Myths and Archetypes, Part 1

Originally published August 15, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1239

Okay, so we were discussing myths, mythic archetypes, etc.

There are two things which fans seem to get all heated up about. The first is originality, i.e., “rip offs.” And the second is “continuity.”

In the former instance, whenever there is some new work of fiction that has any antecedents at all, fans will quickly point their fingers and try to dismiss it as a simple knock-off. I’m not entirely certain why this is. It may have something to do with the age-old question of “Where do ideas come from.” It’s the most-asked question that writers get. Those who are not capable of telling stories do not grasp where the stories originate. Perhaps in an effort to make them feel better about themselves, they will seize upon any story, any concept, that is at all evocative of an earlier work, and proclaim, “Ah, it’s just a rip-off of so-and-so.”

A good example of this is Willow, in which critics accused George Lucas of ripping off himself by giving us a farm boy (Willow/Luke Skywalker), a veteran warrior (Madmartegan/Han Solo), a princess love interest (Sorsha/Leia), and a pair of wise-cracking observers (The brownies/C-3PO and R2). Apparently those same critics had forgotten that, when Star Wars was first released, they were equally quick to dismiss Luke as a male Dorothy, Chewbacca as the Cowardly Lion, 3-PO as the Tin Woodman, Han Solo as the Scarecrow, and Obi-Wan as the Wizard, even though the parallels made absolutely no sense at all. It’s as if audiences are so desperate to figure out how it’s done, they will go to any lengths to diminish the achievement so that they can feel less unimaginative.

Fans do it in comics all the time. Although Watchmen, in terms of style and execution, bore no resemblance to the book Superfolk, fans insisted that Moore had shamelessly knocked it off. Some fans chatted online about parallels between my own The Last Avengers Story and Mark Waid’s Kingdom Come, even though I saw absolutely none. It’s probably the point that Jeph Loeb was trying to make in Chicago when, as some fans have noted, he had a minor meltdown during Jim McLauchlin’s panel, “The McLauchlin Group.” The question posed was, on a scale of one to ten, how much of a rip off of Captain America was Agent America. I said ten, Waid said thirty-two, and Loeb went ballistic, pointing out the legion of other patriot-inspired heroes who have littered the comic landscape.

The difference, of course, is that Agent America really is a rip-off of Captain America. Had Rob never worked on Cap, it would have been a different situation, much like Supreme‘s superman-esque parallels not causing any particular uproar. But everyone knew that, in this instance, Rob was simply trying to burn off work already done for Captain America. Sure, there’s no new ideas under the sun (although I gotta admit, Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger being twins is pretty dámņëd close) but fans want to feel that at least some modicum of originality is evident. Ideally a story flows from something unique about a character; a plot in which any character can be inserted without disrupting the flow one iota is inherently a weak one. The fans knew this and cried “foul” and “lame.”

Watching the attempted selling of Agent America was like watching the character’s novelty being espoused by Jon Lovitz (“Why yes, Agent America is a totally original concept… yeah… that’s the ticket… a whole new character created by myself… and my wife, Morgan Fairchild… whom I have seen naked…”) Agent America wasn’t created. He was recycled.

All of which is moot, of course, thanks to the acquisition of Fighting American to give Rob a—you should pardon the expression—shield against criticism. The recycling of the Cap pages is now impervious against comment because to criticize the work now would be tantamount to criticizing Joe Simon and—God forbid—Jack Kirby. You can’t criticize Kirby. It’s Just Not Done. So the Fighting American maneuver is sort of the creative equivalent of putting on a condom. Doesn’t matter if the whole thing sucks; it’s safe sucks.

Now if anything ever gets credit for being ripped-off-from, it’s Star Trek. Since, for so many fans, Star Trek was their first exposure to science fiction, they’re quick to think that Trek in and of itself is blindingly original. It’s not, of course. When Star Trek (pitched to the networks as Wagon Train to the stars) first debuted, not only was it covering material that had been done as well (if not better) in literary SF for years, but it had its most immediate origins in the film Forbidden Planet… which was, in turn, a knock-off of The Tempest.

And yet anything that hits the big or small screen these days, if it has anything to do with outer space, is stacked up against Star Trek as if Star Trek were the well-spring from which everything science-fiction/space opera originated. Critics will dismiss any series as a Star Trek knock off, and nowhere near as original as Star Trek, as if Trek had been the critics’ darling from Day One (as if critics hadn’t predicted a quick demise for the series… just as they did thirty years later for Babylon 5.)

As noted above, it all seems to stem from the age-old question of “Where do you get your ideas?” as if spotting the precedents and roots provides an answer… the answer being that writers are not truly inventive or novel or clever, but merely talented thieves without a jot of originality in their souls, standing upon the shoulders of literary giants who were truly great and are now dead, gone, and unable to complain.

There are archetypes, of course, and mythic stories which are repeated and can be broken down and analyzed by people far more scholarly than I. You want to plumb the depths of archetypes? Read Campbell. Read Jung. You don’t need me for that (if you need me for anything.) But when it comes down to this whole business of ideas, a lot of it came into focus for me not too long ago when my mother was in the hospital with a heart attack. She’s fine now; bypass operation and she’s fit as a fiddle. Amazing. Just thought I’d mention it up front to take the edge off.

My father and I were in her room, and a couple of their friends had come to visit. Their friends were, as it so happens, heart surgeons. And I was incredulous to learn that they were impressed by, of all things, me. One of them leaned forward and said, with open amazement on his face, “How do you do it? Where do you get your ideas?”

I was stupefied. Basically, I’m a paid fabricator. What I do, in the grand scheme of things, is relatively trivial (not so trivial that I’ve forgiven that nitwit in back of me when I saw Michael who said I should make way for someone with a real job, but still, it’s trivial nonetheless). Sure, I try to make people think, sure, I’ve had impact on some lives. But that’s nothing compared to a heart surgeon, for heaven’s sake. This guy cracks open people’s chests, takes their heart in his hands, and fixes it. Fixes the human heart. My God. Ever see one of those movies or medical shows where there’s someone with a blocked windpipe, and a doctor–over a headset or phone or something—has to talk a civilian through performing a tracheotomy? If I’m the civilian, forget it, babe. The patient can draw in his last strangled breath for the purpose of kissing himself good-bye. Cut in on a human being? Good lord, I haven’t got the intestinal fortitude to cut in on a dance floor.

To me, what a surgeon is capable of doing is truly miraculous. Truly incredible. Probably the single most impressive thing on earth. And yet, to this surgeon, what I did was really cool and amazing.

And what occurred to me is that, in the final analysis, asking how a writer comes up with ideas is the single most pointless question in existence. It’s like asking a surgeon, “How in God’s name can you crack a chest and mend a heart and stick your hands in there?” Because the only reasonable answer is that, if the surgeon couldn’t do it, he wouldn’t be a surgeon. Work and diligence can only take you so far; there has to be that spark, that gift, that inborn talent. I could want to be a doctor with every fiber of my being; I’d still wind up with a higher mortality rate than the average slate of new network programs because I’m simply incapable of essaying that field of endeavor. I know that beyond question.

Developing ideas and stories is a talent, that’s all. Seeing the world around you and discovering ways to tell stories that reflect that world, or seeing what other people have come up with and realizing that if you tweak it ever so slightly in a different direction—just zig where the other guy zagged—you can come up with an entirely new story to tell. When you get down to it, the answer is a circular one. The writer comes up with a ideas because he is a writer, just as a surgeon shoves his hands into gore because he’s a surgeon. You might as well ask a writer, “Why are you the way you are?” The only reasonable reply was best summarized by Popeye: “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.” (Well, he said “yam,” actually, but you get the idea.) It’s a God-given ability, and who can figure out God?

Which brings us to myths, continuity thereof, and reinterpretation, and I’ll get to that next week.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)