Brent P. Newhall's Blog

The Fabiluax

The Fabliaux is an odd little book, which I bought on a whim because it’s an odd little book.

We’ve all heard of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, those saucy stories of pilgrims in the Middle Ages. Some know that Chaucer didn’t invent these stories; he cobbled them together from various stories floating around at the time. Common folk traded these profane little tales in taverns, forming the “reality TV” of its day. These were supposedly true stories, nearly always involving sex, scatology, and/or sinning priests.

In France, these were called fabliaux, and this beautiful hardback of the same name collects dozens of them that cross a wide range of experience. The translator put them into a simple, natural rhyming verse that mimics the French pattern.

(One side note: the translator chose vulgar terms for genitalia, mainly because there’s no English equivalent for the French words, and these are meant to be bawdy, shocking tales. So be ready for frequent uses of the ‘c’ word.)

The stories fascinate for two reasons. On the one hand, naughty stories always carry at least a small thrill, and it’s fascinating to see what was considered naughty six hundred years ago.

Secondly, The Fabliaux provides a window into common life in the Middle Ages. So much of what we know of that time comes from high literature: noble tales of knights and ladies, or official histories written by victors. We read of battles and courtly romance.

While that has its place, in The Fabliaux we see dusty, everyday life. Now this has its own sensationalism; these were stories meant to entertain, after all. I wouldn’t take the preponderance of extramarital sex in these stories as an indication it was that common in medieval times (any more than the family drama in a “reality TV” show is a complete accurate representation of life in America).

Those caveats aside, these stories are delightful romps in bourgeois drama: wives lusting over hot guys, battling spouses, and over-protective fathers.

And the stories are not without shock value. Indeed, the over-protective father has a young daughter whom he has carefully protected from every biological term, to protect her chastity. When he finds a boy her own age as a companion, and who expresses similar horror at such terms, the father leaves the two of them alone, presuming she is safe. She immediately asks the boy about the differences of the male body to the female, and they proceed to describe each others’ most intimate areas using only metaphor. Before long they shuck their clothes and screw with abandon.

Not so shocking, except that their metaphors make it very clear that they are both barely pubescent. Such were the realities of the times.

Other stories deal with bad priests–in fact, can’t recall a single righteous priest in the entire book–and a lot of scatological humor. I found this refreshing; we haven’t changed so much. We’ve always loved to skewer the powerful and joke about poo, for some reason.

Interestingly, the nobility in these stories are treated very much like the common folk: more wealthy, but not inherently evil. They deal with avenging spouses, rebellious children, and fickle friends just like everyone else. In general, they’re doing their best with what they have.

And they fart a lot.

Every often, you stumble upon a book that precisely fits your mood.

I bought this tartan-covered novel on impulse at a used book store while I was on vacation. I wanted a light book to read. This delivered.

In The Bachelor Brothers’ Bed & Breakfast Pillow Book, Bill Richardson describes a year in the life of two bachelor brothers who operate a small B&B for bibliophiles. Not only is the house stuffed with books; guests bring piles of their own on “reading vacations.” Book clubs schedule annual meetings here.

The B&B sits near a small town in Canada that’s filled with odd characters. These characters wander into the book’s story–more so, I gather, than in the first Bachelor Brothers’ book, of which this is the second.

The main story line is punctuated with “letters” from former guests, telling their own life stories. Some are simply heartwarming; some are unexpectedly sad. Many come with recipes which I’m now eager to attempt.

Comparisons with Garrison Keillor and Lake Wobegon are inevitable. Both authors chronicle a charming backwater peopled by quirky characters. The difference, I think, lies in attitude: Keillor maintains a sarcastic–nearly sardonic–distance from his characters, while Richardson paints them as lovable, if odd, human beings. It’s the basic human respect that comes from an episode of Community compared to the more sarcastic tone of Parks & Recreation.

As befits its characters, The Bachelor Brothers’ Bed & Breakfast Pillow Book is an odd thing that I’d have a hard time universally recommending. It’s a celebration of simplicity, reading, and the company of others. I read it in two days.

A lot of people dislike this movie.

I suspect people came into the theater with inflated expectations. I would instead urge you to go back to the classic film: it told a simple story with a vivid palette of characters in a rich, colorful fantasy world. That is exactly what Oz, the Great and Powerful does.

You likely already know the premise: a young man is swept into the land of Oz, where he must fight a wicked witch.

More importantly, the movie centers on the hero’s choice. Our protagonist gets himself into trouble, then he has to decide what to do. He could turn his back on the whole situation at any time.

The actors admirably and accurately portray their intentionally one-dimensional characters. L. Frank Baum wrote simple characters; he created archetypes. That’s what you’ll get in the film.

The end of a film like this should include at least one moment where the viewer pumps a fist into the air and yells “Yeah!” That happened for me.

It’s a kid’s film, and a beautiful one.

Imagine a documentary about a little-known New Zealand filmmaker from the silent era. This is a man who invented the close-up and synchronized sound before anyone else…before his work was tragically forgotten. Imagine that his last work was an Biblical epic, its monstrous, life-size sets constructed deep in the New Zealand jungle.

Now imagine Peter Jackson decides to tell this man’s life.

Sounds amazing, right? A hidden gem, uncovered by Peter Jackson, who tracks through the jungle in search of an immense fantasy movie set. It’s almost too good to be true.

Because it is.

Forgotten Silver is a mockumentary by Peter Jackson himself, with cameos by Leonard Maltin, Sam Neill, and Harvey Weinstein (among others).

Its appeal lies greatly with how much you can appreciate the joke, and how much silent film footage you can take. It’s a masterful fake: all the silent film material really looks it. I thoroughly enjoyed the movie just for that aspect: imagining the creation of those fake film sequences.

And it’s wonderful to see Peter Jackson in full curator mode, talking excitedly to the camera about a passionate project. Now I know why he looks so comfortable in the Lord of the Rings behind-the-scenes videos; he brings to those the same grinning kid energy he has in Forgotten Silver.

The other people in the film echo Jackson’s intensity, which I suspect carried over into the film’s production. Everything about it feels absolutely real, from the acting in the silent movie footage to the artifacts to the celebrity interviews.

Forgotten Silver deserves to stand next to This is Spinal Tap and Best in Show as ideal examples of the mockumentary style.