Captain Bood (1935)
I’m hooked; there’s nothing quite like Errol Flynn. He cast a spell on me. The film begins with the alluring erotic fantasy of Flynn sold as slave. He’s innocent of all wrongdoing, simply a doctor arrested for treating a traitor: he defends himself referring to the Hippocratic Oath “My business was with his wounds, not his politics.” (Something to ponder in these ‘trying times,’ eh?). He is sold to Colonel Bishop at Port Royal in The Caribbean, but only has eyes for Olivia de Havilland — playing the colonel’s daughter Arabella (“I think of you as the woman who owns me - her slave.”) It’s delectable watching Olivia de Havilland pretend she is not attracted to Errol Flynn. Eventually he leads a slave rebellion, conquers a Spanish ship, morphs into a pirate named Captain Blood, captures de Haviiland, makes her his slave, defeats a French attack on Port Royal, and is appointed the new English governor. However he is —most significantly — able to triumph over his Prince Valiant haircut, because with his rugged jawline and feminine, laughing eyes he is beyond worthy of worship. But it’s his boyish vulnerability that reels us in; he seems completely tender and malleable, like fresh clay, or glass under fire. At the end he discovers Olivia de Haviland loves him (though he is a pirate, he has made it clear that he does not rape women) and shouts “She loves me!’ three times, with all the spontaneous joy of a little boy who has just discovered his own hand is in the cookie jar. Male performers are rarely able to open their heart to us; Flynn invites us in. Flynn’s first wife (Lyly Damita) was 5 years older than he was. Well, yes, one certainly wants to be his mother. Okay, yes, I have read his Wikipedia bio. Not only was Errol Flynn accused of raping several women, and throwing a stage manager down the stairs, but, after he died, it was discovered he may have been a spy and a traitor. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. Alright. I will. There’s also some business about him having two way mirrors installed in his mansion — because he was a voyeur — and also, perhaps, being a drug addict. Okay, enough. I’m in denial and I have a right to be -- because Errol Flynn enchanted me in Captain Blood, as I’m sure he enchanted millions of people, and they were not the least bit interested in the truth about him, and would actually have been offended to hear it. The 20th century has seen the rise of the anti-hero, and lately this has led to the demonisation of fiction; the novel is apparently dead. We are supposedly obsessed with ‘the real.’ But we’re not. We will never give up heroes, fiction, and lies. And it’s not a matter of asking anyone’s permission. We will have them, despite the human cost, so wake up and smell the romance. It’s only The American Left’s pigheaded denial of the concept of hero worship that is right now ensuring Donald J. Trump will be president forever. Trump is a hero. Some actually believe he is the second coming. But I don’t wish to speak about whether or not he is in reality a good man — that is completely irrelevant; as irrelevant as digging up the dirt on Errol Flynn. We love these men because they must be perfect, and we are convinced they can do things we could never do. Flynn leaps over the railing of his own pirate ship and lands on his feet on another, and commences fencing with some hapless Frenchman, his pale thin chest slightly bared and his long muscular legs manoeuvering a fighting dance. There’s no stopping him; or our adoration; we need to imagine people who are unstoppable, and almost magical in their power. I used to imagine I was“Howard Roark” (from Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead — but also — unbeknownst to myself — I wished to be raped by him as “Dominique Francon” was in the novel — willingly raped, flirting for rape —‘Could you come by my room later and fix the crack in my marble fireplace?’ — consensual rape — written by a woman, for women, and women loved it.) Errol Flynn could easily rape Olivia de Haviliand, but he’s a helluva nice pirate. We need these fictions, we always will, and the stunning stupidity of The American Left pitting Hilary Clinton — who will never be anyone’s hero — against Donald J. Trump — who even for those who don’t like him, is as entertaining as The Kentucky Derby / your favourite pornography / and someone telling you about the tragic end of someone you always hated — all rolled up into a giant sunburned butterball. Martin Luther King said ‘I have a dream.” If he had said ‘I have a reality’ we wouldn’t have listened. Obama went on about hope, and he has a perfect wife, and two perfect girls, and he’s actually handsome, and doesn’t look bad with his shirt off. It’s all a lie — all politics is a lie — everything is a lie. It’s about satisfying the human need for something that is not real, and takes us beyond the quotidian desert that says: ‘tonight you will not be able to leave the house once again, and you will not be able to see your friends once again, and you must feel guilty — because you didn’t wash your hands enough times today — or perhaps because you didn’t wear a mask in that cab. And now — due to your criminal medical negligence — some poor child will die of the newly invented (possibly COVID-19 related) Multisystem Inflammatory Syndrome.’ Dr. X — excuse me, Fauci — says that this is our reality, and we must memorise these facts to save the vulnerable from death But, sorry, human beings are not creatures of fact. Every Public Health Nazi is doing their best to convert us into thoughtful, fact-oriented computrons. But I laugh, I cackle, I say ‘nay!,’ I spit on everyone, and dance an Errol Flynn happy dance with glee. Sorry, but you can’t appeal to the better side of human beings — their logical side — because we don’t have one. We are not essentially logical; we are animals. Yes it would be a better world if we though of others before ourselves, but that will never happen. In fact we don’t even think of ourselves first — all we think about is the fantasy we have of ourselves — and of a life we will never ever have — and that’s what keeps us going. So all we can do is try and make sure the dream we have is not only big and false, but that it also happens to be one damn, good dream. I advise you not to abandon lies — just find a lie that won’t destroy you. Because you can give up right now trying to interest yourself or anyone else — in the much vaunted, much heralded, much respected — but unfortunately non-existent, boring, ultimately inhuman ‘truth.’
