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1 . Introduction^

Introduction

Patterns begin to emerge if we closely observe our world – patterns of an indeterminate and somewhat random nature, but patterns nonetheless. Certain characteristics appear in certain people, certain types arise, and distinct tropes form. After watching enough television, it becomes apparent that the same character is present in all shows, with a different face, performing different activities. When traveling to different communities, it is remarkable to note that certain personalities exist in multiple realms. People tend to gravitate toward certain roles, assuming certain characteristics that typify that role, while exhibiting their own individualistic variation. These archetypes emerge from the collective unconscious, creating a particular category of experience, a formula upon which to be elaborated. The idea of an archetype is an extremely influential one in understanding human culture. It is for that very reason that this issue of Charter is themed around archetypes – essentially, a theme on themes. Essays contained within will explore the changing nature of certain archetypes in the face of this modern world, the use of various archetypes in popular culture, and other assorted topics. Please enjoy.

– Chris Dreyer
Charter Editor

2 . Kirk and Vader compare lightsaber sizes: Life lessons from sci-fi - Robert Cowan^

Space, the final frontier, or at least so it seems. From their inception, our seminal icons of science-fiction, Star Trek and Star Wars, have proved not so important as visions of the future or stories of extraterrestrial exploration, but rather as stories of self-exploration, human determination and will, and, above all, cultural critique. The particular archetypes personified in each respective canon, though, express markedly different sentiments on human nature; while Star Wars uses typical heroic roles, Star Trek submits a synthetic body of characters, acting as a group towards their common end. It is for this reason that, while Star Wars may offer a more engaging story, Star Trek offers a far better representation of idealized society.

Although Star Trek has gone through myriad incarnations (including five series, ten films, and countless books), the formula has remained remarkably invariable. A strong captain, an overly analytical, quasi-robotical science officer, a concerned and caring doctor, a combative security chief, and an overworked engineer set in an outlandish corner of the universe with a fair sprinkling of alien races, romantic innuendo, and non-sensical, futuristic technological solutions for seemingly insurmountable problems makes for a compelling hour of television.

Each series modifies the formula slightly in order to differentiate itself. Captain James T. Kirk is a hotheaded, lusty, energetic centerpiece for the original series, while each successive captain becomes increasingly analytical. Commander, later Captain, Benjamin Sisko is a stalwart bastion of rationality, save for passionate outbursts in crucial moments. Captain Kate Janeway, in a break from our traditional female archetype, stands as a strong, analytical, overly rational leader, showing her compassionate side infrequently.

All these leaders are unflinching, unyielding, intelligent, rational yet emotionally attuned, strong yet compassionate, and incredibly capable. Along with Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Captain Jonathan Archer, their differences are far outrun by their similarities; they are leaders of the first degree.

So too are their science officers similar; Spock, Data, Dax, Seven of Nine, and T’Pol are easily interchangeable. They exhibit rationality in all aspects, a belief in reason and analysis over anything else. They struggle with emotions and are either robots, former robot hybrids, or super-rational alien types.

Indeed, even across professional positions characters share similar struggles through the generations. Each series features a character conflicted about their lineage: Spock is half human, half Vulcan, Data is not quite human, not quite machine, Odo is a shapeshifter who identifies more as a solid being, B’Elanna Torres is half human, half Klingon. Star Wars, on the other hand, features almost none of these character types, instead using more traditional archetypes, such as those found in epic heroic stories and mythology.

The only strong Captain type to be found is the evil overlord Emperor Palpatine, corrupted by power. The closest thing to a rational, analytic science officer is the droid R2-D2, who offers more comic relief than legitimate plot line. Instead of struggle based around personal identity, struggle comes from being a misfit: as the poor Tatooine farmer boy in the presence of royalty, or the scruffy fly-boy who shuns society’s normal rules.

It should come as no surprise that George Lucas shared a friendship with Joseph Campbell, arguably the most popular of Jung’s followers who applied archetypal analysis to literature quite liberally. Lucas sought to create a modern-day myth and he adhered closely to the roles created by the legends he studied.

Princess Leia is a stereotypical damsel in distress. Han Solo is the roguish scoundrel flanked by his sidekick, Chewbacca. Obi-Wan and Yoda are the wizened old advisor oracles. The story follows a hero’s quest and fight against all odds, culminating in victory due solely to his extraordinary courage and nobility of heart. It is this hero, Luke Skywalker himself, who gives us the most inspiration as well as the most difficulty. Indeed, we might all like to see ourselves in Luke; headstrong but able, noble and courageous, master of all fears and personal shortcomings, an outcast who rises to galactic fame by way of incredible deeds. This hero type is certainly a noble personal goal, and see it in action makes for a story line with which we, as viewers, are quick to sympathize.

Unfortunately, life as we know it rarely offers opportunities for heros, and even less frequently offers odds that make heroism viable. If each X-Wing pilot had decided to try and bomb the first Death Star in A New Hope, there would have been no one left to defend against the multitudinous Tie Fighters. Had each ambitious young rebel sought to make it into the chamber of the Emperor in Return of the Jedi, none of them would have gotten past the security in the first place.

Star Trek, in any incarnation, has no constant hero. The captains, to be certain, solve a great many problems, yet, especially after The Original Series, it is rarely them who put the plans into action. In any given episode, anyone among the regular cast or even a single episode guest character may be the crucial player in fixing a dire problem or solving a life-threatening situation.

Even in The Original Series’ Kirk-centric storylines it is still the Spock-Kirk-McCoy triumvirate who are jointly responsible for saving the day. Where the mythology of Star Wars gives us a strong central hero, Star Trek’s different ensembles always act as synthetic wholes. While fleets of rebels and rascally friends all work to support Luke’s triumphant quest, it is each member of a Starfleet crew that works towards their common goal.

In taking life lessons from Wars and Trek, the suggestions seem clear: we can act as a Luke, that is, a hero questing for greatness, using those around us as supporters towards our own personal goals, or we can act as a crew of concerned individuals working towards exploration, knowledge, and self-discovery. Indeed, the virtues embodied by a Skywalkerian hero are ones to which we might often aspire, but the diverse crews of the starships Enterprise, Deep Space Nine space station, and starship Voyager offer a whole palate of archetypes from which to learn. Where Skywalker might have us close our perspective on a single-minded goal, Starfleet would have us expand our understanding of all things around us, working synthetically with the people we know and the technology or nature by which we are surrounded. Furthermore, in contrasting the two, we see the importance both of aspiring towards heroic virtues while, at the same time, recognizing the importance of cooperation and common effort. It seems that the model we might choose is clear; in a society so connected by instant communication and reliant on the work of many, a one-man heroic quest is closed to the possibilities offered by those capable beings around us. When we can work in tandem with our crewmates, our own search for self-discovery and actualization is realized in a way that a heroic quest can never quite achieve. In expanding our world view to include the crew of people around us, we can truly go where no one has gone before.

3 . Caught in his web: The redefining of a genre- Tony Schick^

His famous words resonate throughout our culture. They are in the movies and the video games; they emblazon children’s backpacks and lunch boxes and Slurpee cups. But before enjoying such widespread fame, the words of Peter Parker’s Uncle Ben motivated scores of awkward prepubescent boys to noble ideals: With great power comes great responsibility. Yet while the graphic novel audience remains narrow, knowledge of Spider-Man’s character and world do not. Modern audiences remain even more familiar with Spider-Man and the likes than with the larger than life heroes of classical literature such as Ulysses, Gilgamesh, or even Beowulf. The epic of Spider-Man entails more than just thrilling adventures and triumph over villains and reaches wider audiences than just comic book junkies. As the first and lone dynamic character in superhero fiction, Spider-Man’s inner turmoil and human struggles pioneer the literary trail for heroes we can not only analyze but, for once, relate to.

Peter Parker, saddled with the burdens of being Spider-Man, does not fit the mold of the classical heroes prevalent in most literature and media; in fact he is anything but. He is not powerful, he is envied by no one, and he does not always do the right thing. Peter Parker is the modern incarnation of all things antiheroic – he is an awkward, gangly, and most of all nerdy teenager who grows up an orphan. Before and even after being burdened with the responsibilities of Spider-Man, Peter Parker’s life remains entirely human; in many instances he appears less “super” than most of his readers who, not so coincidentally, are most often mirror images of Parker. Unlike the alienating figures of classical literature, Spider-Man resonates with a contemporary audience; starved for a character they can root for who is, in nearly all respects, just like them. Of Beowulf’s modern readers, how many have been king, or captain of their own ship? How many of those reading the Epic of Gilgamesh know what it is like to be born two-thirds god? Yet Peter Parker was not born Spider-Man, he was born human. All of his readers have felt the way he often does as both of his personas: alone, unappreciated, and inadequate. Spider-Man’s availability to an audience is unparalleled in a genre where his Herculean peers are overly portrayed too powerfully, too perfectly, too superhuman.

Divergent from prior superhero literature and also to his less revolutionary contemporaries, Peter Parker remains a social being, struggling with common human dilemmas in the midst of superhuman endeavors. While previous superheroes like Gilgamesh or Ulysses, or even modern creations such as Superman or Batman, need not worry about real human interaction, Spider-Man’s world is riddled with it. Gilgamesh was born Gilgamesh, he is Gilgamesh; there is nothing more to him than the adventures described in his epic tales. Superman, while he maintains the identity of Clark Kent, still lives his life according to him being Superman. Clark Kent is not the real person, he is the façade; Superman is real, and any interactions or relationships Clark Kent forms improve his ability to be Superman. Batman acts similarly; he is reclusive, his social persona of Bruce Wayne likewise exists only to gain information and enhance his life as a caped vigilante. Bruce Wayne is his guise; he defines himself as Batman. Yet Peter Parker is not a guise; it is him, the real figure, the character we relate to, around whom the storyline of Spider-Man literature revolves. Unique to his genre, Peter Parker had a life before Spider-Man, a human life, and his superhuman powers did not eradicate it. He has family, a love interest; and close friends; he is enrolled in school and he struggles to maintain work. He encounters the drama of real, human relationships, broken friendships, and love the way his readers do. He remains Peter Parker in his principles; his moonlighting as Spider-Man results from his remarkable circumstances and the knowledge that “with great power comes great responsibility.” Deviating from the norms of superhero fiction, Peter Parker does not define himself as the role of Spider-Man but instead by the human being he has always been beneath his arachnid mask. Yet while Peter Parker remains the driving force behind the mask, the graphic novels are titled Spider-Man for good reason.

Spider-Man entices his audience with stunning displays of heroism and crime-fighting, but his personable attitude, wit, and character depth keep readers returning issue after issue and blockbuster film after blockbuster film. The wonder of Spider-Man is that unlike any other superhero, his real personality of Peter Parker shines through in his actions. He understands the gravity of his actions and the magnitude of his endeavors, but he simultaneously reminds us that he is still just a kid in a spider costume and that it is fun to be Spider-Man (it must be, after all, since he maintains such a loyal fan base). In his literary critique entitled Superman on the Couch, former writer and managing editor of Marvel Comics’ Spider-Man series Danny Fingeroth writes of Spider-Man, “He’s probably the wittiest and drollest of all superheroes. Both as Peter Parker and as Spider-Man, he’s a very funny guy, almost a Seinfeld with webbing.” Whether through cleverly binding his victims in oversized spider webs or referring to himself as “your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” he somehow makes the toils of battling supervillains and saving entire cities seem not quite so superhuman. Thanks to his unparalleled lightheartedness, even while clad head-to-toe in blue and red tights, displaying his superhuman abilities and arachnid tendencies, Spider-Man remains not so distant of a character. He is forever a superhuman on a human level, whether through his humor, his likable attitude, or through the most important aspect of his character, his ultimate separation from typical protagonists in his genre: His mistakes.

Spider-Man’s most crucial asset as a genre-redefining character is his imperfection. While other literary heroes may seem superior and overly righteous, Peter Parker, as himself or as Spider-Man, maintains the same struggles with right and wrong, failure and success that modern audiences do. He is not so perfect that he seems like a lofty ideal or distant deity in the ways of heroes from ancient mythology or classic literature. He makes human errors, he lets his emotions get the better of him, and he has at times abused his power; which is why his audiences feel so much closer to him than other characters. Yet he ultimately overcomes his human flaws with superhuman prodigy, which is why readers will always admire Spider-Man. Unlike the static, perfect characters forever chasing the so-called “greater good” before them, Spider-Man is an evolving character, learning from his mistakes and constantly reevaluating his status as a superhuman savior. Upon realizing the extent of the unmerited powers bestowed upon him, Peter Parker’s thoughts immediately stray to visions of self-betterment and settling scores with high school bullies. He continues to abuse this power, instigating and dominating schoolyard fights, earning respect through fear, and winning money through sponsored wrestling matches. He doesn’t realize the selfish path he has chosen until he opts not to stop a crook that robs his boss, in order to prove his point; later he is informed that same criminal shot his Uncle Ben in a frenzied escape. As Parker leans over a bleeding, coughing Uncle Ben, he is painfully and ironically reminded that “with great power comes great responsibility.” Although he previously ignored these words, Parker, haunted by his uncle’s preventable death, adopts a new paradigm and becomes the justice-promoting Spider-Man modern readers know and love. The learning process does not end there, however; the web-slinging icon falters, recovers, and gradually improves with each exciting episode – right along with his uncomfortably fast-maturing, primarily teenage audience. Not only does Spider-Man learn, he learns with his audience; and not only does his audience learn, but they learn from him.

Spider-Man’s prevailing and constantly evolving lesson is the idea of what it means to be moral and why we choose to be so. As both personas, Peter Parker remains the only superhero to struggle with the idea of being superhuman. He is the only protagonist in his genre to ask himself what it means to be a superhero, and whether or not it is worth the strain on his everyday life. Ultimately deciding that it is indeed worth it, he continues his quest for justice but also continues the search for why he is a superhero, and what that means. C. Stephen Layman, in a excerpt from the book Superheroes and Philosophy, argues, “if we agree that, ‘With great power comes great responsibility,’ the ‘why be a superhero?’ is a thinly disguised version of one of the classic philosophical questions, ‘why be moral?’” In asking such a question, Spider Man becomes the most philosophically important superhero, and the only supernatural literary figure to question his morals rather than merely accepting them. And in doing so, Peter Parker becomes much more than just a superhero, which already exist in surplus; he becomes a revolutionary.

Peter Parker, as Spider-Man, becomes the link between modern audiences and a genre of mythology they have been consistently unable to relate to. For myth to finally reach its readers, it needed not the same powerful, intimidating, larger than-life heroes of classic stories but a smaller, nerdy, antiheroic Peter Parker to redefine a cultural medium. For modern readers to finally identify with the experience of the superhero, they needed a character who was, in essence, a little less super and a little more heroic. As the pioneer of learning and growing superheroes, Spider-Man becomes the first mythical character audiences of all ages and experiences can relate to and admire simultaneously. Superheroes and mythology have always captivated attention. Now, thanks to Spider-Man, that attention is not so much a vehicle for escapism through lofty admiration, but rather a mirror through which one can reevaluate morals in his image.

And, the idea of learning through a superhero, particularly Spider-Man, is “a profound thought,” – as Peter Parker would often say, “…he must’ve read it in a comic book.”

4 . A personal meditation on the archetype - J.D. Thayer^

Ever since my college days (the undergraduate ones), I have been interested in archetypal figures. I read the Jung. I read the Campbell. I read the mythologies. I loved them all. I must have; I ended up spending years locked away with Beowulf in order to devise an argument of the poem spanning hundreds of pages. I was awarded the Ph.D. for my efforts. I even got a job in which I can, miraculously, make a living talking about ideas, including the archetypes in literature. But a side of this journey blind-sided me in the back of a bus somewhere between Ravenna and Florence, Italy.

I sat beside one of my wonderful students, and he questioned me on many subjects beyond literature. He exposed some of his self-doubts, minor ones I assure you. And he somehow thought I could have answers. I walked away from our conversation realizing that to some degree I had become an archetype, or that I could be perceived as one. I am a teacher. I am a professor at an excellent school. And I know a few things about literature. But ever since Socrates, in the Western tradition at least, we have held the professor aloft as someone who is wise, who has answers derived from original thought and not some normative force. For better or worse, I had unknowingly, or unconsciously, joined the ranks of that archetype: the Teacher.

Now if you’re still reading, let me assure you I do not fancy myself a Socrates! But what sets me writing today is that realization that this young person thought I might have wisdom. I do not. I have a few years on him. I have traveled. I have read and thought. But wisdom? I have just enough to keep me out of trouble and that’s it.

But the result of that night on the bus is my acknowledgement that we assign values to the archetypal figures in our world, and those assignations can be, and perhaps most often are, dangerously flawed. We can mistakenly believe that our political leaders have only our best interests at heart when they make their decisions. We can naively believe that the wealthy man or woman should have more authority in society. And for my young friend I include the idea that we may unquestioningly assume that our doctors have only the health of every one of their patients foremost in their minds.

Archetypes are powerful beasts. But they are not all Beowulfs. They exist among us too. They are ideals that we flawed humans cannot embody. We struggle towards that ideal, and even enjoy the attempt. What else can we do? The only failure to not try. But we all must recognize that the archetype exists in the world of ideas, and the professor at the back of the bus can be just as lost in this strange, wonderful world as the student beside him.