One wild ride: Mad Max is postapocalypic fun, with a message

Part 7 of a 10-part series in which I examine my favorite films, and the reasons why I love them so.

I am the Night Rider--I'm a fuel-injected suicide machine. I am a rocker, I am a roller, I am an out-of-controller.

The raving, lunatic speech of the Night Rider which punctuates Mad Max's manic introductory car chase gives us only a glimpse of the savage violence and carnage to come in this underrated action classic.

Despite its cult status, Mad Max is a film that seems to garner little attention these days, even among sci-fi/action aficionados. Maybe it's its age (1979) or its low-tech effects, or it could simply be that it's been overshadowed by its sequel, the brilliant The Road Warrior, which most consider a superior film.

While that may be true, Mad Max has always had a soft spot in my heart for a number of reasons. These include:

The unexplained wasteland. We're left to our own devices to figure out what has brought about the collapse of society in Mad Max (although this is revealed in a later film). As I've said in other movie reviews, I'm fond of fims that don't spoon-feed every detail. The human mind has a wonderful ability to speculate and fill in the gaps, and by not explaining the wasteland or the rise of the savage, roving gangs which threaten to overwhelm the last vestiges of society, director George Miller forces us to think of why--and how--it all occurred.

The decay of order. Miller placed several smart, deliberate shots in Mad Max and its sequels, which convey not only atmosphere but meaning. The rusting, weed-grown Hall of Justice is one example, as it presents an overt symbol of the decay of law and order in this apocalyptic land. A stop sign conspicuously placed in the center of the shot could mean that justice stops here at its gate.

The sergeant, a giant, bald, moustached man curiously named Fifi, is one of the few bastions of order and the rule of law, but it's obvious he's fighting a losing battle, and his rallying cry ("We're going to give them back their heroes!") rings hollow.

The morality of the road, and the allure of violence. Even before the murder of his wife and child and the vigilantism it inspires, Max (played by Mel Gibson) is already feeling uneasy. Why? It's not police work or the pursuit of justice that motivates Max, it's the allure of the road, the high-speed chases, and the everyday dance with death: "It's that rat circus out there, I'm beginning to enjoy it. Any longer out on that road and I'm one of them, a terminal crazy," Max says to Fifi. "Only I've got a bronze badge to say I'm one of the good guys."

By the end of the film the facade of law and order is completely stripped away. It's noteworthy that, while pursuing Johnny the Boy in his last act of vigilantism in the film, Max passes right by a sign declaring "Stop--Prohibited Area." This act symbolizes his final casting off of civilized behavior and a passage into barbarity.

Car porn. While I don't know a damned thing about how cars operate, even I get excited by the talk of "the last of the V-8s," nitrous, and screaming, supercharged engines with blowers.

Jim Goose. I don't know whether actor Steve Bisley ever did anything before or after Mad Max, but I thought his portrayal of the cocksure and stylish but dedicated officer Jim Goose was perfect.

Bubba Zanetti. Another memorable bit role from Mad Max, Zanetti almost defies description with his need to perform every act with an exaggerated sense of style, all the way down to his intense, measured speech. Memorable Zanetti line: When a kid asks him what happened to the car that he and his gang members demolished, he answers cryptically, "Perhaps it was a result of anxiety." I'm not sure what this means exactly, but it's pretty cool.

Electrifying car chases and crashes. Miller's car pursuits and crashes are filmed with a high style that captures the speed of the cars and motorcycles and the violence of their collisions. The head-on collison between the Toecutter and a semi is a thing of beauty. And watch closely for the names of the roads on the white sign at the beginning of the film ("Anarchy" and "Bedlam"), which capture the spirit of what goes on in the two-lane highways of Mad Max. These effects of course all done without CGI, and despite the advances in effects-driven technology I still prefer low-tech effects. Done right, as is the case in Mad Max and The Road Warrior, they are more believable than CGI.

Cool imagery. Although Mad Max was filmed on a very low budget ($300,000 in Australian currency, according to Wikipedia), it's helped considerably by the sparse Australian landscape in which it was shot. Combined with Miller's use of the driver's eye and the wheels's eye view of the roads, Mad Max is a memorable visual experience.

Characterization/humanization of the evil biker gang: While it would be easy to cast the biker gang as a group of mindless thugs, Miller offers in their portrayal a few glimpses of lost humanity (twisted though it may be). For example, Nightrider's line after he loses a game of high-speed "chicken" with Max: "There will be nothing left--it's all gone"--could simply mean the loss of his nerve. But it carries deeper undertones, as if he were weeping for the collapse of society and the loss of civilization.

Likewise, the Toecutter, the cycle gang's murdering leader, displays a surprising depth of emotion when he demands to be left alone to mourn with the Nightrider's coffin. And his insistence on indoctrinating the maddening and pretentious Johnny the Boy into the ways of the gang displays at some level his need for organization and family, institutions which are hopelessly fractured and in danger of total collapse in the dystopic future of Mad Max.

Holding out hope for The Hobbit

Fantasy fans have much to be thankful for these days, especially films-wise. Currently we have on the big screen adaptions of the classic poem Beowulf, part 1 of Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy (The Golden Compass), and in May 2008 we'll be treated to a second installment in the "Chronicles of Narnia series," Prince Caspian. Hollywood has finally figured out that fantasy sells and that there's a wealth of rich novels and classic stories in this oft-overlooked genre worthy of adaptation.

But while thinking about the breadth of fantasy choices currently available to theater-goers the other day, I realized I remained largely indifferent to the current crop of fantasy flicks, and without exactly knowing why. But then the reason struck me--the one fantasy novel I truly want to see made into a film remains an unfulfilled hope, and a distant one at that. Unscripted and non-green lighted, even if production began tomorrow its release would likely be 3-4 years away--a very long wait even in a best-case scenario.

That novel, of course, is J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit.

Given the tremendous critical and commerical success of the Peter Jackson-directed The Lord of the Rings, I expected to see Jackson and New Line Cinema ink a deal to start filming its prequel, The Hobbit, no later than 2004, when The Lord of the Rings' four-year run was finally coming to a close. But problems arose that put The Hobbit on ice.

The biggest of these was a very public blowup between Jackson and New Line, the studio which financed and produced the trilogy. Jackson sued New Line over some money he felt he was due from the studio, which reportedly refused to turn over its financial reports in a prompt manner, leading to a fine. Studio execs in turn labelled Jackson as greedy.

Could New Line go ahead and sign up someone besides Jackson to direct The Hobbit? Of course they could, and in fact, for a while they apparently were looking, even offering the job to Sam Raimi of Spiderman fame. But let's be honest--with a director other than Jackson at the helm, we'd very likely see a decline in quality from the very high standards established by The Lord of the Rings films. While not perfect, Jackson's version of Tolkien's timeless tale delivered a far greater film experience than I ever dared hope, due in very large part (I believe) to Jackson's passion, vision, and style.

To put it another way--we know what we've got in Jackson, and it's very, very good. Could another director pull off a comparable or even better job with The Hobbit as Jackson did with The Lord of The Rings? Perhaps--but given the height the bar has been set, the likelihood is slim, and the odds are that such a film would be worse. That's a risk I wouldn't want to see taken with such a valuable and beloved commodity.

There's reportedly been other problems with the adaption itself. While on the surface Tolkien's sprawling three-volume The Lord of the Rings trilogy seems far more daunting to bring to the screen than the straightforward, 300-page tale of The Hobbit, a closer examination reveals that the inverse may actually be true. The biggest obstacle to adapting The Hobbit is that its action mainly concerns the journeys of a hobbit (obviously) and a troupe of 12 dwarves. Whereas The Lord of the Rings has strong human or semi-human male and female leads, played by recognizable (and attractive) actors like Viggo Mortenson, Liv Tyler, Miranda Otto, and Orlando Bloom, the same can't be said for The Hobbit.

While that fact doesn't concern me at all, I can certainly empathize with studio executives sweating out the risk of pouring 150+ million dollars into a film whose success depends upon our belief in and attachment to a cast consisting mainly of stocky little men and little to no star power. Big names do put butts in seats. I don't anticipate that fact hurting The Hobbit, a beloved best-seller, but the fact remains that it is a less traditional tale The Lord of the Rings, and far less human-centric.

Those problems aside, I still hold out hope that one day The Hobbit will be brought to the screen. We do have the animated version by Rankin-Bass (which I like, admittedly, despite some obvious glaring problems), but that's a far cry from the live-action, big-budget production that I--and millions of other fans--would like to see.

How awesome is the potential of this film? Just thinking of the Battle of the Five Armies on film is enough to give me goosebumps. Thorin falling to the bodyguard of Bolg, only to have his body plucked from battle by Beorn in bear-shape--how awe-inspiring would that be? I want to see The Lonely Mountain, and hope that it's the same grey, sharp, mist-shrouded peak that I've seen in my mind's eye countless times while reading The Hobbit. I want to see Smaug on film, a "real" dragon depicted with the best effects CGI can muster. I want to see Mirkwood forest, and the spiders, and the wood elves. I want to hear riddles in the dark.

But most of all, I want to return to the Hobbiton lovingly crafted by Jackson in his films. I want to hear and see the dwarves drinking ale and singing of gold and the King Under the Mountain at night in the firelight of Bilbo's hobbit-hole at Bag-End.

Until then, I'll still be taking my daughter to see Prince Caspian, but with a bit of a hollow, uncompleted feeling.

Ender's Game: A review

Although I'm not a big science fiction fan, I've heard some good things over the years about Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game, and recently I found the audio version on the shelf of my local public library. Today I finished listening to it on my commute home from work and was not disappointed (sidebar: Audio books rule. Turn off your radio). Published in 1985 in novel form, it won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, the two highest prizes awarded in the field of science fiction.


I don't read books for the "surprise" factor, which is probably why I have no interest in mysteries. But even so, it's always nice when an author can spring something on you from left field that you never expected. Suffice to say that Card in Ender's Game scored a looping left hand that made it past my guard and into my face. I won't spoil the surprise, but it comes near the end of the book and for me, at least, it was a doozy.

Ender's Game tells the story of Ender Wiggin, a six-year-old who is drafted into military service to help save the world from "the buggers," an aggressive insect-humanoid race from deep space. Humans have twice beaten back the buggers in massive interplanetary wars, the last a hundred years before Ender's time, but a massive third invasion is feared, and the perfect military mind is needed to beat the buggers once and for all. Time is running out.

Enter Ender. While all the children selected for battle school are the best of the best, Ender shows the most promise of all. Accordingly, he receives intense scrutiny and constant, behind-the-scenes survelliance by military commanders desperate to find mankind's savior. Ender is pushed constantly to excel, and has to not only learn tactics, science, mathematics, and military strategy at an accelerated pace, but also is asked to assume command of older, often hostile boys. The training is ultra-intense and nearly breaks him, but against the odds--and despite the fact "the game" is rigged against him by the adults--he succeeds, and surpasses all expectations.

Card's novel explores mankind's predilection for violence, which he portrays as a dark seed within us all that must be controlled. He's simultaneously critical of the brutal methods and conformity inherent in military training, while acknowledging the great heights to which it can elevate its soldiers and commanders.

Card also explores the themes of lost innocence and the morality (if there can ever be such a thing) of fighting a "just" war. From Ender's Game:

The power to cause pain is the only power that matters, the power to kill and destroy, because if you can't kill then you are always subject to those who can, and nothing or no one will ever save you.

It's a frightening view of life, and I'm still never sure whether Card truly believes it himself. Ender is a fundamentally good person, but when push comes to shove he must strike hard and kill his opponent, and he never fails to do so.

Ender's Game isn't without some flaws (in my opinion, at least), and on my five-star rating scale I'd give it a solid four. In a few places it stretched my imagination too far. The worst offender was the extreme level of maturity and intelligence demonstrated not only by Ender, but his brother and sister and the other students in the battle school. Card made a point of stating that battle school students are the best of the best, but when a six-year-old can perform complex mathematics and demonstrate perfect tactics in high-stress simulated battles, all while isolated from friendship and essentially ripped from the arms of his family, it strains credibility.

Likewise, when Ender's siblings, 15-year-old Peter and 12-year-old Valentine, use "the nets" (aka. the internet) to launch sucessful careers as political commentators and influential newspaper columnists, I found it a bit hard to swallow. Although the book takes place in 2135, these are just humans, after all, and children at that.

Card also lets Ender off the hook at times. Although he never fails to provoke our sympathy, Ender is at times so manipulated by the military intelligentsia that his actions cannot be judged as moral or immoral--they're simply not his fault, and it's an easy out. Even the villains--the military minds behind the battle school--can't be blamed, as their actions are influenced by the omnipresent, existential, life-or-death war with the buggers.

Nevertheless, Ender's Game was a thoroughly enjoyable, thought-provoking read and I highly recommend it.

Unforgiven: A cold-blooded killer of a movie

Part 6 of a 10-part series in which I examine my favorite films, and the reasons why I love them so.

If you take a look at my top 10 list of favorite movies, you'll notice that my taste very rarely coincides with the Academy awards voters or the critics at the American Film Institute (AFI). To put it bluntly, you won't see Conan the Barbarian or Excalibur cracking many reviewers' top 10 lists.

Unforgiven is an exception to that rule.The western to end all westerns, director and starring man Clint Eastwood in 1992 delivered what I consider to be the finest film ever made in this particular genre. It won Best Picture and Best Director honors that year, among other awards, and at last check it sits at no. 68 at the AFI's best "100 Years...100 Movies" list.

I can't say I've seen every western, or even the majority, but I have watched a lot of good ones--The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly (along with just about every other Eastwood western), The Searchers, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Magnificent Seven, and others I've forgotten--and for my money Unforgiven is the best.

Unlike Europe, America is too young a country to have knights on horseback as its heroes, but in the westerns Americans had their own paragons of virtue, men like John Wayne or Shane. Prior to Unforgiven, these westerns were one of the last refuges of the myth of the white-hatted hero, where virtuous sheriffs battled black-hatted cow thieves or masked train-robbers. Morality is simple in these films--there are lawmen and bandits, and you know who to root for and who would win in the end.

While some cracks in this facade first appeared in the spaghetti westerns of the late 1960s and 70s (with their shades of grey characters and bloody gun battles), Unforgiven shattered the myth of the knight-as-cowboy completely and forevermore.

Eastwood portrays William Munny, an aging gunfighter who is living a sad, squalid life as a pig farmer trying to raise two young children. He's recently buried his wife and is living out his days trying to get by as best as he can. When some drunken powpokes rough up some whores and cut up one of the unfortunate woman's faces, and the other prostitutes put a modest bounty on the cowpokes' heads, Munny decides to take up his guns once more.

Watching Eastwood try to regain his old form with a gun or to ride a horse is borderline comical. But when it comes time to pull the trigger, we realize that it's not his skill with a gun that makes Munny a different breed--it's his cold-blooded approach to killing. Although he admits to being drunk on whiskey much of the time during his days as a killer, Munny holds no illusions about death. He is the meanest, most dangerous man walking because he is able to look death coldly in the face, recognizing it for what it is:

It's a hell of a thing, killin' a man. You take away all he's got, and all he's ever gonna have.

Just like Eastwood is no hero, neither are the men evil whom he and his companions seek to kill. Their leader, Little Bill Daggett (played by Gene Hackman in a remarkable role) isn't very likeable but is three-dimensional, a man who's trying his best to build a house in which he can retire. Another of the cowpokes asks for forgiveness and offers to give up his best horses to the women. Despite their deeds, it's hard to feel hate for these men. But Munny pulls the trigger with no remorse.

"Guess he had it coming, huh?" asks one of Munny's companions, a braggart who nicknames himself The Scofield Kid, but later drops his act and vows to leave gunfighting forever when he finds that killing isn't what the legends make it up to be. "We all have it coming, kid," Munny replies.

My favorite parts of this movie are watching the dark legend of Munny's past unfold itself from Eastwood's craggy, weathered features. Men and women, young and old, stand in awe of his legend. In disbelief they spill it out, using names and places that mean nothing to us, the viewer, but speak of murderous deeds:

My guess is you're call yourself Mr. William Munny...the same one who shot Charlie Pepper up in Lake County. You're the one who killed William Harvey and robbed that train up in Missouri.

He said how you was really William Munny out of Missouri ...and Little Bill said, 'the same William Munny that dynamited the rock island in Pacific in '69, killing women and children and all?' And Ned said you done a lot worse than that. He said that you were more cold-blooded than William Bonny, and how if he hurt Ned again that you was coming to kill him, like you killed a U.S. Marshall in '70.

One of my favorite scenes in all of cinema occurs at the end when Munny, vengeful and looking like the grim reaper himself, rides into town on a pale horse and enters Greeley's saloon to avenge his slain friend Ned (Morgan Freeman):

Who's the fellow owns this shithole? You, fat man. Speak up.

You'd be William Munny out of Missouri. Killer of women and children.

That's right. I've killed women and children. I've killed just about everything that walks or crawled at one time or another. And I'm here to kill you, Little Bill, for what you did to Ned.

What comes next is killing. It's not prosaic, no guns are shot from hands, there's no accompanying glory and spectacle. It's bloody revenge, the real myth of the cowboy laid plain and bare.

Gates of Fire: What 300 should have been

Do you want to know why ancient Sparta had the most feared warriors of their (and possibly any) era? Look no further than Steven Pressfield's Gates of Fire. It’s the semi-historic account of the battle of Thermopylae, where 300 Spartans and their allies sacrificed their lives in a narrow defile ("The Hot Gates") between the cliffs and sea to stall the 2-million man army of Persia. All were wiped out, but not before slaughtering thousands of Persians, holding the pass for three days, and inspiring the rest of Greece through their example to unite and defeat the invaders.

Far more than just the tale of a single battle, Gates of Fire examines the mindset of this society of proud warriors. It demonstrates their brutal methods of training and how they governed themselves, in the process painting a vivid picture of day-to-day life in bronze-age Greece.

Soldiers' fear in battle is greatly underrated by the mass of writers and historians, and plays a significant part in the outcome of a battle. Most battles are not won by wiping out the other side or inflicting huge numbers of casualities, but rather by breaking the other side's morale and causing rout or retreat. Historian John Keegan explains this oft-overlooked truth in his wonderful examination of combat, The Face of Battle.

Pressfield in Gates of Fire offers a very convincing explanation of how the Spartans managed to control their fear in battle. The Spartans were raised from birth with a rigorous--borderline torturous--training regimen, that honed not only their combat skills to a fine edge, but also allowed men to accomplish great acts of sacrifice and valor.

Pressfield also creates a cast of memorable characters. These include:

• Xeones, the narrator, a non-Spartan who starts his life as a slave but gradually becomes a respected squire, fighting alongside the Spartans and acquitting himself with great glory in the heart of battle;
  
• Dienekes, the platoon leader, a scarred veteran and natural leader, a salt-of-the earth soldier yet also wise and fearless;


• Alexandros, a young Spartan who loves not battle but the strains of music, a singer and poet who fights not for glory but out of duty and pride;


• Leonidas, the Spartans' king, 60 years old but still a fearless figher, a man who sleeps beneath the stars and enters combat in the front lines, scorning any advantage of his station; and


• Polynikes, a physical specimen and greatest of Sparta's warriors, haughty and merciless, demanding to the point of sadism, who undergoes a transformation and eventually embraces the humanity and valor of Alexandros and Xeones with tears in his eyes.

Pressfield writes so well, at times you feel like you’re in the shield wall, amid the hot, straining press of men ready to clash with spear and sword, tooth and nail, against the enemy. The ending is quite poignant, as Pressfield leaves the reader with a simple, utilitarian (i.e., Spartan) line carved on a plain monument that marks the battlefield at Thermopylae:

Tell the Spartans, stranger passing by,

that here obedient to their laws we lie

Gates of Fire was what I hoped to see adapted to the silver screen instead of Frank Miller's 300. It tells a much better story than Miller's graphic novel, and also paints a much more realistic picture of what the events of the battle must have been like. I wish 300 had cut out a lot of the extraneous nonsense that in some places reduced it to the level of silliness (War rhinos? An ogre? Please).

And yes, I've heard all the justification for 300's over-the-top elements ("it was told from the perspective of an old soldier who embellished the tale, yada-yada"), but it still didn't make it any less ridiculous in my eyes. The story of Thermopylae should not need any fantastic elements to make it more "exciting" or to put butts in movie seats. Its bare facts: 300 men who knowingly commit themselves to death in defense of their country--are more than enough.

In which I argue the reasons why Conan the Barbarian crushes other films, drives them before it

Part 5 of a 10-part series in which I examine my favorite films, and the reasons why I love them so.

Director John Milius' Conan the Barbarian is a significant departure from the character created by author Robert E. Howard. Its events bear little to no resemblance to any of Howard's stories, and in fact, other than borrowing some of Howard's names, places, and gods, it may as well be an entity unto itself. I note this because I know that many in Howard fandom despise the film for these reasons, and for spreading the myth that the lumbering, fallible Conan of the film is one and the same with Howard's creation.

Nevertheless, Conan the Barbarian resides firmly in my top 10 list of all-time favorite films. While the fantasy film genre is pretty weak overall (witness turkeys like The Beastmaster, visually appealing but empty films like Legend, the recent King Arthur, Troy, etc.), Conan the Barbarian rises to the top of this heap, just below The Lord of the Rings, because of its well-crafted visuals, its attention to detail, its nice casting choices and amazing score, and most of all for its single-minded adherence to the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. This latter element in particular makes for a a rich viewing experience and makes Conan the Barbarian worth returning to again and again.

The following is a list of what I just plain like about this film:

The score. There's not much more I can add to the praise that's been heaped on Conan the Barbarian's exceptional soundtrack, except that I'll take it one step further and say that composer Basil Poledouris put together the best score for any film, ever. Lest you disagree, I present The Anvil of Crom: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CkhdOQyIPo8.

Arnold Schwarzenegger. I know he gets criticism from a lot of corners for his sparse, halting lines, occasional foolish, un-Conan-like behavior, and (at times) awkwardness swinging a blade, but has anyone ever looked or sounded more the part? Schwarzenegger's thick Austrian accent, smoldering eyes, and massive physique make him look every inch the barbarian, and while he's not the most gifted actor he exudes an undeniable charisma.

A giant f-ing snake. Directors, if you're reading this: You can make your film better by a degree of five simply by adding a giant, man-eating snake.

The opening sequence. Darkness. Fire. A forge. Glowing embers. Molten metal. A bearded viking of a blacksmith pounding on an anvil with a big hammer. A glowing sword plunged into a snowbank. Classic.

Max Von Sydow. This legendary German actor has only a bit part as King Osric, but he plays it with conviction, and seated on a throne and clad in fur utters one of film's most memorable lines: "There comes a time, thief, when the jewels cease to sparkle, the gold loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison, and all that is left is a father's love for his child."

Sven-Ole Thorsen. What's not to like about a jacked 6-5 bodybuilder who plays a warrior named Thorgrim, and wields a massive war hammer capable of knocking over stone columns?

This exchange: (General): "Conan, what is best in life?" (Conan): "To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of the women." Words to live by.

The riddle of steel. I've watched this film a dozen times and I still haven't settled on a satisfying answer to the riddle. Conan's father starts the film by stating, "The secret of steel has always carried with it a mystery. You must learn its riddle, Conan, you must learn its discipline. For no one in this world can you trust--not men, not women, not beasts, but this (points to sword) you can trust."

This theory (steel is mightier than the flesh) seems straightforward enough, except that, later in the film, arch-enemy Thulsa Doom seems to undermine this lesson when he demonstrates to Conan the superiority of flesh over steel, as exemplified by his rabid followers who obey his commands even unto death. "What is steel compared to the hand that wields it? Look at the strength of your body, the desire in your heart," says Doom.

Later Conan's father's sword is shattered by Conan's own vengeful hand, which seems to reaffirm Doom's statement. But then, Conan beheads Doom with the broken blade--before casting it away. So is the riddle of steel the combination of steel and flesh, impassioned by the purity of vengeance, which drives men to singleminded deeds and great heights? At the end--like Conan himself--I'm left contemplative, hand upon chin. If you have any ideas, please post them here.

And finally, Friedrich Nietzsche. Conan the Barbarian opens with the modified Nietzsche quote, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." And with a laser focus, Milius sets out to prove the truth of this statement over the next two hours. There's no compromises, no equivocation, no fussing around with morality. Just a mighty-thewed barbarian kindled by the bright flame of vengeance.

The Broken Sword: A masterpiece from the fantasy forge

Poul Anderson is an author who seems to be largely ignored and unappreciated these days, save for those who are true fans of the fantasy and science fiction genres. Even in those circles he's known primarily as a science fiction author, and for good reason--Anderson was a voluminous SF writer (I say voluminous because he wrote a metric ton of it, and I don't have an accurate number) with much fewer fantasy/historic fantasy titles to his credit.

But Anderson was also an avid fantasy fan. He helped found the Society for Creative Anachronism, and according to Wikipedia was also a member of the Swordsmen and Sorcerers' Guild of America (can I get a membership, please?). He was also a truly great fantasy writer, perhaps best known for Three Hearts and Three Lions, a book which serves as the inspiration for a pair of classic Dungeons and Dragons icons: The paladin character class, and the green-skinned regenerating troll, D&D founder/author Gary Gygax admits. Anderson also wrote some awesome Nordic-flavored fantasy, including Hrolf Kraki's Saga and War of the Gods, books to which I'll devote some blogspace at a later time.

But for my money, Anderson's best work of fantasy was The Broken Sword, published in 1954. If you haven't read this slim, 200-page classic of epic fantasy, rush out to your local used book store or purchase a copy on Ebay and do so now. It's a kick in the pants of "fat fantasy," a welcome relief from the bloated tomes choking the fantasy section of book stores these days.

The Broken Sword combines Norse mythology, inexorable tragic fate, faerie races vs. encroaching humanity, and Christianity vs. Paganism in a quick-moving, bloodthirsty saga. The basic plot is as follows: Imric, an elf chiefain, steals away the child Skafloc from his parents, Orm and Aelfrida. Imric replaces Skafloc with a changeling, Valgard, identical in appearnce to Skafloc but born from Imric and a she-troll. Skafloc grows up among the elves as a child of the light, while Valgard, feeling like he's an outcast, turns to the dark.

Meanwhile, an old witch with a grudge (Orm burned her home and slew her sons in a raid during his younger days) swears to continue the feud against Orm and his family. She enlists Valgard as a tool for her revenge, and Valgard slays Orm and his siblings. The witch also tells Valgard about his true troll heritage, and Valgard leaves to join the trolls' ranks, taking Orm's daughters/Skafloc's sisters, Freda and Asgerd, as tokens for the troll king.

Still unaware that Orm is his father or Freda and Asgerd are his sisters, Skafloc leads a raid against the trolls to test their strength, and winds up rescuing Freda and Asgerd. In a familiar tragic device, Skafloc and his sister, Freda, fall in love, which guarantees that their unnatural relationship will end in disaster.

Later the pair escape near death from the invading troll armies, and Skafloc learns that he is fated to free the land from their scourge, and recover and reforge the broken sword--a weapon of great power, but also cursed with an evil sentience that will ultimately spell doom for its wielder.

You can imagine the havoc that ensues when Skafloc learns his true identity, that his father and siblings were slain by his traitorous twin "brother," and that he's been sleeping with his sister. Skafloc's quest to reforge the sword, his internal turmoil and agonies, and the final epic battle are amazing and a joy to read.

There's also a lot more going on under the surface of The Broken Sword than mere plot. The reforged evil sword is a terrible weapon that represents military technology, like atomic power or gunpowder, that are as much a blessing as a curse. And once reforged (or conceived by scientists) the cat is forever out of the bag. At one point Imric decides to take it and cast it into the sea, but realizes that even this drastic measure cannot undo fate: "I do not think that will do much good though. The will of the Norns stands not to be altered, and the sword has not wreaked its last harm." There's shades of the Excalibur myth here, albeit much darker and more sinister.

Also noteworthy is the fact that the sword's properties--smelted iron--are anathema to the trolls, elves, and other races of Faerie. The broken sword can thus be viewed as the power of the one god--referred to by Anderson as "The White Christ"--driving out the many gods of the old pagan religions. This theme runs throughout the book.

Interestingly, Anderson paints a bleak picture of mankind in general. Men, while physically weaker than trolls and elves, will rule in the end, not because they are inherently superior, but because of their lust for science and the power it brings. And they care not for the consequences: "'All men are born fey,' said Skafloc, and there the matter stood."