The Badass Sean Connery In Zardoz, The Most Insane Must-See Cult Classic
“John Boorman’s Zardoz is a genuinely quirky movie, a trip into a future that seems ruled by perpetually stoned set decorators.”
It’s set in a post-apocalyptic Ireland. And to go there is either a guilty pleasure or a mistake.
As Mark Kermode puts it, “the man who made Deliverance – one of the outstanding works of seventies cinema – followed it up with one of the worst science-fiction movie ever made…
As falls from grace go, that is surely one of the most spectacular.”
Sean Connery wasn’t much in demand at the time.
So James Bond did away with the fussy cocktails, priapic cars and other adolescent seduction techniques honed in sticky carpeted casinos, he strapped on a red leather posing pouch buckled to matching bandoliers with ample room for a few dozen vials of amyl nitrate and found like-minded people in an out-of-town S&M fetish club under the auspices of a perverted flying god-rock.
Real laugh riot, this.
Photo: The Rock God has a big booming voice who supplies weapons to the ferals so they plunder and murder and yes the movie is yet another with an Wizard of Oz twist.
Boorman got Sean Connery to work very cheaply; the actor was having a hard time finding post-James Bond roles.
For better or worse, this certainly wasn’t a James Bond-ish role and it allowed Connery to vary his resume a bit.
That we had to see him saunter around in a red diaper, thigh-highs, and a Gimli hairdo for him to do it is just our good fortune.
The Neolithic people of Great Britain were prolific builders.
Just look at the British Isles—they are studded with countless ancient megaliths, hill forts, monumental graves, ritual sites and structures that archeologists have been collectively scratching their heads over for centuries.
In Ireland and to some extant, in Scotland, a wholly different kind of structure is found that are as inexplicable as the rest.
They are tiny artificial islands known as crannogs built by pounding wooden piles into the beds of lakes and waterways and topping them with dirt. In places where timber was unavailable, such as in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland, crannogs were built entirely of stones.
Why did Neolithic people invest so much time, effort and resources hauling stones, some up to 250 kilograms, to build islets at a place where there was no dearth of habitable lands or natural islands is a mystery.
A crannog at Loch Tay, near the Scottish Crannog Centre, Scotland. Photo credit: Ross Murray/Flickr
One theory goes that Ireland at that time was densely wooded, and apart from the upland areas, the lakes were practically the only place where one could see the sky. So the Neolithic people started building homes on artificial islands. Being surrounded by water also protected them from wild animals, so crannogs could also have served a defensive purpose.
Many crannogs show signs of habitation and over multiple periods of time, starting from the Neolithic, Bronze and Iron ages, right into Medieval times.
Eilean Dòmhnuill, on Loch Olabhat, on North Uist, Scotland, may be the earliest known crannog dating to 3200-2800 BC. Photo credit: F. Sturt
During the Iron ages, crannogs were probably the centres of prosperous farms, where people lived in an easily-defended location to protect themselves and their livestock from passing raiders.
The settlement would have consisted of a farm house, with cattle and crops being tended in nearby fields, and sheep on hill pastures.
One summer a few years ago I stayed in student rooms in Trinity College. Although the accommodation was rather spartan with the traditional blue tack scars on the walls, it was so atmospheric to be able to wander around the old buildings of the Dublin university long after all the tourists had gone.
Best of all was the chance to visit the Book of Kells as many times as I wanted. (The Library displays a different page each day.) These illuminated manuscripts are one of the wonders of medieval Europe.
Imagine the monks in their stone huts, battered by sea winds, bent over their painstaking work. Strictly speaking, rather than The Book of Kells, named after a town in County Meath, it should be called the Book of Iona, as it’s thought that it was monks on that remote Scottish island who were the original artists.
They were inhabitants of a monastery founded there in the 6th Century by the Irish monk Columba, or Colm Cille as he’s known in Irish. In fact, for many centuries the manuscript was believed to be the great Gospel of Columba.
But scholars now place the book in a later period and think it was completed by 800 AD. I find it extraordinary that in such a wild place with limited materials that these men were able to create a work of art that is so delicate and ornate.
You can imagine the monks inside their beehive-shaped stone huts, battered by sea winds with squawking gulls outside, bent over their painstaking work.
I’ve visited another early settlement on Skellig Michael off the coast of Kerry in the Atlantic and it is hard to express how bleak and remote those lives were.
The library at Trinity College, Dublin displays a different page from The Book of Kells each day (Image Credit: Photograph by Alamy).
But it wasn’t just forces of nature with which the monks had to contend. The monastery, like many early Christian communities, came under the threat of Viking raids. In 806, following a raid that left 68 of the community dead, the Columban monks took refuge in a newly-founded monastery at Kells in County Meath in Ireland to keep them safe.
The most likely theory is that the monks took the manuscript with them. Amazingly since they were written, the majority of the pages have been passed down through the generations with just 60 pages missing. But medieval sources do record that an illuminated manuscript was stolen from the stone church of Kells in 1006 which is likely to have been the Book of Kells.
According to the Annals of Ulster it was found “two months and twenty days” later “under a sod.” After fighting in the Cromwellian period, the church at Kells lay in ruins, and in 1653 the book was sent to Dublin by the governor of Kells for safekeeping.
A few years later it reached Trinity College where it remains today. Light of the dark ages
The scale and ambition of The Book of Kells is incredible. Written on vellum, it is estimated that the skins of 185 calves were needed for the project. Practically all of the 680 pages are decorated in some way or another. On some pages every corner is filled with the most detailed and beautiful Celtic designs.
This is a description thought by many to be of the Book of Kells by the 12th Century writer Gerald of Wales: You might say that all this were the work of an angel, and not of a man – Gerald of Wales.
“This book contains the harmony of the Four Evangelists according to Jerome, where for almost every page there are different designs, distinguished by varied colours.
Here you may see the face of majesty, divinely drawn, here the mystic symbols of the Evangelists, each with wings, now six, now four, now two; here the eagle, there the calf, here the man and there the lion, and other forms almost infinite.
Look at them superficially with the ordinary glance, and you would think it is an erasure, and not tracery.
Fine craftsmanship is all about you, but you might not notice it.
Look more keenly at it and you will penetrate to the very shrine of art. You will make out intricacies, so delicate and so subtle, so full of knots and links, with colours so fresh and vivid, that you might say that all this were the work of an angel, and not of a man.”
The title page of St John’s Gospel shows the thoughtful-looking saint, along with a less respectable figure swigging from a goblet of wine (Credit: The Book of Kells)