Friday, August 31, 2018

Batman, Volume 2: The City of Owls (Review)

Batman, Volume 2: The City of Owls continues the story that Scott Snyder began telling in Batman, Volume 1: The Court of Owls. The first volume introduced us to the Court of Owls, a ruthless cabal of powerbrokers who have been operating in Gotham City for centuries. The Court kicks off the plot when it targets both Bruce Wayne and his alter ego, the Batman. Severely underestimating the gravity of the threat, Batman is beaten and Wayne is nearly killed by the Court's deadly assassin, the Talon. While Wayne recovers, the Court unleashes an army of Talons upon an unsuspecting Gotham City, and the first volume ends with the Talons emerging from the shadows, ready to ensure the streets of Gotham run red.

Batman, Volume 2: The City of Owls
The story picks up as the Talons assault Wayne Manor, where Bruce is still recovering with his trusted friend and butler, Alfred Pennyworth, by his side. What ensues is a harrowing sequence in which the Talons attempt to finish what they started, killing Wayne and therefore ending Batman. But never to be outdone, Wayne discovers a means of defeating the seemingly invincible Talons through sharp detective work, dispatches them, and quickly returns to his role as Batman. For the remainder of this horrifying night, Batman and his allies battle the Talons across Gotham, successfully staving off their attack and saving a number of their targets, but the victory is not without casualties. Many of Gotham City's most important political figures are killed in the attack, including the promising mayoral candidate, Lincoln March.

This is a rather straightforward conclusion to the story begun in the previous volume, standard comic book fare. What's interesting is that this portion of the story is wrapped up early in this second volume. For a twist in the narrative propels a story threatening to stall out into personal territory with incredibly high stakes. Previously, Snyder dealt with the theme of pride, framed in the mythological context of Theseus and the Minotaur. Here, he pushes the thematic envelope even further, dealing with the concept of forbidden knowledge, in the mythological context of brotherhood. The story even goes so far as to reference Romulus and Remus as underpinning the narrative, itself a mythological construct pointing back to the account of Cain and Abel.

It has been a long-held belief in the Batman mythos that Bruce Wayne was an only child. His parents were killed in front of him when he was just a boy, the defining event of his life that put him on the road to becoming Batman. But Snyder subverts expectations once again by revealing that Bruce's parents, Thomas and Martha, had another child that had been born with defects due to a car accident, and had only lived for twelve hours. But through the usual comic book outlandishness of secret serums and other such things, Snyder suggests to both Batman and the reader that perhaps the child had survived. Perhaps that child had been found and raised by the Court of Owls, honed into a lethal weapon who, when the time was right, would ascend to the top of Gotham's social hierarchy as Thomas Wayne, Jr. and effectively depose Bruce as the city's golden boy—the jealous brother who attempts to kill the honorable brother. We learned in the previous volume that the Court's assassins, the Talons, had remarkable healing abilities. This Chekov's gun fires on all cylinders in the second volume, as the supposedly dead mayoral candidate Lincoln March is revealed to not only be alive, but a member of the Court of Owls with regenerative abilities—more than this, he claims to be the long-lost second son of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

This is certainly an interesting wrinkle in the Batman mythos. Wisely, Snyder never actually settles the issue of March's parentage definitively. Of course, Batman and March have a fierce battle that sorta-kinda ends in a stalemate. Batman escapes with his life, and March's body is never recovered, suggesting that he is still alive. But as Bruce reflects on these apparent revelations, he points out that the Court of Owls could very easily have taken in any orphan and brainwashed him into believing he was the younger Wayne brother. Usually, this kind of ambiguity bothers me, but in this case I think it works to benefit the story. See, another major theme running through both volumes has to do with secrets and trust. Early in the first volume Wayne learns that his first adopted son, Dick Grayson, was originally slated to become a Talon for the Court of Owls. Wayne elects to hide this information from Grayson, until the two have a heated argument. Dick, angry at Bruce for hiding this from him, walks away. At the end of the second volume, as the storyline featuring the Court of Owls is wrapped up, Grayson returns and talks with Wayne again. This time, it is Wayne who is certain that, had his brother actually survived, his parents would have told him, that they would not have kept hidden from him the truth that they very well might have sent the boy off to a children's home. But Grayson tells him that he now understands the value of keeping some terrible, painful truths a secret from those whom it might hurt more, and suggests to Bruce that his parents could very well have kept that secret simply because Bruce was, at the time, too young, and it was not his place to know.

The themes of pride and forbidden knowledge are admirably interwoven in Snyder's tale. Bruce's pride in knowing Gotham City better than anyone is undone by the existence of the Court. By the story's end, he comes to learn that not only did he misjudge the city, he could very well have misjudged his own family. Some secrets are worth being left in the dark, some knowledge is better left unlearned.

But perhaps the best illustration of this theme comes not from the main plot. Interestingly, after the main storyline has wrapped up, this volume features a collection of shorter backup stories that help to flesh out the world and events surrounding the main story. One of these stories, entitled, "The Fall of the House of Wayne," is written almost completely devoid of dialogue. Instead, the story is recounted in the context of a letter penned by Alfred's father, Jarvis Pennyworth, who was the butler to Wayne's own parents. In the story, which flashes back to when Bruce was just a boy and Thomas and Martha were still living, we learn that Jarvis was present during the car accident that injured Martha and supposedly resulted in the death of the youngest Wayne. In fact, Jarvis suggests the car accident was no accident at all, that it had been orchestrated by someone who wanted to see Martha dead because she was willing to stand up to corrupt city officials. Jarvis believes the Court of Owls is responsible, and the story ends with Jarvis being hunted down and murdered by one the Talons.

This backup story by Scott Snyder, James Tynion IV, and Rafael Albuquerque, is economically and thoughtfully written, and beautifully illustrated. It is also surprisingly moving, penned as a father's final words to his son, revealing himself to be the keeper of dark secrets concerning a noble family. There is a nice little coda at the story's end that finds Alfred standing at his father's grave, wondering whether or not the Court had anything to do with his death. Bruce comes out to comfort him, and we get a nice contrast between the two men. Bruce, younger, fueled by rage, is concerned about finding the "truth" behind Lincoln March and the Court of Owls. In other words, he just can't seem to let it go. When he says as much, Alfred quips, "You'll find the facts. The truth is that even if you and Lincoln share the same blood, you still lost your brother in a car accident when you were just a boy." Alfred, older and wiser, suggests that the best thing for both of them to do is leave the past buried with their lost loved ones, to grieve in all the necessary ways, and to move on. It's a heart-rending moment that one does not expect to find when picking up a comic book. It's enough to make one wish the whole affair had been framed and penned in this way.

So, the second volume wraps up the story begun in the first. There is closure here, an ending that leaves the plot pretty open (it's the nature of the comic book medium), while offering a satisfying resolution to the story's emotional beats (a harder trick to pull off).

To make a personal connection here, I recently learned that my mother miscarried before I was born. It was something of a surreal experience. I was shocked to have learned it, and my mother was shocked I hadn't known. So much of my life has been defined by my only-childness. I do have a half-sibling, but she and I agree that our childhoods were so vastly different, our experiences so opposite, that we do not think of ourselves in the way, I would assume, normal siblings with common experiences do. We are our own people, more like childhood friends. And, for what it's worth, I think our relationship is stronger, better for it. I have often wondered what different trajectory my life might have taken had I lived in the shadow of a true, full-blooded brother or sister, present in my life from either my birth or theirs. But those kinds of thoughts were flights of fancy until that conversation with my mother. I eventually asked one of my older friends (she's basically my second mother) exactly how I should feel about it. But she, like my own personal Alfred, reminded me that processing such things could elucidate some worthwhile emotions, but in the end, some specters are best left to rest undisturbed. I would be a very different person, probably a bit less self-absorbed than I am, but probably a lot more of a jealous person as well.

I remember reading this Batman story years ago, when it first arrived on store shelves. It seems to me to carry even more significance now. Like all good myths, this is a story that ages gracefully alongside us. A story to come back to time after time, if only to rediscover something that catches us all over again. For now, it's going back on the shelf. I look forward to rediscovering it later on down the road.

Thursday, August 23, 2018

The Aliens are Not Coming: The X-Files and Modern Mythopoeia

The X-Files title card
In 1993, the Fox Network was the new kid on the block when it came to primetime television. Pitted against juggernauts ABC, CBS, and NBC, Fox executives looked to the quirky Bruce Campbell vehicle, The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr., to put the fledgling network on the ratings map. Brisco, as the show was informally known, debuted on Friday, August 27, 1993, to positive critical reception, and was fully expected to become the season’s breakout hit. Those expectations were short lived. Exactly two weeks later, on September 10, Fox aired the Pilot episode of its second new show of the season: a murky, paranoia-laced, science fiction-thriller that executives originally projected would be nothing more than a cult curiosity.1 Created by Chris Carter, a surfer and former magazine editor raised in the sweltering heat of Southern California, The X-Files would go on to become a cult hit before achieving mainstream success, eventually growing into a pop culture phenomenon.

While words like “zeitgeist” and “popular fears” have traditionally been used by critics to describe the part of the public perception that the show managed to capture to warrant its unexpected success, a closer examination of the show’s ingredients yields a startling realization: the key to the success of The X-Files lies in the power of mythic storytelling. C. S. Lewis famously attributed to Christianity the status of “true myth.” Presupposing the truth of the biblical texts, Lewis found that stepping from history into the realm of myth brought the true nature of Christ’s power to transform lives into surprising clarity, and from this assumption argued in favor of the nourishing component of myth reading and myth-making. Indeed, for Lewis, the capacity of the human spirit to experience the transcendent quality of the power of myth was a necessary component of the sanctification process, as mythic storytelling has the distinct quality of drawing one “further up” and “further in.”2

Countless essays have been written exploring the various ways in which Carter’s series matchlessly tapped the pulsing vein of a prominent subculture that was present in America at the end of the 20th century. And to be sure, The X-Files did manage to capture lightning in a bottle as far as successfully excavating the cultural zeitgeist of the day, preying on the fears of the modern world to generate taut chillers on a weekly basis. But the show’s power to captivate its audience goes beyond a few well-executed psychological sleights of hand, playing viewers against themselves; rather, Carter’s genius was in his decision to build the show upon mythological conceits. This allowed The X-Files a measure of flexibility in the types of stories told week-to-week, which, in turn, became the key element in the show’s longevity, as there was “something for everyone” to enjoy. For example, one episode could primarily deal with classic gothic horror tropes reskinned to fit a quirky Americana setting (TXF: “Shapes”; “Red Museum”), while another could spend the hour exploring themes ripped from traditional science fiction stories (TXF: “Conduit”; “Soft Light”). Nevertheless, the show held together despite stylistic and tonal changes because of a key mythological construct: the central relationship that viewers were asked to invest themselves in was built upon two character archetypes: the believer, and the skeptic. But what sets The X-Files apart from other mythological works of the 20th century (The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, etc.) is that these two archetypes are constructed in a way that is unique to postsecular modernity.3


Modern Archetypes


Mythologically speaking, archetypes are simply recurring or timeless examples of similar thematic arcs appearing in different “mythic” stories down through the ages. Applying this same principle of recurring arcs to characterization yields what can be termed the character archetype; that is, recurring motifs or character arcs that play out in similar fashion across all different types of stories throughout history. Carl Jung would go on to postulate that, “In addition to our immediate consciousness … there exists a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals. This collective unconscious does not develop individually but is inherited.”4 In other words, Jung takes the concept of the archetype and applies it psychologically. This is key to understanding how Chris Carter approaches the creation of his two protagonists in The X-Files, as what the characters eventually become is a kind of blend between the traditional mythological and modern psychological archetypes. This not only places The X-Files at a pivotal moment in history, when secularism was crumbling beneath the weight of an upsurge in religious enthusiasm, but also primes the series to become the very important work of art that it is, a work with true literary aspirations, weaving a careful thematic narrative worthy of standing alongside the greatest of mythological works coming out of the 20th century.

Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) is an Oxford-educated Special Agent with the FBI, with a background in psychology. Though an undeniably brilliant analyst originally with the Violent Crimes Section, unconventional investigative methods stemming from a dogged belief in the regular occurrence of supernatural phenomena led to his being dubbed “Spooky” Mulder by his peers. Lambasted by both co-workers and superiors for his wonky theories, Mulder’s determination led to his uncovering the so-called X-files, cases deemed by the FBI to be unsolvable, as well as his eventual assignment to the X-files unit, a project outside of the Bureau mainstream concerned with investigating the unexplained phenomena found within the case files. His obsessive tendencies led to Division Chief Scott Blevins (Charles Cioffi) assigning another agent to the X-files unit to assess the validity of Mulder’s work. Special Agent Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson), a medical doctor with a background in hard science, brought an analytical edge to the investigations that contrasted with Mulder’s convictions toward supernatural explanations. Her assignment to the X-files unit is where the series begins (TXF: “Pilot”). Together, Mulder and Scully worked to uncover the ever-elusive “truth” behind a wide-range of mysterious occurrences all over the globe in a nine season run of the original series (1993-2002), two feature films (1998; 2008), and a revival series (2016; 2018). As characters, Mulder and Scully are archetypes representative of two distinct points of view: the believer and the skeptic, respectively. In pairing these two agents, The X-Files is more than another mere procedural involving strange cases, and Mulder and Scully are more than just another male-female dynamic duo; instead, the series is about how two perspectives (what might be termed “worldviews”) cooperate and collide in intense and interesting ways when attempting to make sense of reality.


The Believer


Fox Mulder (David Duchovny)
In the context of the series, Mulder’s obsession with the paranormal began with the abduction of his sister, Samantha, from their home on Martha’s Vineyard in 1973 (TXF: “Pilot”; “Little Green Men”). Convinced that the beings responsible for Samantha’s abduction were extraterrestrial, Mulder began a life-long quest to expose the truth surrounding the existence of alien life; an existence that he believed, should it be uncovered and proven, had the power to “change everything,” and would shake every truth humans lived by “to the ground” (TXF: “Gethsemane”). Mulder’s quest formed the backbone of the original series for the first seven seasons, and provided an emotional center around which the story could orbit.

The mythological connections here are not to be missed. In one sense, Mulder is uniquely positioned to embody the archetype of the seeker, one who quests for truth by uncovering mysteries and deceptions. In another sense altogether, Mulder’s quest bears some resemblance to the traditional Campbellian “hero’s journey,” featuring the heroic figure who sets out on an adventure that brings the hero from the “common day into a region of supernatural wonder” and into a crisis out of which the hero emerges victorious and transformed.5 The object of this journey (Samantha) is akin to the damsels of old, the “princess in the tower” who must be rescued by the chivalrous knight-errant only by defeating a monster, usually envisioned as a dragon (in this case of The X-Files: aliens).

Mulder’s characterization lends itself to this traditional heroic figure archetype to be sure, but with a certain twist—he is chivalrous and heroic, but he is emotionally unavailable, especially to the women in his life.6 This psychological aspect of Mulder’s characterization serves to deepen his development as the series progresses, and is one of the first ways in which The X-Files works to subvert common storytelling tropes without working to demythologize traditionally mythic themes. Mulder is indeed heroic, but not in the “traditional” sense. Duchovny imbues the character with a clear sense of loneliness, but plays the role with a certain boyish charm that suggests Mulder is every bit a heroic character, but one who is not fully formed in his masculinity. He is easily excitable, at times prone to a cynical and immature sense of humor, and often wears his emotions on his sleeve (TXF: “End Game”; “Redux II”). He is aloof, sleeps on his couch, and is prone to violent outbursts in moments of grief (TXF: “Pilot”; “Dreamland”; “Redux II”). In this respect, Mulder is very much a character forged in the fires of the modern era, a kind of modern man who represents, in Scully’s own words, “Men with Spartan lives, simple in their creature comforts, if only to allow for the complexity of their passions” (TXF: “Max”).

The point here is to realize that, in the moral universe established by Chris Carter in The X-Files, characters are defined less by the quests upon which they embark (because tropes are so frequently subverted) than they are the perspectives they represent. In this way, Carter seems not so much interested in the continuity of the quest as he is in exploring how a particular perspective or worldview as embodied by a specific character reacts to startling new revelations about reality, or “truth.” It is almost as if Carter wants to push the limits of belief systems to their breaking point, and ponder how well these perspectives hold up in the asking of “what ifs.” As far as Mulder is concerned, he is not so much a traditional hero as he is a kind of seeker with an eye to the past. He heralds the legends and romanticisms of old in the face of a society all too eager to deem such things trivial and out of date, a society primed by scientific and technological advancement to leave behind the things of old and march ever forward all in the good name of progress. In this respect, Mulder is a seeker caught in the modern world, and therefore embodies a new archetype that incorporates strands of both the traditional hero and the Jungian seeker—a believer.


The Skeptic


Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson)
Standing in stark contrast to the believer, is the skeptic, embodied by Dana Scully. Initially presented as something of a cipher, Scully squares the circle of reversing traditional gender roles by acting as the calculating, cerebral scientist who ensures the show keeps one foot in the realm of scientific plausibility most of the time, whereas Mulder is generally the more emotional turbulent. In some ways, Scully’s characterization as a strong, unflinching personality lends her some traits of the traditional hero; her masculine presence, in many ways, being more formed than Mulder’s. To further tease a connection, it is also worth noting that Scully is written as being more vulnerable than Mulder as well, as demonstrated by a scene in the show's "Pilot" episode, in which Scully, fearing that she has acquired strange markings linked to the case they are working, disrobes before Mulder, whom she has only recently met, and allows him to inspect the marks. Anderson carries the scene with an appropriate amount of urgency to communicate Scully’s vulnerability, but takes care to highlight the absence of self-consciousness in the act, which demonstrates a kind of confidence that Mulder is lacking. In fact, a similar situation would befall Mulder just a few episodes later, requiring him to unclothe as well, an act that he cannot carry out without cracking an obligatory joke (TXF: “Ice”).

As a medical doctor cum FBI Special Agent, Scully might also be viewed as a kind of seeker in her own right, albeit one who quests in the name of science and reason. But neither this archetype, nor the aforementioned heroic archetype, presents an entirely accurate description of the true perspective that Dana Scully embodies. Again, in Carter’s universe, perspective defines the mythological underpinnings. Relying on science and the technology to carry out her quest, Scully’s perspective is one that sees the world through a decidedly rational lens, a perspective that suggests “nothing happens in contradiction to nature, only in contradiction to what we know of it,” one that places faith in the ability of science to explain the unexplainable, even if the exact scientific understanding has not yet been reached by the observer of the thing unexplained (TXF: “Herrenvolk”; “Teliko”). The skeptic, as embodied by Dana Scully, is an archetype that could only have been forged in the fires of the modern era, an era marked by scientific and technological advancements made in leaps and bounds.

Yet to characterize this archetype as a product of secular modernity is a misnomer, though this seems to be the predominant view concerning her character. While Scully is certainly skeptical, she is not irreligious. In fact, the most interesting facet of her character has to do with her commitment to Catholicism. At first glance, to have a character whose general disposition is one of skepticism also embody a deep-set conviction toward religion seems at odds with modernity—but only if modernity is understood as secular. Again, the genius of Chris Carter was to anticipate the direction of modernity in the 1990s, an era that might usually be characterized as “postmodern.” In the character of Scully, Carter seems to be anticipating what philosophers of the modern era were also coming to realize (and some would mislabel as “postmodern”): that secularism (not modernity itself) was short-lived, that religion could not be cut out of everyday life, that the convictions by which every human lived were done so with a kind of religious devotion. It was the realization that “in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships.”7

This compelling struggle between believer and skeptic formed the central conflict of the show. A conflict demonstrated between the two perspectives embodied and given voice by two character archetypes, and in a way the central conflict within the characters of both Scully and Mulder themselves: science against religion, reason against faith.


Religion and Myth in The X-Files


When The X-Files first aired, the world was moving beyond secularism, though the skepticism inherent to secular modernity remained, even as religion came flooding back into the public sphere. This philosophical and theological quagmire is precisely what Chris Carter sought to navigate through the archetypes of believer and skeptic. Mulder and Scully were both created as the agnostic believer and the skeptical Catholic, respectively, with the specific purpose of navigating the murky waters of postsecular modernity. What began as Mulder’s quest for “little green aliens” (TXF: “Redux II”) eventually expanded to encompass Scully’s own quest for a higher power (TXF: “Nothing Lasts Forever”), and by the show’s seventh season the two quests had quite literally become one (TXF: “Biogenesis”; “The Sixth Extinction”; “The Sixth Extinction II: Amor Fati”). The show’s well-known tagline, the truth is out there, serves to reinforce the notion that Chris Carter has always had a strong theological streak in his creative endeavors, one that is strikingly prominent in the overarching narrative of The X-Files. In an interview given to the prestigious magazine Innovation & Tech Today, Carter said, regarding religion and its place in the show, “It’s everything; it is the beating heart of The X-Files. I would say The X-Files is a search for God.”8

It is precisely because of these religious themes embodied by Mulder and Scully’s search (what, in mythological terms, might be better understood as “quests”) for “the truth,” that The X-Files transcends stereotypical genre conventions to become a work of profound literary quality. And the narrative spun by Carter and a consistent team of writers is nothing short of a mythological tale concerning themes of apocalyptic vision, forbidden knowledge, and, ultimately, redemption.


Chasing Monsters in the Dark: The Myth-Arc of The X-Files


Beyond its memorable characters, if there is one thing The X-Files is known for, it is the show’s fascinating and, at times, controversial “myth-arc.” When the show first aired, it did so in a time when the procedural format (self contained, case-of-the-week stories) reigned supreme. Carter and his team of writers began shaking up the system as early as the premiere episode, dropping subtle hints across a variety of cases that a larger conspiracy was at play in the world in which Mulder and Scully inhabited, a conspiracy involving the highest echelons of governmental authority potentially concealing knowledge of alien life from the public. This conspiracy would be blown open in the first season finale, “The Erlenmeyer Flask,” an episode rife with mythological connections, and could also have been aptly titled “Pandora’s Box.”

From this point forward, the show beckoned viewers to settle in for the long haul as Mulder and Scully investigated X-files week-to-week. Viewers—like the characters—never knew when a random case involving a strange phenomenon would take a hard right turn and lead them right back to investigating the conspiracy. The shows that followed the case-of-the-week structure became known as “monster-of-the-week” episodes (referring to the frequently bizarre characters and creations that the agents usually encountered), while the episodes concerning the government conspiracy, aliens, and the agents’ personal lives were identified as “mythology” episodes, which, when taken together, constitute the series' overarching narrative, the “myth-arc.” While the monster-of-the-week episodes certainly contain their share of mythological themes, for the purposes of this essay, only the myth-arc will be examined, for it constitutes the overall narrative force of The X-Files, driving the story forward and regularly examining the three important themes already mentioned.


Apocalyptic Vision


Some of the most compelling parts of the myth-arc deal in the realization of a coming apocalypse, referenced as early as the third season (TXF: “Paper Clip”). A modern day Ragnarök or Tribulation period, the anticipated apocalypse is said to coincide with the moment a vindictive force of alien Colonists chooses to carry out a dark plan to colonize the entire planet using a deadly “black oil” pathogen—their own toxic life force—that will eventually turn all those it infects into hosts, inside of whom a new Colonist life form would gestate (The X-Files: Fight the Future). A cabal of powerful men known only as the Syndicate conspires with the Colonists in an attempt to preserve their own lives during the colonization event, the Vichy government to the Colonists’ Nazi Germany (TXF: “One Son”). This conspiracy lies at the heart of Mulder and Scully’s quest, and their investigations see them slowly peeling away layer after layer of obfuscation to finally reveal the truth: that the date of colonization was set long before the conspiracy began; that the Colonists had actually made contact with early civilizations; that the Mayans had foreseen the colonization event coming to pass on December 22, 2012, and chose to end their calendar on the day that humanity is to end; the ultimate revelation being, though, that the coming invasion cannot not be stopped, only survived (TXF: “The Truth”).

The Syndicate meets its end in "One Son"
But, the Syndicate’s plans fail, and they are destroyed (TXF: “One Son”). The projected date of the alien invasion comes and goes, and colonization never occurs. This primes the revival series for the show’s greatest subversion yet: “the aliens are not coming.” Instead, a splinter group of former Syndicate members, having survived the consortium’s destruction, secretly working for years to reverse-engineer technology that had been stolen from benevolent aliens—aliens that originally came to help prevent man’s destruction by his own hand—now seeks to use that same technology to actually colonize space (TXF: “My Struggle III”). The story of colonization then, is not one of aliens colonizing man, but of man colonizing them. This bombshell revelation undoes twenty-five years worth of surmounting expectations to make a profound point: the true monster of The X-Files is none other than mankind itself, represented by a cabal of powerful elites (who might be looked at mythologically as corrupt “kings”), so consumed by the notion of self-preservation that even a truth as weighty as life on other planets cannot shake the foundations of their hubris. This reversal brings Mulder and Scully up against an overwhelming force against which there appears to be very little hope: the dark imaginings of the depraved human heart.


Forbidden Knowledge


The theme of forbidden knowledge is a motif present in a number of mythological accounts. In the true myth of Christianity, in Eden, Adam and Eve are tempted by the serpent to eat of “the tree of the knowledge of good and evil” (Genesis 2-3). In Greek mythology, the demigod Prometheus steals from Zeus the secret of fire to deliver to man that they might not go extinct. In Shelley’s Frankenstein, it is the very secret of life that Victor Frankenstein bestows upon his monstrous creation.9 And in all three situations, the results are catastrophic: Adam and Eve plunge the world into sin and separation from God, Zeus unleashes Pandora, who in turn unleashes her “box,” and Frankenstein’s monster goes on a murdering spree. The warning in these stories is clear: there are things we ought not know.

This theme is stunningly recapitulated in the myth-arc of The X-Files, an astounding storytelling choice considering the centrality of science and technology to the Scully character, and therefore the very DNA of the show. But this acts as a powerful warning against the breathtaking scientific achievements and technological advancements of secular modernity, which sought to eradicate such petty things as religious conviction in favor of “enlightenment.”

The Cigarette Smoking Man (William B. Davis) in "My Struggle"
Mulder and Scully’s quest for the truth inevitably brings them into contact with a devious man identified only by the Morley brand cigarettes he frequently smokes. A shadowy presence in "Pilot," the Cigarette Smoking Man (William B. Davis), or “the CSM,” as he came to be known among fans, would go on to dog the agents across the entire run of the series as the enforcer of the Syndicate. Like the silver-tongued serpent in Eden, he tempts both Mulder and Scully at different points, urging them to give up their quest for the truth (TXF: “Redux II”; “En Ami”). The mythological connection here is even more pronounced upon the realization that Carter himself identified the character as, basically, “the Devil” incarnate, a metaphorical connection made in the context of the series itself (TXF: “Memento Mori”).10

Interestingly, the CSM harkens unto the tempter, Prometheus, and Dr. Frankenstein all in one. The central antagonist of the series, he, like Satan himself, is finally a victim of his own hubris. In the show’s complex mythology, the CSM, on behalf of the Syndicate, is responsible for taking advantage of the initially benevolent aliens who venture to Earth, taking and then reverse-engineering their advanced technology for the government, and finally for his own ends, upon the destruction of the Syndicate (TXF: “Two Fathers”; “One Son”; “My Struggle III”). But his actions are not without consequences, and eventually unleash a deadly pathogen in the form of the sentient, extraterrestrial “black oil” virus (TXF: “Piper Maru”; “Apocrypha”). Mythologically, this likens the CSM to Prometheus, who steals forbidden “fire” (advanced technology) from the “gods” (aliens), to give to man, but whose actions finally lead to the opening of “Pandora’s box” (the alien virus), which threatens the very existence of humanity.

During the course of the series, the CSM also takes on the role Dr. Frankenstein. Late in the show, using forbidden (alien) science, he impregnates Scully—who is unable to bear children—with the intention of creating “the first superhuman child” (TXF: “En Ami”; “My Struggle III”). The child, William, is eventually born, but Scully, knowing her child is a kind of miracle (note here the mythological theme of miraculous conception and birth), elects to give him up for adoption (TXF: “Existence”; “William”). The CSM’s pursuit of this child forms the central plot of the revival series, because the child’s hybrid nature lends him a kind of immortality, the blueprint by which the CSM seeks to start creation anew “just in my [his own] image instead of God’s” (TXF: “My Struggle II”). The mythological theme here is laced with irony, as in the story of Frankenstein: the CSM is William’s “creator,” but his creation flees from him. In a desperate bid to retrieve his creation, the CSM relentlessly pursues the boy until William unexpectedly turns the tables on him, forcing the CSM to kill him, and thereby destroying his own creation. William’s sacrifice buys Mulder enough time to finally shoot the CSM to death (TXF: “My Struggle IV”). The theme here is one that rings true mythologically: the narcissistic creator, too curious for his own good, whose reach far exceeds his grasp, is ultimately undone by his own creation.


Redemption


Though apocalyptic vision and forbidden knowledge are two critical themes to the development of the myth-arc, perhaps the most important mythological theme laced into the story is the one that resounds the loudest in Scripture as well: redemption. Mulder and Scully’s quest costs them dearly. Scully loses a sister and a child (TXF: “The Blessing Way”; “William”); Mulder loses his sister, his father, and his mother (TXF: “Anasazi”; “Sein Und Zeit”). Their personal relationship in flux over the years, the two of them finally separate, only to be brought back together in the revival series in pursuit of Scully’s miracle child, William (TXF: “My Struggle”). In the final episode to air, “My Struggle IV,” the show’s classic tagline is changed from “the truth is out there” to “salvator mundi,” the Latin translation of the phrase “savior of the world.”

William (Miles Robbins) in "Ghouli"
The mythological connections drawn here are as close to “the truth” as the show ever gets—directly mirroring the climax of the true myth of Christianity. As the CSM (the tempter) closes in on William (the obvious Christ-figure and “salvator mundi,” given the miraculous circumstances of his birth), Mulder and Scully race against the clock to find and protect the boy. Ultimately, they fail to do so, and he is killed by the CSM. In sacrificing himself to protect Mulder and Scully, William provides Mulder the opportunity to finally overcome his foe, and finally dispatch the CSM. With the CSM dead, his twisted plan to recreate the planet in his own image is ended. The final shot of the series features William, with a gaping bullet wound in his head, rising from the murky waters into which he had plunged upon his supposed demise, very much alive, and, indeed, resurrected. William, the miracle child, rises from the dead having delivered mankind from certain destruction, conquering death in the process. Again, Chris Carter has something of a theological streak.

But redemption is not won so easily, and Carter acknowledges this. Mulder and Scully, believing William to be dead, must come to terms with the fact that they not only failed to protect him, but also must reckon with the revelation that the child they had for so long believed to be their own was actually a genetic experiment. Scully acknowledges that she has not been the mother she has longed to be, and Mulder realizes that the family reunion he had always wanted was not going to come to pass. Both had, in their longings, created fantasies that each had lived toward, only to have those fantasies shatter against reality in the end. And to leave the characters here, in such a vulnerable state, with the future of the show unclear, would have certainly been unsatisfactory. But, in his wisdom, Carter offers his characters a ray of hope: Scully, it turns out, is pregnant. A second miracle child, this one not a product of genetic experimentation but of actual miraculous conception, is on the way, and Mulder is the father. Carter has given his characters the chance to start anew. It does not undermine the struggles they have gone through, having failed as parents, and as a couple. But it gives them the opportunity to try again—in other words, through William’s sacrifice, the enemy is defeated, and redemption is suddenly within reach. The seekers have found their truth.


Conclusion


This is an all too brief look at the world of The X-Files. With 218 episodes of television and two feature films in the franchise, the strange, phantasmagoria universe created by Chris Carter and nourished to maturity by a devoted team of writers stands as an epic of modern myth-making that matters, having produced quality content for over a quarter century. It is little wonder that the stable of young writers Carter assembled for the show would go on to create some of the most acclaimed dramas of the 2000s and 2010s, including 24 (Howard Gordon), Breaking Bad (Vince Gilligan), and The Man in the High Castle (Frank Spotnitz). Rife with symbolism and mythic undertones, it is hardly an overstatement to suggest that The X-Files is a powerful, compelling mythological—at times even literary—work of art, uniquely positioned to lead all those who seek “the truth,” as Mulder and Scully do, through the often dim and dejected world of postsecular modernity. Perhaps the show’s greatest contribution comes in the form of a statement made by Scully in the revival series. Upon discovering the CSM’s plan to use a modified strand of the alien virus to wipe out mankind in “My Struggle II,” she realizes that the only hope of survival, short of conquering the devil, is to fuse all humans with extraterrestrial biology: “Alien DNA is all that can save us,” she proclaims, a strange statement in a culture that continually encourages introspection as the key to personal enlightenment and, indeed, godhood. The X-Files reminds viewers that “the truth is out there,” rather than “in here,” and mythically proclaims that the quest, despite the struggle, is worth it.

                                        

1 Paula Vitaris and Dan Coyle, “X’d Out,” Cinefantastique (April 2002), 34.

2 C. S. Lewis, “Myth Became Fact,” God in the Dock (1970; repr., Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 54-60.

3 See Michael McDuffee, “Postsecular Modernity is not Postmodern,” Fruit of His Lips: Releasing Vital Speech Into the World, Wordpress, May 3, 2011, https://mcduffee.wordpress.com/2011/05/03/postsecular-modernity-is-not-postmodern/. It is my opinion that the “postmodern” can not be, because the modern still is. In short, I do not believe that the “modern” era has been left behind, and that the cultural whims of the day are, as have been termed, “post” modern. While this paper does not afford the time to fully explore this notion, it is crucial to my understanding of The X-Files and related materials to recognize that I believe the culture in which we live to operate on postsecular principles, over against “postmodern.” Modernity has not been left behind; on the contrary, the modern era has only just come into her own, having realized that religion is not so easily expunged from the public sphere, though the same skepticism inherent to traditional categorizations of the modern era still exist. The world is thus postsecular, not postmodern.

4 C. G. Jung, The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, 2nd ed., The Collected Works of C. G. Jung vol. 9, pt. 1, trans. R. F. C. Hull, (1969; repr., Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), 43.

5 Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, 3rd ed., The Collected Works of Joseph Campbell vol. 17, (1949; repr., Novato, CA: New World Library, 2008), 23.

6 John Kenneth Muir and Chris Carter, “Interview with Chris Carter,” John Kenneth Muir’s Reflections on Cult Movies and Classic Television, Blogger, Dec. 15, 2009, http://reflectionsonfilmandtelevision.blogspot.com/2009/12/interview-with-chris-carter.html.

7 David Foster Wallace. “This is Water” (2005), in This Is Water: Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, About Living a Compassionate Life (Boston: Little, Brown, & Co., 2009), 98-100.

8 John Faulkner and Chris Carter, “Inside the Mind of Chris Carter.” Innovation & Tech Today, Feb. 22, 2016, https://innotechtoday.com/inside-the-mind-of-chris-carter/.

9 Roger Shattuck, Forbidden Knowledge: From Prometheus to Pornography (Boston: Mariner Books, 1997), 14-26.

10 William B. Davis, Where There’s Smoke…: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man (Toronto: ECW Press, 2011), 257-258.

Thursday, August 16, 2018

The X-Files: "Pilot" (Retrospective)

"The following story is inspired by actual documented accounts."

FBI Special Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder in "Pilot"
These are the chilling words that appear onscreen as The X-Files begins, in a way substituting for the iconic theme song and title sequence, which are noticeably absent from "Pilot." But the story spun by series creator Chris Carter is one that hardly needs bells and whistles to absorb viewers. I remember reading one reviewer who suggested that one always knows when one has entered a world of Carter's making. Things are dark and murky, shadows practically have weight, and there is an ever-encroaching sense of paranoia that leaves one feeling unsettled. The world Carter creates is like a dark, dreamlike version of our own, a strange phantasmagoria of images and characters and happenings that suggest the veil between natural and supernatural is thinner than we might ever dare to hope. I can think of no better way to describe the fictional universe that Carter introduces us to when the title card for The X-Files first appeared on television screens on September 10, 1993.

In "Pilot," we are first introduced to Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson), a young medical doctor who has been working as an FBI Special Agent for a couple of years. During a meeting with Section Chief Scott Blevins (Charles Cioffi) and a silent, mysterious Cigarette Smoking Man (William B. Davis), she is assigned to work with another agent on cases outside the Bureau mainstream investigating "unexplained phenomena," cases identified as "X-files." Scully makes her way to the basement of the Hoover building, where she meets her new partner, FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder (David Duchovny), an Oxford-educated psychologist.

Knowing the direction the show will take, it's incredible just how much of the show's basic DNA is present in "Pilot." It's kind of assumed that a television series will air its first episode, and then course-correct during the first season, before really hitting its stride somewhere between seasons two and three. Not The X-Files. All the ingredients that would go on to make the show one of the most significant cultural milestones in recent history are present from the jump, not least of all the dynamic between Mulder and Scully. Scully brings a hard, scientific edge to Mulder's wild theories about the paranormal. Their intellectual tit-for-tat, as each spits out rapid-fire comebacks that could potentially explain what has been deemed unexplainable, becomes the hallmark of the series, and it's easy to see why. Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny have an electrifying chemistry, and its evident from their first meeting onscreen.

It's no secret that series creator Chris Carter sought to invert the common trope which sees the male as the stoic, skeptical figure, while the female is all too eager to believe in less rational explanations. In this regard, he succeeded with flying colors. Scully is something of a cipher, Mulder is really a boy in an oversized suit. In other words, Scully's is a very masculine presence, whereas Mulder might be viewed as more feminine. When the two walk into a room, Mulder must be dealt with because of his commitment to explain what everyone else has deemed inexplicable, but Scully is the cerebral force with which to be reckoned, the filter through which his unconventional theories must first pass. Mulder is undeniably brilliant, and Duchovny has an ability to sell outlandish theories as actually seeming plausible, no matter how unlikely they are. He delivers his lines in "Pilot" with such earnestness that one wants to believe he's at least partially right, regardless of just how frightening the truth might be. Scully is equally brilliant, and she can fire back at Mulder with her own theories without dehumanizing him. Carter draws his characters well, pairing them as intellectual equals, making this a relationship established fundamentally on mutual respect, rather than attraction. And this has everything to do with the way Duchovny and Anderson inhabit their respective roles. Mulder and Scully are unique in that they are two very vulnerable characters, complicated and multifaceted. They are both a "bundle of paradoxes," to quote the late Brennan Manning. In other words, they're a lot like actual people. Complex, thoughtful, multidimensional characters, who actually embody two archetypes unique to the modern era, the believer and skeptic.

For what it's worth, I believe Chris Carter is one of the unsung creators of our time. The man is, in many ways, a sphinx, an enigma. You never quite know just where his narratives will go. He has a tendency to throw everything and the kitchen sink into his stories, an indicator of someone who is brilliant in a strange way, whose mind darts in a thousand different directions, and creativity is the outlet through which he tries to harness all those thoughts into a tangible something. In some ways, I can relate. But the most important component of understanding Carter's fictional universe is how theological his thinking is about things. All of Carter's shows deal directly with some aspect of theological strata, be it The X-Files (which at some point touches on every major theological conceit one can think of), Millennium (theodicy, apocalypse), Harsh Realm (the nature of reality) or any other lesser-known series he's developed. But all of his works somehow seem to be linked, literally in-universe or thematically, to his magnum opus, The X-Files, creating a kind of modern mythology that should be (but is often not) studied with the same depth and attention given to other mythopoetic works of the past century, from Tolkien's legendarium to Star Wars.

In an interview given in 2016 to John Faulkner of Innovation & Tech Today, Carter said, concerning religion, "It's everything; it is the beating heart of The X-Files. I would say The X-Files is a search for God." And the blueprints for how this search is to be carried out are first put forth in "Pilot." The primary context will be the great conversation of modernity, the conversation between reason and faith, skepticism and belief, science and religion.

If Carter set out lay the groundwork for all of these things in "Pilot," then he clears the hurdle with room to spare. And from the moment Mulder and Scully meet, what transpires is a tightly wound, claustrophobic, haunting story that continues to rile up my imagination upon every subsequent viewing of the episode. When Mulder opens up to Scully in the darkened motel room, the camera slowly tightening on his face as his theories about conspiracies and government cover-ups begin to run wild, the hair on the back of my neck still bristles, the skin on my arms still turns to gooseflesh. Rarely have I found a show that continues to employ directors who can marry theme and image so perfectly. Director Rob Bowman does an incredible job creating the prototypical shots of what will become the show's iconic images in "Pilot." Mulder and Scully navigating the darkness with their flashlights is an image seen time and again throughout the series, an image that has forever been seared into my imagination. Again, this is an instance of what I consider to be the holy grail of filmmaking: the marriage of theme and image. As flashlights cut away the darkness, so too do Mulder and Scully sift through the murky morality of the modern postsecular age in search of "the truth."

But at every turn shadowy forces attempt to cut them off. In "Pilot," vital evidence to their case concerning mysterious abductions goes missing. Mulder and Scully end up racing through a dark forest, only to arrive moments too late to make sense of the events that transpire. And they end the investigation knowing little more than they did when they first began—yet they are strengthened in bond and resolve to continue their search for the truth because of what they have witnessed. It's a theme that becomes more prominent as the series continues, but again is teased here in the show's first episode: don't give up. Though the cost might be great, the truth is worth searching for simply because it is the truth.

And, of course, one would be remiss to discuss "Pilot" without at least a passing mention to that zinger of an ending, which sees that same strange, silent man from Scully's meeting with Blevins return to hide away the only piece of evidence Scully managed to salvage and submit to her superiors. It's a scene that harkens to the final moments of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but here the scene plays out with a heightened sense of paranoia, if only because of the presence of the Cigarette Smoking Man, who has lurked in the background of the entire episode. CSM will go on to become one of the most iconic villains of all time, his Morley's becoming as recognizable as Vader's mask or Blofeld's white Persian cat. A tempter who deals in lies, deceptions, and half-truths, who is perhaps the best representative of the devil himself in pop culture.

In "Pilot," all of these ingredients conspire to become the prototypical form of a series that would take the world by storm, and leave an indelible footprint on the landscape of televised storytelling.

The search for the truth begins here.

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Batman, Volume 1: The Court of Owls (Review)

In September 2011, DC Comics rebranded and relaunched its entire line of comic books under "The New 52" initiative. Scott Snyder, having finished up his stunning run on Detective Comics, was moved over to the mainline Batman title. While his previous storyline, The Black Mirror, featured Dick Grayson beneath the cape and cowl, with The New 52, Bruce Wayne was back as Batman, the status quo was restored, and I was eager to see how Snyder chose to reintroduce the dark knight to the world.

Batman, Volume 1: The Court of Owls
The story Snyder chose to tell effectively laid the groundwork for themes that his Batman epic would go on to explore. From 2011 to 2016, Snyder and his team took the Batman mythos and catapulted it into the realm of truly mythic storytelling. And this all began with The Court of Owls.

The story begins, as most good Batman stories do, in Gotham City. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire bachelor and reigning crown prince of Gotham's socialite upper class, leads a dangerous double life. By day, he runs Wayne Enterprises, a multinational conglomerate and his family legacy. By night, he stalks the city's dark underbelly, investigating heinous crimes and pummeling any number of deranged criminals while dressed as a bat. He is the Batman of Gotham, and he prides himself on knowing his city inside and out. Positively nothing catches him off guard.

Until a man is murdered in a particularly gruesome fashion, and the Batman is called in to investigate. Working alongside GCPD Commissioner James Gordon, Batman begins to peel away the layers of a mystery darker and far more odious than he could have ever imagined. It turns out that there exists a cabal in Gotham City that has remained buried in the shadows, hidden even from Batman himself. This cabal of powerful men and women—known as the Court of Owls—essentially controls Gotham from the shadows, and has now set it sights on the Batman. The Court lures him into a dangerous game that makes for one thrilling story, rife with mythological undertones.

Most obvious, at least at first, is the storyline's focus on pride. And, true to mythological form, pride is conceived in the acquisition of knowledge. Just as Satan tempted Eve using the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, Batman takes a dangerous amount of pride in knowing Gotham City, its history, its secrets, better than anyone else. This, he believes, is what makes him so effective as the city's dark protector. But numerous times throughout the story, he is warned by two of his closest friends, Alfred Pennyworth (Wayne's butler) and Dick Grayson (his protégé), that perhaps he does not quite know Gotham as well as he thinks. This, of course, only fuels his desire for knowledge, and Wayne takes it upon himself to dig deeper into the mystery, if only to prove what he thinks he already knows. But as he peers deeper into the darkness, his long-held convictions concerning his city begin to crumble as he learns a truth that has been sealed up for centuries: the Court of Owls, once believed to be nothing more than an urban legend, is real, and Batman has been a pawn in the Court's game. Bruce Wayne, it turns out, does not know his city. The Court, the city's best-kept secret, has remained hidden this entire time.

His pursuit of the Court lands him in the middle of a mysterious labyrinth. The mythological connection here is not to be missed. In Greek mythology, Theseus ventures into the Labyrinth at Knossos and slays the Minotaur. Much in the same way, Batman is dropped into the Court's labyrinth and stalked by one of the Court's assassins, called a Talon. A vicious killer, the Talon hunts Batman inside the labyrinth for several days. But rather than kill him outright, the Court wants to first teach him a lesson: Batman operated in Gotham insofar as the Court allowed him to do so, and now it is time the Court called him to heel. There is a deep history to this dangerous consortium, and we are told time and again that they are much older than Batman, that they were there in Gotham first, and to them, he is just some Johnny-come-lately to a dangerous party that's been raging since the city's foundations were established. Wounded, starving, and fighting for his life, Batman wanders the labyrinth, clinging to the shadows, slowly losing his grip on sanity. The Court tempts him with water that is likely drugged with hallucinogens or worse, and attempts to break down his mind by showing him numerous pictures of previous victims, all of whom died while trying to escape the labyrinth. It's all somewhat disturbing to read, my pulse was pounding the entire time.

Of course, Batman manages to escape. Because he's Batman, and because this story must go on. And the remainder of the book, smartly, deals with the emotional and psychological fallout. I don't know if it was the intention of artist Greg Capullo to draw Bruce Wayne in this way, but in the opening pages, Wayne seems younger, with a hint of that reckless Harrison Ford-esque look about him. But after he emerges from the labyrinth just a few days later, it's as though he has aged years. Wayne is a darker, more grim individual because of what he has gone through. It's a subtle but strikingly effective touch that is a testament to Capullo's skill as an artist. It's those kinds of nuances in detail that I appreciate when reading a comic book. And Jonathan Glapion's inking keeps the world of the book appropriately moody without being dull, yet is still vibrant in certain places to allow for some truly stunning panels. Capullo's art and Glapion's ink really jive with Snyder's storytelling, synthesizing perfectly so as to give the book a distinctive and—more importantly—consistent tone.

What Snyder illustrates so well in his opening salvo is the oft-discussed lesson of Proverbs 16:18, which states that "pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before stumbling." The real daring in the way he has chosen to tell his story, though, is that the prideful character just so happens to be the protagonist. And that protagonist just so happens to be one of the grandest icons of pop culture. But the true brilliance of Snyder's Batman lies in how Bruce Wayne deals with his time in the labyrinth in the aftermath. This is a Batman capable of accepting defeat without resignation. Though he escaped the labyrinth with his life, he did so barely. And he accepts this. Bruce acknowledges that he had misjudged the situation from the start, that the reality of things had been concealed behind what he'd wanted to believe, and what he wouldn't allow himself to see. It's a quieter moment amidst the fury, but this instance of reflection and self-awareness on Batman's part is the kind of thing we need to see in those to whom we look as mentors and in whom we put our trust, even if those individuals exist only on a page or on a screen. It teaches us the value of admitting when we are wrong, that we've missed a step, of accepting that we were mistaken, without resigning ourselves to despair, which itself is a way of looking at sin without recognizing the possibility of forgiveness. But this belies the grander point, one that is too often misconstrued by our culture. Namely, that Bruce Wayne's heroism is not found in his willingness to dress as a bat and battle psychopaths in the dark; rather, true heroism lies in one's ability to recognize one's own errors, and in one's ability to make the difficult but necessary changes going forward. This cuts the heart out of pride, and echoes Christ's words in Luke 14 in which he casts a vision of the eschaton by explaining that those who exalt themselves will be humbled, but the ones who humble themselves will be exalted.

Batman, Volume 1: The Court of Owls is worth reading on the strength of its convictions concerning pride alone. It is a rare gem of pop culture that spools a yarn of mythic proportions dealing with a classical theme. Effectively paving the road for what lies in store for Snyder's Batman epic, this is a rip-snorting thriller that ends with a pretty suspenseful cliffhanger, making it nigh impossible to not look forward to what's coming in the next chapter of Snyder's epic.

Friday, August 3, 2018

Losing in Love (Review)

Losing in Love is one of those rare gems I would never have watched had it not been recommended to me. And I am immensely grateful to have seen it.

Losing in Love (2016)
Ronnie (Martin Papazian) is a screenwriter who can't seem to catch a break, either in the entertainment industry or just life in general. The movie gives us just enough information to ascertain that Ronnie continues to end up in jail for reasons that are intelligently left unstated (at least directly), and that, at one time, he had been married before the union had ended in divorce. The movie begins as he's released from his most recent stint in jail. He returns to the widow Nanna, played by the wonderful Conni Marie Brazelton of ER fame, who has been allowing him to board in the upstairs loft of her home for a while now. Desperate for work, Ronnie takes a job ghostwriting a script that is supposed to be a love story that the producers want redeveloped to incorporate science-fiction overtones. To make ends meet, he also works as a nightwatchman at a local facility housing mentally disturbed patients. During the day, though, he begins to frequent a local diner where he tries to develop ideas for the script. It is here at this diner that he meets a spunky waitress named Amber (Marina Benedict).

He falls hard for her. And, of course, he begins working out his emotions in his script. Papazian, who writes, directs, and stars as Ronnie, has a wildly imaginative streak that sees him communicate Ronnie's thoughts to the audience either by voiceover monologue that is actually parts of the script he's working on, or by having other, random characters in the film's world say the words onscreen. It's a little jarring at first, to suddenly have these random characters interject exactly how Ronnie is feeling, but the technique is incredibly effective at showing just how closed off Ronnie is to the world at large, how deeply he has receded into himself. It's telling that he doesn't really interact with these characters, but when he exchanges glances with them and they start putting his emotions to words, it articulates that heightened sense of fear that so many closed off people have—the fear of being found out, of being seen through, despite the walls they've built.

Amber finds herself in similar circumstances. At the beginning of the film, she is romantically involved with a nameless man who quickly leaves her high and dry. Suddenly finding herself with no place to go, Ronnie invites her to stay with him at Nanna's place. It is at this point that Losing in Love sets itself apart from the pack of movies in this genre. Whereas most films would, I imagine, build the relationship between Ronnie and Amber in such a way that it culminates in a night of heated passion, Losing in Love has more on its mind than soft porn. There is a noticeable lack of skin in this film. Noticeable only because we have been so inundated by what the Red Hot Chili Peppers call "Californication."

Instead, the film is more concerned with exploring wounds. Literal and figurative. Ronnie's are bound up on the inside. Amber's are, too, but she bears these very distinct scars on her arm. Her wounds are a little more pronounced, but she's not eager to talk about them. Both of them are wounded, both are accustomed to "losing in love," as it were. And this is not necessarily the fault of those with whom they have chosen to associate. They are complex individuals who have walled themselves off from the world as a survival mechanism, a way of coping with their wounds. This, of course, ensures that both Ronnie and Amber are lonely individuals. And in their lonely states, they find each other.

Ronnie is immediately taken with her, but he is hesitant. It takes Amber a while before she comes around to thinking of him as anything more than a patron of the diner. But when she does, the attraction between them becomes that much more pronounced, and the relationship becomes that much more complicated. These are two people learning to live again, fumbling their way through all the awkwardness and knotty textures of forging new relationships.

I think what struck me most about how the characters are written is just how good they are. Ronnie and Amber are both incredibly broken, incredibly wounded individuals who have experienced deaths to feeling. And now the sensations they are experiencing anew threaten the small worlds they've created for themselves. It's dangerous, it's intoxicating, and they both navigate the terrain as well as you might expect them to, given their respective circumstances and dispositions. Sure, they have their problems, as we all do. But what that brokenness has developed in them both is a strong sense of selflessness, and this is ultimately what saves them.

There is a moment in the film in which Amber reveals to Ronnie that she is likely pregnant, the result of her being with the nameless man from the film's beginning. Ronnie, confused, lashes out in anger. The scene really startled me, which I think is exactly the point. Not because of the pregnancy reveal, but because of how both characters respond to one another. Ronnie and Amber are not in a relationship at this point. They're roommates, that's all. But all the underlying tension, the emotions tumbling just beneath the surface, comes blasting out of Ronnie with such ferocity that you're somewhat taken aback. You've gone the entirety of the movie up to this point coming to understand Ronnie as a broken but caring person, and in the briefest of moments you suddenly see just how he ends up in jail, that momentary disregard of self-control that is unsettling to see. But he catches himself almost as quickly as he lashes out, dials it back again, and apologizes. It is a genuinely stunning moment in a film full of stunning moments, the way he suddenly recognizes his own pride in making the situation about him and his emotions, when it is a situation that fundamentally has absolutely nothing to do with him. When discussing this scene with the friend who recommended the film to me, she noted, "While certainly Ronnie is showing his genuine feelings for her with his inadvertent jealousy, he hasn't earned the right to that jealousy because he hasn't spoken [his feelings for Amber], so it becomes a kind of selfishness." I couldn't agree more. You really can see the shades of complexity to his character.

For Amber, the complexity arises when she realizes she actually likes Ronnie, when she begins to let him see the chinks in her armor. She pulls away, calls it quits, says it's time to go. And Ronnie—selflessly, it seems—lets her walk away. He tells himself that this is what love is, which, on one level, sounds pretty righteous. Until he comes to realize that this is just another justification, another way of not dealing with his emotions. Ironically, the relationships Ronnie forges with the mental patients when he works the nightshift become the most pivotal in getting him to rethink his situation. Time and again he crosses paths with the seemingly unhinged Teddy (played to perfection by Ronnie Gene Blevins) and a girl named Joey (Claudia Doumit). His interactions with both characters and their slightly skewed visions of the world get him outside of himself long enough to recognize his mistake, and really highlight the importance of friendship and speaking plainly about complicated matters. In a way, these interactions are the pivot points upon which the story beats turn, each conversation making Ronnie a little more introspective and aware. He realizes that he has let Amber go without ever truly expressing himself in any other form than what's written in his script. So he resolves to alter the ending. Of both his script, and of his relationship with Amber.

I found shades of myself in both characters. When Ronnie first becomes interested in Amber, he battles within himself. Is it love, or is it just loneliness driving him to latch onto the first new attachment to come his way? I find myself asking that question a lot, if only because I've had to have a few hard, honest conversations with myself in which I've come to realize that so many of my attachments have formed out of loneliness, a desire to be heard and understood on some fundamental level. It's never a good way to form relationships, of course. It's inherently self-centered, and turns the other individual into a need-meeter, rather than allowing them their own dignity and power of determination. And when things begin to get complicated, Amber severs the ties and walks away at the expense of herself. Boy, do I understand this. It's my default reaction in most any relationship that grows beyond simplicity. Sometimes, I think, it's justified. Necessary, even, when the relationship is a bad one to begin with. Other times...well, spin it however you want, it's just a selfish thing to do. I just find it hard to fault her for her decision, though. Numerous decisions to walk away from a number of relationships has brought a lot of unnecessary hurt and pain, but it's also kept me alive. I have a friend who says that childhood is a condition from which we must all eventually recover. And the recovery process, I think, breeds in us all these little tendencies that allow our survival mechanisms to show, mechanisms that come out in the decisions we make. It's funny how the decisions that keep us on life support can turn around and cut our throats when we least expect it. Amber is afraid of hurting Ronnie, so she removes herself—bringing about the very thing she was trying to avoid. Relationships are complicated.

Losing in Love is a small film, narrow in focus, yet timeless in theme. It is strong and true, written with uncommon intelligence and a complex understanding of human nature, longing, and eros. It is an antidote for the disease of narcissism, an exercise in selflessness that wisely warns against stumbling over into fatalism, the inherent danger that comes with the expenditure of self, even with the best of intentions. There's no guarantee that one's wounds will be healed; in fact, it's naive to think that another broken, miserable human being with scars of their own will be the balm to all the cuts and scrapes on your own soul. But to learn to love one in spite of those wounds? That's another story. And that's the story Losing in Love is interested in telling.

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