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“Prisoner of Zenda” (review)
The guy narrating this audiobook is named Andrew Pugsley. He also has a discernible lisp. I thus imagine this was read by a small, squashed-face dog with breathing problems resulting from unethical breeding. 🐶
I knew that “Prisoner of Zenda” would be a weird imperial fantasy, but I didn’t expect quite the ways in which it’s weird. (Note: I have also ‘enjoyed’ about half of Vita Sackville West’s insane Ruritanian romance, for lesbian reasons.) What do I mean by that? WELL!
The book spends a fair amount of time carefully lampshading its central conceit. If the two characters were next to one another, you could indeed tell them apart. The king has not hitherto been very much in the public eye. The two men who switch places are actually cousins, which is why they so strongly resemble one another.
I wasn’t expecting the protagonist to already be a member of the (English) nobility, and a well-ranked one. The fantasy of ascension is thus fairly curtailed. The book also wants you to believe that the protagonist is still a member of said English noble family, despite his ancestress having had a bit of a Ruritanian romance herself. But unless the woman involved in the adultery scandal that resulted in this red-haired son was already related to her husband (quite possible), or unless some genuine blood later married back into the line (again, possible—but never mentioned), the protagonist and his brother no longer bear any ‘legitimate’ blood connection to this family and its inherited titled. Perhaps in terms of their rearing they could be said to, but this book almost seems to demonstrate an earlier and divergent understanding of genetics: it’s as though you can be ‘part’ bastard, rather than either legitimate or not.
The book, which was written with a contemporary setting, ultimately feels as though it’s set considerably earlier than it actually is. All the plot drama wherein the common people side with Black Michael, who attempts flat-out fratricide, seems to chime with how European dynastic struggles worked solid centuries before the Victorian era. That’s not to say the 19th c wasn’t violent, but its violent had an entirely different texture. The whole logic of this book is borrowed from historical romance: it’s cod-medieval, with bonus trains.
It is not, however, necessarily badly written. At one point the book unexpectedly offers something along the lines of, ‘hey, the awful thoughts you have sometimes? Don’t stress about them, just be thankful you have the strength to resist those and get on with it. It’s the resistance that matters, not the idle shit that occurs to you.’ Why is the ‘prince for a day!’ imperial fantasy novel bothering to say a good thing?
Near the climax, the protagonist nominates himself to undertake a particularly dangerous element of the rescue plan. His comrades allow this. In story-terms this makes sense, because after all, he’s the protagonist. In terms of their plan, it is idiotic. The whole reason the protagonist is important to the plot is that he looks like the king. Why would you send this key guy, who has an asset no one else does, to do a dangerous task that almost anyone in your conspiracy could do instead?
Also, if you have to swim a moat to execute a task, stop throwing all these dead bodies in there first! It’s gross! Also, this castle probably pipes its shit into this moat. I’m worried about this swimming, it’s a health concern. (For more information about shitty moats, see this https://historycollection.com/strangest-hygiene-practices-from-the-middle-ages/24/ and this https://qr.ae/prPuBC . So in some cases there are active aquaculture and sewage treatment processes going on, and there are a lot of other architectural concerns in play/mitigating this effect. But I still don't want to swim in that, especially if it’s been freshly topped up with corpses.)
Ruritania itself remains remarkably invisible throughout. I guess they speak German, but it’s not stated. The country has no evident characteristics, national customs, temperament, architecture, food or dress. If you thought that maybe the pleasure of this fantasy would in part derive from some engagement with the actual place the protagonist is pretending to be king of: not really. I guess you could say something similar about the romantic lead, who is honourable but otherwise fairly vacant. It’s a power fantasy twice over, and what you’re assuming power over is as unimportant as the responsibility attendant on power.
I guess I can now fully appreciate "Androids of Tara".
Spotted in the wild: ‘The night was dark, and very stormy—’
I knew that “Prisoner of Zenda” would be a weird imperial fantasy, but I didn’t expect quite the ways in which it’s weird. (Note: I have also ‘enjoyed’ about half of Vita Sackville West’s insane Ruritanian romance, for lesbian reasons.) What do I mean by that? WELL!
The book spends a fair amount of time carefully lampshading its central conceit. If the two characters were next to one another, you could indeed tell them apart. The king has not hitherto been very much in the public eye. The two men who switch places are actually cousins, which is why they so strongly resemble one another.
I wasn’t expecting the protagonist to already be a member of the (English) nobility, and a well-ranked one. The fantasy of ascension is thus fairly curtailed. The book also wants you to believe that the protagonist is still a member of said English noble family, despite his ancestress having had a bit of a Ruritanian romance herself. But unless the woman involved in the adultery scandal that resulted in this red-haired son was already related to her husband (quite possible), or unless some genuine blood later married back into the line (again, possible—but never mentioned), the protagonist and his brother no longer bear any ‘legitimate’ blood connection to this family and its inherited titled. Perhaps in terms of their rearing they could be said to, but this book almost seems to demonstrate an earlier and divergent understanding of genetics: it’s as though you can be ‘part’ bastard, rather than either legitimate or not.
The book, which was written with a contemporary setting, ultimately feels as though it’s set considerably earlier than it actually is. All the plot drama wherein the common people side with Black Michael, who attempts flat-out fratricide, seems to chime with how European dynastic struggles worked solid centuries before the Victorian era. That’s not to say the 19th c wasn’t violent, but its violent had an entirely different texture. The whole logic of this book is borrowed from historical romance: it’s cod-medieval, with bonus trains.
It is not, however, necessarily badly written. At one point the book unexpectedly offers something along the lines of, ‘hey, the awful thoughts you have sometimes? Don’t stress about them, just be thankful you have the strength to resist those and get on with it. It’s the resistance that matters, not the idle shit that occurs to you.’ Why is the ‘prince for a day!’ imperial fantasy novel bothering to say a good thing?
Near the climax, the protagonist nominates himself to undertake a particularly dangerous element of the rescue plan. His comrades allow this. In story-terms this makes sense, because after all, he’s the protagonist. In terms of their plan, it is idiotic. The whole reason the protagonist is important to the plot is that he looks like the king. Why would you send this key guy, who has an asset no one else does, to do a dangerous task that almost anyone in your conspiracy could do instead?
Also, if you have to swim a moat to execute a task, stop throwing all these dead bodies in there first! It’s gross! Also, this castle probably pipes its shit into this moat. I’m worried about this swimming, it’s a health concern. (For more information about shitty moats, see this https://historycollection.com/strangest-hygiene-practices-from-the-middle-ages/24/ and this https://qr.ae/prPuBC . So in some cases there are active aquaculture and sewage treatment processes going on, and there are a lot of other architectural concerns in play/mitigating this effect. But I still don't want to swim in that, especially if it’s been freshly topped up with corpses.)
Ruritania itself remains remarkably invisible throughout. I guess they speak German, but it’s not stated. The country has no evident characteristics, national customs, temperament, architecture, food or dress. If you thought that maybe the pleasure of this fantasy would in part derive from some engagement with the actual place the protagonist is pretending to be king of: not really. I guess you could say something similar about the romantic lead, who is honourable but otherwise fairly vacant. It’s a power fantasy twice over, and what you’re assuming power over is as unimportant as the responsibility attendant on power.
I guess I can now fully appreciate "Androids of Tara".
Spotted in the wild: ‘The night was dark, and very stormy—’