The Selkie of Roan Inish

Any day is a good day when I can indulge in a film or a folktale. I count myself rather lucky, then, to be taking a course on both. Our first movie was a good one, an old favorite of mine (and of many of my friends as well): John Sayles’ 1994 The Secret of Roan Inish.

Folklore emerges quite directly in this film, as it constitutes the heart and identity of the protagonists. Roan Inish adapts the legend of the selkie, a not infrequent character of Celtic and northwest Teutonic folklore. These creatures swim as seals in the sea, but on land can take human form. Selkie stories are almost always love stories, and more often than not, they end in loss. Take, for instance, the Highland tale of Loch Duich:

Three brothers went fishing in Loch Duich one night, and came upon a fantastic sight. A group of seals came ashore, slid out of their seal skins, and began dancing on the silvery sands. The three brothers could see their human forms and human skin glinting in the moonlight. Falling in love, the three brothers stole the seal skins of three dancing girls, who were unable to slip back into the sea as seals. Seeing his chosen partner begin to weep, the youngest brother took pity and returned her seal skin, allowing her to swim home. But the two older brothers took the seal-maidens as wives.

Nine days later, the party of seals appeared. The elder brothers feared to lose their wives, and shut them away. But the youngest brother only gazed with love at the seal-maiden he had set free. Then her father appeared. He said that his daughter was equally in love, and as a reward for his kindness, he would allow his daughter to return to him every ninth night. The youngest brother and his seal-maiden were overjoyed.

But the two elder brothers did not enjoy such a happy ending. One seal-wife found her skin again and left her husband and children forever. The other brother, thinking his own wife would do the same, burned her seal skin. The moment flames touched the skin, the seal-wife also burst into flames and perished.

Tales like this share three elements: entrapment (via theft of the skin), abduction, and escape. Such a cycle calls to mind not only the relentless rise and fall of the sea in which selkies swim, but also the rise and fall of generations of families who tell and retell this legend as part of their unique history. (This actually happens, by the way; in 1895 the Shetland woman Baubi Urquhart claimed to be a descendant of a seal.) In contrast to the harshness of the tale of Loch Duich, The Secret of Roan Inish does take certain pains to illustrate the mutual interest of seal-maiden and youth (given the names Nuala and Liam). Nevertheless, the film portrays the three elements of entrapment, abduction, and escape: once Nuala learns where Liam had been hiding her seal skin, “neither chains of steel nor chains of love” would hold her.

There is an interesting parallel in another family story recounted in the film. Fiona Coneelly’s grandfather’s great grandfather Sean Michael left his home to attend school. As Fiona’s grandfather narrates, the “English were still a force in the country then…it was their language and their ways that you had to learn there.” Caught speaking Irish, Sean Michael is chastised by the schoolmaster and forced to wear a cingulum like a yoke about his neck, a captive of this strange English schoolmaster and his strange English ways.

Unable to bear this cruelty and the taunts of his schoolmates, Sean Michael refuses to continue and escapes back to his family and home. In much the same way, the selkie Nuala is forced to live among a strange people. Indeed, the film emphasizes how strange the islanders found her in turn, speaking Irish that was “queer-sounding, more ancient than their grandfather’s grandfather’s.”

Nuala’s tremendous joy at returning home as a seal is echoed in Sean Michael’s determination to return to the “black rocks and the wild waves and the hard sky above.”

Soon after Sean Michael’s escape, he is caught in a great storm and shipwrecked. We discover that he is borne to shore by a seal. Seals are common in folklore and myth; seal-riding, on the other hand (or flipper, as the case may be), is not. This scene reminded me of an Icelandic folktale in which a human is carried by a seal-that-is-not-a-seal to shore. This was first collected by Jón Árnason (Icelandic librarian, museum director, and author) in his 19^th c. compilation of Icelandic folktales*.

As the story goes, the priest Sæmund the learned enters into a deal with Kolski (The dark one, the devil). If Kolski can transport Sæmund across the sea to Iceland without getting any of Sæmund’s garments wet, then he can have Sæmund’s soul. Kolski takes the shape of a seal, and the two are off. The seal swims along so smoothly that not a drop of water touches Sæmund’s robe. Sæmund, however, is so absorbed in reading his Psalter that he scarcely notices. Then, just as they are about to reach the shore, Sæmund suddenly lunges out and bops the seal on his head with his Psalter. The seal goes under, Sæmund is drenched with seawater, and the story ends with the priest once more evading the devil.

Here’s a statue at the University of Iceland depicting the bopping. As you can see, none of Sæmund’s garments could possibly get wet, since he isn’t wearing any! In some versions, Kolski can’t let a drop of water touch Sæmund’s foot instead.

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Sæmund stories tend to feature him outwitting Kolski in this way. These are tales of magic (galdrasogur), trickster tales, entirely different in type and register from the scene in Roan Inish. One seal seeks to save some poor soul, and the other would steal someone’s poor soul. Yet it’s not an insignificant detail that in both instances it is a creature merely in seal form that bears the rider, not a true seal. We see people riding dolphins in Greek myths, whale-riding in Maori folklore. Why is seal-riding so uncommon?

I’d like to draw attention to one more matter. When the selkie in Roan Inish transports the Sean Michael from sea to land, world to world, she also transports him—and us—to a different reality in which the impossible becomes plausible. The supernatural is natural, and the laws of order are turned upside-down. We suddenly understand the dynamic of the film in another light. In terms of theoretical physics and parallel universes, we might call these wormholes. Rabbit holes, wardrobes in spare rooms, peaches, fairy dust, swinging ropes. All devices that inform the audience of a change in reality and expectation. Jamie’s cradle-boat (featured below) in the film functions in a similar way, for having been imbued by the seal-woman’s awareness and magic, it conveys little Jamie back and forth between the world of humans and selkies. It also has a temporal dimension, conveying generations of Coneelly children across decades, from the time of the original seal-mother to each subsequent encounter of the children with the seals and selkies. I’d like for this blog to operate in a similar way, as a guide and reminder of this shift as we explore many different parallel universes in literature and film.

(*) The Icelandic text can be found here on page 494 and in English here

 

 

Gone Trolling

Trollhunter is an extraordinarily fun film; a found-footage campy horror, with typically Nordic dark humor elements sprinkled throughout. Trolls, of course, are an important part of Scandinavian folklore, figuring prominently in the medieval sagas, then percolating in the next centuries into folk and fairy tales, most critically compiled in Jón Árnason’s Íslenzkar Þjóðsögur og Ævintýrri. The film makes especial reference to the delightful work of Asbjørnsen and Moe as well, as in the scene where three goats are used as bait on a bridge. What I loved most about Trollhunter was how it played upon the uncanniness inherent in our conceptions of the creatures.

What are trolls, anyway? I imagine we all have a pretty good idea of what they ought to look like, but in fact they’re surprisingly difficult to classify. Everyone probably knows this modern troll, or take, for example, Brian Froud’s illustration:

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Or these lovely troll-souls you might run into on the streets of Reykjavik:

…or this one from BBC’s series Merlin (what I imagine the present writer will look like in a few years):

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The farther back we trace the word, however, the broader and vaguer it seems. In fact, as Ármann Jakobsson writes, medieval “troll” can “denote every kind of malevolent paranormal creature originating with magic as well as those who practice it”. Thus we include witches, ghosts, vampires, elves, or almost any monster. Given such a wide spectrum, what can we say about trolls and their roles in society?

What an encounter in literature with a troll really offers us is a way to define ourselves. That is, to reveal an extreme opposite, identify precisely what we are not. For the troll is both the Inhuman and the Unknown, that which cannot fit into our civilized community. The very humanness of some trolls becomes uncanny, precisely for the uncomfortable and eerie fusion of familiar and unfamiliar. We are split between the part of ourselves that knows trolls are impossible, mythical, and the part of us that is actually gandering at a perfectly trollish specimen. This is, of course, why Trollhunter shows the government depositing dead bears at sites where trolls have wreaked damage. It is the safer substitute, a known fear as opposed to an implausible, impossible monster.

Here’s where Trollhunter was, in my mind, particularly clever. Our initial impression of Hans is semi-typical of the monster-hunter: leather clad, well-hatted, gruff and taciturn, owner of wild gadgets, keeper of the mysteries.

As the film progresses, we perceive a very different side. He grumps about paperwork, complains about poor benefits, no overtime. Very relatable. Or the particularly amusing scene where Hans dresses up in something akin to a medieval suit of armor (rather like Monty Python’s Black Knight), and mutters gloomily: “I hate this crap!”.  

Furthermore, Hans’ matter-of-fact descriptions of the types of trolls were certainly amusing, but his dryness contributed to a sense of the ordinary, of the—dare I say it?—dull. It attracts the uncanny “spookiness” of the trolls into something mundane, categorized. At the same time, the mockumentary-style revives the old uncanniness by playing off our cultural cynicism. For the troll is meant to belong solely to the land of Story, being derived wholly from us, constructed by and for us. To see it before our eyes (moreover, hidden under our very noses!) activates a particularly curious emotion.

One final comment on the film. I have thus far discussed trolls as a paranormal phenomenon; that is, relationally speaking, their importance in understanding ourselves and the threats that we ourselves pose to the community. Yet the “Otherness” of the troll is not limited to that which is almost human. It also belongs to the “other” of the Nature/Civilization duality; for trolls also represent the dangers of the natural world. We might term this the supernatural dimension, that which especially airs our cultural concerns with storms or quakes or any natural forces. The film rather splendidly conveys the connection of trolls to the landscape. Indeed, one almost suspects, watching characters surveying mountain ranges with binoculars for troll activity, that the film is really just a titillating excuse to goggle at the gorgeous scenery of Norway. After all, what creature, troll or human, wouldn’t fall for this?  

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Sing Street: Finding a Little Harmony

Given our cultural preoccupation with musician teen idols and role models, it is not particularly surprising that high school student Connor Lawlor decides to start up a band to impress a girl in John Carney’s 2016 film Sing Street. 

Boy bands in particular have evolved a crystallized formula for success, and can now effectively be mass-produced. A handful of musically-talented youths, each with a clear-crafted image or archetype, sprinkle in some bubblegum pop songs, and hey presto, fame. The popularity of the Backstreet Boys and  NSYNC, or more recently, the Jonas Brothers or One Direction is a clear testament. But music, as the film reveals, is about far more than attracting one’s crush—it’s a way of declaring and cultivating identity, both as an individual and collective. Even more than distinguishing groups by drawing lines between them, however, music in Sing Street allows characters to cross lines as well.

The film opens in domestic tumult. A bitter fight between parents, overheard with unfortunate clarity by their son. We see immediately how his guitar music and songwriting enables Connor to cope: it’s a distraction, a way to mock, to articulate and process the tension within the family. The strain of this particular disagreement, as we later learn, is both personal and financial, with the result that Connor must switch schools. It’s a rather stringent Christian Brothers school where boys (and unfortunately adults as well) participate in a kind of rigorous violence. Viriliter Age is the motto, Act Manfully, taken from Psalm 26.

Woefully imprecise, of course, and it manifests in the boys as a spirit of suspicious and boisterous vigilance. When Connor walks through campus on his first day, he faces down what feels like a network of lean wolves scenting blood. 

While the band is initially a ploy for Connor to attract enigmatic Raphina’s interest and attention, it is the music itself which becomes the bedrock of Connor’s engagement with the world. Once Connor has articulated his ambition of forming the band, he is (with the luck of film characters) rapidly able to muster the musically-inclined individuals at his school, each of whom develops a particular niche or identity or archetype within the group. Music is the foundation of this social group, and it transforms Connor as he experiments in various ways with his identity as a singer. 

Just as Raphina motivates Connor to form the group, she also inspires him in song-writing. He draws constantly on the romantic tensions between them to write lyrics and put them to music with Aemon. 

Beyond facilitating Connor’s friend group and romantic relationship, music also presents a means to resolve the violent situation with Barry, a bully. After his initial encounter with Barry, the first friend Connor makes advises him “You should have just danced.” Rather an apropos philosophy for a film concerned with finding meaning in music and artistic expression. Near the end of the movie, the band discovers a way to use Barry’s talent for violence to their benefit and enlist him as security.

Music is also a critical force in how Connor interacts with his family, in both a positive and negative light. As mentioned previously, our initial image of Connor is as he struggles with his music to distract himself from the yelling parents. Later, he and his brother end up dancing wildly, music blaring, to drown out their parents’ raised voices. Directly, music is a means of escaping the frustrations and agitations of the household; then more broadly it is a talent and skill that allows him to escape what he perceives as the stagnation and limitations of his country. 

Thus the creative act is a means of crossing social, gender, and familial lines, enabling connections that would otherwise have been denied. Connor’s words to the bully Barry reflect his epiphany of music as his private solution to the limiting expectations of his family, peers, and society: “You only have the power to stop things, but not to create”. 

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Beyond History, Beyond the Map

Historical adaptations always seem to catch a lot of flak from all kinds of folk. Don’t get me wrong—it’s actually quite fun to mock a series like The Tudors, say, for throwing in anachronistic lines or characters or whatever odd thing they decide to do. Sometimes the anachronism is compelling, or even just feels like a pleasant touch, an aesthetic flair.

“A green thought in a green shade” is a line from Andrew Marvell’s 17th c. poem “The Garden“. Of course, this postdate’s Henry VIII’s death by a few decades…

But all jesting aside, what’s important to remember is that every adaptation since antiquity (Compare Herodotus’ Medea to Ovid’s, for example) hauls up the basic elements of the story and appropriates what’s relevant to the culture for which the adaptation is being created. Surely, it’s to be expected that new authors will breathe life into characters that transform and extend in ways we don’t expect. It can be no coincidence, for example, that amid outstanding cultural interest in feminism, strong female leads are emerging like sunflowers in film and television. See Lagertha from Vikings.

Lagertha, mother of Bjorn.

She fits the Xena aesthetic rather well: amazonian, a proper warrior, coiled liked a serpent preparing to pounce. But she’s not the only strong woman of the show—and nor is the fighter’s the only type of strength depicted. Aslaug exhibit a peculiar cleverness when planning for the future, which is occasionally prophetic. Other women, notably Sigi, find themselves tangled in remarkably intriguing manipulations.

What fascinates me the most, however, is not necessarily how the producers have transformed the historical material, but rather, how they assimilate and harmonize historical, ancient/medieval, and modern notes to produce a (hopefully) coherent story. This does come through in the broad historical sweep, but I’m thinking specifically of the wrinkles and creases and minute designs that together weave the fabric of the story. The small gestures toward the historical sources. For example, in the first two episodes of Vikings, the references to Ragnar and his son(s) as a boar and little pigs were taken straight from the Norse sagas, in which Ragnar utters this very metaphor (not uncommon to describe chieftains): “The young pigs would now squeal if they knew what the older one suffered” *.

Ragnars saga describes the character with the name Þóra Borgarhjǫrtr. Because her father loves her, he builds a tower in which to keep her, and a fence about that tower, with an ormr, a dragon to guard her. Even her name confines: lit. Hart-of-the-stronghold. While this dragon initially protects the girl’s chastity (no man can wed the girl until he destroys the dragon), it soon becomes an obstacle between an earl’s daughter and any political alliance her marriage might entail. Our hero Ragnar, of course, is able to defeat this dragon and win Þóra Borgarhjǫrtr. This mytheme is replicated when Ragnar courts Lagertha, the warrior woman. In Book IX of his Gesta Danorum, Saxo Grammaticus relates how Lagertha ordered a bear and hound to be put at the entrance to her dwelling to guard against male intrusion. Here it is worth noting that Lagertha takes it upon herself to set these obstacles in place, whereas Þóra Borgarhjǫrtr is utterly under male protection. Perhaps in nod to this independence, the series Vikings integrates Saxo’s anecdote. Ragnar explains to his son how he won the boy’s mother.

I’d like to end with a look at the time and space of Vikings. The first episodes are set in Kattegat in Denmark. An area which is rather flat. Here’s how it’s portrayed in the series:

Ragnar’s home, intended to represent Kattegat. It’s actually the lake Lough Tay in Ireland.

Quite different, I should say. The actual filming location is Lough Tay, a lake in Ireland–certainly not the Scandinavian lands the historical Ragnar would have known. Similarly, the series follows Ragnar at the raid of church of St. Cuthbert at Lindisfarne…yet the historical figure would by no means have been active at this time. I would argue, however, that there’s a kind of poetry in this: the Viking Age was kicked off by the same violence that kicks off the Vikings series. In the world of Ragnars saga and the rest of the fornaldarsögur (that is, the legendary sagas), we enter a time before history, a place beyond the map. It makes sense that we massage the historical record a little–after all, that’s what the medieval audience expected. In any case, this action in this space…well, it certainly packs a punch.

 

 

 

* The Legend of Ragnar Lothbrok. Trans. Christopher Van Dyke, Graymalkin Media, 2016.