Once upon a distant UK future, or stretch of its past long buried in the bog and/or under small beach pebbles of Stonehenge-y time, savages in maskies roamed and rode, shooting and raping all they may survey, and worshipping a giant stone head that floated gamely o'er the rolling green Irish hills and occasionally spat them new guns and ammo. And when it could get no weirder, the head would sprachen in a booming manly voice a kind of population control mantra, about how shooting semen from your gunny cock is bad and shooting death from a cocked gun is good, or raping must come with killing, lest more bullets in the future wasted be. The booming voice at odds with what sounds like something passionately scrawled on the bathroom wall by a sophomore who'd just read Jung's "Man and his Symbols" while watching Wizard of Oz on acid, not an injudicious idea in itself, but not with a mind polluted by DSB (a dorm is a terrible place for, ahem, privacy).
Ever the marauders, of these masked savages Zed (Sean Connery) did gamely sneak aboard the floating head and kill its man behind the curtain (with his painted twirly 'Painting for Surreal' Groucho mustache), thus having the whole head to his own, only to have it touch down behind a force field and land him in the presence of a group of intellectually advanced immortals living off the land in a perfect encounter group breathing exercise one-mind mime troupe sense of order.
Adorned only in taffeta robes so clearly demarked 'Eloi' as to affrot any rambling Bevin Boys' morlock coterie's cognizance of couth, these fey libertines don't quite know what to make of our young thug from the other side of the bubble. Zed's mind's been wiped in advance so they can't scan him and find out what happened to the guy in the painted mustache. Some of the girls, especially in the scientist ladies, particularly lovely Consuella (Charlotte Rampling) react with hostility to his sexy shirtless pheromones, demanding his immediate destruction; the other head scientist, May (Sara Kestleman) wants to probe his, ahem, "mind" first, to find out what happened to the man behind the curtain, who was out and about in the world beyond the wall for quite awhile. They can project and read his memories thanks to the crystal computer banks, but someone's 'wiped' the portion leading up to his arrival. So May may need to do some real, literally under the sheets, investigation.
I know, it sounds randy and oh so 60s-early 70s, and what's wrong with that? Unlike the smirky post-Porky's 80s and the inevitable feel-bad 90s, ZARDOZ is from an era all about psychedelic openings (to free love and eastern philosophy and renewed interest in the far-out writings of Castaneda, Jung, and Burroughs) but after awhile these openings became as a giant universal mouth of macho hungry ghost gimme gimme, in other words, only when sex was plentiful could man move beyond sex. But before then, for a glistening period of around fifteen or so years, self-awareness led to a form of macho beyond Freud's "one direction" sense of phallic symbolism. Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces led to Iron John and the men's movement. Yeah, the real men's movement, not dopey Alt-right trolls but hairy dudes banging drums in the woods.
To Freud, a gun was a phallic symbol, i.e. for ze penis, but Jung's break with Freud was that the penis was also a gun, i.e. neither was the be-all-end all. In this more enlightened less sex-obsessed frame of thinking, he idea of "the phallus" wasn't necessarily tied to some infantile anxiety formed at the first sight of mom's "missing" genitals, but that the phallus itself was a pure signifier, en par with the circle or zero, i.e the phallus was the '1' and the yoni the '0' of a binary symbolic code.
You can tell John Boorman knew and was heavy into all that stuff, as more than any other Arthurian filmmaker, he felt the connection; he was spearheading a new self-aware sexist macho psychedelia, one beyond the duality of shame/pride; lust/disgust, and even death/life. In fact, Boorman was so badass about it all in that era, that he'd even adorn Sean Connery in an orange diaper for his big mighty sci-fi opus, ZARDOZ, Zardoz, King of the Brittons!
Even Boorman understood, deep down, some of this shit was plain crazy, but as far as loopy but pungent satires on the vanity at the heart of masculine identity, this fuck-all fractured crystal light show is most prescient today. Had anyone been listening to it at the time, instead snickering, it may have woken us up to the value of death as the only key to life.
But at the time, which was 1974, we weren't necessarily ready to have our yarbles handed to us with a stern warning and an extra magazine cartridge. We just saw Sean Connery with his black ponytail and traffic cone orange diaper riding a horse and a big stone head flying around and rolled our eyes in embarrassment. Of course, he's the only fertile still-erect male in an isolated society of enlightened immortals, his big red bulges gazed upon lustily by the gorgeous broads of Planet Wherever. The sight of Rampling and the other immortals standing around in multi-colored robes in weird configurations that evoke one of those planets on Star Trek that's all Ancient Greece-y so old character actors can recite Aeschylus and the wardrobe person can air out the togas still in mothballs since the 50s biblical epic heyday.
But time has shown us that what really spooks us about ZARDOZ is that it posits Boorman as the great chronicler of castration anxiety and it's perhaps that anxiety that kept us (okay, me) away so long. Emasculated in jumpers, "them panties", or even (below) wedding dresses, Boorman's oeuvre never shies from (figurative) crotch shots (as in Walker's final punch to the gangster's crotch in Point Blank ). In facing the dread of castration anxiety so astutely, Boorman's films have Freudian breakthroughs right there on the screen, and sometimes that gets unseemly. Before Burt gets a chance to shoot arrows at rednecks, and Richard Burton gets to throw Linda Blair against a wall and start to strangle her while half-molesting her at the same time, there must be all sorts of humiliation and threats, from demons, rapists, and immortal hotties with brain freezing crystal rings. Running from the problem just gives it more juice--you got to clamp down hard and don't let go, like a pit bull.
Taken as an infantilizing hybrid of anal phase fixations then, Zed's macho hairy chest and that orange outfit might somehow tap into into the kind of revulsion most children feel for their own diapers by the age of three -- I know it turned me off at the time (I was seven in 1974). But now, grown into middle-age, Zed's infantile garb is as bemusing and unthreatening as it is for the immortals within the sanctuary. Personally, a vast regimen of SSRIs have removed 95% of my sex drive and I couldn't be happier about it. Maybe that's why now I understand how the UK's weird macho fey switcheroo makes boys into men by first making them women. Connery's Zed is somehow now all the more masculine for being so feminized, so objectified. Hustling the food in and out at the long banquet tables where the 'adults' discuss his fate (whether they should ice him or let him live), he's like disaffected puppy, his sexual heat is the equivalent of soft black velvet painting sad eyes. He doesn't have to do anything--he's like a woman on a pirate ship.
DEATH BEFORE DISHESAs a side note, I used to love to watch nature documentaries as a kid. All the death was just fascinating, but now the endless stream of fear, hunger, death and birth that is the ecosystem of the ocean--my poor krill--makes me feel like I am waking up to the fact Earth is a prison it takes thousands of lifetimes to escape--if ever. With every gulp some whale is devouring enough little lives to populate a country. But it doesn't end, for gobs of krill come alive in little eggs again, just to be eaten by something that will itself be eaten. Man it's depressing - how many times have we all died as tiny little krill or shrimp or plesiosaurs? ZARDOZ makes me wonder: Has our slow poisoning of the seas been something the sea itself--the collective consciousness of all marine life along the vast, endless food chain-- wished upon itself? We have to get past that tacky sci-fi cliche of the fertile man with hot space bitches standing in line for his seed, that Men's pulp magazine cover mask, the booming voice and smoke and fire, to see the true man-behind-the-curtain of that seed itself. Are we men or are we marauders? Zed is named thus for a reason. Man is here, screams this potty pisser lost in a eloi/morlock cocktail, there shall be no more arrivals! Our pollution of the ocean is a liberator that will free the blighted hungry, scared, and dying from any more than another century of endlessly reincarnating woe.
HOOLIGANS OF SATURNALIA
For those renegades who've lived a century or more, no matter how lovely it is in this small 20 acre or so place--all around a lake with an old castle commons, inflated dry-cleaning bags around various bushes to denote a kind of oblique The Prisoner vibe--it's time to go. The hour of their deliverance is at hand. In this way he's like the link between the specter in Masque of the Red Death with Conan the Barbarian (compare his sneaking onto the head and killing all aboard to Conan and his friends' unprovoked raids on Set's temples) and Alex in Clockwork Orange, whose brute savagery is initially controlled by a brutalizing form of aversion therapy (which mirrors our revulsion/attraction towards the violence ourselves, our being 'unable to look away' as it were) and then by an undoing of that same therapy, to leave him better prepared to kill and ravage his way to a fruitful reunion with the Earth as it used to be, when hedonistic amphetamine-amped savagery saved us all from tough decisions, morals, trash night, and guilty consciences.
Boorman's bid at Kubrick-esque satire, Zardoz fracturing itself along fault lines that bridge Dr. Strangelove to Barbarella. It's an announcement to the world that he, Boorman, can be as much a macho priapic/cold misanthropic, less geometrically precise but still bonkers to the point of mind expansion and Dark Heart of Conradian consciousness as Kubrick.
Maybe not, but you can tell he 'gets' it - he gets the deep shit Kubrick's digging up, and he doesn't steal, he Boorman just acquires a similar shovel and starts looking on his own tract. He finds some deep, deep, deep shit. And he doesn't need a Terry Southern to apply black humor (ala Dr. Strangelove), Boorman's the sole writer. He follows his own drummer and if that drummer should veer of a cliff, Boorman's macho enough to beat it all the way down
|We're all hooligans in the nursery|
Whatever, it's found a crowd with me, at last --it only took me ten tries, over the years. Waiting... for the key moment--I finally made it to the livin' end--not even noticing Sean's ill-advised dyed-black chest hairs and douche pony tail. I just had to be in the other room for the first half, listening. Absorbing my way inward, like a louche amoeba.
And lo and behold, I really relate to a lot of the crazy split-subjectives and all the mass mind meditation and heavy breathing. I mean I really REALLY relate. (Imagine me saying that last part while rolling over you, pulling at your collar). The Immortals' whole vibe is one of those 70s theater encounter groups, or any tight-knit acting class or troupe that does little weird everyone vocalizing and waving their arms in unison outcasting or accepting one of their number into the group mind, the way EST paved the way for a billion offshoot 'encounter groups' for people afraid of being touched or opened up to get to their own heart of it all.
DON'T DERIDE YOUR MAN'S ARCHAIC REVERIE
Zardoz expresses it, while at the same time undoing it, and that's maybe the thing that keeps audiences away. Our secret memories of those old sci-fi tales and Heavy Metal comics mustn't be exposed to the air and sniffed over by super intelligent women who could kill us with a wink.
On the other hand, if we don't flinch from their stinging gaze, we just might get lucky. Biology is a peculiar thing.
Dig this groovy statement by the iRing (their male version of Siri or Alexa) when discussing Zed's propensity for laying around in his cage, dreaming, a hobby which the Immortals find to be a huge waste of time: "Sleep was necessary for man when his waking and unconscious lives were separated," and that plus their longevity is a clear explanation for their enormous power, their mental faculty which gives them more or less the ability to age each other through group mind telepathy and live in a life of perfect order and balance.
This utopia is the dream of every loving group of 'awakened' individuals who've ever collectively fallen in love over a psychedelic outdoor weekend together (set and setting being so crucial). If they have achieved 'total consciousness," then meditation takes the place of sleep and almost every other need. "Second Level" as the Immortals call it seems to be a communal shared alpha state where bad vibes can lead to your arrest and aging of up to five years. Ah laddie, there's always one wally or murph trying to drag the zeppelin down. If only my tribe back in the 80s could have spooked them off with collective humming, I might be immortal to this day.
I've told you about those glorious stretches of time I've experienced (this much later in my fisher king solitude) when unconscious and conscious lined up perfectly, as if in sublime eclipse, and I could see with my eyes closed or open, all was illuminated and inseparable; I realized that we never see total black with our eyes closed - there's an electric field and with the right confluence of elements we can 'focus' that field and realize it's really just a seriously out-of-focus image. It's clearly what Boorman was going for that total consciousness of dreaming third eye / consciousness two eyes - all open at the same time. Of course, too much of that leads straight to the psych-ward unless you're so charismatic you're covered head-to-toe in protective cult underlings who make sure your every step is strewn with roses... and if that happens just try and keep your ego from running amok and becoming 'that' type of cult leader, the male lion who boots the young men out of the tribe so he can marry all the young hotties. Boom, his clarity is gone.
Either way, no eclipse lasts forever, not in these short life spans, surrounded on all sides by petty droogies and dimwit doctors. Such openness of mind relies on a complete suspension of all judgment, fear, and avoidance. This leaves you very vulnerable to oncoming traffic.
(Clockwork, Goldfinger: Paradoxically, these Brit cock-and-ball stories are way
more macho than Leo avenging (yet again) his murdered child and/or wife (below)
in The Revenant:
YARBLES, AND HOW TO LOSE THEM
Let's return to the subject at hand, castration or fear thereof. Successfully completed reproduction, from the 'gleam' in your father's eye to your firs sharp inhale, spanked by a hand almost as big as you are, kick-started into the world like a wonky television-- it's one looong castration. The schlong goes in, bur it don't come out; if you have any yarbles they're long gone.
Emasculation and neutering affect our British macho man at every turn, from the laser coming right at Bond's crotch in 'ahem' Goldfinger to Clockwork's Aubrey Morris clasping hard down on Alex's niblik back at the house where he's spatchka-accruing to be right as dodgers for this after. In America, home of the wee narcissist manchildren who need to stand on crates hidden under the frame and have ramps built for them to kiss their willowy ginger co-stars, our balls are so precious that we refuse to even mention castration, as if the words themselves are serrated-edged. Puer aeternus complexes rouse Maria von Franz from a stone sleep; the ginger beer equation, set up by half-dead spouses, advocates a tired guilt over rowdy strutting. Just making flirty eye contact dooms a girl either to smash cuts to joyless animalistic rutting (on HBO or AMC) or stalking (HAIR, FEAR and whatever's on Lifetime). The only guys badass enough to 'go there' as in castration are Tarantino and Rodriguez (as in RR's Planet Terror). (2)
As Leland says Mesa of the Lost Women, this is my order: be nice unto all ages, and sans sexual advances. Believe me man, if the girl likes you that way, she'll let you know. If not - presume she doesn't. The problem facing most guys is that when they're most desirable is when they're less likely to realize it, but also that--thanks to media--they confuse being attracted with being attractive, and the first problem invades the second, so that hearing a girl you like doesn't like you like that makes you furious, for it forces you to be aware you're misreading signals. In other words, your ego is such a bitch it uses your own insecurity to turn you into a persistent douchebag. It makes it harder for every other guy and girl to get together when genuine attraction is constantly misconstrued and confused with random 'hitting on' girls by guys who just figure they'll play the numbers.
That this extends to middle age is what's most perverse. That said, I'm not one to shy away from the company of younger people. My theory is that there's the person who says no to his drive to go cavort with the younger generation, and the guy--like me--who trusts the inherent goodness within himself and is willing to ridiculous to his wife and every other girl his own age, He'll see them sulking on the sidelines, glaring from behind strollers as he walks with a girl young enough to be his daughter if he'd had kids at 20. Who does that old dude want to be with, a sulky middle-aged beeyatch berating and belittling his every word and missed dish dirt spot, or some starry-eyed waif who thinks he's charming and sexy, even if it's only because she has an unresolved Elektra complex? The kitchen sink Leighs and the Loaches trundle home, not forgetting to pick up bread and the Guardian--reading in bed to the knots that they keep in a jar by the door, pursuing the 'reality' of the situation like good little aging males, while the Kubricks and Boormans stay up 'til all hours dropping acid with these precocious hot geniuses and contemplating not their crags and sags and graying hair,--but their eternal faces--neither old nor young, neither virile nor withered, neither growing nor shrinking, nor strutting nor cringing, but the eternal face, as frozen as the angry godhead in Zardoz as blank and meaningless as the Godhead in you know what (I shan't spoil it if you haven't seen it.)
Sex doesn't need to enter into it, for with admittance of impotence, acceptance of the state of castration, comes peace and that inherent goodness, and from the flattened decimation wrought by achieving that peace, any number of futuristic new towers may be built. (4)
And when the going gets too weird, Zed eats a single leaf from Mama Mcree's psychedelic flower. One thing leads to another by a kind of parenthetical association that would be lost on American viewers the way it was me if I hadn't just seen High-Rise. But since I had, I felt awareness of some kind of weird British shared secret, the sort where psychedelic mind expansion, socialized education, and the BBC merge together to help the male psyche shatter, so that the phallus becomes the devouring vagina dentata instead of just being devoured by it, and this is truly the union. For your casual bullet had picked its immortal's brain pan destination before you were even born, my son.
IMMORTALITY, A CHUMPS' TICKET
Once inside its scaly tunnels, the 'I AM' part of the surviving soul realizes that even death itself is just a chimera, a tunnel on the endless looping track. Familiarity with acid's perspective allows this 'we are one thing, split into infinity to get a better look at itself' as almost a side effect to the experience of 'frisson.' We get to see how different it would all go down were we unfastened from the signifier-signified chain of structural indemnity and allowed to float free and easy in the zero gravity of Mad Hatter tea party disruption, where word association no longer has any relevance as a game or trick or strategy.
For example, in a game of word-association, the word 'chair' might provoke a 'sit' response, but the insane/hatter response would be "melon") / and 'milk' doesn't provoke "cow" but a terrified scream of "gloves!" (1) resulting from an archaic memory of touching Bessie's fleshy warm udder once with bare hands at the 4H Fair and how you cried and cried.
Half the time, they're not even real words, but two or three words Frankensteined together in a kind of accelerated overlapping wave collision between free association, bad pun, and scrabble befuddlement. When given full controls of the voice, the subconscious can be terribly glib and--to a sober man--incoherent. To an incoherent idiot, however, cogent as the Dane is wrong.
If you can breech that structuralist surf, I'd say Zardoz is a film that's the story of a male psyche having a split dialogue with itself and its own adult sci-fi pulp roots--the kind of 'adult sci-fi' that's long gone but was all the 70s science fiction you could ever see, prior to Star Wars. Of course its a dialogue that has no ending. It goes on in the hearts of bull dykes struggling in the heavy mantle layers of some giddy fake-Earth ending to some mid-70s episode of Charlie's Angels (the girl football team episode). (3)
Why and why not are inevitably so linked as to be indistinguishable. Are you going to buy the next world a cup of coffee or are you going to act sulky, alone at the counter like a little bitch, until you're so old that it's considered obscene just for you to even hit on people your own age? A 990 year old in a 20 year old body we call a vampire, but a hit from the side -- end of knee -- end of career. We call that the 80s.
Are you 'winning' or are you awake? You can't be both.
Humility or cock swagger? That's a fine duality. But humble cock swagger? Now I know you're British.
1. Of course that's a reference to Crispin Glover in Wild at Heart!
2.We've already talked about this when I attacked the copouts in Hard Candy and Teeth.
3. I apologize that this ramble ends with a discussion of the dyke presence in a girl football team episode of Chaelie's Angels episode 41 (season 2), "Angels in the Backfield" but it seemed trenchant at the time, to merge a discussion of men evolving into a male/female whole soul into a female-starring detective series from the 70s chronicling the struggles of a female football team (entering a predominately masculine arena) and one of those rare, rudimentary appearances of lesbians on prime time TV. Alas, while liberated in some areas, it was still very much in to consider gays and lesbians as freaks, deviants, easy targets for stereotyping. It was only the mixture of Anita Bryant's hateful rhetoric (which so turned most of us off we became sympathetic to the gay cause) and AIDs / Rock Hudson, that turned us around more or less for (hopefully) keeps.
4. I love for example the party scene in Arthur Marks' The RoomMates, where the faculty and co-eds at a groovy college mix together, drinking and flirting but with no harm done, even when it gets down to the underwear. That scene would never play today - there'd have to be a sexual harassment or drug/date rape or some other sordid thing. But here in the 70s (and some of the 80s) sex wasn't so bi-polar, where it's either saintliness or demeaning rutting. Flirting and highbrow theoretics could mix over cocktails as everyone was adults, nothing had to lead anywhere. It was gorgeous.