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Transformation in many contemporary American films occurs within the
journey of the protagonist. This tendency has deep roots in traditional storytelling.
In his Anatomy of Criticism, Northrup Frye observes, "of all fictions, the marvelous
journey is the one formula that is never exhausted."
1
There are several current writings that explore the connection between
religion, myth and film. One purpose of this paper is to find as much common
ground as possible between Christian and secular writers, while attempting to
maintain a theologically independent viewpoint. The concern is not so much with
the orthodoxy of a particular epistemological criticism, but rather with advancing a
series of remarks based on a personal stance and a number of sources, including
Joel W. Martin and Conrad E. Ostwalt's Screening the Sacred: Religion, Myth and
Ideology in Popular American Film - a comprehensive theological criticism of film
as a cultural mass medium.
2
John Izod's Jungian analysis of contemporary filmic
icons in Myth, Mind and the Screen provides insight into the cultural implications
of identity.
3
Lloyd Baugh''s investigation of the person of Jesus Christ as
represented in cinema in Imaging the Divine: Jesus and Christ Figures in Film is a
dependable source for the often neglected instances of the sacred in the ordinary.
4
And the hero's traditional journey is examined by Susan Mackey-Kallis in The Hero
and the Perennial Journey Home.
5
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What is a cinematic hero? What is an anti-hero? Are these merely ephemeral
terms that we assign to leading characters in filmic roles? Or are they simply
reflections of what and who we want to be, or how we imagine ourselves in the best
or worst of all possible worlds?
In cinema, the hero/heroine is usually depicted as one delivering salvation,
enacting positive change, and bringing relief from suffering or oppression. He or
she usually possesses the positive traits common to the traditional notion of a hero:
emotional, physical, and moral strength as well as charity and fortitude. On the
other hand, the anti-hero is defined as "a protagonist who lacks the attributes that
make a heroic figure, as nobility of mind and spirit, a life or attitude marked by
action or purpose."
6
The anti-hero is often a reluctant savior - the one that we follow
and adore if only because of his own fallibility and fundamentally flawed human
nature. He or she is someone who resembles ourselves, reminding us not only of
the ambiguous morality of existence but also the possibility of redemptive change
and transcendence.
Historically, the delineation between the archetypal hero and the anti-hero
has not always been clear. From Percival of the Grail legend to the Fisher King,
King David to Hercules, and Odysseus to Saint Paul, the hero is usually depicted
as unmistakably mortal at heart. Yet the image and mythology of Jesus Christ
insists upon a combination of flesh and spirit, human mortality and divine
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perfection. Is Christ the hybrid of the hero and anti-hero? How do our cinematic
heroes address the dual nature of His presence - that of personal doubt and physical
suffering coupled with inspired, omnipotent ability and conviction? Perhaps by
questioning the idea of the Christ-like hero in cinema, there can be a collective
search for spiritual identity and a re-examination of the idea of righteousness within
our own experience and culture.
The stories of St. Paul and Odysseus parallel the hero-myth cycles and the
spiritual dimensions of a physical journey abundant in Western literature - and more
recently, in American cinema. The predominance and contemporary cultural
relevance of this ancient story-cycle has been manifest in a very specific film genre,
the "road movie" - essentially a contemporary continuation of the traditional
"Western." The characters that populate these films are continually complex, yet
seemingly familiar. The perennial rise of the cinematic anti-hero and the Christ-
figure punctuates the resemblance between these newer forms and the ancient epics.
The traditional Christian story of St. Paul provides an example of the
prototypical anti-hero. He was a sworn enemy of Christians. While on a journey he
experienced a divine revelation and was temporarily blinded by the bright light that
accompanied the voice of Christ. The experience transformed Paul and he became
Christ's foremost apostle and one of Christendom's earliest and most influential
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theologians. His passivity (not actively seeking transformation) is typical of the
cinematic anti-hero.
Odysseus (the proto-typical journeyman) was a warrior who left his home
place and family to wage war, but after the battle he was delayed and beset by many
life-threatening ordeals and trials. Despite his difficulties, when he finally does
return home Odysseus is a stronger force than when he departed. The journey
shaped and defined his character.
It is notable to observe that Odysseus's fame does not come from his ethical
or moral stature, but rather from his craftiness, stealth and dangerous cunning. In
the end, when he returns home, he is not a triumphant warrior, but rather a clever
murderer.
Even Odysseus's name is indicative of his nature. It has been associated with
the Greek word odyne, meaning pain - and pain not just for oneself, but pain
extended to others. This reciprocal sado-masochism reverberates in the definition
of the cinematic anti-hero, the hero who is considered heroic only through receiving
and in the end distributing pain.
The anti-hero, like Odysseus, is rarely happy in situations that would please
other men; he is usually an outlaw type who seeks conflict and struggle over
comfort and certainty. In fact, his sense of self-actualization or righteousness is only
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achieved through war and strife. In Homer's story of Odysseus, as in so many
contemporary films, the goal of the warrior/anti-hero is not long life, but glorious
life followed by glorious death.
Odysseus also resembles the cinematic anti-hero in that he often travels
alone. Homer compares him to lions and eagles, animals that usually hunt apart
from their families. Ultimately, the journey of Odysseus takes on mythic and
spiritual dimensions by virtue of the destination. He, like the anti-hero, is not just
striving for Ithaca but also for a metaphysical sense of place. Just as the anti-hero
or cowboy travels west seeking to escape his past in a new home, Odysseus flees
Troy for the home of his imagination. Several times in the poem, his quest is
described in terms of a desire for re-birth - a rising from the dead that can only
occur when he reaches his home.
The flawed and undeniably ambiguous heroic/anti-heroic nature of Robert
DeNiro's character in Raging Bull (Martin Scorsese, 1980) is not so far removed
from the character of Odysseus. Both men are famous warriors - DeNiro's character
is a well-known prizefighter - both are coming to terms with their physical decline,
both of them have to confront the expiration of their former power and embrace a
new kind of distinction, and both possess a desire to return to the glory and fame
they once enjoyed. In the end, after much self-reflection and examination, these
two fighters are forced into a new kind of action and determination in order to
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recover what they have lost. Susan Mackey-Kallis writes of this mythic process:
"The Hero's journey...is both a descent into the world of liminal and passive
unconscious and an ascent into consciousness and the world of action."
7
The distinctions between the varying perennial characters - the traditional
tragic hero, the anti-hero, the Christ figure, and the reluctant savior - are rarely
clearly defined or identified in modern cinema. The occasional exception is the
filmic Jesus. The difference between the Christ figure and Jesus is that the latter is
usually a literal interpretation or reinterpretation of the religious person of Jesus
Christ as articulated in the Biblical New Testament, while the Christ-figure often
possesses characteristics of Jesus under varying secular and religious narrative
constructs. In some cinematic incarnations, however, Jesus himself is represented
as an enigmatic, self-doubting and more human presence, as for example in The
Last Temptation of Christ (Martin Scorsese, 1998) and Jesus of Montreal (Denys
Arcand, 1990). In many cases, on-screen characters take on the traits of Jesus, St.
Paul, King David, Odysseus, and Judas all at once, reflecting the uncertainty and
universality of the Christic hero-image itself.
From David to Odysseus to John Wayne, the ethical and moral substance of
heroic figures is fraught with inconsistencies - just as the mythology of Paul could
be seen as a troubling study of aborted vengeance and reluctant redemption. A film
like Dead Man Walking (Tim Robbins, 1995) underscores the ambiguity of the
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nature and moral character of our cultural heroes. The main character in the film is
a confessed murderer, full of hate and confusion - yet, in the end, he is portrayed as
a beatific Christ-figure, one who is perhaps wrongly executed for his sins following
absolution by a Catholic nun. An interesting element of this depiction is that the
character resembles Paul more closely than Christ. Paul was a killer who was
redeemed by the intervention of the Divine. On the other hand, Jesus Christ is
purported to be blameless and without sin - and therefore his wrongful execution
was intended to be a self-sacrificial event by which others would be freed from their
sins.
According to the Christic example, to which all of his followers are
subsequently called, a man should do no harm to any other man, which means
actively denying a fundamentally flawed human nature. The active direction of
Christ's example lies in direct contrast to the passive experience of Paul - who was
maimed and brought into submission by the calling of Christ. It is Paul's inactivity,
or lack of direct action in achieving redemption, that we see in most American
cinematic heroes/anti-heroes. They are men and women of violence, of revenge and
reparation - essentially, purely human. Unwittingly, they are brought to a kind of
"holy aggression" by circumstances beyond their control, as seen in the dilemmas
faced by the main characters in The Passion of Joan of Arc (Carl Theodor Dreyer,
1928), Glory (Edward Zwick, 1989), Die Hard (John McTiernan, 1988), The
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Matrix (Andy and Larry Wachowski, 1999), and The Lord of the Rings (Peter
Jackson, 2001). As with Odysseus, their redemption is marked by the blood of their
enemies. Like the pre-Christian St. Paul, their pious rage is predicated by the fact
that they are "fighting for the right side," or following a "higher calling," or
protecting their own embattled loved ones.
Perhaps these themes resonate within the American psyche, to qualify and
redeem the many moral indiscretions that accompanied the creation of the nation.
There may indeed be a nagging desire to quell the collective guilt of a society that
displaced the original residents of the land, enslaved an entire race for its own
financial gain, and introduced nuclear warfare to the world. The idea that the hero
had to do "what he had to do to get the job done" is certainly not Christ-like in the
traditional sense, yet postures as a righteous stance by virtue of its dedication to a
high ideal, coupled with the embrace of self-sacrifice. Such idealism is continually
evident in most American cinematic heroes. They avoid barbarism and violence
until pushed into a corner by insurmountable odds and desperate circumstances. In
almost every case, though, when the hero does finally resort to violence he is just
as vicious and ruthless as his adversaries. Many times, the hero is absolved of past
sins and indiscretions through a resolute dedication to violence and vengeance,
much like Odysseus. In his book, Hollywood Dreams and Biblical Stories, Brandon
Scott cites Levi-Strauss:
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The purpose of myth is to provide a logical model capable of overcoming
contradiction...We use myths to hide contradictions in the beliefs of our
societies...That is, we approve of violence in our need to keep order. But the
contradiction is overcome in film when the violence is evacuated from
civilization after its occurrence: hence the need for the hero to leave after
he saves the family in 'Shane,' 'The Searchers,' and innumerable other
westerns.
8
This kind of faux moral redemption - of blood and retribution, not of spirit and
conscience - and its recurrence in the American cinematic Road Movie or Western
is troubling, for no real change or spiritual transformation occurs. Examples are
plentiful. From First Blood (the first installment of the lucrative Rambo franchise,
directed by Ted Kotcheff in 1982) to Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven (1992) to Pulp
Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1994), Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (Kevin
Reynolds, 1991), Lethal Weapon (Richard Donner, 1987) and Die Hard, the good
guys seldom wear white hats and frequently murder their way to this kind of
nebulous spiritual freedom which may be culturally sanctioned by a social system
that still seems to reward a sadistic response to danger or any kind of threat. In
American film, the spirit of Odysseus's bloody return to Ithaca seems to prevail
over Paul's transformative journey to Damascus.
The fundamental moral/social reasoning for this kind of retribution relies
on a selfless defense of friends, family, and country. Usually the hero allows or
endures many persecutions of self, but when presented with the mistreatment of
others, carnage most certainly follows. The apparent selflessness of this modus
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operandi provides the hero with redemptive accolades and indulgences from his
peers and society in general. Thereby, the anti-hero is wedded to the hero and the
idea of absolute morality is lost; the Old Testament law of equal retribution
continues to propagate itself upon the movie screens and home movie systems of
America.
The Road Movie/Western, in various incarnations, has tenuous links to the
"Mission Movie." In fact, the latter may be simply a sub-genre of the former. The
mission movie is not a story of hopeful travel-borne enthusiasm; neither is it simply
an escapist abandonment of difficult circumstances. The mission movie is usually
a directional story with a singular, imperative goal: the attainment of something or
someone that has been lost and must be rediscovered at all costs. This kind of filmic
narrative resembles the legend of Odysseus as well as the ill-fated Christian
crusades - and in a contemporary sense, the journey of the Army Rangers in Saving
Private Ryan. In the mission movie, the hero's journey is less about escape than of
acquisition and recovery - indeed reconnaissance, that is, reclaiming something
lost. Mythologist Joseph Campbell writes that the hero's journey "is a labor not of
attainment but of reattainment, not of discovery but rediscovery. The godly powers
sought and dangerously won are revealed to have been within the heart of the hero
all the time."
9
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The idea of homecoming is more important in these cases than of existential
or physical flight. The mythological theme of this type of story resonates
throughout the history of narrative form. One early example is that of Moses and
the tribes of Israel, who wandered through the desert in search of a "promised land."
This exedotic journey finds significant yet uneasy parallels in the character of
Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and Odysseus - that of returning home, after traveling
into distant magical lands. Like the medieval search for the Holy Grail and the
crusades, the hero/protagonist cannot return home with honor until the prescribed
assignment of recovery is completed. There are many modern correlations from the
American screen, including The Searchers (John Ford, 1956), Thelma and Louise
(Ridley Scott, 1991), The Fugitive (Andrew Davis, 1993), The Verdict (Sidney
Lumet, 1982), Kalifornia (Dominic Sena, 1993), Saving Private Ryan (Steven
Spielberg, 1998), The Mission (Roland Joffe, 1986) and 12 Monkeys (Terry Gillam,
1995). The deeper, more fundamental message of this kind of narrative focuses not
on the obtainment of the intended goal, but rather upon the lessons learned upon
the road - the process of re-attainment itself. The transformative power of the iconic
wilderness in terms of the seeker's spiritual/psychological state becomes the main
focus and primary benefit of the story.
Between the two journeymen, St. Paul and Odysseus, we find stark
disparity: Paul is made into something greater, while Odysseus remains the ruthless
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warrior he has always been. Odysseus returns in disguise to violently punish his
foes, while Paul has become a benevolent force, advocating peace among his
former enemies. The result is easily observed: Odysseus has gained nothing from
his journeys but pain and a desire to draw seemingly justifiable blood from his and
his wife's tormentors. Paul is a changed man, bent upon righting his past sins
through forgiveness and a peaceful embrace of a new, benevolent calling.
Paul's type of rediscovery has few correlations in American cinema. Indeed,
there are not many films about the "bad guy" becoming the "good guy" without
much spilling of blood (and the violence justified as "righteous action"). The few
examples that exist concern Christ - as a template of peaceful yet willful and
dedicated change, as in Jesus of Montreal and The Greatest Story Ever Told.
Films about Joan of Arc evidence a cinematic piousness in the portrayal of
violence for a greater cause. Such mission movies usually end in a blood bath.
Consider Robert DeNiro's character in The Mission. Even though the hero is
shamed and shackled into a true spiritual redemption, he participates with relish in
a final battle for what we are asked to consider a just cause. The hero/warrior is
transformed, but only briefly - only until his previously tested savage skills are
needed to aid others in a desperately violent struggle.
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In many American films, the killer remains true to his natural predatory
instincts, though they may be temporarily suspended. This pattern is so abundant
in American cinema that an attempt to cite examples may become tiresome.
Consider Apocalypse Now, which begins as a kind of road/mission movie where
our hero has the opportunity to rediscover himself and his role in the Vietnam
conflict through many disillusioning events, ennui, and a fuller understanding of
his own fruitless mission. But, true to the form of most American cinematic
journeymen, in the end he takes up a sword and completes his assigned homicidal
mission without remorse or regret. The implicit message here is that the American
hero/anti-hero, under duress, has no choice but to ruin and destroy the enemy
according to the directives of his superiors - regardless of his own conscience or his
own moral/spiritual doubts. If his own well-being or that of his comrades in is
danger, he will do what he has to do to complete the destruction of his enemy.
In contrast, the journeys of St. Paul and Christ have more to do with
surrender to a spiritual calling - a calling to self-sacrifice and spiritual re-
awakening. Paul originally takes to the road as a self-proclaimed zealot, pledging
to quell the threat of the spiritual separatists, the Christians, and their threat to the
orthodoxy of Judaism. At this point, Paul is a religious warrior, a crusader driven
by a calling to purge the promised land of these new "infidels." By his own later
admission, his desires were not purely fueled by religious fervor; he also desired a
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bit of fame and notoriety, which would surely be bestowed upon a young passionate
devotee by the Jewish religious elite of the time.
The hero and anti-hero continue to show up in contemporary American film.
Stories of cinematic protagonists appear fluid over time, for the details of the stories
must reflect a changing cultural landscape - in this era to fit the multi-plex and its
patrons. However, the perennial and abiding significance of the leading man or
woman borrows heavily from a pattern set down long ago: a pattern born of myth,
scripture and an enduring narrative form. St. Paul and Odysseus are enduring
models of heroism and anti-heroism. They resemble American moviegoers, who
participate in the continuing epic journey of life itself.
The mythical models addressed here - the journey, transformation,
redemption, revenge - find their universality in the human heart. The journey of
self-discovery occurs and reoccurs in the individual's secret spaces, and on the
movie screens of America.
Our films manifest the human journey set within the tenuous fabric of our
contemporary society. As stressed by scholars such as Joseph Campbell, the
challenge for the individual is to learn from the mistakes and triumphs of the
archetypal figures. Certainly, cinematic audiences of today identify with the
presented incarnations of the archetypes. Amidst all the violence, one cannot help
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but wonder if there is a point ahead, on the cinematic horizon, when filmmakers
will give equal screening to the hero who achieves a non-violent transformation.
1
Northrup Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton: Princeton Universtiy Press, 1957), 33.
2
Joel W. Martin and Conrad E. Ostwalt Jr., Screening the Sacred: Religion, Myth and Ideology in
Popular American Film (Boulder: Westview Press, 1995).
3
John Izod, Myth, Mind and the Screen: Understanding the Heroes of our Time (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2002).
4
Lloyd Baugh, Imaging the Divine: Jesus and Christ-Figures in Film (Sheed and Ward, 1997).
5
Susan Mackey-Kallis, The Hero and the Perennial Journey Home in American Film
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001).
6
Mackey-Kallis, The Hero, 91.
7
Mackey-Kallis, The Hero, 47.
8
Brandon Scott, Hollywood Dreams and Biblical Stories, quoted by John Lyden in "To Commend
or to Critique? The Question of Religion and Film Studies," 3. The Journal of Religion and Film,
Oct. 1997.
9
Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1949), 39.
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