Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta dorne. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta dorne. Mostrar todas las entradas

jueves, 25 de marzo de 2021

GENDER IS NO OBJECT - AN ANALYSIS OF THE TROPE

 I immediately fell for Dorne. And Altavia. And for at least the council of Aritsar... for all of those cultures due to what TV Tropes calls "Gender Is No Object;" in these country-esque, hinterlandish, quaint fantasy lands there are -paradoxally-  completely equal opportunities regardless of gender or sexual orientation.

This can be a Justified Trope, especially in futuristic settings where advances in technology have made physical differences like gender more or less irrelevant for soldiers. In medieval or early modern or gaslamp fantasy settings, authors may introduce some form of safe, reliable Fantasy Contraception, or the existence of inborn magic powers can be portrayed as making differences in size and strength less relevant, or there may be other social pressures encouraging gender equality (although all of these may or may not be convincing, depending on how well they're handled). Perhaps an abundant lifestyle permits more egalitarian views, if a territorial state has enough resources and is at peace. If the setting is not Earth and/or the characters are not normal humans, they may just have less sexual dimorphism. On the other hand, there are also plenty of cases of lazy or thoughtless worldbuilding, as well as cases where the author simply felt they needed no justification beyond Rule of Cool.

There are a wide variety of possible reasons for this. Sometimes it's pure Author Appeal: the author thinks thinks this setting is simply more awesomeSometimes it's an Author Tract (or, in the best case scenario, a case of Some Anvils Need to Be Dropped), with the author trying to make a point about how gender restrictions are bad.

jueves, 3 de agosto de 2017

WHY DO WE NEED A FOREIGN LAND?

So I thought once more of Dornish scorched earth tactics... also of the fact that I'd never done Jaime/Bronn slash, and of this Russian military folksong, "Czarist Lieutenant Golitsin" (Поручик Голицын), also known as "Czarist Lieutenant Golitsin, Ensign Obolensky" (Поручик Голицын, Корнет Оболенский)... so I thought doing for something completely different, a songfic with this pairing --Jaime as Golitsin and Bronn as his second-in-command Obolensky--. And set in Dorne because this region (the Plana de Castellón) in August right now might as well have been Dorne, that is as difficult to invade as Russia for the same reasons, though with General Summer instead! It wound up being very friendly Jaime/Bronn, the usual aide-de-camp shenanigans, with a wee bit more of Jaimienne and a lot more of character study.


WHY DO WE NEED A FOREIGN LAND?

The fourth day of the Dornish campaign.
After taking a holdfast by storm and finding it empty of Dornishmen and Dornishwomen, their mounts, their provisions. They have retreated inland, into harsh lands they know well, with everything in tow. Who knows how far they have made it?
The Westerosi warriors cast off their breastplates and helmets, wiping off the perspiration and lounging in the shade they can find, after a forced march that seemed to last for ages. 
Maybe the fountain in the courtyard, and the kegs, in the cellar, are laced with poison to knock the thirsty enemy out, Ser Bronn, that dark-haired veteran upstart, warily tells his commanding officer; but Jaime had already plunged head first into the fountain, that fountain as blue as the eyes of a certain mannish maiden, and was gaping like a fish after quenching the blaze in his throat and on his face. Yet he has turned strangely pale, his blade clanking within the scabbard on his right thigh, his thoughts flashing back to Joffrey's wedding... Ser Bronn had also been there, though not as close to the newlywed crown prince as Jaime Lannister, now lord of the Westerlands, had been himself.
Still, Joff was a mere stripling, and a coward. While the thirtyish man he never would know was his real sire, Jaime, was a warrior through and through... should he die in such an inglorious and painful way? Lord Tywin had died on the privy, Joffrey had been poisoned on his wedding feast... at least Ser Jaime Lannister himself would have fallen upon the battlefield and, as one of the few living Lannisters, have honoured the family name...
"Keep those spirits high. I'll pour you some Dornish red, Ser. Just to ensure it's not poisoned either..." his scarred aide-de-camp says with a gentle slap upon entering the keep once more. The hot sun is setting behind the craggy peaks of the Marches, a pleasant evening coolness pervading it all.
After taking just one sip of his strong drink to check if it has been poisoned, Bronn hands it over to his golden-haired commander, who takes the tankard in a hardened left hand before putting it doubtfully to his lips.
"We have led our men this far... and we are heading for Sunspear... and half our ranks are sunstruck and perchance up for dying," Jaime sighs, having but wet his lips in the blood of the Dornish grapes, a right hand of solid gold on his chest, above his still steady heart. "We are fighting for a higher cause, aren't we...?"
---
The fifth day of the Dornish campaign.
The next morn, at the crack of dawn, the dark veteran has already saddled the horses and prepared all the weapons, while the one-handed Lannister's face is strangely pale and his head is throbbing... A flash of suspicion cuts through Jaime's thoughts. Poisoned? No, more likely hungover, he reasons. That pain in the right wrist... it's always been there, ever since he became left-handed. Oh, he had woken up all thirsty and drenched with perspiration in the middle of the night because he dreamt that his right hand was of flesh and blood, fingernails and all, then severed at the wrist once more. So he plunged his head into the fountain once more, and fell asleep right by its side after a while.
"Bronn, saddle the horse... my white mare, Joanna..."
"She's already saddled, Ser."
In his dreams, there were tapestries and gardens of the Rock and the Red Keep, familiar faces surging through the fair commander's mind's eye: a golden-haired queen, her emerald orbs as cold as ice; a stern old noble, already silver-haired but with Lannister-green eyes equally piercing, a statesman and a warlord of renown; a tall and freckled, awkward maiden, more mannish than maidenlike, but still full of reassuring warmth... It was Brienne who had cut him at the right wrist in that dream, and then pulled him away from the throne room, and from his family, by seizing his left. Saying she would staunch the blood and tend to the stump as both of them ran away in haste... and he was startled awake by the pain.
Now the Maid of Tarth had ventured up north with that sword she was given, that Lannister sword he called Oathkeeper, to search for those two lost little girls, since moon-turns ago. Worlds away from Dorne. Ah... You reap what you have sown, his lord father used to say. Everything will be all right, Ser Jaime Lannister; you finally saw the light and your deeds and words have so far been true.
They have found some friendly shade in these ruins in the middle of the day, but no spring near to quench their thirst. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead: "Pour some Dornish red, Bronn... from that keg we took in the empty keep." After the order is carried out, the left-handed commander drains his tankard at one deep draught.
"And somewhere near is my girl... niece, I meant saying. Gods know how the Dornish are being to her. We do not know if we are the ones to blame, for... Lord Tywin, bless his soul, gave the order to kill Elia and her children, and the command was carried out in cold blood; a young woman and two children whose only crime was being related to the late royals..." And the shadow of that decision still lingers ominously over both Dorne and the Lannisters.
"Stay strong, Ser Jaime", Bronn reassuringly pats him on the back.
"How should I?" He glances into the palm of his left hand, then puts it to the hilt on his right thigh as if to draw steel. "Come fill up my tankard..."
A refill, another drink downed at one gulp, Jaime drunkenly singing as he huddles himself up in his white kingsguard commander's cloak, right before intoxication and the chirp of cicadas lull him to sleep little by little:
"Come fill up my tankard, come fill up my can;
come saddle the horses and call up the men;
come open the West Gate and let me go free,
there are wild ruthless rebels three-thousand times three!"
Not the usual Dornishman's Wife, but this song everyone in King's Landing and Lannisport, and their environs, know. One that, like the Rains of Castamere, speaks volumes about the Lannisters in general and their late patriarch in particular.
---
The sixth day of the Dornish campaign... 
...and a short funeral service has been held (Ser Bronn, that inured sellsword, knows prayers not only to the Seven, but also to foreign gods, by heart for a good reason) at a mass grave when the survivors of the Westerosi force have earthed and mourned the casualties. None of them killed by enemy steel; either sunstroke, snakes, or scorpions took their lives, that may have been as short as a decade and a half. Luckily, Jaime Lannister and his faithful right-hand man are among the survivors.
For Queen and Country, they have made it this far, faint with heat and thirst, staggering and forcing their hearts and spirits to the utmost. Come hell or highwater. Though Dorne hates and dreads those from north of the Marches, especially from the capital, even if neither the commander nor his second-in-command were born within its walls.
And, anyway, because there is the heir to Elia's bane, come with fewer armed men than when he left the Red Keep, but still at the head of his company; the rank and file never wavering or turning back, out of fear to betray the finest warrior in all Westeros, including Dorne and the lands beyond the Wall. --That's what's worth a look from a bold man! What would Lord Tywin say from the heaven or hell in which he spends his afterlife?-- Like the rank and file, the leader himself is reeling when they reach the next empty village a short while before the sun begins to set, but still his golden hair and green orbs, and the ever-so-conspicuous prosthetic right hand and white uniform, proclaim who and what he is.
Though what he is --a Lannister-- had hitherto been lost to who he is --Ser Jaime, not a twin sibling or the scion of a great dynasty--; this is harsh, unforgiving enemy country. The shimmering fountain on the square is as blue as her eyes, a speck of azure in a place bereft of greenery, where the few hardy plants are from golden to straw-blond. And his throat feeling as if stuffed with thorns all the way down to his chest. It's as if he were wearing a breastplate and a helmet of dragonfire, and the equally un-Dornish rank and file must be feeling the same. Flames dance before emerald eyes that seem to shrivel up in haste.
Right now, splash. Head first, as usual.
Up goes his face as down his throat rushes the soothing, cooling draught. Refreshed, as thirst and perspiration glide off him like water off a duck's back (never better said). Gasping for air. Once more, that feeling of his original right hand cut at the wrist, as the blade clanks on his right thigh.
Ominous storm clouds closing in on the twilit skies. When it rains in Dorne, it does so rarely and violently. The warriors up there in the hills must have left all their tankards and pans and helmets out of their hideouts.
The sun of Dorne is a great star, far more relentless than that of King's Landing or Lannisport. But now it's going down in a sack of clouds.
What does it take to believe in such omens?
The Lannister soldiers have found pans, kettles, vases left indoors by the non-existant villagers. They leave the containers out of doors to gather rainwater as Jaime and Bronn make themselves at home in the local holdfast.
"And why are you so downhearted?" the blond warrior asks the dark one in response to a sigh of the latter, wrapping a warm left arm around the downcast sellsword.
"I would slit your throat for a good Dornishwench, Lannister. The 'ladies' have retreated into the wasteland, and they're having it with those wicked men of their own kin. Hope we get a heartier welcome at Sunspear..."
"These clouds... the sun is going down in a sack... the great sun of Dorne... we are damned, Bronn, we are damned, pardon my Valyrian. I remember Elia... one of the first Dornish I ever saw, first as a little girl and then as a mother of two. That silky dark skin and those glossy raven locks... and those friendly midnight eyes of hers... The second time, I was a kingsguard then, at fifteen, but a mere stripling... a dutiful son and a dutiful guard... We cannot change the course of the stream of chance. I was powerless. Powerless."
Rarely do teardrops trickle from those peridot orbs, but Jaime remembering Elia and looking at the sun setting in a sack, his glances darting to the prosthetic hand and the pommel on his thigh --both on the right side--, and he's become the quivering stripling again.
Just like when his right hand was severed.
And when he was frozen in place before the carnage of the Princess Consort and her children.
And when his lady mother lay on her deathbed, and all he could do was clasp Cersei as she clasped him in return, drying up one another's tears.
"We cannot change the course of the stream of chance. What if we return home from this journey through the Seven Hells? Why do we need, friend, a foreign land, either in Dorne or further up north? Perchance the best thing would be to be realmless, as most of you sellswords are," he sobs as he wraps his left arm around the veteran's waist. It's harsh when the past resurfaces, the one-handed leader thinks, having drunk his fill, as the rains pitter-patter against the half-broken windowpanes. 
Perchance he deserves rightfully to be undone by Dornish warfare himself. Powerless. Powerless to save Elia, but also to save his own flesh and blood, who also deserved such inglorious fates; from poison, from assassination, from whatever dark intrigue the Lannisters had wrought themselves and chance ironically turned upon them.
"And now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with not a soul to hear..."
Ser Jaime sings to himself, left hand on the pommel, right arm hanging by his side as limp as a doll's, lulled to sleep by a pitter-patter reminiscent of that flooded underground castle at home in the Westerlands, whose children were drowned on Lord Tywin's command as well.
---
The seventh day of the Dornish campaign.
Everyone is hastening to drain the containers they left that evening on the village square, either down their own throats or into their camp kegs. It's been a generous downpour, puddles on the hard golden Dornish soil and all.
And he's dreamt of them. 
Of Joffrey choking after that last drink to quench all his youthful thirst, looking up and surely realising, after a painful and fixed gaze cast upon the twin siblings, that the Baratheon lush was not his real father. 
Of Lord Tywin found riddled with crossbow bolts on the privy, then already decaying from within as he was laid in state, yet seemingly telling the mourning twins, wordlessly, how proud and how disappointed of them he was at the same time. 
Of Cersei, once his better half, the only lock that fit his key --until someone else entered the scene--, turned a hideously broken and bloated shadow of her former self, flushed with brandy, a stripling in court dress on each arm. Surely she must be groping her cupbearer, while Lancel himself recoils and spills drink on her brocade gown.
Of all the slain soldiers he had led, here in Dorne and elsewhere, who never wavered when facing his piercing stare, but who eagerly whispered behind his back slurs addressed to him as a kingslayer and as a Lannister.
Of Elia and her children, and then of the children of Castamere, coming forth in peace to shake his callous left hand, the children eagerly peering at the prosthetic right, which once more was racked with pain, as he felt his own heart throb on the left side. Reconciled with their innocence nipped in the bud. 
Of the northern warriors that had severed his right hand, of Brienne, of Qyburn, of poppy possets and wooden swords, of respite and rebirth as his true self.
Perchance he is not that powerless as he felt in all those days.
There is still life, and courage, and hope after all at the end of the day. 
"'Tis not far to Sunspear," Jaime tells Ser Bronn, seeing the great castle jutting out on a cape, as if the fortress were part of the cliff itself, a thriving port town nestling in its shade. "Very like Casterly Rock, isn't it?" Having never seen Sunspear live before, the Lannister heir is left astonished as he steels himself, ready to rally the people on the square after they had whet their blades and saddled their steeds. Raising his right hand so that the glittering palm and fingertips rise to the sky, added to the lace on his uniform and his unkempt locks of beaten gold, all of them dazzle their eyes and encourage them further on towards an uncertain destination. 
Commanding them with all the sang-froid that returns to his veins, after he has drunk and washed his face clean of perspiration --now at least a tad more Jaime and a tad less Lannister--; bareheaded, raising his right arm to the sky and lowering the left one to the hilt on his right hip; commanding all of his men upon the village square, no matter their rank or descent, to put their honours first.





sábado, 13 de mayo de 2017

A FORTRESS IN THE HEART OF THE ISLAND - ILLUSTRATIONS

The illustrations of this fortress are impressive. I just luv remote outposts in the middle of nowhere (aside from warships and war skyships, for the same reasons) because you get a cast of men in period uniform (and sometimes women too) worlds away from the nearest community, crowded within the narrow walls, entirely cut off from the outside world, and that's all it takes to make a good military fiction thriller. No matter if the outpost is on Cyprus (Hussif, Othello's Tower), in Prussia (Küstrin, Templin), in Dorne (oh so many Dornish keeps), or in a fictional Ruritania (interbellum Ruritania, think The Grand Budapest Hotel) like the one in this literary fairy tale, written by Charlie Roscoe and illustrated by Tom Clohosy Cole.
Seriously, seeing this place, "a fortress in the heart of the island," today, made my heart race as usual whenever I see a good isolated fortress (or warship, or airborne aircraft carrier): lots of people in period uniform in a remote location and the things they go through, especially during peacetime. This setting is dark, sinister, ominous... yet the warmth of torchlight and the little vignettes with the military personnel (very one-bit secondary characters, yet to me they could have been the heroes of their own stories) add the fact that these characters are people, only that they're just following orders and donning variations on the same uniform!
The fortress on a craggy peak in the unforgiving blizzard. It's a massive square keep with a single tower, sinister and monolithic in appearance.

A cross section of the dungeon inside the tower. Rafters above, bars at the window, and bars at the door.




Things to look for: 
IN THE LEFT PAGE: a guard sleeping and letting a prisoner escape (that's called dereliction of duty!).
IN THE RIGHT PAGE: officers feasting in a candle-lit dining room hung with a painting of the surrounding landscape, the guard that fell asleep getting chided by one of his COs in the tower, a prisoner shackled in a dungeon, a changing of the guard, an officer sleeping (in a room full of books), another officer watching telly, and of course all the rafters, stairs, and battlements in the cross-section of the fortress (once I drew a scene inside an officer's chest, his heart cross-sectioned into those four chambers; that's what I'm reminded of). This looks like a wellspring for many stories; maybe even for either a thriller like Othello or a comedy like 'Allo 'Allo!
The contrast between few and far between warm torchlight flames and the icy blue penumbra that pervades the whole fortress also lends a lovely air to this setting.

Once the prisoner has escaped. Note the fortress glowing red against the night sky (ominous, right?), the lights on in the windows (not to mention the interbellum cars and flashlights), and the lovely touches such as the winding road down the slope and the telegraph/telephone wire that climbs up another slope.


REVIEWS of the setting:
... into a locked dungeon.
[···] The indigo shadows of the prison ...
(Project Muse)

 ...away in a dark fortress dungeon.
(Jillrbennett)

The dark illustrations and sinister mountain settings adds to the sense of fear throughout. 
(Ashbeee)

...in a cold, dark cell, in a secret, remote inland location. 
(Betsy, of Redeemed Reader)

martes, 15 de marzo de 2016

WESTEROSI NEOLOGISMS I

Here are some more expressions I use for my expanded Westerosverse.

-Leftcarlot: old rank for lieutenant in most kingdoms of Westeros. Was traditionally a high officer of the military. The Reach used "lieutenant" instead of "leftcarlot," which can be considered a form of shibboleth.
Etymology... "Left:" obvious (the opposite of "right"). "Carlot:" from an old Swedish word for "free man," English form taken for a Wilde tale, used to refer to landowners: "[···] and the carlots would not suffer [···] even to sleep in the byres lest [···] on the stored corn, [···] and their hired men drave [···] away, [···]." The inspiration was the rank of "lyftcarl" (same etymology) in the Calvarian army from Witanowski's The Reynard Cycle.
-Maiden's cunt! An oath that refers to the goddess of love and her private parts. Can be an exclamation of rage, surprise, or any other intense emotion.
-Sunflower/Snakeflower/Sandflower: slurs to refer to a person of mixed Dornish and Reachish descent; "sandflower" is used if the mixed-race person was conceived outside wedlock, by the lovechild surname of both regions.
-Firewater: brandy (term used mostly among non-Reachers and in the military).
-The Uns: the Dornish (Reach slur, due to the tripartite motto of Dorne and House Nymeros Martell).
-Lightriders: Dornish officers (Reach expression), due to their lighter scale armour.
-Sun-snakes/southern snakes/snakefolk: the most common slurs for Dornish people in the Reach and Stormlands (from the Dornish scale armour, use of chemical warfare, and ethnic stereotype).
-The Dornish sickness: refers to the consequence of a common strategy in Dornish warfare among the enemy. Upon invasion, the Dornish usually resort to scorched earth tactics, fleeing their communities, taking their crops with them, and poisoning their sources of freshwater to take on the thirsty enemy. The combination of sunstroke and this neurotoxic poisoning is what Reacher maesters call "the Dornish sickness." It is generally lethal.
-Lightning smite them!: The typical Stormlands curse.
-May a left-handed Dornish spear pierce their heart!: far less common curse, more common in literature such as wartime and romance ballads.
-Flower-eaters: Reachers, Dornish slur to refer to them.
-Fairfaces: another Dornish slur for Reachers.
-Kettleheads/Kettlechests/Kettlemen: a third slur for Reachers used in Dorne, due to their heavy armour. "Kettlemen" is the most common Dornish slur for Reachers.

jueves, 13 de agosto de 2015

MY OWN CREATIONS I

Here are photos of my latest creations:





Selfie of myself in flower crown made by hand, given to Iwona Nilsson as
Summer Queen.


The flower crown on its own.


"UNBOWED, UNBENT, UNBROKEN"
Collage on birchwood: glass, wool, cardboard, and wood.

sábado, 11 de julio de 2015

CAUSE OF GENDER EQUALITY IN DORNE: MY THEORY

Again, this is my hypothesis on the Dornish national character and egalitarian worldview: why Dornish women and children are more free from patriarchal norms and restraint than any of their counterparts north of the Marches.

In history, the major shifts from gender role rigidity to free love and self-expression values (Hellenism, 18th-century courtly promiscuity, the 1960s sexual revolution) happen to take place always after great armed conflicts. And I connect the Dornish culture of free love to these findings.
Should we read Harm de Blij's The Power of Place, Chapter 7 "Same Place, Different Destinies," we would get a detailed overview of the causes of the gender mortality gap/gender ratio (male:female mortality ratio) in real-life Western demography (that is, why females tend to live for longer time).

Historically, Dorne has always been a warzone: wars have been fought by Dorne against the Stormlands, the Reach, and the Crown. And even Dornish-on-Dornish feuds. For freshwater, for territorial expansion vs. independence...
The history of how the realm was unified by the Rhoynar refugees led by Nymeria when she promised her aid to Mors Martell in defeating other lords in their anarchic struggle for freshwater sources pretty much sums up the whole history that would come thereafter: crossing of national and foreign influences, freshwater a commodity during hard times, and of course a catalyst for warfare. What's more, Nymeria outlived a husband killed in action and is still revered by the Dornish as "mother of the nation" (giving her as much cred as Isabella the Catholic, who also unified realms and co-ruled with her husband), in spite of being a female foreigner.

As we have stated before, the history of Dorne is a history of war, and war tends to decimate any adult male population, the more armed conflict the more prominently. Nymeria was neither the first nor the only Dornishwoman to outlive her husband. Yet what may strike the reader is the fact that Dornishwomen can also be warriors and fight or lead armies on the battlefield.

Again, "Same Place, Different Destinies" holds the key. It states that males are more prone to risk-taking habits (substance abuse, reckless driving...) than females, which may have a biological source (hormonal). On the battlefield, during wartime, this is true in general as well, and thus, the equal-opportunity Dornish military, in times of conflict, will surely display a greater female ratio because of this risk-taking.

So: Warfare empowers minorities (women, children, foreigners...) and encourages self-expression values by decimating the adult male national elite of any system (This is the most positive thing I can say about armed conflict). The history of Dorne is, basically, a history of warfare. Hence: the Dornish culture's emphasis on self-expression values can be explained by the consequences of armed conflict and risk-taking influenced by testosterone, which stress the male:female mortality ratio and lead to female empowerment.


sábado, 13 de junio de 2015

OBERYN: WHITEWASHING THE QUEER FOREIGN ARISTOCRAT?

In which we talk about Lord Humphrey Heathfield and Count Jean de Satigny, the stereotype of the "fornicating foreign aristocrat" who is the other (the "another man" the female love interest marries) in a straight love triangle, about everyone's favourite Dornishman (and his advances on Cersei), about the status of aristocrats, foreigners, and freelovers as Others... and... answer the following question: is Oberyn, created in the new millennium, a positive spin on Heathfield and Satigny?

Consider Lord Humphrey Heathfield, a British peer in Italy, in the novel Il piacere by Gabriele d'Annunzio (the father of Fascism), published in 1889. He plays the role of the unloved "another man" of a husband to a couple of star-crossed lovers:


Consider Major Charles Eastwood, an army officer of Scandinavian descent in the UK, in The Virgin and the Gypsy by D.H. Lawrence, published in 1926. A case apart for being a character praised instead of criticized by the author for his lifestyle choices (yet criticized by the conservative, hypocritical antagonists:
Oddly, their situation— in which “Mrs. Eastwood” admits to being a “Mrs. Fawcett” on the verge of
divorce, the “mother of two children,” on an adulterous “honeymoon” with the younger Major
Eastwood— parallels that of Lawrence and Frieda. Perhaps he saw their situation, mirrored by the Eastwoods,
as decadent and corrupt.

couple who are very different; they are the Eastwoods. They aren’t married – yet – but plan to be as soon as the woman has completed her divorce. She is a wealthy Jewess, and he is a Nordic Adonis, and they are living together while the legal affairs are running their course. 

the shockingly living-in-sin pair Mrs Fawcett and Maj Eastwood 


Fawcett-Eastwood represent different aspects of the free, expressive life, and serve to increase the alternatives to conventional values concerning love and marriage.

Mrs. Fawcett (played delightfully by the fabulous Honor Blackman) enters with her charming and gorgeous boyfriend - Major Eastwood. (played by the late and extremely handsome Mark Burns).
Mrs. Fawcett (Honor Blackman) and Major Eastwood (Mark Burns), two people living in sin, much to the chagrin of the moralistic townsfolk. 

the sympathetic Eastwoods.

The subplot of the Eastwoods

Mrs Fawcett, who has left her rich husband to live with her boy-friend,
Major Eastwood, who is some years younger.
The Eastwoods are unusual and interesting people.

Major Eastwood, during the war.

The subplot of the Eastwoods will decisively help understanding
of love and sex. The Eastwoods represent an inversion of the rules of the society: 
she is a rich woman who has bribed a handsome, athletic man into becoming her husband. Recognition of Major Easwood as an object of female desire, and as a man economically dependant on a woman broadens our scope substantially and shows us an altemative to the conventional sexual behaviour, according to which women are only objects, and not subjects, of sexual desire.

the scandalously unmarried couple
The Eastwoods. They are a couple who are not
married legally. The Jewish woman ran away from her husband and now loves a
younger poor man named Major Eastwood. They live together.

Major Eastwood has this tenderness.

Major Eastwood tells the importance of desire. He
thinks “that desire is the most wonderful thing in life. Anybody who can really feel
it, is a king, and I envy nobody else (GSNSL 1078).” He tells the difference between desire
and lust. Major Eastwood looks like Mellors in Lady Chatterley’s Lover in thought.

 Eastwoods who are dauntless to pursue their love life. 

 Lawrence's portrayal of Mrs. Eastwood, a woman whose positive flouting of conventional morality is countervened by her cosmopolitanism and materialism - qualities deemed antithetical to true Englishness...
"the little Jewess"... her own ironical alliance with society's prejudiced notions of race and class.
...she is blasted (Mrs. Eastwood) for being Jewish, for living in an unmarried state with a younger man, and for having left her children...
Mrs. Eastwood is a particularly unstable figure.
Although liberated sexually, economically, and socially,
she is implicitly faulted for her mobility: for buying the Major,
for moving out of her Jewish world, for taking control and exercising power.
Mrs. Eastwood is a sexually alluring and dangerous other.
Mrs. Eastwood, for example, is a very small woman with a rather large nose.

Characters like the Eastwoods are affected by social snobbery.

There is frozen water: Major Eastwood has been "resurrected" from being buried for
twenty hours under snow.

Un hombre y una mujer. Se acercan los dos al fuego (es febrero y amenaza nieve), y preguntan si se pueden calentar (su coche es descapotado). La mujer dice que están en su "luna de miel", mientras esperan la sentencia de divorcio de Mr. Fawcett, un conocido ingeniero de la localidad. Ella es hebrea, y madre de dos hijitos, cuya custodia se le concederá en cuanto "se case" con el hombre. Este es el comandante Charles Eastwood, rubio, atlético, y cinco o seis años más joven que ella, que tiene 37 años. 
Eastwood se entera que los dos sirvieron en el mismo regimiento en Flandes durante la guerra.

Se relata la animada y detallada descripción de los Eastwood.
El cottage de los Eastwood, donde viven juntos y hacen todas las faenas de la casa sin servidumbre. La hebrea se escandaliza. En cambio, el comandante muestra más comprensión.

 la medio divorciada Mrs. Fawcett y el maquereau Eastwood.
Son realmente muy agradables. Y se casarán dentro de un mes, más o menos.

Mrs. Fawcett (Honor Blackman) and Major Eastwood (Mark Burns), two people living in sin, much to the chagrin of the moralistic townsfolk. 

Consider Count Jean de Satigny, a French aristocrat in Chile, in Isabel Allende's The House of the Spirits, 1982. He is also the unloved "another man" of a husband to a couple of star-crossed lovers:  
Jean de Satigny is passionate about literature, ostentatious luxuries, and his kinky photography using his own servants.
a large mansion, with strange, ostentatious decorations. 
his obsession: photographs of the indigenous servants posed naked with each other and strange props.
Jean is not "inclined to married life" because his sexual outlet is this strange, kinky private life. He is having a gay relationship with his most faithful male servant.

2. ¿Cómo definirías al conde Jean de Satigny?
  • El conde Jean de Satigny era un hombre de buenos modales y con mucho dinero. Le gustaba la literatura y la música.
  • 1. ¿Cuál es el libro de cabecera de Jean de Satigny? ¿Esta elección explica algo del desenlace de este episodio?
    • El libro se llama “La Filosofía del Tocador” de Marqués de Sade. al final del capitulo sobre las fantasias sexuales que Jean de Satigny tiene es su casa con los sirvientes.
    • Nos referimos a las momias que Jean de Satigny guardaba en su casa. 
    • 3. ¿A qué negocio fraudulento se dedica el conde francés?
      • Jean de Satigny se dedica a los negocios ilegales de artefactos históricos y el alcohol.

Jean de Satigny

Un misterioso conde francés que se vuelve muy popular en la región por su comportamiento metrosexual y su interés en el arte indígena.
Jean empieza a practicar el contrabando de arqueología indígena...
... las orgías de Satigny con los sirvientes...
 her new husband, ... his participation in sexual fantasies with the servants.
A Jean de Satigny no le interesaba la vida matrimonial: dijo a su esposa Blanca que si no deseaba amarlo, no le importaba;
Jean exportaba antigüedades incas;
las paredes estaban cubiertas por retratos desnudos de los sirvientes;
dem Franzosen Jean de Satigny... dass er mit den teils männlichen Hausbediensteten sexuell eindeutige Fotoaufnahmen macht

Él vestía un pantalón de lino blanco y una
chaqueta azul de corte marinero...
Jean abandonó el papel de novio que le daba besitos en
el cuello y elegía los mejores langostinos para dárselos en la boca, y pareció olvidar
por completo sus seductores modales de galán del cine mudo, para transformarse en
el hermano que había sido para ella en los paseos del campo, cuando iban a merendar
sobre la yerba con la máquina fotográfica y los libros en francés. Jean entró al baño,
donde se demoró tanto, que cuando reapareció en la habitación Blanca estaba medio
dormida. Creyó estar soñando al ver que su marido se había cambiado el traje de
matrimonio por un pijama de seda negra y un batín de terciopelo pompeyano, se había
puesto una red para sujetar el impecable ondulado de su peinado y olía intensamente
a colonia inglesa. No parecía tener ninguna impaciencia amatoria.  Se sentó a su lado
en la cama y le acarició la mejilla con el mismo gesto un poco burlón que ella había
visto en otras ocasiones, y luego procedió a explicar, en su relamido español
desprovisto de erres, que no tenía ninguna inclinación especial por el matrimonio,
puesto que era un hombre enamorado solamente de las artes, las letras y las
curiosidades científicas, y que, por lo tanto, no intentaba molestarla con
requerimientos de marido, de modo que podrían vivir juntos, pero no revueltos, en
perfecta armonía y buena educación. Aliviada, Blanca le tiró los brazos al cuello y lo
besó en ambas mejillas.
-¡Gracias, Jean! -exclamó.
-No hay de qué -replicó él cortésmente.
Se acomodaron en la gran cama de falso estilo Imperio, comentando los pormenores
de la fiesta y haciendo planes para su vida futura.
en la más olvidada provincia del Norte, donde sus elegantes ropas de viaje y
sus maletas de cocodrilo pasaron desapercibidas en el bochornoso calor seco de la
hora de la siesta. Jean de Satigny acomodó provisoriamente a su esposa en un hotel y
se dio a la tarea de buscar un alojamiento digno de sus nuevos ingresos. A las
veinticuatro horas la pequeña sociedad provinciana estaba enterada que había un
conde auténtico entre ellos. Eso facilitó mucho las cosas para Jean. Pudo alquilar una

antigua mansión que había pertenecido a una de las grandes fortunas de los tiempos
del salitre, antes que se inventara el sustituto sintético que envió toda la región al
carajo. La casa estaba algo mustia y abandonada, como todo lo demás por allí,
necesitaba algunas reparaciones, pero conservaba intacta su dignidad de antaño y su
encanto de fin de siglo. El conde la decoró a su gusto, con un refinamiento equívoco y
decadente.
Jean colocó sospechosos jarrones de porcelana china que en lugar
de flores contenían plumas teñidas de avestruz, cortinas de damasco con drapeados y
borlas, almohadones con flecos y pompones, muebles de todos los estilos, arrimos
dorados, biombos y unas increíbles lámparas de pie, sostenidas por estatuas de loza
representando negros abisinios en tamaño natural, semidesnudos, pero con babuchas
y turbantes. La casa siempre estaba con las cortinas corridas, en una tenue penumbra
que lograba detener la luz implacable del desierto. En los rincones Jean puso pebeteros
orientales donde quemaba yerbas perfumadas y palitos de incienso.
Contrató varios jóvenes de la provincia
para su servicio, además de una gorda monumental que hacía el oficio de la cocina, a
quien entrenó para preparar las salsas muy aliñadas que a él le gustaban, y una
mucama coja y analfabeta. A todos puso vistosos uniformes de
opereta, pero no pudo ponerles zapatos, porque estaban habituados a andar descalzos
y no los resistían. 
Los cuartos más apartados de la casa fueron destinados a la manía de Jean por la
fotografía. Allí instaló sus lámparas, sus trípodes, sus máquinas. Rogó a Blanca que no
entrara jamás sin autorización a lo que bautizó «el laboratorio», porque, según explicó,
se podían velar las placas con la luz natural. Puso llave a la puerta y andaba con ella
colgando de una leontina de oro.
 Los servía siempre el mismo camarero impasible y silencioso, que
mantenía en la boca rodando en permanencia la verde bola de hojas de coca con que
se sustentaba. No era un sirviente común y no cumplía ninguna función específica
dentro de la organización doméstica. Tampoco era su fuerte servir la mesa, ya que no
dominaba ni fuentes ni cubiertos y terminaba por tirarles la comida de cualquier modo.
Blanca tuvo que indicarle en alguna ocasión que por favor no agarrara las papas con la
mano para ponérselas en el plato. Pero Jean de Satigny lo estimaba por alguna
misteriosa razón y lo estaba entrenando para que fuera su ayudante en el laboratorio.
-Si no puede hablar como un cristiano, menos podrá tomar retratos -observó Blanca
cuando se enteró.
Aquel camarero fue el que Blanca creyó ver luciendo tacones Luis XV.
Jean de Satigny acabó por ir solo a las numerosas invitaciones que recibían.
Después, cuando llegaba a la casa, se burlaba frente a Blanca de la cursilería de esas
familias antañosas y rancias. Se dedicaba a esos pequeños placeres que sólo el dinero
puede pagar y a los que había tenido que renunciar por tan largo tiempo. Salía todas
las noches a jugar al casino y su mujer calculó que debía perder grandes sumas de
dinero, porque al final del mes había invariablemente una fila de acreedores en la
puerta. Jean tenía una idea muy peculiar sobre la economía doméstica. Se compró un
automóvil último modelo, con asientos forrados en piel de leopardo y perillas doradas,
digno de un príncipe, el más grande y ostentoso que se había visto nunca por
esos lados. Estableció una red de contactos misteriosos que le permitieron comprar
antigüedades, especialmente porcelana francesa de estilo barroco, por la cual sentía
debilidad. También metió en el país cajones de licores finos que pasaba por la aduana
sin problemas. Sus contrabandos entraban a la casa por la puerta de servicio y salían
intactos por la puerta principal rumbo a otros sitios, donde Jean los consumía en
parrandas secretas o bien vendía a un precio exorbitante. En la casa no recibían visitas
y a las pocas semanas las señoras de la localidad dejaron de llamar, lo cual aumentó la
simpatía general por el conde francés, quien adquirió fama de marido paciente y
sufrido.
No podía explicarse que
Jean se diera el lujo de comprar porcelana y pasear en ese vehículo atigrado, si no le
alcanzaba el dinero para pagar la cuenta del chino del almacén ni los sueldos de lo s
numerosos sirvientes. Jean se negaba a hablar del asunto, con el pretexto de que ésas
eran responsabilidades propiamente masculinas.
Pero Jean de Satigny se burlaba de su afán artístico, diciendo
que si era para mantener las manos ocupadas, mejor tejía botines y aprendía a hacer
pastelitos de hojaldre. Ella terminó por abandonar su trabajo, no tanto por los
sarcasmos de su marido, sino porque le resultó imposible competir con la alfarería
antigua.
Jean había organizado su negocio con la misma tenacidad que antes empleó en el
asunto de las chinchillas, pero con más éxito. Aparte de un sacerdote alemán que
llevaba treinta años recorriendo la región para desenterrar el pasado de los incas,
nadie más se había preocupado de esas reliquias, por considerarlas carentes de valor
comercial. El Gobierno prohibía el tráfico de antigüedades indígenas y había entregado
una concesión general al cura, quien estaba autorizado para requisar las piezas y
llevarlas al museo. Jeán las vio por primera vez en las polvorientas vitrinas del museo.
Pasó dos días con el alemán, quien feliz de encontrar después de tantos años a una
persona interesada en su trabajo, no tuvo reparos en revelar sus vastos
conocimientos. Así se enteró de la forma como se podía precisar el tiempo que
llevaban enterrados, aprendiendo a diferenciar las épocas y los estilos, descubrió el
modo de ubicar los cementerios en el desierto por medio de señales invisibles al ojo
civilizado y llegó finalmente a la conclusión de que si bien esos cacharros no tenían el
dorado esplendor de las tumbas egipcias, al menos tenían su mismo valor histórico.
Una vez que obtuvo toda la información que necesitaba, organizó sus cuadrillas de
indios para desenterrar cuanto hubiera escapado al celo arqueológico del cura.
Los magníficos huacos, verdes por la pátina del tiempo, empezaron a llegar a su
casa disimulados en bultos y alforjas de llamas, llenando rápidamente los
lugares secretos dispuestos para ellos. 
El negocio de las gredas indígenas era secreto, puesto que eran patrimonio histórico
de la nación. Trabajaban para Jean de Satigny varias cuadrillas que habían
llegado allí deslizándose clandestinamente por los intrincados pasos de la frontera. No
tenían documentos que los acreditaran como seres humanos, eran silenciosos, toscos e
impenetrables. Cada vez que Blanca preguntaba de dónde salían esos seres que
aparecían súbitamente en su patio, le respondían que eran primos del que servía la
mesa y, en efecto, todos se parecían. No duraban mucho en la casa. La mayor parte
del tiempo estaban en el desierto, sin más equipaje que una pala para excavar la
arena y una bola de coca en la boca para mantenerse vivos. A veces tenían la suerte
de encontrar las ruinas semienterradas en un pueblo de los incas y en poco tiempo
llenaban las bodegas de la casa con lo que robaban en sus excavaciones. La búsqueda,
transporte y comercialización de esta mercadería se hacía en forma tan cautelosa, que
Blanca no tuvo la menor duda de que había algo ilegal detrás de las actividades de su
marido. Jean le explicó que el Gobierno era muy susceptible respecto a los cántaros
mugrientos y los míseros collares de piedrecitas del desierto y que para evitar
tramitaciones eternas de la burocracia oficial, prefería negociarlos a su modo. Los
sacaba del país en cajas selladas con etiquetas de manzanas, gracias a la complicidad
interesada de algunos inspectores de la aduana.

 Lentos e inmutables, aparecían
por la casa cargando una gran vasija sellada de barro cocido. Jean la abría
cuidadosamente en una habitación con todas las puertas y ventanas cerradas, para
que el primer soplo de aire no la convirtiera en polvo de ceniza. En el interior de la
vasija aparecía la momia, como el hueso de un fruto extraño, encogida en posición
fetal, envuelta en sus harapos, acompañada por sus miserables tesoros de collares de
dientes y muñecos de trapo. Eran mucho más apreciadas que los demás objetos que
sacaban de las tumbas, porque los coleccionistas privados y algunos museos
extranjeros las pagaban muy bien. 
Jean de Satigny le decía que acomodadas en una urna de
cristal, podían ser más valiosas que cualquier obra de arte para un millonario europeo.
Las momias eran difíciles de colocar en el mercado, transportar y pasar por la aduana,
de modo que a veces permanecían varias semanas en las bodegas de la casa,
esperando su turno para emprender el largo viaje al extranjero.
Jean de Satigny terminara su meticuloso aseo
personal, desayunara con su parsimonia habitual, leyera su periódico hasta la última
página y finalmente saliera en su diario paseo matinal, sin que nada en su plácida
indiferencia de futura madre, delatara su feroz determinación. Cuando Jean salió...
A tientas buscó el interruptor y encendió la luz. Se encontró en una espaciosa
habitación con los muros pintados de negro y gruesas cortinas del mismo color en las
ventanas, por donde no se colaba ni el más débil rayo de luz. El suelo estaba cubierto
de gruesas alfombras oscuras y por todos lados vio los focos, las lámparas y las
pantallas de Jean. Estaban dentro de un escenario
fantástico, sorteando baúles abiertos que contenían ropajes emplumados de
todas las épocas, pelucas rizadas y sombreros ostentosos, se detuvo ante un trapecio
dorado suspendido del techo, donde colgaba un muñeco desarticulado de proporciones
humanas, vio en un rincón una llama embalsamada, sobre las mesas botellas de
licores ambarinos y en el suelo pieles de animales exóticos. Pero lo que más la
sorprendió fueron las fotografías. Al verlas se detuvo estupefacta. Las paredes del
estudio de Jean Satigny estaban cubiertas de acongojantes escenas eróticas que
revelaban la oculta naturaleza de su marido.
no se le había ocurrido
que la pasión pudiera tener otras formas. Esas escenas desordenadas y tormentosas
eran una verdad mil veces más desconcertante que las momias escandalosas que
había esperado encontrar.
Reconoció los rostros de los sirvientes de la casa. Allí estaba toda la corte de los
incas, desnuda como Dios la puso en el mundo, o mal cubierta por teatrales ropajes.
Vio el insondable abismo entre los muslos de la cocinera, a la llama embalsamada
cabalgando sobre la mucama coja y al impertérrito que le servía la mesa, en
cueros como un recién nacido, lampiño y paticorto, con su inconmovible rostro de
piedra y su desproporcionado pene en erección.
Por un interminable instante, Blanca se quedó suspendida en su propia
incertidumbre, hasta que la venció el horror. Procuró pensar con lucidez. Entendió lo
que Jean de Satigny había querido decir la noche de bodas, cuando le explicó que no
se sentía inclinado por la vida matrimonial. Vislumbró también el siniestro poder del
camarero, la burla solapada de los sirvientes y se sintió prisionera en la antesala del
infierno.

Can any stereotype with the combined labels of "noble birth", "cultured", "foreigner", and "free love" be recognized from these characters?
In a conservative bourgeois framework, all four are labels of Otherness, which can become stigmata. Bluebloods have no place in the capitalistic system, high culture is too highbrow, foreigners come from abroad/other countries and might be enemies, free love is an insult to intercourse within straight marriage. A freeloving foreign aristocrat is thus thrice stigmatized if portrayed as the villain and/or the imposed husband/"another man". Which appears heterosexist, ethnocentric, and contemptive of nobility at the same time. The character of Lord Heathfield, the prototype for Count de Satigny, could be a demonizing caricature of the kind that led to both World Wars and Fascist conservatism.
In such worlds... it a crime to the 'verse to be a count or a lord? to love the arts, literature, and music? to live one's sexual fantasies or live as the opposite gender? to come from a different country? And to fulfil all of these conditions? As a part-time foreigner and a lover of high culture and free love, I consider this cluster of offensive stereotypes one that should be whitewashed as soon as possible. Charles Eastwood was already a positive example of foreign (actually, of foreign descent) cultured aristocrat who transcends social norms of sex and gender... Can our dear Oberyn be another positive example?

Consider now Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, a Dornishman in King's Landing, created in 2000.
Accompanied by his paramour Ellaria, the Fawcett to his Eastwood, or "the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour" to his "her lover", the Dornish duo sends shockwaves through the capital of Westeros, especially through the Red Keep, the royal court.
In reality, Oberyn Nymeros Martell is a profound deconstruction of the "queer foreign aristocrat" stereotype. He may quaff life at long draughts, have lived through lots of adventures, and have had countless flings of both genders all over Dorne, the Reach, and Essos, but at heart he is brooding for the death of his younger sister Elia, for whose sake he arrives at court "for the royal wedding", with the real purpose of killing the one who took his sister's life in retaliation. The free-love and carpe diem lifestyle he has chosen is out of escapism, to distance himself from the memory of Elia being cruelly raped and butchered merely due to being on the wrong side during wartime. Now Oberyn at last decides to confront Ser Gregor Clegane (who was merely following orders from Tywin Lannister), after much spending his life in free love flings and adventures.