'Adventure stories'

Now that I think about it, two of my favourite series as a child contained the word 'Adventure' in their titles. One was by Willard Price, whilst the other was by Enid Blyton. And I loved Robin Hood, whether it was written by Richard Carpenter or Roger Lancelyn Green. And The Three Musketeers, although that was perhaps more Dogtanian. I've still never actually read Dumas. And a little later on Strider was the coolest character I'd ever met in fiction, the character I most wanted to be when I grew up. Before he was superseded by Elric of course.

And at the age of 32 I find I still read superhero comics. In fact, I've read more superheroes in my twenties than I ever did growing up. My self righteous teenage self would never have wanted to read such things for a start. Although my interest does tend to fluctuate somewhat, and I'd like to hope I'm discerning in my taste. I do wonder sometimes.

...all were in pursuit of the dream nurtured by every Spaniard: to live without doing a stroke of work, to pay no taxes and to swagger about with a sword at their belt and a cross embroidered on their doublet

Arturo Perez-Reverte, The Man in the Yellow Doublet, p.57

Inigo Balboa may be dismissive of his countrymen here in the latest Captain Alatriste, but I also wonder if he doesn't also capture something of what an adventure story promises: freedom from responsibility and normal social cares and pressures. Of course, the hero of any adventure story, no matter how morally compromised they might be, also holds to a code of honour. This code of honour is often absurdly stern, and brings the hero into conflict with much of the world which falls beneath such high standards.

But it is a vision of freedom. Even when the hero is part of some kind of formal hierarchy, such as Hornblower or Sharpe, they also assert a freedom and independence from the hierarchies of which they are a part. They are the repositories of moral rectitude and correct behaviour in their respective narratives.

And before this becomes rather too macho and sweatily masculine, I must point out that the biggest fans of Hornblower and Sharpe that I've met have been female. Also, now that I think about it, I wonder if this vision of absolute freedom isn't part of what Libertarianism appears to promise its adherents, which perhaps only goes to show that some ideals shouldn't be inflicted on too much of the real world.

But frankly, I don't really want to peer too closely at the ideology of adventure stories. When done well, and Captain Alatriste is certainly done well (given my earlier love for the Strider the choice of actor for Alatriste in the 2006 film is almost too perfect), then it's just a very pleasurable narrative form for me. Perez-Reverte creates a dirty and gritty early seventeenth-century Spain in which to set his adventures. Alongside this we get lectures on Spanish history and classical literature. That these don't seem out of place works because they're all told from the retrospective point of view of an older battle scarred and weary Inigo. What might otherwise seem like an author dumping his research on his readers works here because it makes perfect sense that our narrator would want to tell us about the vanished world which meant so much to him.

Yes, Inigo does excuse, even celebrate the imperialism and misogyny that the culture he eulogises also contained, but his narratives also celebrate loyalty, friendship and the need to perform right actions no matter how difficult their performance might be. There is a virtue here, for all that it might be easy to dismiss it as childish in a different context.

But surely, the real reason for reading a novel such as this is just for the sheer pleasure of it's telling.

Diego Alatriste was in a devil of a hurry. A new play was about to be performed at the Corral de la Cruz, and there he was on the Cuesta de la Vega, duelling with some fellow whose name he didn't even know.

ibid.

Honestly, how could you read such opening sentences and not desperately want to know what happens next?