Catharsis: Why We Care What Happens To Frodo

Is there a point to any of this? Or was Macbeth right?

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing," (V.5.19-28)

There is no doubt that, as Kant says in the Critique of Judgment, life seems "purposive," it seems to have meaning. In the question on Divine Providence in the Summa Theologica, St. Thomas Aquinas quotes Holy Scripture as evidence that the universe has meaning: "[Divine Wisdom] reacheth from end to end mightily, and ordereth all things sweetly," (Wis. 8:1).

He goes on to explain that, because all agents undertake actions for a reason, and God is the agent in the creating and sustaining of all the exists, all that exists does so for the reason he intended it to. To put it another way, when I do something, I do it for a reason. Everything that ends up happening as a result of my action (everything that's under my control), then, happened for that reason. But everything that exists, God caused to be; therefore, everything that exists exists for the reason God created it.

We can know, then, using reason alone, apart from faith, that everything has a purpose. Unfortunately, we can't know what that purpose is. Why not? Because we don't know everything. Gandalf said it right, "Even the very wise cannot see all ends," (The Fellowship of the Ring, 74). Because we can't know how everything is connected, and because we can't know how everything will end up, in our own lives or at the end of time, we can't know why things happen the way they do.

Say I built a machine that turned peanuts into peanut butter. Now say you were a sentient peanut. As you went through the machine you would be able to learn a little bit about how the machine worked, but not everything. Also, as you went through the machine, you would have no idea where you were going to end up. Only once you got turned into peanut butter would you realize what it was all about.

In the Poetics, Aristotle called Literature "cathartic," meaning that the reading of Literature (or watching of plays or movies, or listening of music, etc.) purges frustrations pent up as a result of conflict and tension in the narrative. He also says that art imitates life and reality (the Greek is mimesis, as in English "mimic"). In other words, the emotions that we live through in microcosm in works of art be they literary, musical, architectural, or what have you) are the same emotions we live through in real life.

Literature gives us the opportunity to live a second life, to put ourselves in the characters' shoes and do what they did and see what they saw. This is why, as Joseph Campbell points out, protagonists must be relatable. They must be down-to-earth and believable like Luke Skywalker or Frodo or Clark Kent. Or a peasant carpenter from Nazareth, for that matter. Either that or they must be champions, larger than life heroes that can fight on behalf of us little guys and do the things we never could, like Achilles or Superman. Or Christ, the King of the Jews and God Incarnate.

Literature is cathartic because it also allows us to see the ending, to see the meaning behind everything that happens in this second life, to learn lessons about life and reality from the people and events we encounter in art. It's like getting to regret bad decisions and glory in good ones without having to actually make them. This is not to say that the purpose of Literature is to teach us lessons; it is to say that it does, as a result of what it is, potential reality, imagined and given form by an artist.

Why Red Letter Bibles Are Dumb

In 1901, Louis Klopsch published the first Bible in which those words "universally accepted as the utterances of our Lord and Saviour" were printed in red—the first "red letter Bible." They've been extremely popular ever since, especially amongst Protestants. Here's the problem with red letter bibles: nothing in the Bible is more or less important than anything else. It's all the Word of God, not just the stuff presented as quotations of Jesus.

Even though the Gospels are eyewitness accounts, and we believe the Apostles were given a special grace to be able to recall all of Jesus' teachings and recount them faithfully (cf. John 14:26), the Gospels aren't word-for-word, moment-by-moment, exact histories of what happened. The Gospels are history, yes, but the Apostles didn't conceive of history in the same way we do. I'm not suggesting that what they say happened didn't happen. I am saying that they're not, nor were they ever intended to be, perfectly factually accurate accounts with exact quotations.

To say that everything the Bible says is the Word of God and absolutely true is not to say that every part of it should be interpreted in the same way. Obviously the Gospels aren't the same kind of literature as 1 Corinthians or Revelation. Different books and sections of the Bible have to be interpreted in light of how they were intended to be read.

For example, when John says that angels in heaven are singing (cf. Rev. 5:8-13) he clearly doesn't mean that literally, because it's not possible. The angels are purely spiritual beings, they have no bodies. A being without vocal cords can't sing. What John is saying is something like: "the angels declare the glory of God and worship him." In order to get this idea across, he likens it to human songs of praise. In other words, it's a metaphor. It's still absolutely and undeniably true. But it's true metaphorically, not literally.

This principle must be extended out over the entirety of Scripture. The question is, How do we determine which parts should be interpreted in which way? Well, there are several answers. First, the Church, carrying on the Apostolic Witness to Christ, guided by the Holy Spirit is custodian to the truth of the Word of God, of which Scripture is the special, written testimony. Second, theologians determine how we must interpret particular passages of Scripture in light of what we know to be true about God and Christ. Third, bible scholars, archaeologists and the like are always coming up with new information about the people and times which produced Holy Scripture, giving us new insight into their culture and, as a result, literature.

To be sure, there are portions of Scripture which it's less crucial to read than others. Someone once suggested a new Christian read the New Testament twice before he ever read the Old Testament. Obviously, every last ceremonial precept in Leviticus and Deuteronomy don't need to be memorized to get the idea. Nevertheless, we ought not to treat the "words of Jesus" in the Gospels as exact quotations. Nor should we devalue the rest of Scripture as any less authoritative (when interpreted properly).

Further Proof That "The New 52" Was A Terrible Idea

I'm not the biggest Wonder Woman fan, but I know enough to know that giving Wonder Woman a dad is reeaaally dumb. Word is it's Zeus, and they're gonna turn it into like Sopranos on Mount Olympus with all the family drama or whatever. That's a fantastic idea, right?

First of all, this betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of the Classical gods. See, Modernity and post-Modernity look at them and see a collection of horribly childish, selfish, and cruel individuals. The thing is, though, the gods weren't just really powerful people. They were gods, of a different order entirely. We've talked before about how the gods were personifications of different aspects of Nature. Poseidon, for example, isn't cruel for doing his best to hinder Odysseus' journey home to his family; that's just the way he is. Poseidon is the Sea (among other things), and that's what the Sea does by nature: it's chaotic, wild; it cares nothing for the men that sail on it.

But the stupidest thing by far is Wonder Woman having a father. For those of you who don't know, Wonder Woman was born when her mother, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, yearned for a daughter. She modeled the form of a baby out of the wet clay on the sea shore and the gods granted her wish and imbued it with a soul.

Epic heroes aren't persons, primarily, they're principles. This is why nearly all heroes throughout history have some kind of a mysterious or supernatural origin. Wonder Woman represents, obviously, Womanhood. She is the ultimate Woman because her magical origin allowed her to be immune from any reliance on the masculine at all. See, even the other Amazons aren't entirely independent because, even if they are in every other way, if it weren't for a man, they wouldn't even exist. That's what makes Wonder Woman special, and the only one worthy to stand for her people as Champion of the Amazon, and, therefore, champion of all women.

The Nature Of Art According To Flannery O'Connor

Catholic Phoenix has a wonderful article touching on the prevalence of bad art (or, really, non-art) amongst the religious. As the article points out, this is because the nature (and, as a result, purpose) of art is not to tell you something--to push an agenda. Neither is art meant to make you feel anything. Good art does these things, but they are not essential qualities, but side-effects.

The nature of art is to re-create reality and the world around us in microcosmic form. Tolkien called it "sub-creation," because artists mimic God's act of Creation by bestowing form and shape on their imaginal vision. It is art's realism which makes it cathartic, as Aristotle says in the Poetics. Because of its realism, its incarnation in miniature of the world in which we live, art makes us able to live a second life through the art we ingest. In doing so, we feel the feelings of that second life and learn its lessons, sometimes hoping we won't have to go through what the protagonist did, sometimes hoping we'll get to.

Kitsch, propaganda, sentimentalist tripe is incapable of causing this, truly profound, experience to happen because it seeks actively to bring it about. In the end it only manages to shoot itself in the foot. True art is unconscious of the message it will put forward or experience to which it will give rise. True art simply seeks to tell a story, and the rest follows naturally.

Heaven's Light: The Supernatural in Disney's Tangled, The End

Tangled ends with the unlikely hero Flynn dying on the floor, stabbed by the evil, sorceress step-mother in order that she may keep Rapunzel's regenerative powers from doing any one any good but herself. Rapunzel cuts a deal with her step-mother: she will submit to slavery if only she is allowed to heal her knight-in-shining-armor, which she proceeds to do despite Flynn's protest. In the end, Flynn sacrifices himself on behalf of Rapunzel's freedom, cutting all her hair short and robbing it of its healing magic. Rapunzel cradles her dead Beloved in her arms and sheds a tear:

Flynn knew that in order for his beloved to "have life, and have it abundantly" (Jn 10:10), he needed to give up his own. Yet, surprisingly, after he does so, at that moment when it seems all hope is lost, Rapunzel's tear falls on his cheek. Turns out they too carry the "light of the Sun" and Flynn is healed.

September 14th is the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. This is followed immediately by September 15th's feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. When the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph went to the Temple, as was the custom, to present the child Jesus to Simeon the High Priest, he prophesied Jesus' death on the Cross. In the same breath he said to Mary, "A sword will pierce through your own soul also," (Lk 2:35).

There is a parallel being drawn here between Christ's sufferings on the Cross and Mary's at his feet. As Christ's "soul" was pierced by Longinus' spear, so his Mother's soul would be pierced in sorrow as she stood at her dying son's feet. Of course a mother would grieve for her son dying in horrible pain, but does this passage point to something else as well?

Recently we took a look at rood screens and their place in traditional ecclesial architecture. What we didn't talk about is why they're called rood screens. Atop a great many of these screens or beams stands the Rood, Old English for cross. Inevitably, under the cross on either side stand Our Lady and John, the Beloved Disciple:

It is significant that it is John specifically, continually referred to as "the disciple whom Jesus loves" that stands at the foot of the Cross with Our Lady and his Mother. Of course, God loves all his children, but, as Jesus himself said, "Not every one who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' shall enter the kingdom of Heaven, but he who does the will of my Father," (Mt. 7:21). But what is the will of the Father? St. Paul tells us that "we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him," (Rom. 8:16-17).

In other words, our salvation is dependent on our suffering like Christ: humbly, lovingly, and on behalf of others. St. Peter tells us that "one is approved if, mindful of God, he endures pain while suffering unjustly," (1 Pet. 2:19). Like John, if we are to be faithful and "beloved" servants of Christ, we must stand with him in his agony. We must live a life of humility and suffering as he did.

Amazingly, though, according to Paul, our suffering can do even more good than just getting ourselves into heaven: "I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for the sake of his body, the church," (Col. 1:24).

Wait a second. Did he just say what I think he said? How can it be that "Christ's afflictions" on our behalf "lack" anything? Of course, strictly speaking, they don't. Christ's sacrifice was all-sufficient. What, then, could St. Paul mean?

What is lacking in Christ's afflictions is the application of his grace to the individual. Christ's death on the Cross redeemed the world, it didn't save it. In other words, Christ did everything necessary for it to be possible for us to be reunited with God, but it is up to us whether we will take advantage of the redemption he offers or not. St. Paul is telling us how to do that: be like Christ, humbly submit ourselves to the pain the world has to dole out, unite our sufferings to his, and so become true Christians, or "little Christs."

In this way, we participate in Christ's redemption of the world. Not adding anything, for one cannot add to something infinite. One can, however, cooperate with it. The love and suffering of the Church makes Christ's sacrifice effective in the world, just as Rapunzel's sadness brought about the happiness Flynn's sacrifice had made possible.

If, by our suffering, we can cooperate with Christ in the salvation of the world, surely the Blessed Mother, forced to witness the brutal death of her sinless, divine Son, should be the preeminent cooperator. This is what Simeon prophesied, and why Catholics name her Coredemptrix.

Why should Rapunzel's tears make her Beloved well again? Why should suffering heal? How is it that our suffering and, primarily, that of our Blessed Mother can work good in the world? Because it makes us like Christ. When we suffer willingly and in a good spirit, not seeking it out, but accepting it when it comes (and it will come), we hang ourselves on the Cross with Christ, which is exactly what he told us to do: "Take up your Cross and follow me," (Mk. 8:34). Thanks be to God, "as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too," (2 Cor. 1:5).

The Big In The Small, The Form In The Matter: Starting With The Literal In Tennyson's Tears, idle tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh at the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ad, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

What is art? It begins as something imagined. An artist imagines something and turns that imagined thing into something concrete. The thing imagined can be a scene, a character, an event, or a whole bunch of these strung together in relationship to one another to make up a story. The medium by which it is made concrete can be marble, sound, movement (as in the case of dance), or spoken or written words. This concretezation (or we can even say incarnation) is what makes it possible for others to share the artist's vision. The artist's skill is greater or lesser depending on the level to which he is able to convert his interior vision into his medium. This is what makes the difference between an artist and the rest of us. We all have imaginations. One is only an artist when one can accurately incarnate a vision into stone, music, or words.

This is the sense in which God is the first artist. It was he who had a vision of Creation and caused it to come into being. Of course, rather than making the universe out of something, God made his art out of nothing. So in fact we should not be comparing Creation to art, but our work to God's. J.R.R. Tolkien did just that when he called the artistic process "sub-creation."

The artist's vision is not the art. The work of art itself is the art. Nevertheless, if the artist is successful, the nature of the concrete work of art flows out of the artist's vision. As such, if we are to truly understand the nature of the work of art, we must come to understand the artist's vision. That being said, it is only by studying the work of art itself that this can occur, since it is the work of art which expresses the artist's vision. It is as the work of art that the vision exists.

This is called the "literal level" of the work of art. It is the incarnated, material form of the artist's imaginal vision. To be sure there are deeper, more spiritual levels of meaning. Nevertheless, if they are truly there, they must develop by way of analogy out of the literal level, for that is what the art truly is. As such, in works of art (like some poetry) where it is not immediately evident what exactly is going on in the poem, the first job of the interpreter is to determine of what the poem itself actually consists.

In Tennyson's poem Tears, idle tears a man looks "on the happy Autumn fields," and the vision conjures up thoughts "of the days that are no more." These thoughts give rise to "idle tears," because it's not like crying over heartbreak or the death of a friend, it's just crying. T reason he can't figure out why exactly the tears are coming is that they're "from the depth of some divine despair." The sadness is too profound, too fundamental to understand completely. All he knows is they have something to do with days gone by. Not sad days, but happy days. The sadness comes in realizing they're gone forever.

He goes on to compare the sadness of lost time to that "fresh" pang "as the first beam glittering on a sail" when one is waiting at the dock for a loved one to return by sea. It is like those tears of "joy" upon reuniting with a long lost friend, which rise because, even if one doesn't realize it at the time, deep down it is always a bittersweet reunion knowing that it will eventually come to an end. It is also like the sadness that accompanies the farewell when the reunion does come to an end.

Tintern Abbey, "the casement"

It is like the birds' first morning chirps with the sunrise for which one has waited up all night. Sad because it too is but a fleeting moment, gone too soon. It is like "remembered kisses after death," or imagining what it might be like to kiss a beautiful woman one will never. It is "deep as first love, and wild with all regret." Is there anything else the realization that time is passing us by can make us do but regret? Regret how poorly we spent it, and how little we have left? "Life" itself is "Death," for all living is really only dying.

By describing a single imaginal and emotional experience, Tennyson has hit at the "deep," "divine despair" at the heart of what it means to be human. This is the essence of humanity: temporality, passability, transitoriness, loss, lamentation, death. For all humanity, all life is an ache for immortality, for eternity, for a perfect world. For all Creation, all life is a longing for the Garden that was lost and that shall be remade better even that it was: "We know that the whole creation has been groaning in travail," (Rom. 8:22-3) awaiting the coming of the Kingdom.

Heaven's Light: The Supernatural In Disney's Tangled - The Beginning

So, turns out the Disney Film Rankings need to be updated a bit. Tangled is definitely Top 10. I'm gonna go ahead and put it in between Peter Pan and 101 Dalmatians. Yeah, #5. It's that good.

The first thing I have to say is "Wow!" It's kitschy, I know, but really. I'm not the first person to talk about Disney Magic, but it really is apt here, seeing as Tangled is the first Disney film since The Lion King to have it. Hunchback, Mulan, and Tarzan come close, but they don't quite get there. Mulan and Tarzan try and fail by being derivative, and Hunchback, while suffering from some of the same issues, fails in the end by being quite unlike any other Disney film.

So far, most of the features which have had that magical quality have done so on account of their romance, by which I mean to refer to the genre of Medieval, Renaissance (and, later, Romantic) literature and NOT contemporary "romance" novels. The classic fairy tales on which many of the great Disney films are based can themselves be considered more or less great romances: Beauty and the Beast, Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid, and, finally, Rapunzel.

Though the specific works from which Disney draws its material are individually more or less directly connected to these Medieval and Renaissance tales, all of them can trace their lineage, at least stylistically, to these works. It is the Medieval romances which are responsible for our (rapidly disappearing) cultural association of the Middle Ages with daring knights, evil witches, and damsels in distress; or, to quote Belle, "far off places, daring sword fights, a prince in disguise!" Through revivals in the Renaissance and the Romantic Age the specific form of the romance shifted quite drastically, several important elements remained the same.

The most important of these is a preoccupation with the supernatural and fantastical. The Middle Ages lived in a world alive with divine and demonic power, in a world where otherworldly forces intervened regularly, pulling Mankind back and forth between Heaven and Hell. What we consider "fantastical" was not at all so for them. It was simply life. There is something to be learned from this perspective.

Tangled begins when a drop of sunlight falls from the sky and enchants a flower with endless healing powers. This flower is later used to heal Rapunzel's mother in order that she may successfully deliver Rapunzel, who then inherits the flower's abilities. Whenever a special song is sung, Rapunzel's hair begins to glow with sunlight and heals anything it touches.

There was once another Woman who received a drop of Son-light (sorry) and was henceforth granted the ability to heal all she touches: "And a great portent appeared in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars. ...She brought forth a male child, one who is to rule all the nations with a rod of iron." (Rev. 12:1,5). This "woman" may be interpreted as the nation of Israel, from whom Christ the Physician issued:

"Surely he has born our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with he stripes we are healed," (Isa. 53:4-5).

The Incarnation is the single greatest event in history. God, perfect Love and Being itself, descended from Heaven like a drop of light, and became Man, taking a body like ours. This body was that of an Israelite, fulfilling the Old Testament prophecy that Israel would become "blessed above all peoples," (Deut. 7:14).

But, the redemption Christ brought is not just one of ideas and abstract principles, it must be a bodily one as well, for we are persons composed of body and soul. As such, Christ took a body, and by it, he heals our bodies, along with our souls, if only at the end of time when all shall be brought to glory as his body was at Easter.

The Woman can also be the Virgin Mother, whose God-given virtue allowed her to become the very vessel of redemption and grace:

"My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has regarded the low estate of his handmaiden. For behold, henceforth all generation will call me lessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name," (Lk. 1:46-49).

It is through the Blessed Virgin that Christ's spiritual and bodily health was made able to come to us. As Catholics, we believe our Blessed Mother sits at the right hand of her Divine son in Heaven, interceding to him on our behalf, raining showers of love and grace down on us all the time. It was us to whom Christ was speaking when he uttered these last words upon the Cross, "Behold, your mother!" (Jn. 19:27).

She may also be the Bride of Christ, the Church, within whom Christ resides, and thereby grants the ability to transmit his healing grace to the world:

"Jesus said to [the disciples], 'Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I send you.' And when he had said this, he breathed on them, and said to them, 'Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained,'" (Jn. 20:21-23).

A Just In Time For The DVD Release X-Men: First Class Review

For the above title, read: "I'm too cheap to go see this movie except at the dollar theater."

Here's the deal. There's a lot to like about the new X-Men movie. Mr. Tumnus made a fantastic Professor X. Performance-wise, that is. I don't exactly see the resemblance:

It doesn't even work if we make Tumnus bald...

Maybe if we give Captain Picard Tumnus' rockin' 60s hair...

Nope? Just sayin'.

So there's a lot of good to X-Men: First Class, but I just don't know if all the good outweighs the bad. For example, there's a big problem with sloppiness. There are a couple of scenes where Tumnus' Scottish accent starts to come out. Same with Magneto's Irish accent. Seriously. It would've taken like 5 more minutes to re-record that ADR. Also, Beast's prosthetic make-up is really bad:

The actor can't even make the mouth move right so that it looks like the blue cat-man is talking. It's really kinda pathetic. Harry of Harry and the Hendersons looked better.

Also, Professor X isn't the only character we've seen before whose "young" self doesn't really look like their older counterpart. Except, of course, when they actually brought in the old actors to do pointless cameos. While I'm on the topic. Really? Cameos by Hugh Jackman and Rebecca Romijn-Stamos? Dear, dear, X-Men: First Class. You had so much going for you, but then you allowed yourself to fall into some of the standard "prequel" pitfalls: pointless cameos and kitchy "I think we should call ourselves (dramatic pause for forced thought) the X-Men!" dialogue. When you do that stuff, you cheapen yourself. You make it look like you need to prop yourself up by referencing that other (better?) movie. Show some self-confidence.

There's also the fact that you went back too far. I get that you want to tell the X-Men's origin story. Cool. The problem is, in order to do that you have to go back to a time when there aren't really any links to the stuff we know already. Take a concrete example: Professor X isn't bald or in a wheelchair. In my book, that kinda makes him, you know, not Professor X. Those are pretty life-changing events, no less so for a character. In other words, pre-bald and wheelchair Professor X really isn't Professor X, he's a different character entirely.

It's a lot like Anakin Skywalker and Darth Vader. One of my major complaints about Episode III (underscore "one of") is that the first thing Vader does when he dons the suit once and for all is ask about stupid Padmé. Once he had the suit on and "became" Vader he should have completely done away with that old life. Anakin was the one who loved Padmé. He's not Anakin anymore.

Also, going back so far kind of prevented them from including many recognizable characters. So, Professor X, Mystique, and Magneto. Anybody else? Oh, right, not born yet. So they have to create a basically whole new cast of characters. (Where were they in the original movies, by the way?) These are the ones you pick? Diamond boobs, the devil, and a dragonfly? Come on.

I think I've just decided prequels are always terrible. J.J. Abrams' 2009 Star Trek not being a prequel, but a reboot. You just can't tell a compelling story when you automatically know where everything's going to end up. At best, a prequel makes you go, "Ohhhh." It never makes you care. The first movie did that. That's why you're here to begin with.

The Raising Up Of The Low

Always in comedic works of literature we encounter a particular phenomenon. It's that which occurs to Trygaeus, the protagonist of Aristophanes' play Peace. The play opens with Greece plunged into the midst of war and all its suffering. You may remember from an earlier post that the Epic genre followed three stages of plot development. The same is true of Comedy, though in Comedy, rather than the stages being lived through as the hero's Battle, Journey, and Homecoming, in Comedy, these same ideas and qualities are lived through by the representation of the story's world as one which is Infernal, Purgatorial, and Paradisal. War is nothing if not hellish.

As the play begins, Trygaeus turns the world into a Purgatorial one by hatching a plan to end the war and return peace to Greece. The farmer has two of his servants mash dung into cakes and feed them to a beetle, the beetle he feeds til it is large enough to carry a man and rides to heaven to plead his case to the gods.

The goddess Peace (the incarnation of the principle) has been locked away by War. Much of the rest of the play consists of Trygaeus stirring up his fellow Greeks to pull away the giant stones with which War has plugged Peace's cell. It is hard work, and takes the full effort of everyone. This is the truth of peace, joy, and paradise. It can only be had by the consistent and loving work of everyone involved. We must cooperate in God's good work, we must become like him in loving action if ever we are to enjoy his bliss and, more than that, infect the world with it.

Of course, Trygaeus and the Greeks are successful, releasing not only Peace but her companions Festival and Harvest as well, (comedy, like God, always gives more than expected, more than deserved) who then set off for Athens with Trygaeus. The play ends, as all Comedies do, with a wedding, here that between the farmer Trygaeus and Harvest. Obviously, this is an analogy for the time of peace bringing a good harvest to the farmers, and, as a result, a cause for celebration.

Finally, after a council, a festival of sacrifice to Peace on the advice of the words of the poet Homer, the farmer and his Harvest are wedded, at the end of which Trygaeus invites the people of Athens to celebrate with he and his new bride, saying, "Follow me, sirs, if ye will, / And of bridecakes eat your fill." The grace of the comedic world has converted the dung cakes from the beginning of the play into bridecakes; i.e., a marriage feast, that which Revelation speaks of as "the marriage supper of the Lamb," (Rev. 19:9).

It is through dung, the most humble, prosaic, and down-to-earth thing one could think of, that Trygaeus gains entry into Heaven. It is always through the lower that the higher comes to us. It is through matter that we have form, through bodies that we have souls. It is through the action of God humbling himself that we are redeemed: "Though he was in the form of God, [Christ] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross," (Phil. 2:6-8). It is through such commonplace things as water, oil, bread and wine that the grace of this redemption is transmitted to us through the Church.

As I've said before, the heroes of our faith are those who never receive any glory, any praise for their good deeds. They are the ones who do the little things day in and day out for the good, the true, and the beautiful and never complain. The families who eat bologna sandwiches one night a week so they can give some money to the poor. The mothers who somehow manage to raise seven children almost singlehandedly and still make three meals a day. The fathers who work ten hour days and come home to six more of crying kids and chores.

It is humility which puts us close to God. We cannot build a ladder to heaven, nor can be build a tower (cf. Gen. 11). We cannot conquer heaven with our devices or our cunning. "Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that in due time he may exalt you," (1 Pet. 5:6). As Christ himself said, in his kingdom, "the last will be first, the first last," (Matt. 20:16).

The Mountain Goats’ "Sax Rohmer #1" As Tragedy

Around the middle of the last century, T.S. Eliot and C.S. Lewis found themselves on opposite sides of an important literary debate. Lewis thought that the matter of Modern and post-Modern Literature was inherently flawed. That is to say, he was convinced that no literary device, conceit, or convention was worth it's salt unless it preceded 1517. (This position is analogous to that of many hyper-Traditionalists as regards the Liturgy and Duncan Stroik as regards ecclesiastical architecture.) Eliot on the other hand saw nothing wrong with adopting the style of Modernity, as illustrated by his plays and poetry. Why should these materials, this style be any less capable of incarnating reality than the older? Eliot himself proved his hypothesis to be correct, and it is largely as a result of his literary corpus that I agree with him.

A particular style is relatively arbitrary when it comes to a work of art. That is to say, a particular work of art could utilize any, so long as it appropriately incarnates the vision of the artist. Pop music is no exception. There is no reason at all why it should not be possible to produce art in this style. In an effort to show that it is possible and has, in fact, already been accomplished many times over, here beginneth a new feature here at PopSophia: Tunesday (awful, I know), in which I shall endeavor to feature relatively contemporary music which I believe attains to the level of art.

To start then, a song from The Mountain Goats' album Heretic Pride. The full lyrics are included below the embedded mp3. I suggest reading along as you listen. Here's the direct link to the music video in case the audio doesn't work for some reason.

Fog lifts from the harbor, dawn goes down to day
An agent crests the shadows of the nearby alleyway
Piles of broken bricks, sign posts on the path
Every moment points toward the aftermath
Yeah

Sailors straggle back from their nights out on the town
Hopeless urchins from the city gather round
Spies from imperial China wash in with the tide
Every battle heads to war, surrender on both sides

And I am coming home to you
With my own blood in my mouth
And I am coming to you
If it’s the last thing that I do

Elves move in the tower, wolves howl in the hills
Chalk marks show up on a few high windowsills
And a rabbit gives up somewhere, and a dozen hawks descend
Every moment leads toward its own sad end
Yeah

Ships loosed from their moorings capsize and then they’re gone
Sailors with no captains watch awhile and then move on
And an agent crests the shadows and I head in her direction
 All roads lead toward the same blocked intersection

I am coming home to you
With my own blood in my mouth
And I am coming to you
If it's the last thing that I do

As expounded eloquently by Dustin Hoffman's character in Stranger Than Fiction, if Tragedy were reducible to one fundamental element it would be death. Death as inescapable. “Every moment leads toward its own sad end.” In Tragedy time always seems to be running out. It presses on the protagonist, reminding him there’s only so much left. The Tragic protagonist is pursued relentlessly be the agents of death and damnation. The entire song encapsulates this feeling of impending doom: “Piles of broken bricks, sign posts on the path / Every moment points toward the aftermath.” Enemies are everywhere. “Agents” and “spies” always upon us. Nature itself seems evil and unhinged, turning on itself and the protagonist with ferocity: “Elves move in the tower, wolves howl in the hills / . . . And a rabbit gives up somewhere, and a dozen hawks descend.” Life becomes but a horridly painful struggle. There is no grace, no mercy, no salvation: “Every battle heads to war.” Even more than that, the song speaks to this struggle’s Tragic futility. Ships are engulfed while leaderless sailors watch and do nothing. No one cares about anything or anyone else because there is no meaning. “All roads lead toward the same blocked intersection.” There is no right choice. No matter what I do, I end up gone, swallowed by the Abyss closing in around me. Soon I will be done for. For what? Nothingness awaits me in this life and the next.

Why, then, would anyone still fight? Why not just commit suicide and be done with it if there's no point to anything and it's all going to end up in death anyway. The refrain offers a glimmer of hope—the person waiting at home. To get back to her. It’s going to cost me dearly—blood at least, if not my life. But there’s nothing left to try for except to get back to her. She is Cordelia to my Lear, Antigone to my Oedipus (see Oedipus at Colonus), there to wrest me out of the arms of Nothingness. She is the one agent of grace left in the world, the only chance to make something of life. And death. To give it meaning and purpose. To make the fighting, the suffering, the humiliation that is life count for something. She is the Beloved of Scripture and countless lyrics. She is the Church, the Bride for which Our Lord lived our wretched life and died our wretched death, thereby making it possible for our life and our death to become a participation in the Divine life and death.

Tale As Old As Time

All works of art, no matter what the medium, are at the same time both new and old, both novel and traditional. As William Faulkner put it in his speech upon accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1950, one of the artist’s primary tasks is to “[leave] no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed.” All artists ever do is tell a very old story in a new way—for a new time and place. Drawing on their own particular experience of the world, artists retell “the old universal truths” insofar as they have experienced them. To use Michael Oakeshott’s term, artists “re-create” the world and the human condition according to their own experience of it, and insodoing, they give life to and delineate the eternal principles of Truth underlying all that exists.

In his essay Tradition and the Individual Talent, T.S. Eliot called this simultaenous perception in the artist of both the universal past and his own particular present the “historical sense.” “The historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional. And it is at the same time what makes a writer most acutely conscious of his place in time, of his own contemporaneity.”

This is the principle which Joseph Campbell picks up on in his work in comparative my-thology. All myths, all great stories are really just different cultures’ takes on the same fundamental ideas and principles. All stories have their foundation in the same basic human experiences, thoughts, and desires. More than that, they have their foundation in the same truths of the world in which we live. That is what artists do, tell very old stories with new characters and new imagery based on their own personal experience of the world. That is what they must do, for art re-creates the world, and the truth in the world never changes, it merely takes on new shapes and faces.

Take for instance one of Campbell’s own favorite myths—the heroic journey. All heroes follow the same simple pattern: Battle, Journey, Homecoming. Though the pattern expresses itself differently across different times and cultures, nevertheless the pattern remains the same. Let’s look at a few specific examples:

Odysseus cleansing his house of the suitors.

Odysseus left his home, wife Penelope, and son Telemachus in Ithaca for ten years to fight in the Trojan War. After his victory, he had to travel another ten years in order to reach home. The point of this journey was that the hero should learn how to leave the Battle behind and prepare the way for a life of peace. Upon returning home, Odysseus finds his house overrun with potential usurpers. He applies the things he learned on his journey to the cleansing of his house, setting it in order once and for all.

In The Divine Comedy, Dante must fight his way through Hell, literally. He must then journey up Mount Purgatory, being purified more and more along the way, allowing himself to be prepared for his eventual homecoming in Paradise, in which he is granted the vision of God himself.

Christ our Savior came down from Heaven to do Battle against Sin by dying on the cross, even to the point of descending into Hell. Like Odysseus, Christ waits in order that the victory he won may be perfectly applied to his Body the Church through his heroic patronage, until the time is right for him to return and set his house in order once and for all.

Like every element of art and literature, this heroic pattern contains inherant within it implications and meanings beyond a simple tale being told. This is not to say that the any work of art proposes to send an explicit message. If that were the case it would be mere propaganda. That being said, by virtue of the truth that lies in its characters and events, it can be more than just characters and events. These characters and events, insofar as they are representative of larger truths and realities, are able to signify them, stand for them, personify and incarnate them.

In this case of the heroic journey, we can draw an analogy to the general experience of Mankind. All men must fight their own Battle for the principles of Truth, Jusice, and Honor. All men must endeavor on the Journey to bring the victory home, work to restore order to their sphere of influence. And it is the Homecoming, the setting into Order of our household for which we fight, and for which we hope. By extension from this analogy, we are all called to be heroes, in our own specific times and places—we are all called to live a heroic life, especially in those mundane things which occupy everyday existence. We must fight for Truth, Justice, and Beauty, sacrifice our lives to the principles which are greater than us, and the people whom we love. More than just being true for us men, however, we have seen how this heroic journey is true universally and eternally by virtue of the Christ having lived it out himself.

It turns out, then, that his is the Truth that poets, painters, composers, and authors have been recreating over and over again throughout history, bringing it to us in new ways, for new times and new peoples. Insofar as any character (fictional or real) is heroic, then, he is Christ-like, and the title of an old film about his life seems all the more apt—The Greatest Story Ever Told.

Celebrating The Prosaic: The Magnetic Fields' "The Book of Love" As Comedy

The vast majority of the time works of tragedy focus on one man, one central protagonist. This man is usually an important figure, perhaps a king. Assuming he doesn't die a horrible death (think Macbeth and Othello), this king must learn a lesson about pride by being knocked down off his high horse. He will probably still die in the end, but it will be a good death--one that means something (think Oedipus and Hamlet).

Works of epic literature nearly always focus on one man as well. He is also usually a king. Where Epic differs from Tragedy, though, is that the epic hero isn't just himself, he is the leader of a people, whose desires he represents and whose actions he undertakes. The true protagonist of any epic work is actually the people the epic hero personifies (e.g., Ithaca in the case of Odysseus and Rome in the case of Aeneas). Unlike tragic protagonists, Epic heroes fight to elevate themselves higher than everybody else. They must be the ultimate badass, the conquering hero on behalf of their polis.

In works of comedy we see something quite different. Comedies always focus on a group of people, at least two (a couple), and their relationships to one another. This group which consists of at least two people is in fact (or, at least, will become) a family. This family usually starts out in low estate; i.e., they usually don't matter much at the beginning of the work. By the end of the work, though, they have been elevated to the level of a royal household (like Nick Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream or Trygaeus in Aristophanes' Peace, both of whom "wed" goddesses).

Titania and Bottom, by Sir Edwin Landseer

Where in Tragedy the king must be removed from the high place which he won for himself (and which won him his pride as well), and in Epic the hero must do everything in his power to conquer on behalf of his people, win glory and honor, and establish peace and justice on their behalf, in Comedy the protagonists actually do very little.

That is to say, nothing is won or conquered by them. Everything they receive is given to them by some external force as a reward. A reward for what you ask? Being stupid. Silly. Dumb. Idiotic. In a word: humble. The entire action of comedic works is geared toward the celebration of humility--of the prosaic, the down to earth. When the goddess Titania falls in love with Bottom he is literally an ass. Trygaeus gains entry into Heaven and council with the gods by riding a dung beetle there.

Consider the following song by The Magnetic Fields. As usual the lyrics are included below. And here's the direct link to a music video in case the embedded audio doesn't work.

The book of love
Is long and boring.
No one can lift the damn thing.
It’s full of charts
And facts and figures,
And instructions for dancing

But I,
I love it when you read to me,
And you
You can read me anything.

The book of love
Has music in it.
In fact that’s where music comes from.
Some of it is just transcendental.
Some of it is just really dumb.

But I,
I love it when you sing to me,
And you,
You can sing me anything.

The book of love
Is long and boring,
And written very long ago.
It’s full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes,
And things we’re all too young to know.

But I,
I love it when you give me things,
And you,
You oughta give me wedding rings.

This is the prosaic, the humble, the day in, day out lifestyle that Comedy (and Christianity) extols. "The book of love is long and boring." Married life, real life, isn't bliss. Far from it. It's full of troubles, trials, and pain. There's nothing at all romantic about it. "It's full of charts / And facts and figures." In fact, oftentimes even the supreme expression of love--the marital embrace--must submit itself to charts, facts, and figures. The whole point is to work through it. To bring good from it. To infect the people and the world around you with your loving hard work. The point is to stick it out. To keep doing it every day. No matter how "long." No matter how "boring."

"No one can lift the damn thing." This line is reminiscent of a passage from Revelation that has to do with opening a book.

"I saw in the right hand of him who was seated on the throne a scroll written within and on the back, sealed with seven seals; and I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, 'Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?' And no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll or to look into it, and I wept much that no one was found worthy to open the scroll or to into into it. Then one of the elders said to me, 'Weep not; lo, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals,'" (Rev. 5:1-5).

No one can open, no one can lift the book of love, the Book of Life but the one who wrote it--the Author of life and love, Love himself. The book of love has always been his book. If we get one word in one footnote it's because he has given us everything we are, every insignificant bit of love we have been able to give to another.

"I love it when you give me things." Of course, this is the essence of real love. Action. Day-to-day, moment-to-moment giving. Of "flowers," "heart-shaped boxes," time, energy, foot rubs, and above all, self--body and soul. This is the self-giving love which leads naturally to "wedding rings." It is the self-giving love expressed ultimately in the marital embrace, the self-gift which, when complete, blossoms forth into a new creation, a child which could almost be said to be an incarnation of his parents loving gift of themselves to one another. But it is also expressed in those simple, boring, every day things like laundry.

Notice the balance in the refrain between "I" and "you," each given two lines, half a verse, parallel in form. Real love is a communion between two persons, each recognizing the other as a subject rather than an object from which something can be got. They are a person just as I am, and it is the relationship, communion, community of inter-subjective self-gift through boring, prosaic things in which love subsists. The song also mentions dance, which is a physical analogy for this kind of relationship.

It is the life that means nothing, that amounts to nothing that we all must hope and work for. Of course, it isn't actually nothing, for love, self-gift, and the new life that hopefully results are the most important things there are. They are what allow us to become like Love himself--who himself loved so much that he produced a Son from eternity, whose relationship of loving action with his Son produces a loving Spirit, in whom we have all been made able to share.

If you're interested, here's an amazing cover of this song by Peter Gabriel. Check it out.

The Garden: The Decemberists' "June Hymn" As Lyric

It's incredibly interesting to me how music functions artistically. Somehow the meaning is contained in both the text and the music simultaneously, and the forms of each complement each other as a result. I have a theory that if a piece or song is musically beautiful, it must also be so poetically. That is to say, if a song touches my heart and mind with its music and fails to do so with its lyrics, it's likely due to my own lack of poetic sensibility and not the song's lack of poetry.

Take "June Hymn" from The Decemberists' most recent album The King is Dead. As usual, here's the direct link to the music video in case the embedded audio below doesn't work.

Here's a hymn to welcome in the day

Heralding a summer's early sway

And all the bulbs all coming in

To begin

The thrushes bleating battle with the wrens

Disrupts my reverie again

Pegging clothing on the line

Training jasmine how to vine

Up the arbor to your door

And more

You're standing on the landing with the war

You shouldered all the night before

Chorus:

And once upon it

The yellow bonnets

Garland all the lawn

You were waking

Day was breaking

A panoply of song

And summer comes to Springville Hill

A barony of ivy in the trees

Expanding out its empire by degrees

And all the branches burst to bloom

In the boom

Heaven sent this cardinal maroon

To decorate our living room

[Chorus]

And years from now when this old light

Isn't ambling anymore

Will I bring myself to write

"I give my best to Springville Hill!"

[Chorus]

Lyric poetry is the most basic, most fundamental form of Literature; as such, it is the most difficult to understand. I think the reason it so easily frustrates so many is that it seems like the meaning should be self-evident, it's staring us right in the face, and yet we often can't see it. It's analogous to the way in which Metaphysics (i.e., the study of being in itself) is the most basic and fundamental branch of Philosophy, and yet, the hardest to grasp...at first. Once understood it contains the simplest, most obvious principles. In fact, it contains those very principles upon which the rest of Philosophy is founded. All of this is to say that, like Metaphysics in Philosophy, in Literature Lyric is last chronologically but first ontologically.

Unlike Tragedy, Comedy, or Epic, then, Lyric isn't saddled with the baggage of plots and characters. In many ways, Lyric simply is. Tragedy, the form of Literature closest to us (in our very hearts, in fact), overflows with exciting and dramatic events and over-the-top characters who do things like murder people and gouge their own eyes out. It's good stuff, and no less good or beautiful than Lyric. It is simply the earthy, gritty, concrete way in which Tragedy goes about incarnating those larger realities which all art does.

Lyric, on the other hand, largely steers clear of such complicated and individual concerns. A poem doesn't incarnate the life of one man as Tragedy does, but of all men simultaneously. Or perhaps we should say that Lyric doesn't incarnate the life of one man, but the life of Mankind himself. This is why every poem retells the story of Adam (who is Man) and Eve (who is Woman) and whose union together constitutes Mankind (and produces life). The usual way to speak about this phenomenon is to use the image of the Lover and his Beloved, the quintessential example of which we find in Biblical Wisdom Literature. All Lyric poetry deals with the Lover and his Beloved, and their union together. Always, too, this union occurs in the fertile Lyric Garden of Paradise.

"June Hymn" tells the uncomplicated story of a man and his wife and their prosaic life together. The vast majority of the song is spent describing the garden which surrounds their home. This garden that they have created isn't just a facade, however, they bring it into their very life, allowing it to penetrate every intimate facet of their being: "Heaven sent this cardinal maroon / To decorate our living room."

Theirs is a love which cannot be contained, like the "barony of ivy in the trees / Expanding out its empire by degrees / And all the branches burst to bloom." The garden is not a romantic ideal, though. It is never a dream, never ethereal: "The thrushes bleating battle with the wrens / Disrupts my reverie again." The garden is never a place to escape the world. It is the world, the world to which their loving union, so infectious, brings beauty and life. Their life together, in harmony with that of the world and their garden, produces beautiful music: "You were waking / Day was breaking / A panoply of song."

Though beautified, the world which they inhabit is still imperfect. We are not told exactly what "the war / you shouldered all the night before," but it is unimportant. All that matters is that these are lovers doing their best to  live a good life faithful to each other and the world, working through the pain and toil of everyday life. Like their life together, the garden too must be tended carefully and dutifully, lest it wither. They must sweat through the work day in and day out, making sure their life together bears fruit in themselves and in the world around them: "Training jasmine how to vine / Up the arbor to your door / And more."

This is Lyric. Life, Love, Beauty, "Heaven," the Garden, Paradise, the Divine, encountered in everyday life, in the smallest, most insignificant things you can imagine. Things like one's spouse, a home, plants and flowers in a garden, for that matter, a baby born in a stable, water, and bread and wine.

Reality Trek

Once, a very long time ago, there was an amazingly inventive storyteller named Gene Roddenberry.

Gene was also an unabashed Progressivist.

That means he thought that Mankind (though he wouldn’t have called it that) is pre-determined to follow an evolutionary path of gradual progressive development, and that one day, we will “grow out of” war, poverty, and everything icky. We’ll get so smart that we’ll be able to solve all our own problems. (Of course, part of this “growing up” process will be realizing that God and Original Sin are silly superstitions and that Liberalism and Socialism have always been the way to go. You might also have noticed that there’s a healthy dose of Materialism mixed in there, so that our souls can evolve along with our bodies.)

Anyway, in 1964 Gene invented something called Star Trek.

Ta da!

Also, it was the 60s...

The effects were bad...

Did I mention the effects were bad?

The characters were hollow. The writing was obvious and preachy. It was clearly a platform for Roddenberry to tout his philosophical, sociological, and political agenda. As such, Star Trek's vision of the future was generally pretty short-sighted. I suppose we should cut him some slack, though. After all, it was the 60s...

I’m being too harsh. The Original Series has a lot of redeeming qualities. There must have been something there, or it couldn’t have launched a franchise which has lasted nearly 50 years! The Original Series should be discussed, absolutely. But not here. And not by me.

Due to the aforementioned 60s-ish quality of The Original Series (not to mention the unavoidable continuity issues involved in a 20-year span between it and The Next Generation), it is fitting, I think, to recognize two Trek canons: one including Kirk, Spock, etc. and their escapades, and another including everything else (i.e., The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, and movies VII-X (or VII-IX if, like me, you think Star Trek: Nemesis was a huge waste of time. Remind me to go into that another time.)

Of course, now we’ve got a third canon (the best one) drummed up by the 2009 J.J. Abrams reboot, but that’ll also have to wait.

On 28 September 1987, Star Trek: The Next Generation premiered, ushering in a new era for the franchise. Next Gen didn’t exactly come out of nowhere. It followed right on the heels of the enormously successful (and actually really good) Trek movie “trilogy”: The Wrath of Khan, The Search for Spock, and The Voyage Home (a.k.a. movies II-IV).

Nevertheless, The Next Generation breathed new life into Trek like nothing else could. After 20 years, Star Trek was back on television, which was where it belonged. Roddenberry had originally billed Trek as “‘Wagon Train’ to the stars.”  It was supposed to be an episodic, romp-roaring, let’s go find new junk to almost get killed by (and I suppose find a way to get along with in the end). Given the freedom, a budget, and some new production technology, finally, Star Trek's take on science fiction could be realized. There was only one problem. It was the 80s...

Did I mention it was the 80s?

But, the fundamentals were there, and, more importantly, Next Gen (inadvertently) fought against its inheritance (of both The Original Series and the 80s).

At the end of Season One, Tasha Yar, Head of Security=dead...

Her death really was kind of a bummer at the time. Her death was totally meaningless. It was this Armus guy...

So, he’s like a sentient puddle of oil or something that incarnates pure evil and he bitch slaps Tasha to make an example of her and she dies before she hits the ground. That’s it. Goodbye. Crusher doesn’t even try to save her. Anyway, it turned out to be pretty awesome, though, ‘cause with her went one of the 80s-est elements of the show. That whole character was really poorly conceived. She was pretty much just a personification of Women’s Liberation. That should be clear from the hair alone really.

So Tasha was replaced as Head of Security/Tactical Officer by Mr. Worf, resident Klingon (a much more sensible choice for the position, obviously)...

Just look at all those forehead ridges! He must mean business.

Worf angry!

Season Three introduced new uniforms, with an all-new 90s cut...

Before:

After:

See how the collar got higher and more militaristic? Improvement.

Deanna's hair grew less permy as the seasons progressed, and in Season Six she finally abandoned the 80s catsuit...

...and put on an actual uniform. Look what she had evolved into by the time the movies came around.

It's kind of like she's an actual officer in the military or something. Crazy.

Oh, and they got that damned kid off the bridge. What the balls were you thinking Picard? This is freaking Starfleet!

Look at him. Look how dumb he is. Jesus. And the sweaters! He wants to be Bill Cosby.

At the beginning, Next Gen was even worse than The Original Series on the obviously-has-an-agenda-front. Picard never blew anything up, not even as a last resort. It was all talking and “there’s got to be another way.” Just look at the ships! Kirk’s Enterprise had been a tight, fast little boat with big guns.

Picard’s ship was big, bulbous, and, though actually significantly faster than the old ship, the new Enterprise looked like it might need a HoverRound to make it to the fridge.

If you listen really carefully you might be able to hear it farting.

Oh, and it carried families! Are you kidding me? Seriously? I mean, I get that Starfleet isn’t exactly the Federation Military, but it serves that function if it has to. That’s just irresponsible. Yeah, I wonder how many kids they killed when it crash landed at the end of the first Next Gen movie. Anyway. It’s all about that Roddenberry-esque optimism, I guess. Retarded.

But I said that Next Gen fought against its inheritance. Quite. Next Gen redid the Klingons (replete with forehead ridges, as we saw). Also they were a culture this time, not just hand-me-down Mongols. Next Gen paid a lot more attention to the “science” part of “science fiction”; i.e., it kinda started to make sense. Kinda. More importantly, the stories became compelling, not to mention their effect on the characters, which, as a result, became compelling in themselves over time. Of course, it's Star Trek, so the dialogue was still pretty preachy a lot of the time, but hey.

So you may have realized I'm of the opinion that Star Trek: The Next Generation was at its best when it (accidentally or otherwise) left behind Roddenberry’s progressive B.S. and made a realistic story about realistic characters with realistic conflicts (internal or external). You see, the universe has to be dangerous, and humans have to be imperfect. That’s what makes it compelling—it’s reality (given the premise that humans could travel through space faster than the speed of light and encounter alien species).

What's real is that humans never really change. We're still the same complicated, flawed, sinful, even brutal creatures we were 20,000 years ago. Just because we know more about stuff and how it works doesn't make us better people. Besides, otherwise, what’s there to tell? One time a ship called the Enterprise flew around and scanned a nebula? Isn’t it better when the Klingons (a.k.a. humanity’s violent, savage tendencies) de-cloak and wage battle to the death against Captain Kirk and his “enterprising” crew (who embody the virtues of courage, wonder at the beauty of the universe around them, peace, community, justice, and a desire for wisdom)?

Stay tuned for the next post in this series: the Top Ten Next Gen episodes.