film by and large undoes much of what the book set out to do. It becomes almost entirely about the Lancelot/Guinevere story, and we lose the charm and complexity of the book.
Of course, also based on White’s book, is Disney’s The Sword in the Stone. Admittedly, it was my first exposure to King Arthur outside of books and was formative. But, in comparison with the gut-wrenching first act of The Once and Future King, Disney’s romp is much more light-hearted and whimsical. Which makes total sense, given it was for kids. As a result, most of us will never look at squirrels the same way again.
Which takes us, thankfully, to 1975’s Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It is, I often argue, one of the best interpretations of the material ever. The filmmakers, led by the guidance of Terry Jones who was, himself, a medievalist, hardly must stray from the medieval world at all to play into the zany, imaginative, and surprisingly modern concepts and humor of the period.
Though so much of the story is 100% Python, everything from the murder rabbits to the butt trumpets are taken directly from the medieval mind. Terry Gilliam’s illustrations are, in some cases, directly taken from extant illuminated manuscripts.
From a plot perspective, the fact that so many of the adventures seem to go nowhere, stop in the middle, or seem contradictory, reflects the amoeba of Arthurian literature. As the Matter of Britain developed over the centuries, there was no way to rein in new interpretations. So, characters, like Gawain, begin as Arthur’s most beloved and they end up in later stories as absolute villains. The Python crew leans hard toward the ridiculous nature of the narratives, playing around in a world that is unpredictable, hilarious, and often thought-provoking.
Then we come the 1980s to Boorman’s Excalibur. Look, I’ll just say it. Excalibur is just a very horny movie. Much like the book covers of the era, the general advertising for the film focused on Helen Mirren’s barely there wardrobe. And the whole film is indeed, pretty. But I will never understand the breathless near worshipful way some folks talk about it. Maybe I saw it too late. Maybe I’m just not a dude. I suspect it simply hasn’t aged as well as many other fantasies of the era like Willow and Labyrinth because it took itself a little too seriously.
Despite the legendary cast—including Patrick Stewart, Helen Mirren, Liam Neeson, Gabriel Byrne, and more—Excalibur is a 1980s fever dream of male power fantasies and a ton of shiny, aluminum armor. Even at the dinner table. Which, certainly, given that its primary source is Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, I’ll allow it. Sure, it looks cool. But ultimately, it’s a lot of dazzle but not a lot of substance. To say nothing of the dialogue overdubbing. Roger Ebert’s reaction encapsulates my thoughts as well: “a record of the comings and goings of arbitrary, inconsistent, shadowy, figures who are not heroes but simply giants run amok” but ultimately rather lovely to look at.
Next, we enter the age of folks attempting to adapt a “true” retelling of Arthur. Many have tried and, for some reason, insisted on anchoring Arthur in actual history. This typically means, a la King Arthur (2004), that although they claim to be historical, they are anything but, simply grasping to lesser-known theories and trying to shoehorn a concept into a story. I remember watching King Arthur when it came out, very excited to see how they were going to handle the tale in an historical light. Then being absolutely baffled as to their choices. (If we’re Romano-British, then why the heck are we absolutely stepped in 13th century French influences?)
Like Excalibur, a glance at the cast (Mads Mikkelsen! Hugh Dancy! Clive Owen!) would draw you in. Except the center doesn’t hold. I couldn’t get past calling the Picts “Woads” let alone everything else.
The concept of a “true” retelling still plagues us today. Zack Snyder, who has said before that Excalibur is his favorite movie of all time (a fact that makes a great deal of sense), has expressed interest in making a “faithful” Arthurian film. That has since changed, and he’s apparently doing an Arthurian retelling, but set during the American Gold Rush. Well, so much for that approach.
Then we come to Guy Ritchie’s King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. Even drunk on a plane I couldn’t make sense of it. Granted, if you’d called it anything else, I’d have been on board. It would have been a fine fantasy adventure without trying to tie it down to an Arthurian framework. Give me megafauna and swords any day. But don’t, please, call a knight of Arthur “Goosefat Bill” when we have so many other knights to choose from. To say nothing of the self-titled “Mage” woman who has no other name when there are literally dozens of named women in even the earliest literature.
At this point, you might be wondering if anything, ever, meets my requirements. Yes, there have been countless other retellings, both comedic and dramatic, and quite a few series on television. And there is hope.
The most successful, in terms of capturing the narrative (to me) and creating something new (which is sort of the whole point of retellings) is 2021’s The Green Knight. It’s polarizing, to say the least, on a few levels, not the least of which is the fact the film is very weird. But as we’ve already established, medieval literature—and Arthurian literature—is inherently weird. That’s why Monty Python and the Holy Grail is both hilarious and strangely accurate. It’s a bit of an acid trip, and not in the bad way of Excalibur. Director David Lowery didn’t just immerse himself in the poem—one that has even captured the hearts of scholars like J.R.R. Tolkien—he reforged it.
And more crucially, Lowery didn’t get burdened down with accuracy or “faithful” storylines. Gawain is one of the only named characters in the script, but he is, in the great medieval tradition, also an Everyman. His journey is strange, the likelihood of his success low, and it’s the world around him that draws us in—not an incessant preening or reliance on fantasy tropes. As with the best Arthuriana out there, it’s not about Arthur himself, but about the world he has wrought. In this case, an eerie, mystical, on the-edges-of-reality world that feels far more fantasy than historical. It’s also about Camelot in decline. No matter how cool the story is, the sad fact of Arthurian literature is that it all ends. And, generally, ends badly.
Even for its ethereal quality, the film is also about a very grounded central theme in the Matter of Britain often glossed over in favor of chivalry: family. Gawain is Arthur’s favored nephew; his mother is a powerful witch (though not credited, Lowery confirmed she is Morgan le Fay). He seems to be one of the only men his age while the previous generation ages around him. Gawain is at a hinge point in the world’s narrative itself.
And ultimately, Gawain’s story—as many versions of his tale demonstrate—is about consequences and choices. There is substance, even amidst the cinematic eye candy. Whereas Excalibur was all vibes and no substance, with The Green Knight, you get both.
What next? I think it’s high time that Arthur gets the full epic fantasy treatment. That means digging into a series with high production value and strong source material.
When I heard that they’re adapting Bernard Cornwell’s Winter King into just that, I just about did a merry jig. If Cornwell’s name sounds familiar to you, that’s because he’s also the mastermind behind The Last Kingdom and the Sharpe series. Of all the many Arthurian book series I’ve read, Cornwell’s is up in the top two (T.H. White is still #1).
Like what was attempted in the 2004 King Arthur, Cornwell does root his world in the Post-Roman Britain. And yes, he has a Lancelot. And a Galahad. But he shapes the world, and its characters, in a way that feels comfortable and lived in. Derfel, the hero, is both based on a real-life 6th-century saint, but he also is very much influenced by the character of Sir Bedivere. Still, Cornwell never posited that the books were “true” or “accurate.” However, when pressed, he has said they’re his favorite among his own publications. And given his backlist, that’s quite high praise. With no exact release date in the works, however, we shall have to wait.
I think it’s time for us to stop thinking that the Matter of Britain must be one thing. It never has been, and trying to chase that Questing Beast ends up in far less than ideal interpretations. There is no single source material. What remains magical, to me, is that both the hits and misses—across all mediums—remain in conversation with the whole. Just as The Wife of Bath’s Tale and The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle are close retellings, and Excalibur reflects Malory—in the same way that both Python and Yankee can be funny and/or critical in different ways—the best Arthurian tales are those which adapt and change and bring something new.
In truth, I welcome every adaptation. For how we cast Arthur, and how we discuss the Matter of Britain, has as much to do with the world we live in now as the legends they came from.
© 2023 Natania Barron
