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PaperclipPerfector  4d ago (text post)   13932 thread views

Culture War Roundup for the week of November 17, 2025

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Thank you, kind person!

While we're on the tangent of Tolkien's works, what finally clicked for me about the difference between GRRM and JRRT is this part from "The Last Unicorn", which I only thought about today, where Schmendrick the incapable magician is captured by a band of outlaws. Their leader, Captain Cully, aspires to the whole 'Robin Hood and his Merry Men in the greenwood' trope but in an ironic/deconstructionist way: he wants to write his own 'folk ballads' about the heroic Captain Cully and his dearest ambition is to have them collected by a travelling folklorist and included in something like the famous Child Ballads. The other members of his band point out the disconnect between the folkloric Robin Hood and the reality of being outlaws in the woods.

So far, so grubby realism GRRM: there are no heroes, all the stories are fantasies, the reality is mud and violence and grinding poverty and trying to scrape by, and the ones who claim to be the noble heroes as of old are liars and fantasists.

But then Schmendrick manages to pull off some real magic, without intending it, without knowing what will happen. And he evokes Robin and Marian and the Merry Men, and the outlaws run after them, calling them to stop and come back. Cully tries to bring it all back down to the grubby reality which is the only reality they can have, but Molly Grue tells him no. People want the fantasy and the heroism. In a sense, that is what is truly real, not the grubbiness of his petty ambitions. So far, so JRRT 😁

Long excerpt follows:

The outlaws grumbled and scuffed, kicking at stones. A hoarse voice bawled from a safe shadow, “Na, Willie, sing us a true song. Sing us one about Robin Hood.”

"Who said that?” Cully’s loosened sword clacked in its sheath as he turned from side to side. His face suddenly seemed as pale and weary as a used lemon drop.

“I did,” said Molly Grue, who hadn’t. “The men are bored with ballads of your bravery, Captain darling. Even if you did write them all yourself.”

…An aging rogue in tattered velvet now slunk forward. “Captain, if we’re to have folk songs, and I suppose we must, then we feel they ought to be true songs about real outlaws, not this lying life we live. No offense, Captain, but we’re really not very merry, when all’s said —”

“I’m merry twenty-four hours a day, Dick Fancy,” Cully said coldly. “That is a fact.”

“And we don’t steal from the rich and give to the poor,” Dick Fancy hurried on. “We steal from the poor because they can’t fight back—most of them—and the rich take from us because they could wipe us out in a day. We don’t rob the fat, greedy Mayor on the highway; we pay him tribute every month to leave us alone. We never carry off proud bishops and keep them prisoner in the wood, feasting and entertaining them, because Molly hasn’t any good dishes, and besides, we just wouldn’t be very stimulating company for a bishop. When we go to the fair in disguise, we never win at the archery or at singlestick. We do get some nice compliments on our disguises, but no more than that.”

…“And as for righting wrongs and fighting for civil liberties, that sort of thing,” Dick Fancy said, “it wouldn’t be so bad—I mean, I’m not the crusader type myself, some are and some aren’t—but then we have to sing those songs about wearing Lincoln green and aiding the oppressed. We don’t, Cully, we turn them in for the reward, and those songs are just embarrassing, that’s all, and there’s the truth of it.”

...He opened his eyes. Most of the outlaws were chuckling and tapping their temples, glad of the chance to mock him. Captain Cully had risen, anxious to pronounce that part of the entertainment ended. Then Molly Grue cried out in a soft, shaking voice, and all turned to see what she saw. A man came walking into the clearing.

He was dressed in green, but for a brown jerkin and a slanting brown cap with a woodcock’s feather in it. He was very tall, too tall for a living man: the great bow slung over his shoulder looked as long as Jack Jingly, and his arrows would have made spears or staves for Captain Cully. Taking no notice at all of the still, shabby forms by the fire, he strode through the night and vanished, with no sound of breath or footfall.

After him came others, one at a time or two together, some conversing, many laughing, but none making any sound. All carried longbows and all wore green, save one who came clad in scarlet to his toes, and another gowned in a friar’s brown habit, his feet in sandals and his enormous belly contained by a rope belt. One played a lute and sang silently as he walked.

“Alan-a-Dale.” It was raw Willie Gentle. “Look at those changes.” His voice was as naked as a baby bird.

Effortlessly proud, graceful as giraffes (even the tallest among them, a kind-eyed Blunderbore), the bowmen moved across the clearing. Last, hand in hand, came a man and a woman. Their faces were as beautiful as though they had never known fear. The woman’s heavy hair shone with a secret, like a cloud that hides the moon.

“Oh,” said Molly Grue. “Marian.”

“Robin Hood is a myth,” Captain Cully said nervously, “a classic example of the heroic folk-figures synthesized out of need. John Henry is another. Men have to have heroes, but no man can ever be as big as the need, and so a legend grows around a grain of truth, like a pearl. Not that it isn’t a remarkable trick, of course.”

It was the seedy dandy Dick Fancy who moved first. All the figures but the last two had passed into the darkness when he rushed after them, calling, hoarsely, “Robin, Robin, Mr. Hood sir, wait for me!” Neither the man nor the woman turned, but every man of Cully’s band—saving only Jack Jingly and the captain himself—ran to the clearing’s edge, tripping and trampling one another, kicking the fire so that the clearing churned with shadows. “Robin!” they shouted; and “Marian, Scarlet, Little John—come back! Come back!” Schmendrick began to laugh, tenderly and helplessly.

Over their voices, Captain Cully screamed, “Fools, fools and children! It was a lie, like all magic! There is no such person as Robin Hood!” But the outlaws, wild with loss, went crashing into the woods after the shining archers, stumbling over logs, falling through thorn bushes, wailing hungrily as they ran.

Only Molly Grue stopped and looked back. Her face was burning white. “Nay, Cully, you have it backward,” she called to him. “There’s no such a person as you, or me, or any of us. Robin and Marian are real, and we are the legend!”

Then she ran on, crying, “Wait, wait!” like the others, leaving Captain Cully and Jack Jingly to stand in the trampled firelight and listen to the magician’s laughter.

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