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Joseph Campbell, Myth Master

By the time he died last October at 83, he was a little prone to rhapsodies and exhortations. Like a modern Emerson, he let the boldness of his voice drown out the subtlety of his words, sang the praises of the cosmic round too loftily for the tragic sense to bear. He spoke on “human potential” at Esalen and pub­lished books with titles like Myths To Live By and The Inner Reaches of Outer Space. A documentary termed his life “A Hero’s Journey.” And he was eulogized finally as a sort of guru to celebrity, a shaman whose ideas inspired Watership Down and Star Wars

At his best, though, Joseph Campbell was merely one of the greatest popu­lar writers on mythology who ever lived. His effect on modern narratives may not be as central as Jesse L. Weston’s From Ritual to Romance; her review of the Holy Grail legend as a record of fertility rites served as a subtext for “The Waste Land” and a virtual plot outline for The Sun Also Rises. But Campbell’s scope is far wider, and his prose approaches liter­ature on its own. 

In fact, Campbell is tough to place among his colleagues. His name does not carry the weight of Sir James Frazer: the Golden Bough remains seminal in its en­cyclopedic comparison of myths and ritu­als. But Frazer skirted the controversial links between ancient rites and Chris­tianity and so, as Robert Graves said, “was able to keep his beautiful rooms at Trinity College, Cambridge, until his death …” Graves, on the other hand, leans too heavily on historical explana­tions in The White Goddess and Greek Myths. Each myth to him was the trace of some ancient conquest or migration, and behind them all he saw the con­quered, suppressed but recalcitrant God­dess figure whom, not to put too fine a point on it, he worshipped like a crazy man. Belief also underlies the works of Mircea Eliade, which Campbell consid­ered the scholarly counterpart of his more popular writings. For Eliade, like Campbell, the body of human mythology makes up a metaphysic. But Eliade, un­like Campbell, thought faith in that metaphysic — faith in God, that is — was our only bulwark against despair. 

Which is exactly what makes Campbell so fine, so different. In his best stuff, in The Hero With a Thousand Faces and much of the four-volume Masks of God, he never sinks beneath the powerful spell of his subject; he balks at scuttling no belief in his search for a synthesis of them all. Nor does he argue that the synthesis refers to any extrinsic truth. You get all your favorite gods for free, and no evangelist will call. As a result, these books take on a mythic quality themselves — they produce, at times, the liberating effects they describe. Maybe this places Campbell not with the philos­ophers of myth, and certainly not with scientists like Claude Levi-Strauss, but with the authors of “campus classics”: creators of Self-Help Books for the Real­ly Smart like Alan Watts, Ernest Becker, and Norman O. Brown. But Campbell goes beyond them because he does not, as they do, create a closed system of belief. Reading his books, rather, is like putting your hand out in the dark to find a door­way where you thought there was a wall. They offer, in their moment at least, free­dom not only from faith but from faith-lessness, a third way of thinking for those who will neither kneel down nor be shallow. 

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Campbell’s life, on the surface any­way, seems something other, if not less, than a hero’s journey. Born in New York City in 1904, the son of a hosiery importer and his wife, he was raised a Roman Catholic. His annual visit to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show inspired an interest in Indian culture, and his studies inevitably turned up the fact that the themes of Catholic dogma recur in Indian lore and other legends around the world. Pursuing his interests at Dart­mouth and then Columbia, Campbell won a traveling fellowship to Paris and Mu­nich in the late 1920s. There, he discov­ered the new world of Joyce and Mann, Picasso, Freud, and Jung — and found that it too was based firmly on the old world of myth and legend. He returned to the States just as the market crashed and spent the next few years jobless, wander­ing and, most of all, reading. By 1934, however, he was teaching literature at Sarah Lawrence, where he would stay for the next 38 years. In that time, he be­came moderately famous as an author and editor of books on myth and religion. His mind, even then, was clearly focused on the spiritual — at least one student compared him to a swami. But after his retirement from teaching in 1972, he be­came more completely a preacher on the uses of mythology in the modern world, rejecting the title of guru yet abdicating any claims to scholarly disinterest. At the end, not only George Lucas and Richard Adams, but the Rolling Stones, John Barth, and Denis Johnson could be counted among those whose work was affected by his. 

It sounds like a nice life. Even, as he used to say, a “serendipity.” But it’s pos­sible Donald Newlove got just a tad car­ried away when he wrote in a 1977 Es­quire piece: “His right eye is a falling blossom, his left a fading ember, his way of seeing is the way of genius, of art, of the world’s eye wrapped in a smile of madness. He weighs suns and shadows. He has a will of steel that works titanic labors. He is not mad. He is mad. His cosmic vision lives in two views of the world at once and is beyond duality … ” His office hours are on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. 

This is not to say that Campbell’s in­sights were less than transcendent, (They would have to be, peering through a fall­ing blossom and a fading ember.) It’s just that the origins and nature of that tran­scendence have been misplaced — and were misplaced even, perhaps especially, by Campbell himself. The Power of Myth illustrates this. The book is edited from a series of interviews Moyers did in 1985 and ’86 at George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch and at the Museum of Natural History; some of these talks will be broadcast in a six-part series on PBS starting May 18. The intelligence and ob­vious decency of the two participants make the book likable enough; Camp­bell’s seemingly bottomless erudition sometimes makes it fascinating. But there can be no mistake: Campbell had by this time followed the path of his study into dogma. It’s a good dogma, as dogmas go, a sort of spiritual humanism, but the limitations and stagnation of such doc­trinal thinking are obvious in pontifical exchanges like this: 

Moyers: What happens when a society no longer embraces a powerful mythology? 

Campbell: What we’ve got on our hands. If you want to find out what it means to have a society without any ritu­als, read The New York Times

Moyers: And you’d find? 

Campbell: The news of the day, includ­ing destructive and violent acts by young people who don’t know how to behave in a civilized society. 

Those young people! Bring back Torque­mada with his powerful mythology, his rituals, his civilized society — and, oh yeah, those hot pincers, too. 

Such flashes of stodginess show up even in earlier lectures. In 1970, for instance, Campbell scolded “those sociolog­ical geniuses that are, these days, swarm­ing on our activated campuses” because they’d sneered, heaven help us, at the first moon walk. And when, over the years, he mixed these bits of jingoism with a doctrine that seemed to offer en­lightenment without social disruption, he began to become a magnet for the furrow-­browed magi of our more genteel media. The wages of fame is banality.

As a result, it now appears that Camp­bell will be remembered as one of those lovable, harmless philosophers who shake their heads at human madness while re­affirming the “civilized society” that pro­duces it and was produced by it. This is a blessed shame, because it undercuts the power and complexity of the man’s great — sometimes visionary — books. And if the vision of those books congealed over time into priestcraft, if their author, among the first to interpret Finnegans Wake, was interpreted at the last by Jabba the Hut, it only goes to prove a portion of Campbell’s own thesis: “There must always remain … from the stand­point of normal waking consciousness, a certain baffling inconsistency between the wisdom brought forth from the deep, and the prudence usually found to be brought from the transcendent deep be­comes quickly rationalized into nonenti­ty, and the need becomes great for anoth­er hero to refresh the word.” 

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That need “to refresh the word,” to revitalize the vehicle of mythic transmission, seems to me the im­plied core of Campbell’s great work. Like Freud, he is far more interesting when viewed not as a guru but as a literary critic: one who tells his tale by giving other tales new life. From this angle, Campbell was a sort of reconstructionist, dedicated to narrative not only as a method of journeying beyond narrative, but also as the place to which silence ceaselessly returns. He was willing to sub­mit to all that narrative implies — causal­ity, authority, and the duality of speaker and listener — but only so that causality would be extinguished, authority re­placed, and the listener metamorphosed into the teller in a round that never ends. Such an outlook, more practically, trans­forms the systems that threaten to crush us into an egress, a way out. The church that makes lapsed Catholics quail, the government that incites revolutionaries, the vagaries of parents and the false stratagems of art are not swept away here, but used as works, as stories that transport us to a place where they cease to exert their power. 

A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, written with Henry Morton Robinson, sets the tone of Campbell’s dialogue with world literature. Still a standard textbook 44 years after its publication, the Key identifies Joyce’s use of generic mythic themes. The protagonist’s tumble from a ladder is linked with the Fall; the many faces of Shem and Shaun are pegged to the recurring Brother Battle; the wake becomes a comic rehearsal of Resurrec­tion; and the riverrun which begins and ends the book is seen as the cycle of the One Mother, who is the life of everything that lives and the death of everything that dies. With these themes as guides, the Key proceeds to distill Joyce’s “root language” into something approaching English, and his massive “dreamwork” into something approaching a linear table of creation, manifold life, dissolution, and promised rebirth. 

This is actually kind of a wicked trick: it joins together what Joyce had torn asunder. Finnegans Wake, after all, oper­ates by dismantling itself. Its referential neologisms smudge the borders between the text and all that is not the text. Virtually no word among the book’s many thousands can be read in a single contextual sense; all evoke a series of connected words and ideas which, as the end of the novel suggests, arise from and fall into a unity of silence. This tech­nique, as the author of “Usylessly” brings into focus the accidental nature of the writer’s role. If all words unite finally into one, why are we reading these words? Why Finnegans Wake with all its difficulties and not Dr. No or Peanuts? Or Star Wars? As in the New Testament, the storyteller has to answer the ques­tion: “By what authority doest thou these things?” Joyce, though a fine gentleman in his own right to be sure, had not quite the recourse of his predecessor. 

Campbell and Robinson believed, how­ever, that Joyce had not abandoned his claims on the reader but simply reestab­lished the seat of narrative authority in the collective unconscious. The universal mythic themes enumerated in the Key are worked together throughout the Wake into a recurring dream of the Jung­ian all-mind, an ever-repeating complex of stories that Joyce terms the “mono­myth.” That story-without-end provides its own authority to the teller because, as actual dreams speak the underknowledge of the individual, the monomyth speaks in the hidden voice of us all. 

So an artist like Joyce, as seen in the Key, takes on the heroic role embraced by Stephen Dedalus when he said, “I go to encounter for the millionth time the real­ity of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated con­science of my race.” That is, he must plunge into the collective unconscious as it is temporarily incarnate in himself and his own life, experience the essence of the monomyth, and retell it afresh, giving his own accidental shape — “a local habita­tion and a name” — to the unchanging human story. 

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The Hero With a Thousand Faces, first published in 1949, is an attempt to decipher that “one shape-shifting yet marvelously constant story.” It is Campbell at his peak, the book people cite when they say Campbell “changed their lives,” and many of its interpreta­tions form the underpinning of the Campbellian spiritual approach. I find this irritating: it seems to me the book delivers its kick not with its mythic con­tent, but with its literary method. Camp­bell does not simply analyze the universal tale of the hero-task, he retells it, reforges it, as it were, in the smithy of his soul. To illustrate the unity of diverse tales, he patches together myths from all over the world. Where the voyages of Odysseus or Jason leave off, the descent into Hell of the Sumerian goddess lnanna takes up only to give way to the reawakening of Kamar al-Zaman in the Arabian Nights or the resurrection of Jesus. “We do not particularly care whether [they] ever ac­tually lived,” Campbell writes of these characters. “Their stories are what con­cern us … ” 

The outline of those stories, which are one story, is simple. First, the hero is called to adventure. If he accepts the call, he encounters a protective figure, usually an old man or woman, who supplies him with charms and instructions. “With the personifications of his destiny to guide and aid him,” the hero overcomes the guardian of a threshold and moves into “the regions of the unknown” which are “free fields for the projection of uncon­scious content.” Here, “incestuous libido and patricidal destrudo are … reflected back against the individual and his soci­ety in forms suggesting threats of vio­lence and … dangerous delight.” 

These regions, however, are also the womb of the hero’s rebirth. Because now, “the hero, whether god or goddess, man or woman, the figure in a myth or the dreamer of a dream, discovers and assim­ilates his opposite (his own unsuspected self) … One by one the resistances are broken. He must put aside his pride, his virtue, beauty and life and bow or submit to the absolutely intolerable. Then he finds that he and his opposite are not of differing species, but one flesh.” 

If he is fortunate, these trials prepare the hero’s consciousness for the ultimate adventure. This could be his atonement with the Great Father or his own apothe­osis; sex with the mother of all things or with an immortal god. Then, if the hero I chooses to accept the challenge of return — have constructed the sort of — critique he had in Hero, literature studying litera­ture. But even he confessed that Hero had been a uniquely vital moment in his work, and that Masks was more of an ”intellectual stunt.” In Creative Mytholo­gy, we are given only a stolid uncovering of the ”norms of myth” as Campbell finds them almost exclusively in Western writings. 

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From Hero to Creative Mythology, Campbell has shown the history of the monomyth to be the monomyth itself: the story of the human race moving from its sterile unity with a mother-envi­ronment, traveling into the realm of threats of violence and dangerous delight, ultimately to reach the threshold of the holy of holies — where perceiver and envi­ronment meet again — where we must try to embrace the other and bring back the boon … which is a retelling of the mono­myth. In this madness of reflection upon reflection, Campbell saw the best vision of the oversoul, the “controlled and in­tended statements of certain spiritual principles” of mankind. But what if the method to the madness lies not in our relationship to eternity, but in our rela­tionship to the structure of narrative it­self? Because once it is seen that every story, even the history of stories, is a mirror on a mirror, we next begin to question whether it is the form of the story that keeps imposing itself upon the content. That is, we begin to ask: does a narrative, simply by virtue of being a narrative, mold its accidental contents into the One Great Narrative? 

John Barth did a comic turn with this Chinese box version of storytelling in his 1972 novel Chimera, which is an extension of Campbell’s ideas. In it, he writes of the “recycled” hero: “‘Loosed at last from mortal speech, he turned into writ­ten words: … letters afloat between two worlds, forever betraying … the man they forever represent.” Likewise, a few years earlier, Jacques Derrida had discov­ered in Plato the idea of the word as the son of the speaker; the spoken word re­mains close to the father, retaining his living power; the written word is the or­phan or parricide who, as Plato writes, “always needs its parent to come to its aid.” Again, in the Gospel According to John, Jesus is depicted as the Logos emitted by the father God, sent to plant his own logos, his parables, like secJs. Which brings us in a circle back to Barth, whose characters like to talk as if ”writ­ing and reading, or telling and listening, were literally making love.” 

The mythic narrative begins to look a lot like the hero it describes. Once this myth grows sterile and codified in the mind of the true believer, it travels from him into the hearing of the faithless. Overcoming the resistance there, it meets with and embraces its opposite, the si­lence of illumination, and so refreshes the wasteland of the mind in which it lives once again. Small wonder all stories are the same, when the simple process of telling stories shapes the contents in the mold of itself. 

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To go further: “The first thing that confronts us in studying verbal structures is that they are arranged sequentially, and have to be read or listened to in time,” writes Northrop Frye in The Great Code. He goes on to say that myth means ”first of all, mythos, plot, narrative, or in general the sequential or­dering of words. As all verbal structures have some kind of sequence … all verbal structures are mythical in this primary sense.” 

In light of this, Campbell’s work con­tinues into places where Campbell him­self did not go. In his conversation with Moyers, he laments our “demytholo­gized” world (with its wayward youth) and seeks a new universal mythology: “The eye of reason, not of my national­ity; the eye of reason, not of my religious community; the eye of reason, not of my linguistic community.” But this is a myth that misses the point. The universal myth is already with us: Language is myth, and any communication in time partakes of the mythic nature Campbell described so well. 

This accounts for our sense that the more things change, the more they stay the same, our sense of what might be called inclusion — an infuriating realization that our history, our ideas, our very method of thought trap us within them­selves. Inclusion is at work, for instance, when Freud uses objections to his theory to prove his theory. It is inclusion when radical opponents of a system can only work change insofar as they shed their radical values and are absorbed into the system, or overturn the system and take on its oppressive nature. Each approach to the structure, each new dogma, is found finally to be bankrupt, because it is never more than a retelling of the same old story. Each attempt to isolate the story — as Roland Barthes did, for instance, in Mythologies — reiterates the story — as Barthes did with his holy trin­ity of signifier, signified, and sign. Inclu­sion, it seems clear, is an aspect of narrative thought because the method of narrative shapes all contents to its own form. 

Another way to represent that method is as a succession of authorities. The voice of authority implants itself in the listener, a new authority is born in the listener and so overturns the original voice. In short, narrative can be seen as an emanation of the complexes we think of as patriarchal. The sequential ordering of words, linear thought, mythic thought is a “patriarchal” endeavor. It is, after all, a patriarchal system that depends on a verbal or written lineage in conferring power over life and death. 

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These sexual images are only images, of course. Our flesh imposes the meta­phors of duality, even when we’ve learned not to impose the metaphors on our flesh. Following along with them, though, it is possible to find an alternative form of communication that, having what we consider “feminine” or yin features, has been largely devalued in the West. In Zen, it is called I shin den shin, meaning “from my soul to your soul,” i.e. word­lessly. It is central to a way of life in which, as the Tao te ching puts it, “those who know speak not.” A ”fixed world of fixed duties, roles, and possibilities,” stagnant and enraging as it may be, does create a society in which actions speak louder than words. This is the communi­cation of direct transmission, as life is communicated from mother to child. 

But as Campbell demonstrated, that silence, insofar as it partakes of life, ceaselessly returns to narrative thought just as narrative thought is always jour­neying toward silence. Whether the movement represents the motion of hero and cosmos, or lover and lover, or body and womb, or the mind and itself — and who’s to say which is the most pro­found? — every story can lead us to a sense of something beyond words, and from that sense we bring new symbols with which we may tell the story again. 

Campbell saw revelation and societal good in some of the moments when story and silence merge, but all that can really be said with certainty is that the conjunc­tion gives us pleasure, like sex, in and of itself. That, stripped of all other mean­ing, may be ”all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” Whenever we speak, we tell stories — stories that sound like myths, stories that sound like scientific theories, stories that sound like religions, stories that sound like interpretations of all the stories ever told. When these sto­ries are well received, we experience a silent sense of pleasure, which satisfies us till we need to hear the tales once more. 

To imprison this pleasure in moral law is to lose a bit of paradise through the knowledge of good and evil. As with sex, our judgment need only attend to the different levels and qualities of physical and emotional satisfaction. By this stan­dard, Joseph Campbell, in The Hero With a Thousand Faces, in the greatness of his prime, was a master mythmaker, a giver of bliss. 

And for that, more than anything else, may the Force be with him. ❖

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ART ARCHIVES CULTURE ARCHIVES Neighborhoods NEW YORK CITY ARCHIVES NYC ARCHIVES Theater

Comic Book Theater Festival: Where the Action Is

BIFF! BANG! I’m not the only guy raised on a diet of Marvel and Action comics. But maybe I’m the only New Yorker who thinks it’s an awesome idea to make live shows based on serial strips and graphic novels. That would explain why I was an audience of one when I arrived for a random evening’s sampling of the homegrown Comic Book Theater Festival. The first production I saw, The Myth of Power, is a painfully unfinished multimedia piece that imagines a 1970s public television interview with a caveman robot. Channeling Joseph Campbell, the host and his guest (a transistorized troglodyte moved by aliens from the year 19-6660) discuss sphinxes, human thought as a computer virus, and metaphysical salami.

Matt Barbot’s more serious and occasionally witty El Coquí Espectacular and the Bottle of Doom follows a different kind of transplant: Alex (Michael John Improta) is a 23-year-old living at home in Brooklyn who transforms daily into El Coquí, Protector of Nuyoricans. “It’s not to fight crime, just to look the part and wear the costume,” he admits sheepishly. Alex feels like a cultural outsider but wants something more satisfying — and eventually finds it at home, not on city streets. Barbott’s script is repetitive but sincere, drawing a clear picture: Superheroes aren’t real, but otherness is.

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CULTURE ARCHIVES FILM ARCHIVES TV ARCHIVES VOICE CHOICES ARCHIVES

Tales of the Night (Les Contes de la Nuit)

Sometimes, when you appropriate the storytelling modes of other cultures or time periods, the result is an enormous, semi-informed embarrassment that you ultimately have to zip-a-dee-disavow because of the finished product’s zip-a-dee-ay-trocious racism or whatever. Even approached conscientiously, with the best possible intentions, an artist’s own cultural biases inevitably inform the finished product, and, while Disney’s Song of the Birth of a Nation was Aryan Nation garbage, director Michel Ocelot’s pretty Tales of the Night (Les Contes de la Nuit) is just really, really French, even with the English vocal track with which it has been released here. Although the film adopts the storytelling modes of other cultures—Caribbean, African, Middle Eastern, among others—the film bears a certain emotional remove and coolness of affect you don’t generally find in folktales. It’s also clear that this episodic film was assembled from a children’s series from French TV, as each act is prefaced with a didactic little preamble in which the three main characters have a shallow, uninformative discussion of the culture from which they’re about to appropriate the next story. Two young kids and an old man occupy an abandoned, magical movie theater every night, and the stories they tell become movies in which they take part. Beautifully designed, the background shapes of trees and buildings consist of cool blues that pop forward from warm red skies, lending depth to a stylish, flat art style; a sharp contrast with the ghastly Jolly Rancher color palettes of most American animation. All characters are rendered in silhouette, with only occasional glimpses of their eyes, each figure distinctively shaped and easily distinguished. The stories are quick, tiny surveys of a given culture’s conventions told as monomythic, Joseph Campbell–ish pastiches and animated with fluidity and deliberateness that nearly excuses the film’s slightness.

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A Warrior’s Heart

The latest film to ride Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth as if it were a nonconsensual pony, A Warrior’s Heart tries to fashion a hero’s journey out of a Seventeen spread. Two peripheral pretty faces from team Twilight star in this story about a high school lacrosse player’s fitful passage from temperamental military brat to marginally more mature military brat. When his Marine father is transferred from California to D.C., Conor (Kellan Lutz) struggles to insert his overweening ego into a prep-school squad, then struggles worse when Dad is redeployed to and killed in Iraq (but not before tapping out one last lacrosse-themed text to Conor, blood, vomit, and flaming Jeep be damned). Soon, Conor’s alienating his new girlfriend, Brooklyn (Ashley Greene), stick-chopping opponents, and going postal on a trophy case, for which he’s inexplicably incarcerated, then released into the custody of a Native-American Marine named, hell yes, Duke Wayne (Adam Beach), who maroons him on a reservation and administers earthy wisdom via sledgehammer and sleeper hold. Director Michael F. Sears might not know how to record or construct a scene, but he’s savvy enough to make sure his PG movie gives props to Uncle Sam and Jesus, and ogles Lutz’s naked torso as doggedly as the family-friendly rating allows.

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Mythic Figurations’ Campbell Soup

Like the rock opera or the dystopian visions of Philip K. Dick,
Joseph Campbell functions as a kind of Sargasso Sea for emerging
artists, luring them into an eerily becalmed miasma of pseudo-
profundity laced with “Haven’t we been here before?” Title:Point
Productions is the latest to fall into this trap, with their Mythic
Configurations
, an old-gods-meet-the-new-gods parable whose flashes
of ingenuity barely conceal its murky and threadbare plot. Set in the
headquarters of a three-person team of superheroes/gods for hire, the
piece uses an array of media to chart the relative rise and fall of
the team’s members, mixing the obsolescent (overhead projections)
with the up-to-date (video broadcast). As the fading warrior Warren,
Ilan Bachrach amusingly grouses and mumbles like a hybrid of Popeye
and Wallace Shawn. Once he realizes he’s truly been supplanted as
lead rent-a-god, his abject stare beetling from underneath his Viking
helmet provides a rare moment of genuine drama. Vonia Arslanian,
playing the ascendant assassin Rose, lithely kickboxes and sashays
her way through a variety of pastiche scenarios. But from the loose,
noodling improvisation that precedes the piece’s opening to the heavy-
handed thematics pitting order against chaos, Mythic Configurations
lacks the imaginative discipline to reinvent its familiar material.

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The Force Will Always Be with Us

Leave it to George Lucas to schedule the millennium to promote his new movie. For millions, the second coming of Star Wars is a cosmic event of equal historical significance.

Opening (as if you didn’t know) next Wednesday at 2500-plus North American theaters, Star Wars: Episode I— The Phantom Menace is an event that brings together religion, entertainment, business, technology, weaponry, and publicity— the most powerful aspects of American culture— in one brain-dissolving package. The true believers— the children of Star Wars— have been awaiting this moment for nearly two decades.

The hype, which took off last fall when fans began paying full admission to witness the two-minute Phantom Menace trailer, has long since reached warp speed; the rapture has nothing on this baby. The costumed ticket lines are almost two weeks old. The New York Post, owned (like distributor 20th Century Fox) by Rupert Murdoch, has been running a daily Phantom Menace countdown for a month. If anything in showbiz was ever a sure thing, this is it. Even so, the notoriously reclusive Lucas has been apublicist’s dream, flacking The Phantom Menace on TV, granting interviews, and furnishing “exclusive” pictures of Planet Naboo and the lovable Gungan called Jar Jar Binks to half the glossies on the newsstand.

Some believe that Lucas’s self-financed $120 million production will make back its budget during its first week, en route to an eventual billion— and that’s just box office. Merchandisers predict The Phantom Menace will sell a billion dollars’ worth of licensed toys. Pepsi has already paid Lucas twice as much for a sponsorship deal that includes a custom-made, four-armed digital huckster hobbit called Marfalump and 24 collectible soda cans.

No one doubts that this still-unseen attraction is destined to sink Titanic, just as Star Wars swamped Jaws 22 years ago. Even the old “Star Wars” missile-defense scheme has been revived in scaled-down fashion to be operational by 2005— to coincide with the culmination of Lucas’s second trilogy. (It is only a matter of moments before politicians begin to refer to Russia, China, or Slobodan Milosevic as the Phantom Menace.) Why is this blockbuster different from all other blockbusters? The Godfather, The Exorcist, and Jaws inspired repeat viewings, spawned sequels, and revitalized genres. Star Wars, however, was always something more.

Star Wars would establish a franchise, but back in May 1977, Variety was too awestruck to consider the bottom line: “Like a breath of fresh air, Star Wars sweeps away the cynicism that has in recent years obscured the concepts of valor, dedication and honor. Make no mistake— this is by no means a ‘children’s film’. . . . This is the kind of film in which an audience, first entertained, can later walk out feeling good all over.”

What is overdetermined now was spontaneous then. Lucas’s geeky pulpfest caught the movie studios, the toy stores, and the media by surprise. As late as Christmas 1977, a month after Star Wars topped Jaws, theater owners were still fighting to keep it on their screens. Not since Chaplinitis swept America in 1915 had cinema inspired so heady a craze. Perhaps we can date the decline of mere movies to that moment. A year after The Rocky Horror Picture Show began building its fanatical midnight following, Star Wars established a cult on an unprecedented scale. Francis Ford Coppola wasn’t entirely kidding when, according to Lucas, he suggested his onetime protégé turn Star Wars into a religion: “With religion, you really have power.”

Coppola needn’t have worried. Established faiths were already on the case. Lucas’s creation was celebrated by Christian Century and The Lutheran. In The Force of Star Wars, an original Bible Voice paperback published while the movie was still in first release, a born-again former Disney publicist with the Dickensian name Frank Allnutt compared the plucky crew of the Millennium Falcon to the early Christian true believers. Allnutt expressed his belief that Star Wars presaged another imminent “invasion from outer space”— namely, the triumphant return of Jesus Christ to Earth.

The Star Wars resurrection has been heralded by hundreds of Web sites, some submitting the Lucas text to scriptural exegesis and Talmudic interpretation. Lucas recently described Star Wars as a sort of drive-in McChristianity, “taking all [sic] the issues that religion represents and trying to distill them down into a more modern and easily accessible construct.” Obi-Wan Kenobi may not yet be recognized as Lord Krishna’s avatar, but I have seen a Darth Vader action figure incorporated into a voodoo altar— just as it was fetishized in the bedrooms of 10 million American kids.

Star Wars may not have inspired the first sci-fi church (L. Ron Hubbard was already in business). Nor was it the first movie to bring divine revelation to the screen (although it did render DeMille’s Ten Commandments obsolete). But, unlike any previous religion, Star Wars used late-20th-century technology to bypass church, state, and parental authority in mass-marketing its vision. But what was George Lucas’s burning bush?

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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (is there any writing on the subject that can resist this cliche?), lived a little boy without TV: me. I remember the day that, after much lobbying, my dad brought home a boxy Emerson and installed it in a living-room bookcase. I even more vividly recall my pleasure as a five-year-old in the Wednesday night telecast of Disneyland and enormous satisfaction in the innocent belief that right then sets were blasting on all over America. Every kid in the country was watching Tinkerbell shake her booty around Cinderella’s castle and, what was more, we were all watching it at the exact same instant— the feeling that Benedict Anderson would eventually characterize as the “deep horizontal comradeship” of an “imagined community.”

When Disneyland began to televise the adventures of Davy Crockett, every kid on my block had a coonskin cap and could chant “The Ballad of Davy Crockett”— and not just on my block. The boomers entered the marketplace. A generation recognized itself in the greatest merchandising bonanza of the age. The child George Lucas was watching TV then too. Thus, as prophesied by Uncle Walt, Star Wars was a religion founded on the imaginary community of Disneyland and the cash-cow collectibility of Davy Crockett.

A man with a mission, Lucas would explain that whereas he made American Graffiti (the movie that effectively ended the ’60s when it was released during the summer of 1973) for 16-year-olds, Star Wars was created for a younger audience. The filmmaker was addressing those 10-year-olds who— in his opinion— had been deprived of their mass cultural birthright. As Lucas remembered, western movies had been the great repository of mythic narrative and moral value when he and we were growing up post­World War II. Cowboys and Indians, every night on TV and every week at the movies, taught us right from wrong, good guys from bad. But somehow the genre failed to survive the tumult of the Vietnam era— as did many thousands of little western devotees. Lucas took it upon himself “to make a film for young people that would move forward the values and the logical thinking that our society has passed down for generations.”

Star Wars was not just a seamless blend of Walt Disney and Leni Riefenstahl, The Searchers and 2001, The Wizard of Oz and World War II. Lucas had not only studied Akira Kurosawa but Carlos Castaneda and even Joseph Campbell’s 1949 pop Jungian treatise on the monomyth, The Hero With a Thousand Faces. Moreover Star Wars had politics. Clancy Sigal soon noted in The Spectator that Lucas had synthesized “the most imaginatively compelling aspects of the Vietnam-era culture: the technical achievements of scientific hardware (from NASA space probes to helicopter gunships used in search-and-destroy operations) and the ascendancy of mushy mysticism.” Star Wars was an antitechnological technological wonder— an ultra-authoritarian presentation with an antiauthoritarian message.

Sigal cited Star Trek as Star Wars‘s precursor: “a substitute classroom-church for millions of American kids.” But I was in grad school when Star Wars opened and, as Fox dumped a bunch of invites at Columbia, managed to be present when the sacred text first scrolled upon the screen. For me, Star Wars was a New Wave nightmare— sanctimonious and soulless, a jet-propelled smile button with a raucous blitzkrieg ending. But what did I know? As the lights rose I was amazed to see the middle-aged face of my department chairman redder than usual and creased with childlike delight. (I’d be less surprised six years later when President Ronald Reagan appropriated the movie for his own political agenda.)

So I thought Star Wars was a bore— but so what? I was hardly the target. A movie about teenage heroism in an adult universe, Star Wars created a pop-cultural generational divide comparable to the chasm that had split the nation with the arrival of Elvis Presley 21 years before. (In a convenient bit of Jungian synchronicity, the King OD’d the summer of Star Wars‘s release— never to be introduced on planet Vegas by a blast from the cornball migraine-maker that was John Williams’s instantly disco-ized theme.) Just as few born before 1938 would ever truly believe in the “magic” of rock and roll, those born after 1968 experienced a force that their elders could barely imagine. Call these mutants the Star Woids. There is not one person that I’ve asked between the ages of 25 and 30 who doesn’t have some powerful Star Wars association. An artist remembers leaving the movie house and hallucinating Darth Vader in the streets. A writer who has no memory of the movie recalls organizing the neighborhood kids in a Star Wars pageant.

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When I surveyed my college students on the occasion of the 20th-anniversary rerelease, their responses were scarcely less cosmic. “The Empire Strikes Back was the first event in my life,” one wrote. “My brother remembers the exact time and the position of the sun when he first saw Star Wars,” another maintained. If some couldn’t bring to mind the first time they saw the movie, it was because they felt they’d always known it. One found it more powerful than Catholic school. Another described his grade-school trauma— being asked the “horrifying question: ‘You really haven’t seen any Star Wars movies?’ ” A boy from South America recounted a similar moment of truth. “When I raised my hand telling I had not yet seen Star Wars, my friend looked at me sideways and whispered, ‘Freak.’ ” As one Russian student described the heroic risks that his family took to see Star Wars in Odessa, a Caribbean girl remembered recognizing that this movie was the “symbol of America” and a Pakistani boy, brought to the U.S. at eight, knew then that knowledge of Star Wars was “required if I was to be Americanized.”

Was there a choice? In the half dozen years between the opening of Star Wars and Reagan’s “Evil Empire” speech, kids wore Star Wars sweatshirts, carried Star Wars lunchboxes to schools where they wrote with Star Wars pencils in Star Wars notebooks, lobbied for Star Wars light sabers, role-played Star Wars and played Star Wars videos, read Star Wars books, listened to Star Wars records, attended Star Wars birthday parties, donned Star Wars Halloween costumes, and, each night, brushed with Star Wars toothbrushes and slept in Star Wars pajamas, between Star Wars sheets, to dream Star Wars dreams.

Endless regression: By the time of Star Wars‘s 1987 and 1997 anniversary reissues, the horizontal comradeship of the initial craze had been transmuted into the premature nostalgia that is fueling the current hysteria. The audience for The Phantom Menace is not 10 but 30. For Star Wars not only resurrected the entire sci-fi fantasy genre and reconfigured modern warfare, it created a new cinematic paradigm. For studios, Star Wars seemed the ultimate moneymaking machine, one to be emulated into eternity. For impressionable viewers, Lucas produced an experience so intense, provided a worldview so participatory, and created a narrative so totally awesome that, however craved, the effect can never be equaled.

The sense of a spurious reality is the theme of the season’s sci-fi sleeper. Indeed, back in 1977, Frank Allnutt praised Star Wars in terms suggestive of The Matrix. Rather than believing that the movie allowed audiences to relive childhood fantasies (per Lucas), Allnutt thought Star Wars did the opposite. “Perhaps the youth of today, especially, see the world they are living in as artificial, a fantasy, if you will, and really want to find reality. Star Wars gives them a glimpse of reality— a hope for something more meaningful than the fantasy of everyday life so many people are living.”

On the other hand, The Matrix might be an allegory for the Star Wars world. The Phantom Menace is 95 percent digitally realized. Lucas has compared this technology, pioneered by his Industrial Light and Magic, to the invention of sound or color. His new movie is essentially an animated cartoon fashioned from photographic material— not just backdrops and stunt-doubles, but entire worlds and characters are computer-generated.

As the spectacularly alienated aerial battle that ended Star Wars predicted video and computer games to come (not to mention the sanitized air war of Desert Storm), so The Phantom Menace demonstrates the history of the future— literally. Years ago, Siegfried Kracauer linked the development of historicist thinking to the mid-19th-century rise of photography: “The world has become a photographable present and the photographed present has been entirely eternalized.” History was the attempt to “photograph time” and photography was memory made material.

But, infinitely malleable, digital imaging does not share photography’s indexical relationship to the real— it doesn’t produce a document (admissible as evidence) but rather a fiction. Will this mastery over the photographic record inspire a new historicism or inspire a continually “improved” past? It is telling that where politics made it impossible for the National Air and Space Museum to present a factual show marking the 50th anniversary of the Bomb dropped on Hiroshima, the same museum subsequently mounted a wildly successful, wholly fictional exhibit called Star Wars: The Magic of Myth.

Purists screamed when Casablanca was colorized but Star Woids were thrilled when Lucas digitally added Jabba the Hutt to the Star Wars reissue. Few were disturbed when he improved Han Solo’s character by changing a scene so that villainous Greedo fired on the good guy first, rather than vice versa. Rewritten history or only a movie? For some, the Star Wars saga is already the essential past. Where Time hailed Star Wars as a “subliminal history of movies,” filmmaker (and Star Woid) Kevin Smith remembers encountering classical mythology in school and assuming that the Greeks had ripped off Lucas. And recently, Newsweek reversed another chronology. No longer did Lucas illustrate the ideas of Joseph Campbell: “In The Hero With a Thousand Faces and The Power of Myth,” according to one commentator, “Campbell interprets the universal appeal of Star Wars.”

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The future revises the past. George Lucas owns the monomyth. Were Campbell still alive he might find himself sued for copyright infringement. As Star Wars ended with a scene cribbed from Triumph of the Will, so the tumult around The Phantom Menace suggests a slogan associated with that vision of totality. One people, one entertainment regime, one movie.