Archive for August, 2016

Kubo Sketch

A quick sketch of the protagonist–did this while too tired, I think, may redo eventually… But no he doesn’t have a short left arm, it’s just reaching forward, k? Also, I think I got the costume wrong…

I got to watch Kubo and the Two Strings a week or so ago (didn’t review it sooner due to some unexpected medical issues–all better now, far as I can tell), and really enjoyed it–and was super bummed that there were only three of us watching (and in a fairly large theater). OK, it was a matinee, but still, it’s odd how poorly the movie has been doing despite the very positive reviews. I won’t say there weren’t bits that felt off at times, and the ending could be taken as too stereotypical a “love conquers all” message, but really, that’s no worse than every other movie of this sort (and it was really more of a redemptive ending rather than a Care-Bear-Stare ending), and Kubo manages to get some really great twists in there–definitely some character revelations that I was not prepared for (though I caught on a bit in the build-up), and the “conquer through love!” ending (spoiler alert I guess, but really it’s a lot more complex than that…) involved enough tragedy mixed with closure that I really can’t fault it–in fact, reminds me a bit of Astrid Lindgren’s Brothers Lionheart, taken as an fantasy aimed at prolonging the work of mourning sufficiently to find that needed closure. Hm, this is all pretty obscure I guess, since I don’t want to give any especially concrete spoilers (and since I expect there aren’t many who’ve read Brothers Lionheart).

Check out the trailer here. Mild spoilers below.

The cultural setting is Japanese, though I don’t believe actual Japanese locations are used. I don’t know whether the mythological material referenced really corresponds to actual Japanese mythology/folklore since I just have not studied that (would like to check it out though), but it is central to the story, and seems well done. We learn early on that Kubo has to beware of the moon–as we go on, we realize that if he is out at night the moon, who is (dun dun) his grandfather will steal his other eye (Kubo is missing an eye, btw, his patch hidden behind his hair). Kubo’s mother and her sisters had been working with their father, but she fell in love with Kubo’s father, whom she was sent to kill, and so betrayed her family. Soon after Kubo is born the moon and his daughters attack and Kubo’s mother takes him and flees. Years later Kubo has a reputation for playing his shamisen while telling stories and bringing origami figures to life (this is his particular magical power, inherited from his mother). He stays out too long one night, attempting to perform a ritual to commemorate his father (in this world, the dead respond–his dad doesn’t…). This lets his creepy warrior aunts fly in to find him, and his mother gives her life (well, it’s complicated…) to protect him, and he runs off–now with a monkey companion (originally a protective talisman given to him by his mother) and a bug soldier they find on their way. The quest he embarks on now is to find the armor and weapons his father had been seeking before–it was because these had so much potential to make him powerful that the moon decided to have him killed in the first place. And there is so much more going on there, but oh, I don’t want to spoil it too bad…

be_my_valkyrie_valentine_by_callego-d74zj5pThe further I got into the movie the more I became convinced I was watching something from Norse mythology or the sagas. No joke, everything connects to Scandinavian studies in the end–and you can trust me, because I’m a Scandinavianist, see? Anyway, the moon with his warlike and supernatural daughters is very reminiscent of Odin with his valkyries (and now I think of it, Kubo’s one-eyedness, and the idea that losing the other would bring him to a higher plane–spoiler again, that’s why the moon wants his eyes, so his grandson can join him–is rather Odinic in itself). Love affairs between human warriors and valkyries seem to have been a popular subject, as we have many showing up in the mythology and the sagas. The motif of a valkyrie falling for the man she was sent to kill (or to give defeat in battle, so same thing) and so rebelling against the Allfather is also prominent. Hm, is Kubo just a retelling of the Völsung material? Nah… but then again, I would not be surprised to find out the creators were influenced to some degree by Wagner’s Ring Cycle operas, which include a retelling of this very story. Is Kubo a piece of a pseudo-Japanese Ring Cycle, just with a milder, gentler Götterdämmerung ? I would buy that, actually…


My imagining of one of the Valkyrie romances from the mythology–though the Lay of Volund admittedly breaks the mould in certain ways…

Another element the movie shares with certain Norse stories is the quest to recover arms belonging to one’s father. Well, I can’t think at the moment of a quest involving multiple pieces of armor acquired in stages, but certainly with the Völsung material Sigurd’s reforging of his father’s sword is quite prominent, and in one of the legendary sagas we have the warrior maiden Hervör visiting her father’s revenant in order to acquire his mighty sword. A key difference though–while Kubo is seeking some mystical special armor and weapon otherwise unassociated with his father apart from his father’s own incomplete quest, the Norse material is more focused on powerful heirlooms (well, though they may have a supernatural origin as well, I suppose)–and of course, given the unpredictable quality of steel used at the time, it is not surprising that we would find old weapons typically coded as good, or even special weapons–it’s not a matter just of the latest and greatest, you see, but of whether or not the metal has been proven. Old swords are necessarily good swords, and so all the more important as heirlooms (and I owe this point to John Lindow).

OK, Old Norse parallels aside (after all, these aren’t exactly surprising parallels to find between narrative traditions), I have one last point about the movie–specifically the credits. Where are the Asian people in the credits?? OK, there are a few, but I was rather surprised not to see more Japanese Americans involved. There were some Japanese American associations that had given their stamp of approval, sure, and I would not at all want to say that white folks (like myself) shouldn’t work with POC characters, but representation in the industry matters as much as representation on the screen. This isn’t something I’ve looked into much, so I won’t push it any more here, but I note that it was pointed out before the movie came out as well.

That said, the movie is definitely worth seeing, so get out there before it goes away! Sadly, probably won’t be in theaters long. 😦

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Gosh, it’s been way way too long since I’ve actually written about Norse mythology here, hasn’t it? Well, why not take on one of my favorites: Óðinn’s acquisition of the Mead of Poetry. Loosely based on a version of a talk I prepared but never gave relating to my recent research on the figure of the home and interior in the sagas (I’ve spoken twice, not including academic conferences, on the subject since, but this portion got edited out both times). Watch out, this turned into a super long post.


The abduction, as I illustrated it for the contest at the Norse Mythology blog.

In our approach to this particular narrative, I think it is helpful to point out the obvious comparison to (and contrast with) the story of the abduction of Iðunn, which I have previously illustrated and discussed. Both stories, after all, involve a Viking raid of sorts, the penetration of a rival community to acquire or reacquire a resource, sexual access to a woman of the rival group, shapeshifting into eagle form (among others), and a dramatic chase scene through the air back to the home of the gods–and both show up in approximately the same section of Prose Edda. Both poems are also set in the so-called “mythic present”, as opposed to the “mythic past” (the prehistory, creation, and ordering of the world) and the “mythic future” (the fall of the gods, disintegration of the world, and the coming of a new world). The mythic present is primarily about the gods attempting to maintain the status quo, meaning, doing their best to assert and maintain their superiority over the giants. Margaret Clunies Ross (whose book Prolonged Echoes informs a lot of this post and my other posts) has called this situation “negative reciprocity”, in that, rather than a reciprocal relationship between gods and giants (ie, fair exchange of goods, marriage alliances, etc, or on the other hand hostilities, whether theft, sexual access to women, or killing, like in a feud or war), the situation is instead one-sided, with the gods, by and large in the mythic present, having their way with the giants while rebuffing the giants’ attempts in the other direction (for example, giants die right and left throughout the mythic present, but the gods are mostly untouched–until Baldr’s death). We might think of it as an attempt to project and enforce a vertical relationship, such as you would have in the hierarchical relationships within the space of the Icelandic farmstead (from the landed family down to the lowest slave), onto the level of horizontal relationships between different groups–but again (or even in parallel with this), it also works well enough to read these as, say, “viking raids”, or as a mythic prototype for the relationship to the Saami, from whom the Germanic Scandinavians extracted tribute–certainly the myths serve to set up a properly demonic straw-man, justifying the aggression of the POV of the mythology.


Thor’s mother is the giantess “Earth”. There are several giantesses in the matrilines of the gods, even going back to Odin (who essentially creates the world by murdering his maternal great-grandfather). We may take the entry of several giantesses into the community of the gods as either wives or mistresses as a reinforcement of negative reciprocity in the myths, which tends to involve denying the giants sexual access to goddesses while the gods have their way with the giantesses. More on that another time, probably… And incidentally, my comic here is not intended as an accurate portrayal of the giantess Earth–when giantesses play the role of object of desire in the myths, they tend to look the part as well.

From the perspective of the gods (and the aristocratic Icelanders whose interests they may be taken to represent in the Eddas) the proper direction for action is outward from Ásgarðr (“Asgard”, “farm/enclosure of the gods”) towards the land of the giants–as with what we call “acquisition narratives”, such as the origin of the mead of poetry, in which the gods go to the giants and come back with something that is, in the mythic ideology of medieval Iceland, associated with the gods as representatives of Culture, with humanity, etc. When the opposite is the case–the action is directed against the gods, with the giants threatening either their women or their stuff (or just their assumption of superiority, as I can think of at least two instances where giantesses attempt to insist on a more reciprocal standing–more on that another time)–it is a crisis, the natural order of things is inverted (represented in one myth by Þórr getting dressed up as a bride) and (again, in the myths of the mythic present) the myth ends with the restoration of the status quo. The abduction of Iðunn is this latter sort of myth, while the story of the Mead of Poetry is of the former type–one of the most prototypical of the acquisition narratives to my mind.

I would say “welcome to the militant world of Viking mythology”, but keep in mind that the versions of the myths that we have were written down by Christian Icelanders two hundred years after the conversion. In fact, a possible interpretation of the significance of the myths in an Iceland that was Christian but still managed conflicts via bloodfeud (as well as more mundane settlements) is that they functioned as fantasies in which one’s rivals could be completely dominated and demonized–more on that another time, probably, esp. given that the situation isn’t too different in so many of our own stories…

Throughout the myths we find a prominent anxiety over the vulnerable interior at two symbolically conflated levels–that of the community (the home of the gods is marked out by a great wall, whose origin story is itself pretty interesting) and that of the body. One could in fact read the arc of the mythology as a whole (as preserved in the medieval Eddas) in terms of the anxiety of the gods over the threat of penetration, bodily, sexually (generally manifested either as threats to the women of a community or as threats to the virility/masculinity of a man), strategically, etc (all the while, of course, they constantly penetrate away when it comes to the land of the giants). Relevant here are several seminal studies on insults and gender in Old Norse lit (not too far off from us when we flip the bird or say “screw you”, or less bowdlerized forms, but you could be outlawed for such things in Medieval Iceland), but I think I’ll have to save that for another time.


Possibly Odin in eagle form, on Gotlandic picture stone Stora Hammars III. My own photo, so alas not adjusted to let the image show up more clearly…

The conflation of home/community and body with each other is not unique to the sagas and myths, of course, in particular in terms of the permeability of the body. It is an understandable and, I imagine, universal tendency to think of the home as what keeps the outside out and the inside in, and this concern over boundaries of course maps onto our concerns over our bodies as well, which we also think of in terms of inside/outside, and the integrity of which is often dependent on the integrity of our various shelters. This inside/outside symbolism is of course useful when constructing communal identity (“insiders” vs “outsiders”, to be “in” on something, etc), the perceived unity of the human body being rhetorically mobilized in the articulation of a cooperative unity of many bodies. We find this at play in the larger story of the mead of poetry.

The story begins with one version of the war between the Aesir and the Vanir (we might tentatively locate this at the end of the mythic past, but generally let’s think of the larger myth as representative of the mythic present). In their truce, they exchange hostages—not “hostages” like we are used to thinking, but representative members of one community go to live with the other community—since members of each community now live in the same spaces, they now constitute one community (at some level of signification anyway–arguably the Vanir members are still treated differently, as represented in the Eddas). In addition, and more pertinent to my point here, both sides spit in a big puddle. Wouldn’t it be great if we settled conflicts this way now…. The idea being, their bodily fluids—their insides—are now mixed, and so they are one. Óðinn doesn’t stop there, of course, and he turns this puddle of spit into a person, because mythology. The metaphor of shared bodies equating to communal unity is made concrete as the bodily fluids of both communities are now contained within one literal body.

The person created from the spit is called Kvasir. He turns out to be the wisest being in the world, and he goes around telling folks wise stuff. But then he runs into some dwarves who think he is a smartass, and they kill him (they excuse themselves, saying, essentially, that he choked on his own wisdom)—and of course, they take his blood and mix it with honey to make mead, an alcoholic beverage associated with the aristocratic male community in ancient Scandinavia, because mythology, again, though we will probably get tired of this explanation. These dwarves get into a feud with a giant, who takes the mead in compensation for their killing of his parents, and this giant, Suttungr, hides it in the middle of a mountain, guarded by his daughter Gunnlöð, because duh, that’s what you do when you have magical mead made from the blood of the wisest person in the universe, and before that from the spit of the gods (I know “Drunk History” is a thing–“Drunk Mythology” would be good, but you would have to do this myth in poetic form…).


The origin of the “rhymster’s share” (aka Odin loses his shit). Image from wikicommons.

So Óðinn finds out and he thinks “Well, that’s not a good way to use my spit, we don’t want the giants to have it”, so he disguises himself, which is typical enough for Óðinn, and goes to seduce Gunnlöð—also quite typical for Óðinn. Well, it’s kind of complicated getting there, as he has to trick Suttungr’s brother into helping him, but in the end he drills a hole into the mountain, turns into a snake, and penetrates the chamber where Gunnlöð is guarding the mead—and if that wasn’t Freudian enough for you all, then he sleeps with her for three nights. In return she lets him drink up all the mead, and he turns into an eagle and flies away, because (again) mythology. Well, Suttungr doesn’t like this, so he turns into an eagle as well and chases Óðinn back to Ásgarðr. When Óðinn gets there he pukes the mead into containers, making the mead of poetry, now refined a final time with this return to and from Óðinn’s gut, available for gods and humanity—so this is where poetic skill comes from. But Suttungr was so close behind him that Óðinn peed himself a bit, and that’s where bad pop songs come from. Read the story in full in Prose Edda (for which, as usual, I recommend Faulkes’ translation–I’m a fan of his edition of the book as well).

The anxiety over penetration (again, of various sorts, both metaphorical and less so) in the state of negative reciprocity that I discussed above is hopefully illustrated well enough between the “Mead” and “Abduction” myths (oh, and please don’t assume the “screw you” ideology noted in passing here is all there is to say about gender in the sagas–it’s true that we tend to consider the sagas written by aristocratic men for aristocratic men, but there is a lot more to women in medieval Iceland beyond saga anxiety over their potential for penetration…). Beyond that, there is a lot more to reading this myth in terms of an implicit symbolic conflation of body, hall, and community. The mead of poetry is an origin myth for a specific type of poetry, Skaldic poetry. The form of skaldic is interesting in itself, but that’s a bit of a complex topic to get into here. In practice, skaldic was a commodity of the aristocratic male (again, this is the general, but not universal, picture we get through the sagas). Poems were composed in honor of chieftains, kings, wealthy men, and the prototypical performance would involve poetry performed in honor of the patron in his hall, with all the other retainers there as well. The communal identity of this boys-club of warriors is both symbolically and concretely reinforced by the fact that they are all together in this hall, “their” hall, that they are drinking alcoholic beverages together, a standard warrior-band practice marked by aristocratic exclusivity (a potential reason for the difficulty of the form), and the fact that they are all participants in this oral poetic performance—in fact, ears are referred as mouths in one kenning, showing us that the appropriateness of the conflation of mead and poetry was not lost on them. They all take in the poetic mead together, symbolizing their communal identity, just like the Aesir and the Vanir become one by sharing their own bodily fluids–we emphasize our communal sense of belonging by symbolically constructing shared bodily insides (think of the blood-brother ceremony, for example, which actually shows up in the sagas as well). OK, OK, kinda gross, but you know, at least I’m not telling you the story of Loki and the goat…

This was a bit of a rambly and long commentary on this myth (sorry), but if you made it this far I hope you will check it out yourself–it is early in the Skáldskaparmál section of Prose Edda. We should note that it is contested how much of this myth actually goes back to the Viking age–I expect that at best Snorri (author of Prose Edda, fyi) misunderstood a bit here or there (as has been suggested for the containers involved), while at worst he invented things wholesale based off of obscure references to the poetic mead in early skaldic poetry. That said, that there was some idea of a mead of poetry that came from Óðinn is indeed clear from some of this earliest poetry, as even then the skalds would articulate their own poetic act as a sort of regurgitation of Óðinn’s gift, so I feel like it is fair enough to apply my interpretation from the previous paragraph to the Viking age court. And while we are certainly interested (from an academic perspective) in sorting out how much is “heathen” and how much is Christian reception of the myth, we should also remember that Viking age religion did not involve the sort of aggressive orthodoxy you find in, for example, Christianity–myths were certainly expressions of religious faith, but there was no fixed text to refer back to, and variance would have been the rule, even, potentially, from fjord to fjord and farm to farm.

And last but not least, for a bonus visualization of the myth check out Drachenseele’s illustration here, done for me as my reward for getting second in an art contest on deviantart! 😀

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