This month sees the publication of Lord Stevens’ investigation into the death of Princess Diana and the release of Clint Eastwood’s Flags of Our Fathers, a film detailing the stories of the six men who raised the flag at the fall of Iwo Jima, a key point in the latter stages of the Second World War
The photograph of six American soldiers and Diana’s tragic death have, in some quarters, been mythologised. The bright light theory, a suggestion that a single figure beamed a distracting light into the eyes of Diana’s driver and the reluctance of the American public to hear the life stories of the six men illustrate the power of the symbol over the individual.
Like Alvy Singer in Annie Hall, we occasionally use conspiracy theories and unquestioning belief systems to mask problems in our personal lives and to create narratives that are more convenient to our worldview.
When an icon dies, we, the ones distanced from the event, sometimes refuse to accept that driver was over the limit and trying to hold a line impossible for veterans of Grand Prix.
When we see soldiers braving tortuous battlefields we frame the combat arena with our own projections, forgetting that they fight not for flags but for friends.
We create heroes.
Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Carl Jung and The New Testament all tell us that hero shows us how to live. According to Jung, the archetypes in a typical narrative resonate because they are part of the collective subconscious. Myths show the hero embarking on a quest, usually after surviving a difficult, commonly orphaned, childhood, and having the kind of visions lesser, rational mortals associate with tight straps and bite down rubber.
After studying the severely mentally damaged, Paul Broks, a clinical neuropsychologist, believes the human brain is a storytelling machine and the self is a story. If true, that may illuminate why we need heroes.
He also describes himself as a vacant soulless machine, which, at first, seems to contradict the notion the self is a story. However, stories which attempt to portray a heroic journey without the required grasp of what makes for an identifiable talisman, may illustrate the compatibility of Broks’ two comments.
Hideous Kinky, Gilles Mac Kinnon’s 1996 adaptation of a novel by Esther Freud, posits the scenario that Julia, a young mother of two, is in Marrakesh, embarking on a journey. It is not one driven by paradox or conflict but on a desire to seek “the complete annihilation of the ego”.
The drive, formed in the back-story, is akin to watching the opening scene of an early Macaulay Culkin film and seeing his character, diaper deep in Chad Valley plastic, proclaim, “I am the Son of God”
Her call to adventure comes from within. Her obstacles include stanza formation for a tricky poetry anthology and the theft of her laundry, although that is a disturbing scene featuring a small community decked in loud, silky pantaloons, obviously waiting for the coming of Mc Hammer.
The film downs most narrative tools and her journey is not only passive, it threatens the development of her children. It quickly becomes a highly annoying experience.
In terms of identification, there is a danger of gender bias as most cultures define a hero as a warrior figure but, in narratives such as Iris, Jane Eyre and Secrets and Lies, audiences connect and feel in the presence of a hero.
Hideous Kinky depicts a journey to annihilate the ego but simply succeeds in destroying the hero. Were she to die, there would be no subsequent bright light theory.
It is selfish and it is seemingly unnecessary. It is personal, not universal. By omission, it creates audience frustration, and that illustrates the power of narrative. We feel dissatisfied by a poorly executed tale.
In the case of Diana, we create story and myth where none exists. She must be a vacant soulless machine to receive the projections of our hopes but she must not be mortal.
When tragedies, real or fictional, appear pointless, it reminds us of the misery of feeling disconnected and exposed to the chaotic nature of the world, one in which beautiful die horribly, (but not in mysterious circumstances) and soldiers fight so they can live to share a beer with the person on the front line, not so they can become a historic symbol.
The photograph of six American soldiers and Diana’s tragic death have, in some quarters, been mythologised. The bright light theory, a suggestion that a single figure beamed a distracting light into the eyes of Diana’s driver and the reluctance of the American public to hear the life stories of the six men illustrate the power of the symbol over the individual.
Like Alvy Singer in Annie Hall, we occasionally use conspiracy theories and unquestioning belief systems to mask problems in our personal lives and to create narratives that are more convenient to our worldview.
When an icon dies, we, the ones distanced from the event, sometimes refuse to accept that driver was over the limit and trying to hold a line impossible for veterans of Grand Prix.
When we see soldiers braving tortuous battlefields we frame the combat arena with our own projections, forgetting that they fight not for flags but for friends.
We create heroes.
Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Carl Jung and The New Testament all tell us that hero shows us how to live. According to Jung, the archetypes in a typical narrative resonate because they are part of the collective subconscious. Myths show the hero embarking on a quest, usually after surviving a difficult, commonly orphaned, childhood, and having the kind of visions lesser, rational mortals associate with tight straps and bite down rubber.
After studying the severely mentally damaged, Paul Broks, a clinical neuropsychologist, believes the human brain is a storytelling machine and the self is a story. If true, that may illuminate why we need heroes.
He also describes himself as a vacant soulless machine, which, at first, seems to contradict the notion the self is a story. However, stories which attempt to portray a heroic journey without the required grasp of what makes for an identifiable talisman, may illustrate the compatibility of Broks’ two comments.
Hideous Kinky, Gilles Mac Kinnon’s 1996 adaptation of a novel by Esther Freud, posits the scenario that Julia, a young mother of two, is in Marrakesh, embarking on a journey. It is not one driven by paradox or conflict but on a desire to seek “the complete annihilation of the ego”.
The drive, formed in the back-story, is akin to watching the opening scene of an early Macaulay Culkin film and seeing his character, diaper deep in Chad Valley plastic, proclaim, “I am the Son of God”
Her call to adventure comes from within. Her obstacles include stanza formation for a tricky poetry anthology and the theft of her laundry, although that is a disturbing scene featuring a small community decked in loud, silky pantaloons, obviously waiting for the coming of Mc Hammer.
The film downs most narrative tools and her journey is not only passive, it threatens the development of her children. It quickly becomes a highly annoying experience.
In terms of identification, there is a danger of gender bias as most cultures define a hero as a warrior figure but, in narratives such as Iris, Jane Eyre and Secrets and Lies, audiences connect and feel in the presence of a hero.
Hideous Kinky depicts a journey to annihilate the ego but simply succeeds in destroying the hero. Were she to die, there would be no subsequent bright light theory.
It is selfish and it is seemingly unnecessary. It is personal, not universal. By omission, it creates audience frustration, and that illustrates the power of narrative. We feel dissatisfied by a poorly executed tale.
In the case of Diana, we create story and myth where none exists. She must be a vacant soulless machine to receive the projections of our hopes but she must not be mortal.
When tragedies, real or fictional, appear pointless, it reminds us of the misery of feeling disconnected and exposed to the chaotic nature of the world, one in which beautiful die horribly, (but not in mysterious circumstances) and soldiers fight so they can live to share a beer with the person on the front line, not so they can become a historic symbol.
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