I once thought of Lord of the Rings as the template for modern fantasy films but now realize I was mistaken. I recently watched John Boorman’s adaptation of the Arthurian legend, Excalibur, and it blew me away. Epic, surreal, beautiful and profound, the film feels like the predecessor of what Jackson would accomplish 20 years later. It doesn’t always land, but Excalibur is still a leap forward for the fantasy genre and an essential example of why some stories become myth.
Boorman’s film focuses on the rise of Arthur Pendragon (Nigel Terry) in the Dark Ages, but it actually starts before he is born. It opens on his father, Uther (Gabriel Byrne), fighting endless wars to unite Britain. Merlin (Nicol Williamson) aids him in this quest, giving him the legendary weapon Excalibur to use against his enemy, the Duke of Cornwall. Uther isn’t just concerned with just beating the Duke on the battlefield. He is also obsessed with his wife, Igraine, and asks Merlin to transform him to look like the Duke so he can sleep with her. This leads to Arthur’s birth but also Uther’s destruction. He’s ambushed and killed in the woods, thrusting Excalibur into a stone before expiring. Years later, an adult Arthur retrieves the sword and picks up his father’s mission. He establishes peace, builds Camelot, founds the Round Table and weds Guinevere (Cherie Lunghi).
Excalibur is a deeply allegorical story that symbolically depicts the passing of one age to the next. “The days of our kind are numbered,” Williamson’s Merlin says at one point. Merlin is referring to how he represents a time of sorcery and paganism that is now fading into myth and dreams. “The one God comes to drive out the many gods. Yes… it’s a time for men, and their ways.” The “men” in Merlin’s remark refer to Arthur and his knights, who are emblematic of Christianity and centralized authority. His rise is reinforced by the fantastic power of Excalibur and the king’s mystical connection to the land. “You and the land are one,” Sir Percival says to Arthur, emphasizing this point. Percival means that literally too. Boorman shows that Arthur’s spiritual and physical health directly impacts the land’s vitality.
Terry and Williamson do an excellent job portraying these magical, larger-than-life characters. Terry is tasked with playing Arthur from a teenager to a middle-aged man and conveys an impossible magnanimity throughout each stage. Williamson is even better or at least more colorful. His charismatic, funny and deeply odd performance totally sells Merlin as a being that exists beyond all human understanding.
Their grand performances fit snugly within Boorman’s other filmmaking choices. The director creates a fascinating world that feels ancient and unreal. As Arthur works to build his seemingly utopian society, Boorman’s film fully visualizes his mystical power. The armor of his knights shines with supernatural intensity for one thing. The director also fully showcases his film’s Irish landscapes, which surge to verdant life in parallel with Arthur’s ascent. Boorman and cinematographer Alex Thomson enhance these vistas by adding streaks of green light that suggest a landscape that’s intrinsically alive with magic.
Boorman’s film may be fantastical in tone, but it’s realistic about human nature. Founding a civilization is one thing, but maintaining it is the hard part. Inevitably, a leader’s selfish personal concerns come into conflict with their public ones. It doesn’t take long after establishing Camelot for the stability of Arthur’s kingdom to begin to wobble. Nicholas Clay’s Lancelot falls for the queen, and winds up torn between his love for her and duty to Arthur. A rift opens up between king and knight when the former discovers the infidelity, eventually leading to a rupture of the court’s solidarity.
The consequences of Uther’s original moral failure also inevitably come into focus. Arthur’s half-sister Morgana (Helen Mirren) arrives in court. She nurses a desire for power. She also seemingly has a grudge against Arthur, quite likely due to his kingdom being born from her mother’s violation. Her quest for power leads to Arthur’s moral corruption and Britain decaying to a literal wasteland. Replicating the original sin of Camelot’s founding, she steals Merlin’s magic and transfigures herself to look like Guinevere one night. This results in the birth of Mordred (Robert Addie), who Morgana hides away and trains to one day bring Camelot to ruin.
Amid this glut of plot, Excalibur‘s character development unfortunately becomes muddy at best. The film simply doesn’t have time to fully flesh out the relationship between Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot, and so when the king is eventually betrayed, the emotional impact of the moment just isn’t there. Similarly, although Morgana’s motivations are basically clear enough, we don’t ever see her development into a power-hungry sorceress. She basically shows up in the film fully formed. None of these issues are on the actors. Lunghi, Clay and especially Mirren all try hard. Yet they can’t overcome a script that is attempting to do too much.
The film regains its footing when it refocuses on Arthur’s redemption. To blunt his kingdom’s decay, Arthur orders his knights to find the Holy Grail. They embark on a years-long quest, which results in many of their deaths. Only Sir Percival (Paul Geoffrey) succeeds, bringing the Grail back to restore Arthur’s vitality and moral clarity.
The Grail is deeply intertwined with the idea of Christ’s sacrificial death, having been the instrument that collected his blood on the cross. Its rediscovery signals the return of Arthur’s sense of responsibility. He accepts that true leadership means sacrifice and quickly musters his knights to take on Mordred. His final ride set to the thundering rendition of “O Fortuna” reinforces that Arthur has accepted his fate to save Britain no matter the cost.
Boorman articulates Arthur’s spiritual renewal on multiple levels. Thomson’s cinematography captures the landscape exploding back to life, with a stunning sequence among cherry blossom trees that made yours truly swoon. Right before the last battle, the filmmakers also stage beautiful little moments of reconciliation, where Arthur seeks and gives forgiveness to both Lancelot and Guinevere. Although we haven’t spent much time with either relationship, these scenes still hit and hit hard. Much of this can be attributed to the actors. Terry, Lunghi and Clay all dig deep here. Their scenes together exude deep regret and care and are exceptionally moving. It’s a welcome progression from a dynamic that was previously stunted.
The film’s climax is where it feels most like the precursor to Lord of the Rings. Both movies culminate with civilizations staring into the abyss. In each case, only love, duty and, especially, sacrifice prevent total oblivion. Jackson’s opus is more emotionally cohesive, but Excalibur and Boorman deserve credit for getting there first and at a time when cinematic fantasy, especially dark fantasy, was still in its infancy. It laid the groundwork for Jackson and others to follow by illustrating how such operatic, otherworldly films can tackle complex themes and characters.
Its aspirational portrait of leadership successfully shows what’s so mythic about Arthur in the first place. One of the functions of myth is to satisfy longings denied to us in life. And in a world that has almost always been ruled by the worst of the worst, an idealized king like Arthur naturally fits that criteria. Boorman’s film fully captures what makes him admirable, such as his willingness to fight for others rather than himself, even at great cost. Watching it is so compelling because we get to leave behind the corruption and immortality of our real leaders for a moment and, as Arthur says, “dream of what could be.”
