Tristan and Isolde

Anyone who has spent any amount of time talking to me knows what a freak I am about Arthurian Legend. The multitude of stories, and the many many ways they have been told over the years keeps me enthralled and entertained. After having read a series of books by Rosalind Miles about Guenevere (her spelling, not mine), I purchased another novel by her entitled Isolde, Queen of the Western Isle. I was introduced to new characters from the same basic time period who enthralled me as well, even with their lack of magic. So I was excited when I saw that they had made a movie about this new set of characters, Tristan and Isolde.

I bought the movie several months ago when it first came out on DVD but for some reason, it remained on the shelf, unwatched. Tonight, after having written my post about smoking, I decided that I needed a bigger distraction than a game or reality TV or even one of the TV-Series-on-DVD that I have to watch. I wanted to be enthralled in a fairy tale.

Strangely enough, the commonalties between Tristan and Isolde and Lancelot and Guinevere (my spelling) are startling. Star crossed lovers who manage to fuck their way into ripping a kingdom apart. (As an aside, I recently bought season 1 of The Tudors, for even more groin-related kingdom destruction). The likeness stops there for the most part though, because Tristan, our hero in the case, bears no likely resemblance to the Arthur I have grown to love over the years. Enjoyable movie to be sure, but not even close to the pomp and circumstance of Morgan, Mordred or Arthur.

Except that it brings to mind one thing: Within all the romance of this story, with the sweet (sugary even) scene where Tristan takes Isolde’s virginity, I am reminded just how different life is from the images that flash across a scene, written by people just like me, with vivid imaginations and a penchant for fictional drama and romance. I could easily have written that scene. But it wouldn’t have been from a memory or even from any shred of personal experience. That’s not the kind of sex I’ve had. At least, not enough of it to warrant more than a fading brief glimpse of memory here and there.

I’m all right with that. I think. Because sex is sex. And romance is something else entirely.

Can they be joined? Of course. Normal people everywhere do it every day and I’m sure that most women swoon like crazy over the thought of it. Does it make me a freak to not want that? Maybe, but who cares?

Romance is affection. Closeness. Intimacy. Romance is not married to love, and thank goodness for that. For me, these things are not necessarily wrapped up in sex. Sex can follow. Sex can precede. Either of these is likely to make the sexual experience richer for me. But during? Unnecessary. During, I want passion. And passion and romance, while sometimes compared, are totally different in my book.

I watched the scene intently, looking for something to draw me in – make me even a little titillated but there was nothing in it like that for me. It was romantic. And I love romance. But it wasn’t sexy in my eyes. They may as well have been lying on that stone floor doing nothing more than kissing and talking. If that were the case, I definitely would have been enthralled by it.

Maybe that makes me jaded. But I am unapologetic about feeling the way that I do.