The Ironclad Test Oath and Why It Doesn’t Work

Mentalis restrictio in the US Constitution (Gladwellocalypse, Part 3 Addendum)

As the new members of the executive branch were inaugurated in the US, I was struck by the language of the Vice Presidential oath of office—notably, it’s quite different from that of the President. Here’s how it runs:¹

I, [full name] do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

And there’s that term; the casuistry-based Jesuitic proposition condemned by Catholics and Protestants alike since the 17th century. This is the doctrine of equivocation employed in order to say one thing while having something entirely different in one’s mind, the “lie of necessity” that might allow a traitor to be inserted into a government in this particular case.

The use of this phrase in the oath seems archaic and so one might think reflects the country’s founding in the late 18th century. Looking at what is provided for the swearing in of the President in the US Constitution, however, there’s much simpler language:²

I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.

This is the oath as used by George Washington in 1789, and it’s remained much the same since; identical to what was said in the latest inauguration except for the inclusion of the oath-taker’s full name, and the concluding line, “So help me God.”

The Vice Presidential oath of office is not set out in the Constitution and instead uses the same language as for any member of Congress. That document merely specifies that such members, “shall be bound by Oath or Affirmation to support this Constitution.” The first Congress interpreted this fairly literally into a brief statement, thus: 

I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support the Constitution of the United States.

So how did these 14 words expand to the rather lengthy oath we now hear and how did it come to include one swearing not to be engaged in Jesuitical equivocation? According to the website of the US Senate, these changes stem from the 19th century:³

[T]he current oath is a product of the 1860s, drafted by Civil War-era members of Congress intent on ensnaring traitors.

Termed the “Ironclad Test Oath”, the current affirmation was spurred initially by President Abraham Lincoln himself, who used an expanded oath for civil servants within the executive in 1861. In an emergency session, Congress enacted legislation for their own expanded oath to be taken by employees in the legislature. The new language was drafted, argued, delayed by war, and eventually applied across the board in 1884.

“Without mental reservation” appears in many oaths as it turns out, including that used by US military enlistees, though I highly doubt that any but a very few understand what they are swearing to. And in fact the phrase actually refers to a specific type of untruth in which one utters one part aloud and the rest in their mind, thus “telling the truth to God”. Quite literally this unspoken part is reserved from human ears and is instead mental. Thus, theoretically one could take the original congressional oath of office and practice mental reservation like so:

I do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States (only as far as it serves my own interests).

So the mental reservation language is added to the oath presumably to prevent this sort of thing, but it seems to me one could still take the same approach:

I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation (as far as you know)….

There is, of course, another element to the doctrine of mental reservation which moral  theology and philosophy has struggled with essentially forever, which is when it is permissible to lie. One prolific and popular moral theologian, St. Alphonsus Liguori (1696–1787) says it must be for a “just cause”, which he defines quite broadly:⁴

Justa autem causa esse potest quicumque finis honestus, ad servanda bona spiritui vel corpori utilia.

[A] just cause can be any honest end whatsoever, for the keeping of things good for the spirit or useful to the body.

To be fair, the specific cases of just cause he lists do seem reasonable, including a priest protecting the seal of confession, a defendant or witness illegitimately interrogated, and a traveler coming from a town falsely believed to be infected with plague. Still he goes on to say that, “an absolutely serious cause is not required”.⁵

And another respected scholar in much more recent time, Benoît Merkelbach, clearly knowing the history of deception and specifically Liguori’s work on the subject, makes it still more general:⁶

[…] dummodo ad veritatem occultandam iusta causa adsit et aliud medium desit honestum […].

[…] as long as a just cause is present, and other honest means of hiding the truth is wanting […].

First it’s entertaining that such works are still written in a moribund language in modern times, second, the lack of irony with which Merkelbach produces the phrase, “honest means of hiding the truth,” is astounding, but third, and most importantly to our topic, it seems that exactly the process of casuistry described by Pope Francis is at work here, where general laws are established on the basis of exceptional cases.⁷ It’s also worthy of note that the pontiff’s comment was in the context of the sexual abuse cases that have plagued the Catholic Church in recent decades, in which many officials were clearly far less than honest, often using casuistry to rationalize their mendacity.

Moving to the realm of moral philosophy, Immanuel Kant makes his case by positing a man who needs to borrow money, realizes no one will lend it to him unless he promises to repay it, and that he won’t be able to repay it—all of which is consistent with the doctrines above—and therefore produces the maxim:⁸

[W]hen I believe myself to be in need of money I shall borrow money and promise to repay it, even though I know that this will never happen.

And Kant further states that were this case to become a universal law, just as Francis felt such things would:

[If] everyone, when he believes himself to be in need, could promise whatever he pleases with the intention of not keeping it would make the promise and the end one might have in it itself impossible, since no one would believe what was promised him but would laugh at all such expressions as vain pretenses.

And while all of this may have been a matter of conjecture in the 17th and 18th centuries, as we know this is exactly what has come to pass. Regardless of what may be considered moral, people have lied to benefit themselves to such an extent that a matter such as a loan has become a highly legal one, with few options apart from bankruptcy to escape a debt, and sometimes not even that in the case of student loans, among others.

And furthermore, this slippery slope has led us inevitably to the Russian doctrine of what Timothy Snyder calls “implausible deniability” that weaponizes the combination of fact and its evil twin, disinformation. The example he cites is the Russian invasion of Ukraine:⁹

The adage that there are two sides to a story makes sense when those who represent each side accept the factuality of the world and interpret the same set of facts. Putin’s strategy of implausible deniability exploited this convention while trying to destroy its basis. He positioned himself as a side of the story while mocking factuality. […] Western Editors, although they had the reports of the Russian invasion on their desks in the late days of February and the early days of March 2014, chose to feature Putin’s exuberant denials. And so the narrative of the Russian Invasion of Ukraine shifted in a subtle but profound way: it was not about what was happening to Ukrainians, but about what the Russian president chose to say about Ukraine. A real war had become reality television, with Putin as the hero. […] When Putin later admitted that Russia had invaded Ukraine, this only proved that the Western press had been a player in his show.

OK, I know I said in my previous article that I was going to give politics a rest, but these things are closely intertwined and certainly this is a realm where various types of deception are most at play. Neither of the moral theologians I’ve discussed here could possibly have foreseen how things have ended up. Right or wrong, they believed that people are essentially good and that even if there were a bit of fibbing, society would not be harmed. Instead they have released a jinn that can never be returned to its bottle.

On the other hand, Kant’s view is a utopian one; as Umberto Eco tells us, truth is in the realm of the theoretical: our limitations as humans determine how well we are able to perceive and communicate it. And of course there are those white lies we all tell to preserve the feelings of others. Still, the issue with the products of casuistry is how they seek to create statements that are sort of true, but really not, As Liguori says:¹⁰

[N]on decipimus proximum, sed ex justa causa permittimus ut ipse se decipiat.

[W]e do not deceive our neighbor, but for a just cause we allow that he deceive himself.

Where I would reply with the Berber saying:

A smooth lie is better than a distorted truth.


Read Subsequent Posts in This Series

Part 4: The Immaculate Miscegenation


Read Previous Posts in This Series

Part 1: The Limits of Revisionist History

Part 2: The Unfit “King”

Part 3: Descent into the Absurd


Notes

  1. Emphasis mine.
  2. US Constitution, Article II, Section 1, Clause 8.
  3. United States Senate website.
  4. Alphonsus Maria de Liguori, Theologia moralis, 1905-1912.
  5. Ibid, “non requiritur causa absolute gravis […].”
  6. Benoît Henri Merkelbach. Summa Theologiae Moralis, 1938.
  7. Francis X. Rocca, “Pope to meet with sex abuse victims for first time in June”, Catholic News Service, 2014.
  8. Immanuel Kant, Groundwork for the Metaphysic of Morals (Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten), 1785, Mary J. Gregor, trans., 1998.
  9. Timothy Snyder, The Road to Unfreedom: Russia, Europe, America, 2018.
  10. Liguori, 1905–1912.

Your Western Wuxia Is Weak

New film, new issues (DeDisnification, Part 2 Addendum B)

Against my better judgement I watched the live-action remake of Mulan. There are of course several political issues with the film, which have been well discussed elsewhere; I would encourage readers to be aware of them, but don’t feel they need to be rehashed here, especially since I’ve been on that sort of soapbox too much recently, and I’d like to get back to my usual media-culture-history bailiwick.

As my earlier article suggested, the new film did lose the anthropomorphic animals, but also the singing and has instead become a Wuxia (武俠) flick. I’m down with the genre in general, but using it in this context is pretty strange, especially as it typically favors style over substance even more than a Disney film. Additionally, there are very few Hollywood success stories in the genre, which doesn’t mean no one  should try, but it should at the very least be a caution sign.

And this film crashes: although Mulan is replete with martial skills, the essential story remains unchanged. Her accomplishments are no more spectacular; she merely does them with greater flair. Furthermore, the emperor Mulan is trying to save is played by Jet Li (李连杰), who naturally displays his own fighting prowess and so seems in little need of saving. Nonetheless, they somehow contrive to make a rescue necessary.

This also means there’s no character arc: Mulan as a young girl is already running across rooftops like Spiderman, so where can she go from there? Only some vague idea that females have to hide their chi (氣) holds her back, but the struggle to set this aside feels as abstract as the “rule” itself. Again, it’s great that they didn’t present someone as inept as Mulan was at the beginning of the original film, but the result is this flatness. All that happens is she decides to stop hiding her chi and be the badass she is—not much of a change.

Mushu (Eddie Murphy) has been replaced with a phoenix, which makes some kind of sense as the Chinese fenghuang (鳳凰) is often used as a feminine counterpart to the masculine dragon. However, they clearly have in mind the Western mythical creature, having only superficial resemblance to the Eastern king of birds. The legend related in the film of the creature rising from it’s own ashes has nothing whatsoever to do with the lore of the fenghuang. In the end, this new “character” does nothing—it doesn’t speak; it only turns up when Mulan needs help, though it provides none and she has to rely on herself instead.

By contrast, the witch Xianniang (線娘, played by Gong Li; 巩俐) is pretty cool and intriguing new character. She reminds me distinctly of Baigujing (白骨精, White Bone Demon) from Journey to the West (西遊記, Xī Yóu Jì), who I imagine the creators may have had in mind. Indeed, it’s probably no coincidence that Baigujing was also played by Gong Li in 2016’s The Monkey King 2 (《西遊記之孫悟空三打白骨精》). This demon is able to transform herself and uses the ability to deceive all but the wily Sun Wukong (孫悟空) who eventually defeats her. Xiannang too can change shape at will, including assuming the forms of other people as well as a falcon, and indeed, she seems to be a replacement for Shan Yu’s trained falcon. 

It’s interesting that ultimately, as her name implies, Baigujing is a skeleton spirit, since depictions of bones are anathema in games in the PRC, where I’ve had to change art many times in order to meet these standards. Certainly 500-odd years have passed since Journey to the West was first penned, but it’s still quite an odd shift in cultural norms. I wondered while watching Mulan whether the bony details of Xianniang’s headdress and belt would make it past the censors.

The name of this new character seems to be a reference to Dou Xianniang (竇線娘), a female Chinese general who defeats and captures, Hua in an early Qing Dynasty (大清, 1636–1912) fanfic of the tale by Chu Renhuo (褚人獲).¹ Even though she is a barbarian, Hua wins the enemy commander’s respect through her display of Confucian virtues, and they become blood sisters. Indeed, this background might be what informs Mulan’s Xianniang abruptly choosing to take an arrow for the protagonist, which makes no sense to the actual film. In fact, the witch is the most powerful character in the film, making one wonder why she serves Böri Khan (Jason Scott Lee), the new film’s replacement for Shan Yu.

On the plus side, the film is beautiful. The scenery is breathtaking, with filming mainly taking place in New Zealand rather than the PRC. The island nation was easily the biggest star of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit film trilogies as well. In fact one of the locations tipped me off to the fact we weren’t in China before the credits rolled: Mulan rides past a rock outcropping that I distinctly remembered being overrun by warg riders.

In the end, the film does nothing to address the likely non-Chinese identity of the “real” Hua Mulan (花木蘭). Hua’s Chineseness is widely acknowledged to be incorrect, as I’ve previously mentioned. One of the surnames under which she is known, Wei (魏), is drawn from the name of an Empire to the north whose people the Chinese referred to as suolu (索虜, “Plaited Barbarians”) because of the requisite male hairstyle of long, braided hair coiled atop their heads. Even Chu’s version clearly states Hua’s half-Han (漢人) race and status, describing her as a jienu (羯奴; “barbarian slave”) after her capture.² As professor of Chinese literature Wilt Idema notes:³

[O]nly in the final years of the Qing is Mulan turned into a Han dynasty Chinese maiden patriotically fighting the northern Xiongnu.

The historicity of the setting is improved where the original film was a hodgepodge of elements from throughout Chinese history, but the time period they depict is that of the Tang dynasty (唐; 618–690, 705–907). This is not correct to the known-but-lost original 5th century Ballad of Mulan. Chu’s version contains authentic details the film omits entirely: the Xianbei (鮮卑) with which she would have been associated underwent a program of Sinicization, intermarrying with their southern neighbors. This meant that mixed ancestry became common, though mainly among the nation’s elites so not squaring with the film’s low-status Mulan. These programs of cultural borrowing also included Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism (道教, 漢傳佛教, and 儒家 respectively), so aspects, particularly of the morals of the last, which are portrayed in both films may well have eventually penetrated even to remote villages.

Overall, it seems that the production team took some pains to educate themselves in the lore of this woman warrior, as there are clear references to not just one, but a variety of versions in the film, which even quotes knowingly from the 6th century version’s closing passage about the hares as I did in my original article. But being informed didn’t stop them from making bad decisions as to their protagonist’s ethnic origin, the historical time period portrayed, and their retention of much of the original film’s structure.

One reason for this is that although the production staff did contain several women—most notably the director and most of the writing staff—there was a distinct lack of East Asians of any kind. Another factor was the hard courting of the Chinese audience, which, while it’s something many studios have been doing of late, often yields not-so-great results because of how forced it is. Presenting a non-Han Mulan would hardly have endeared a film to those viewers, but even this nationalistically Chinese one failed to find favor. Despite an all-Asian cast, audiences in the PRC found the performances wooden and the themes and trappings stereotypical.⁴ Ironically, it ends up falling short in many of the same ways as the original, but viewers missed the humor and music of the first one.

Furthermore, very much in keeping with Disney’s risk aversion, the story of Hua Mulan has already been told repeatedly, with no fewer than 17 large- and small-screen versions having been produced in China since 1920. Although I might not be able to find my Xianbei Hua among them, I can only imagine there would be some that improve dramatically on this flashy but flat one.


Read Subsequent Articles in This Series

Part 3A: “Hercules”: Myths and Mistakes

Part 3B: Doing Hera’s Work

Part 4: “Belle” Epoch

Part 5: Putting “Pocahontas” to Rest

Part 5 Addendum: Powhatan’s Mantle

Part 6: Trouble with Tarzan

Part 7A: Down the Rabbit Hole

Part 7B: Alice’s Adventures in the Cousins War

Part 8: Guerrillas and the “Jungle

Part 9A: Through a Magic Mirror Marred

Part 9A Addendum: The Woods “Over the Wall”

Part 9B: The Sum of Its Versions

Part 9C: The “Snow White” Studio

Part 9D: Snowhaus

Part 10: The Little Less-Than


Read Previous Articles in This Series

Part 1: Straightening out “Hunchback”

Part 2: Making Over “Mulan”


Notes

  1. Chu Renhuo, Romance of the Sui and the Tang (隋唐演義, Sui Tang yanyi), c. 1675.
  2. Ibid.
  3. Wilt Idema, “Blasé Literati: Lu T’ien-Ch’eng and the Lifestyle of the Chiang-nan Elite in the Final Decades of the Wan-Li Period”, Erotic Color Prints of the Ming Period with an Essay on Chinese Sex Life from the Han to the Ch’ing Dynasty, 2004.
  4. Rebecca Davis, “China Hates Disney’s ‘Mulan,’ but It Has Nothing to Do With Politics”, Variety, 2020.

Appropriating a Missing Past

The rewhitening of film (Back to the Future”, Addendum B)

Yet another reason for revisiting Back to the Future was an almost throwaway comment from John Oliver:¹

[…] Marty McFly was white, because black people don’t generally hang around John C. Calhoun lookalikes who’re obsessed with going back to the 1950s.

This was an excellent reminder of the political scene that spawned the film, with its messages about race and history. Oliver’s aside came within a piece about these same topics, so despite its brevity, it was quite well aimed.

I’ve discussed previously how white flight set the stage for new cheap-to-produce film genres for urban audiences including Spaghetti Westerns, Kung Fu, and blaxploitation, but by the 1980s, these trends had reversed. Karina Longworth details this occurrence’s particular effect on African Americans in film:²

The decade of the 1980s saw a decline in Hollywood films featuring mostly black casts and black heroes. In 1974, the peak of blaxploitation, at least in terms of volume, 7% of the films released by the major studios told stories primarily about black people. That number had dropped to 2.5% by 1981. […] Perhaps wary of […] controversies, on the big screen Hollywood steered clear of tackling the black experience, historically or in the present. In the interest of trying to target as many demographics as possible in each film, black movie stars like Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy were frequently paired with white co-stars in movies that were set in largely white worlds.

I’d differ slightly with Longworth as to the two actors she mentions: both Pryor and Murphy had enough star power—not to mention talent—that they frequently wore multiple hats for their films, including various combinations of writing, directing, and producing, ultimately meaning that they shaped the worlds in which they appeared. This resulted in films like Pryor’s autobiographical Jo Jo Dancer, Your Life is Calling (1986), Murphy’s African fairy tale, Coming to America (1988), and Harlem Nights (1989), a historical crime drama for which the two teamed up. Still, they are only notable exceptions to the trend Longworth otherwise describes correctly.

And alongside this trend, beginning in the mid-’70s and intensifying in the ’80s, there was a glut of films featuring nostalgia for the ’50s. A short list of the better known ones is:

  • American Graffiti (1973)
  • Grease (1978)
  • Diner (1982)
  • Back to the Future (1985)
  • Stand by Me (1986)
  • Peggy Sue Got Married (1986)
  • Driving Miss Daisy (1989)

And on the small screen Happy Days, closely related to American Graffiti, as the film sold the concept, as well as borrowing Ron Howard from the TV show’s pilot, among other elements. The sitcom aired for 10 years (1974-1984), spawning multiple spinoffs.

The surge in ’50s nostalgia and the simultaneous drop in films starring people of color is far from coincidental. The blacklash in all these works is pretty evident, with no major roles and sometimes not even minor roles for people of color in any of them with the exception of Driving Miss Daisy. Even in that film, Morgan Freeman plays Hoke Colburn, the titular white woman’s servant, so he’s far from an equal.

So what was behind these changes in the film business? Longworth suggests that it was due to a corresponding shift  in the overall political climate. In particular the “conservative revolution” ushered in by the Reagan administration, which Longworth characterizes as:³

[A] presidential administration which married a nostalgia for a white-supremacist past with Hollywood production values. […] [“Post racial”] terminology […] was used by conservatives as part of the argument against affirmative action and other social programs aimed at balancing racial disparity. In the republican argument—an argument that was inherently racist in that it demonized people of color for needing things like welfare, or asking for any acknowledgement of continued imbalance—the work of balancing the playing field was supposedly finished, and urban violence of the 1970s was a sign that white people needed to start looking out for themselves again. Reaganism reframed the activism and fights for equality of the 1960s and -70s as “chaos” and posited Reagan and the republican party as the solution to restore the order of the 1950s.

This last feature of conservatism is what Oliver was referring to on his show; one that continues to define the movement to this day. Not only were governmental policies based on these misguided ideas, they also precipitated a spike in violence by groups like the KKK throughout the decade. Anthropologist Wade Davis filled in further details on the topic in a recent article for Rolling Stone:⁴

For many years, those on the conservative right in the United States have invoked a nostalgia for the 1950s, and an America that never was, but has to be presumed to have existed to rationalize their sense of loss and abandonment, their fear of change, their bitter resentments and lingering contempt for the social movements of the 1960s, a time of new aspirations for women, gays, and people of color.

But the political scene, as well as that in Hollywood were ultimately symptoms of a cultural shift: Having fled to the suburbs, boomers were settling down, having kids, getting jobs, and the appearance of new suburban megaplex theaters coincided with these trends. Some would even say that the drug of choice for this generation went from the laid-back slacker cannabis to the vigorously capitalist cocaine, which, in addition to amping up energy, also required a straight” job because of its expense. In any case, the supposed family values” of the ’50s were revalorized, but this version of the past was an imagined one.

Additionally, art itself suffered a reversal, moving from the irony of postmodernism to the so-called earnestness of post-postmodernism. This translated to a certain lack of depth, which literary critic Fredric Jameson described in 1983 as pastiche:⁵

Pastiche is, like parody, the imitation of a particular or unique style, the wearing of a stylistic mask, speech in a dead language: but it is a neutral practice of such mimicry, without parody’s ulterior motive, without the satirical impulse, without laughter, without that still latent feeling that there exists something normal compared with which what is being imitated is rather comic. Pastiche is a blank parody, parody that has lost its sense of humor[…].

Even at this, Jameson sees the wave of nostalgia films as embodying a particular form of pastiche, and further connects it strongly to the political and cultural realms:⁶

Nostalgia films restructure the whole issue of pastiche and project it onto a collective and social level, where the desperate attempt to appropriate a missing past is now refracted through the iron law of fashion change and the emergent ideology of the generation. The inaugural film of this new aesthetic discourse, George Lucas American Graffiti (1973), set out to recapture, as so many films have attempted since, the henceforth mesmerizing lost reality of the Eisenhower era; and one tends to feel, that for Americans at least, the 1950s remain the privileged lost object of desire[…].

But the ’50s nostalgia film was just one part of this new cinematic landscape. There are a few other films released in the decade worth discussing as part of this cultural trend. 

There is much to love about one of the biggest hits of 1980, The Blues Brothers. In addition to some amazing comedy and an absurd number of car crashes, it also features many excellent performances from black musicians including James Brown, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, and John Lee Hooker. It’s still problematic that the titular duo is white. The backstory is that Curtis (played by Cab Calloway) essentially raised Jake and Elwood Blues and schooled them in the musical form from which they take their name so they are effectively black on the inside, an act of twisted alchemy similar to the rationalization of Scarlett Johansson playing Kusanagi Motoko (草薙 素子), in 2017’s Ghost in the Shell. In both the film and eponymous band, John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd have stolen the headliner glory from the musicians who should take center stage.

With much more on-the-nose minstrelsy, the 1986 film Soul Man is the tale of a white guy who pretends to be black in order to win a Harvard law scholarship set aside for African Americans. NAACP Chapter President Willis Edwards summed up the issue even more at the core than a main character appearing in blackface for much of the film’s running time:⁷

We certainly believe it is possible to use humor to reveal the ridiculousness of racism. However the unhumorous and quite seriously made plot point of Soul Man is that no black student could be found in all of Los Angeles who was academically qualified for a scholarship geared to blacks.

Such criticisms did not deter the first couple from screening it at Camp David, though they did at least have the excuse that their son Ron Reagan appeared in it. A White House spokesman let The LA Times know, The Reagans enjoyed the film and especially enjoyed seeing their son Ron.”⁸

The final film that should be noted here is not a new one, but a rerelease: 1946’s Song of the South returned to theaters in 1980 and 1986 to wild success. Rather than confronting the work’s appropriated folktales and depictions of happy slaves, Disney and their apologists tried to dismiss the film as a light-hearted fantasy. But as Longworth notes:⁹

[T]o reposition [Disney’s] movies as fully escapist was in keeping with a level of denial and wishful fantasizing that was integral to Reagan America[…].

And indeed, there was widespread controversy and protest of the film this time around, with Ron Finney of the LA Times declaring:¹⁰

We’ve seen 1980 close with the re-release of a film that has debased blacks for 34 years.

Criticism included shutting down some screenings of the film to such a degree that following its 1986 showing it went back in the “vault” forever, with only carefully curated clips shown on television. Eventually, these too disappeared until only Oscar-winning Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as the theme song of the Disney parks attraction, Splash Mountain, remained. This song was based in part on the racially-charged song Zip Coon”, which also gave rise to a minstrel show character of the same name. This year Disney decided to cease playing the song as well.

And here we come again to the theme of cancel culture. If you remember, in the previous Addendum I wasn’t so sure if I was on board with it. Since then, I’ve changed my mind. It turns out that it’s of a piece with the right wing’s weaponization of liberal values against the holders of those same values. My first clue should have been Bill Maher’s wholehearted embrace of it, and my second should have been how unevenly the term is applied. As Billy Bragg noted on a recent episode of Intelligence Squared:¹¹

Any cursory review of recent high-profile cases of cancel culture will reveal a troubling pattern: the victims of this trend are always defenders of the status quo.

Billy Bragg, who I have enjoyed since his self-roadied first tour of the US, isn’t just a musician, he’s a pretty astute guy, especially when it comes to politics, a realm into which his music regularly ventures. He goes on to sum up the case up quite well:¹²

Like the term political correctness before it, cancel culture is a trope used by reactionaries to police the limits of social change. It allows the proponents of white male supremacy to portray themselves as the victims of discrimination, undermining the rights of the real victims of structural inequality.

And so we’ve returned to the beginning of this tale. We see that the rhetoric of the right hasn’t changed, only their level of desperation has, with the Trump administration recently issuing an executive order outlawing any teaching about our nation’s white supremacist past. But all this posturing hasn’t stopped society from becoming increasingly enlightened—although quite gradually, I’ll admit. And let’s be clear, although it was protested, Song of the South was never cancelled; Disney seems to have decided that it simply no longer embodied values they wanted to project and removed it quietly and without prompting.


Read Previous Articles in This Series

Roll Over McFly

Addendum A: The Immaculate Miscegenation


Notes

  1. “U.S. History”, Last Week Tonight with John Oliver, 2020.
  2. Karina Longworth, “Splash Mountain”, You Must Remember This, 2019.
  3. Ibid.
  4. Wade Davis, “The Unraveling of America”, Rolling Stone, 2020.
  5. Fredric Jameson, “Postmodernism and Consumer Society”, 1983. I’ll note that he describes this trend as postmodernist but Umberto Eco and others make it clear that Jameson is actually describing the shift to post-postmodernism.
  6. Fredric Jameson, “Postmodernism, Or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism”, New Left Review, 1984.
  7. Bob Thomas, “Los Angeles NAACP Protest”. The Lewiston Daily, 1986.
  8. “Reagans on ‘Soul Man’: Thumbs Up”. The Los Angeles Times, 1986.
  9. Longworth.
  10. Ron Finney, “‘Song of the South’ Again Sings its Debasement of Blacks”, Los Angeles Times, 1981.
  11. “Debate: Cancel Culture is Threatening Our Freedoms”, Intelligence Squared, 2020.
  12. Ibid.

The Woods “Over the Wall”

Monomyth tropes well done (DeDisneyfication, Part 9A Addendum)

Autumnal tidings, readers. As I’ve noted before, I’m a good one for missing the boat, so I’ve only just learned about an excellent animated series, Over the Garden Wall (OtGW hereafter) from six years ago. The work is set on Halloween, which makes it a good one to discuss around now, and also plays with folkloric elements, which makes it fit well with this Series.

Myth & Moor: Into the Woods, 7: The Dark Forest

I became aware of the cartoon through another quite good series of video essays, What’s So Great About That?, in which Grace Lee thoughtfully discusses various aspects of film, animation, and culture. Her piece,“Over the Garden Wall: Why Is The Unknown So Familiar?”¹ sold me on the seriesnot a hard sell since, as I mentioned, it already fits with a field of interest of mine. In fact, I wondered why my hipper friends hadn’t already brought it to my attention.

The setting the series spends much of its time in is called The Unknown, which is described in the first episode thus:²

Somewhere lost in the clouded annals of history, lies a place that few have seen—a mysterious place, called The Unknown, where long-forgotten stories are revealed to those who travel through the wood.

The title of Lee’s essay plays on the fact that despite the place’s name the material is familiar:³

There’s this uncanny feeling that we’ve been here before. Snow White. Babes in the Wood, Hansel and Gretel—the idea of children lost in the woods is one of the most familiar fairy tale conventions. And Over the Garden Wall even makes explicit reference to several of these stories.

And again, as she notes, The Unknown consists largely of a forest. And here is where my interest grew beyond Lee’s essay: she spent a lot of time discussing the elements that recalled classic film and animation but the folklore was my interest—in fact, I’d say that OtGW’s creators used the references Lee talks about because they are the modern audience’s main connection to folkloric materials, and so made sense as a way to reach that audience and get this tale across to them. 

As to the mythical role of the woods, let me point to the same quote I did in the article to which this is an addendum:⁴

Being deep in the forest at the house of the dwarfs, Snow White has symbolically returned to the mythic beginnings of time, the liminal period of chaos when the mysterious gods and ancestral creatures of creation were active.

Even without the house of the dwarves, which serves only to deepen the mythic themes, the woods are a liminal and primal space. As Lee states, this is a common theme, particularly in folklore and myth, as Joseph Conrad tells us:⁵

A very common [motif] that appears in Celtic myths, of someone who had followed the lure of a deer or animal that he has been following, and then carries him into a range of forest and landscape that he’s never been in before.

While OtGW’s protagonists end up in the woods as a result of running away from the police, rather than chasing something, the trope remains nearly identical. And it doesn’t appear only in myths and folktales; Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy (Divina Commedia) opens:⁶

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
ché la diritta via era smarrita.

In the middle of the journey of our life,
I discovered I was in a dark forest,
having wandered from the straightforward path.

OtgW’s girl transformed into a bird, who guides the other protagonists, Wirt and Greg around The Unknown, is named Beatrice, a clear reference to Dante’s guide of the same name. The figurative wood also appears in the title and body of Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”. The woods are just one common version of what OtGW refers to as The Unknown, which again has mythic resonances, many of which the show goes on to explore.

Putting a name to this mythic realm is difficult, which is why OtGW uses the term it does. Campbell quotes the Upanishads about what he sometimes terms the yonder shore:⁷

There the eye goes not,
speech goes not, nor the mind.
We know not, we understand not,
how one would teach it?

So what is it? Death or the nether- or underworld is one version, as suggested by both Dante and Frost. It is also in OtGW repeatedly: they dig what they think are their own graves in Pottsfield⁸ and in the “real” world, we find out that the garden over whose wall Wirt and Greg have gone was a cemetery.⁹ The cemetery’s name is Eternal Garden, but “garden of the dead” was a standard metaphor for a graveyard in times past. Additionally, the ferry they take to get to Adelaide’s house costs two cents,¹⁰ corresponding to the ὀβολοί (oboloí) needed to pay the ferryman Χάρων (Kharon) to get to the Graeco-Roman underworld.

This well-known fare first appears in Aristophanes’ (Ἀριστοφανης) comedy, The Frogs (Βάτραχοι Bátrachoi, 405 BC), in which Dionysos (Διόνῡσος) is bound for Haides (ᾍδης):¹¹

Herakles [Ἡρακλῆς]: Which will you try?
Dionysos: The way you went yourself.
Herakles: A parlous voyage that, for first you’ll come to an enormous lake of fathomless depth.
Dionysos: And how am I to cross?
Herakles: An ancient mariner will row you over in a wee boat, so big. The fare’s two obols.

I’ll note that the correspondence between an obolos and a cent is inexact as this silver coin is worth eight copper khalkoi (χαλκοί), but again, it’s a pretty standard rendering in modern works. And as for Aristophanes, although the cloud city Greg visits makes obvious reference to The Wizard of Oz (1939) with Munchkinland-style welcoming committees—just as Adelaide’s death by exposure to night air recalls the Wicked Witch of the West’s undoing by water—the kingdom of the titular animals, Νεφελοκοκκυγία (Nephelokokkugía, Cloud Cuckoo Land) in The Birds (Ὄρνιθες Ornithes, 414 BC) is a pretty clear reference as well.

Greg visits cloud city in a dream within this dream, as he turns further to his unconscious to help him and his brother out of their troubles:¹²

Greg: I better take a nap too. I need to dream up a good way of leading us home.

And speaking of birds, the way Adelaide plans to change Beatrice and her family back into humans is by cutting off their feathers with a pair of scissors, recalling the crude methods of Hans Christian Anderson’s sea witch.

Water too is a liminal space, as referred to repeatedly in OtGW. I’ve already mentioned their ferry trip, but they also sail across a lake, and it turns out that in their normal world, they fell into a body of water after nearly being run down by a train, and so the show can be seen as taking place as they hover between life and death by drowning.

Greg’s frog, whom he spends much of the series trying to find a name for, is a common mythic harbinger as well; a liminal creature, at home as much in the human world as in the underwater realm.  We see them repeatedly in folktales as frog princes calling heroes to adventure. In The Frogs, the amphibians’ only appearance is during Dionysos’ trip across the Ἀχέρων (Akheron), so literally at the border between worlds. Birds too, for similar reasons, but pertaining to realms above rather than below, make repeated mythic appearances.

The point of the journey into The Unknown in OtGW is, as it is in many folktales, initiation. Wirt is a teenager, poised on the brink of adulthood, and needs to figure out how he needs to change in order to take on this new role. All of the creatures in this realm are, again quoting the same Girardot passage as I did earlier:¹³

[D]ivine ancestors, teachers, refiners, guardians, or helpers necessary for a successful initiation.

And it’s certainly not that the peril of these encounters is not real. In fact Wirt’s normal world problems are so daunting to him that he’d rather die than face them, and in fact, in the reading I mentioned earlier, he nearly does. The progression through the episodes toward winter, a common metaphor for death, reflects this. These problems—being responsible for a younger sibling, liking a girl, risking being hurt, losing her to a rival suitor—seem trivial, but they’re also entirely relatable to just about anyone.

And indeed, Wirt returns triumphant from this night sea journey having learned these lessons: Sara, who he didn’t dare to approach before his journey, he now talks to easily and invites on a date. He saves his brother (and himself) from drowning. Just as in The Wizard of Oz, the passage through The Unknown can be seen as having been “just a dream”, with elements such as the light of the onrushing train having been transformed in the logic of the unconscious into the eyes of the Beast who dogs the brothers’ steps in the otherworld, the magic bell previously owned by Adelaide’s sister, Auntie Whispers, returns with them to their normal world, glowing in the belly of Greg’s frog.

I know I’ve been critical of how folktales are realized on screen, but I’m happy to have been proved wrong. OtGW’s creators have done well here: as I noted earlier, they used nostalgic film and animation references to relate to modern audiences, but didn’t shy away from the classical ones either. They didn’t attempt to usurp the place of classic folktales with a retelling. And they didn’t dumb down the messages or supplant them with corporate myths.


Read Subsequent Articles in This Series

Part 9B: The Sum of Its Versions

Part 9C: The “Snow White” Studio

Part 9D: Snowhaus

Part 10: The Little Less-Than


Read Previous Articles in This Series

Part 1: Straightening out “Hunchback”

Part 2: Making Over “Mulan”

Part 2 Addendum B: Your Western Wuxia Is Weak

Part 3A: “Hercules”: Myths and Mistakes

Part 3B: Doing Hera’s Work

Part 4: “Belle” Epoch

Part 5: Putting Pocahontas to Rest

Part 5 Addendum: Powhatan’s Mantle

Part 6: The Trouble with “Tarzan”

Part 7A: Down the Rabbit Hole

Part 7B: Alice’s Adventures in the Cousins War

Part 8: Guerrillas and the “Jungle”

Part 9A: Through a Magic Mirror Marred


Notes

  1. Grace Lee, “Over the Garden Wall: Why Is The Unknown So Familiar?”, What’s So Great About That, 2017.
  2. Episode 1, “The Old Grist Mill”, OtGW, 2014.
  3. Lee.
  4. N. J. Girardot, “Initiation and Meaning in the Tale of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs”, The Journal of American Folklore, 1977.
  5. Episode 1, “The Hero’s Adventure”, The Power of Myth, 1988.
  6. Dante Alighieri, Inferno, The Divine Comedy, 1320, my translation.
  7. A. S. Woodburne, “The Idea of God in Hinduism”, The Journal of Religion, 1925.
  8. Episode 2, “Hard Times at the Huskin’ Bee”, OtGW, 2014.
  9. Episode 9, “Into the Unknown”, OtGW, 2014.
  10. Episode 5, “Mad Love”, OtGW, 2014.
  11. O’Neill translation, 1938.
  12. Episode 8, “Babes in the Wood”, OtGW, 2014.
  13. Girardot, 1977.

The Immaculate Miscegenation

The Whitening of Rock and Roll (“Roll Over McFly” Addendum A/ Gladwellocalypse, Part 4)

A reason for revisiting the appropriation and revisionism in Back to the Future came up recently. This was another of Malcolm Gladwell’s more misguided podcasts from the last season of Revisionist History. “In a Metal Mood” is an episode about cultural appropriation, which makes terrible analogies and draws poor conclusions, so also fitting into my Gladwellocalypse series.¹

Let’s get Gladwell’s central premise out of the way: he wants to tell us conservative Christian rocker Pat Boone’s vanilla covers of songs by black performers are somehow morally preferable to those by Elvis Presley because the latter is stealing their style as well. He argues for Boone’s inclusion in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for this reason as well as because his career was pretty much only second to Presley’s, spanning decades with dozens of top-10 singles and albums. Just to touch on it briefly, the strained comparison Gladwell makes to Boone’s music is—wait for it—Taco Bell. He reasons that their food is an acceptable form of appropriation because it isn’t trying to eclipse Mexican cuisine but to create something entirely new that is only inspired by it.

As absurd as this is, his thoughts about Presley are still stranger. He and his panel, including childhood friend and partner on the Broken Record podcast, Bruce Headlam, Justin Richmond, that podcast’s producer, and Gladwell’s producer, Jacob Smith, and which Gladwell calls a “cultural appropriation summit”, listen to “Don’t be Cruel” as recorded by Elvis and then songwriter Otis Blackwell’s version of the song. Their reaction was as follows:

It’s the same song! As we’re listening Justin puts his head in his hands.
Gladwell: I’m sorry, that’s brutal.
Richmond: I forget how bad it is every time I hear it—this is just Elvis.

And later, listening to “One Broken Heart for Sale” they’re not even sure whether they’re listening to Presley or Blackwell, and when they determine it’s the latter, Gladwell says:

[E]lvis has completely… he’s completely stolen this guy’s sound.

And based on this finding, Gladwell concludes:

This is the King of Rock and Roll. The singer with his own vast dedicated room at the [Rock and Roll] Hall of Fame. Now imagine how Otis Blackwell or any of the other black songwriters of that era felt about what Elvis did. They’d been asked to write a song for someone much more famous than they were. Fine. What hurts is when a so-called genius takes the song that you wrote and that came out of your cultural community and doesn’t change a lick of it.

But this is complete nonsense, Presley didn’t “steal” Blackwell’s sound, Blackwell quite literally sold it to him. If anything, the songwriter became part of the behind-the-scenes packaging of The King, on the lines of Sam Phillips’ vision for whitening rock and roll. On the same 1984 Late Night with David Letterman episode on which they watched Blackwell’s performance of “Don’t be Cruel”, there’s also an interview, including the following exchange:²

Letterman: Did you feel funny about [Presley] imitating so closely what you were putting on tape or… or not?
Blackwell: Well, no—I felt a little funny the first time but after he sold four million, I didn’t.

And later in the same interview, Blackwell goes further:

[H]e was doing [the songs] the way I would like for them to be done.

Blackwell details that while he had been a performer, he hadn’t done well and had given it up when he had discovered he could make good money in songwriting. In another 1984 interview he added still more detail to the topic:³

I was surprised when I heard “Don’t Be Cruel” because it was just like I had done the demo. I used to sing all my own demos, and it just so happened that a lot of what Presley and Jerry Lee [Lewis] did sounded alike. I thought they did justice to the songs. They put the kind of feeling into it that I felt.

Indeed after Presley’s success with this song, Blackwell went on selling him songs in similar fashion for five years, including such hits as “All Shook Up” and “Return to Sender”, and valued the relationship so highly he became superstitious about it, refusing to meet with Elvis in person to not get jinxed.

Was Blackwell hurt by cultural appropriation? Yes; just not in the way or for the reasons Gladwell posits. His strained analogies and reductive arguments are ill suited to deal with what is a widespread, insidious, emotionally-charged, and highly complex issue. It’s one that’s also closely linked with cancel culture, which has the admirable goal of performing social justice but too often ends up trampling freedom of speech. So I honestly approach this topic with trepidation as it’s hardly my hill to die on, but think I can offer a bit more sensitivity and insight than Gladwell has here.

Elvis Presley - Wikipedia

Time for some real talk. In her scalding article, “Ripping Off Black Music”, Margo Jefferson links white rock and roll closely to minstrelsy, with white performers essentially mimicking black ones, and quotes John Lennon as saying, “We sing more colored than the Africans.” As for Presley, she states:

Elvis and his contemporaries shocked and thrilled because they were hybrids. What had taken place was a kind of Immaculate Miscegenation, resulting in a creature who was at once a Prancing N— and a Blue-Eyed Boy.

Effectively, Blackwell and other black rockers ceded the territory to this minstrelsy, and worse sold out, giving them a script and model for how to make their shows most effective. Lest you think I’m casting these black artists as the real villains of the piece, I’m not: as Blackwell himself notes, he’s trying to overcome his economic disadvantage:

No hat, holes in the shoes, standing on the corner […]

Songwriting happens to be his means of doing so, apart from, “Anything that came along that would make me a dollar or two”. Indeed he seems mainly to have cared about the $25 advance for the six songs he initially sold, realizing only later how lucrative they could turn out to be. Not that he was treated at all fairly in the relationship, being forced to give Presley a songwriting credit despite the singer not having contributed anything in that regard, thus cutting him in for half the royalties on the songs.

Already by the ’60s, Jefferson notes:

Blacks, it seemed, had lost the battle for mythological ownership of rock, as future events would prove.

And one major issue with the whitening of rock (or indeed anything else stolen from another culture) is white gaze—they become the critics and arbiters of taste for everything within the genre, including the black performers who created it. Jefferson tells us in the environment so created:

[N]o black performer yet has been able to get the praise and attention he or she deserves independent of white tutelage and translation.

Furthermore, this appropriation distorts meaning—when Chuck Berry sings:

Roll over Beethoven
And dig these rhythm and blues!

Jefferson tells us, “it is an outlaw’s challenge to white culture”. This is why I alluded to it in the title of my original piece. But when the Beatles sing the same lyrics, they are creating a continuity between the classical music of their culture’s past (even in childish faux rebellion against it) and the rock and roll also putatively of their culture in modernity.

Done well, recontextualization can be clever and thought provoking as in Jorge Luis Borges’ “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote” (“Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote”), in which he claims Don Quixote to have been written in the 20th century by a Frenchman or Umberto Eco’s critical analysis of Alessandro Mazoni’s The Betrothed (I Promessi Sposi) as if it were a work of James Joyce in “My Examination Round his Factification for Incamination to Reduplication with Ridecolation of a Portrait of the Artist as Manzoni”. But the Beatles and other white rockers do so mindlessly, simply as a byproduct of the act of appropriation.

Finally, because rock and roll is now white territory, black performers have become oddities in the space you can tick off on one hand: Jimi Hendrix, Living Color, Fishbone. And they are problematic both within the scene they’ve chosen to be part of as well as within the black community. Taking Hendrix for example, academician and culture critic Jack Hamilton tells us:¹⁰

[D]uring his career [he] was judged by many as a fraud or sellout, his blackness rendering his music as inauthentically rock at the same time that his music rendered his person as inauthentically black.

Even though he was able to become an important, even iconic figure in music, arguably this conflict was one of the reasons for his drug abuse, and ultimately premature death, 50 years ago last week. Far from being harmless, there are pretty real consequences here and this is just one performer that’s particularly well known—there’s no real way of knowing how many others there have been.

So to recap:

  • Pat Boone: A cultural appropriator for audiences that didn’t want any vestige of blackness in their rock and roll. This makes his music inauthentic as rock and roll, so the Hall of Fame is happy to decry and exclude him, which has the added benefit of allowing them to signal their virtue.
  • Elvis Presley: A cultural appropriator for audiences that wanted a minstrelsy version of rock and roll. The Hall of Fame adores him because he is essential to white of rock and roll, which is rock and roll as they define it.
  • Otis Blackwell: An authentic rock and roll creator who sold his creations in order to overcome his dire economic circumstances. He probably couldn’t foresee PoC being excluded from the musical genre they had created to the extent that were.
  • Sam Phillips: The mastermind behind stealing cultural products from PoC like Blackwell and packaging them into rock and roll minstrelsy. He knew exactly what the audience wanted and made lots of money by giving it to them.
  • Taco Bell: Faux Mexican junk food; inauthentic as a cultural product and also as food.

In the end Gladwell’s piece is deeply self serving: he shows his wokeness, promotes another podcast he’s associated with, and justifies his love of Taco Bell. But really, and more insidiously, he’s whitewashing his own appropriation of thought from the intellectual realm into the mainstream.

I think this really will conclude the Gladwellocalypse series. When I began it, it was to point out a rare misstep in RevHist’s first season. I followed it up because there was another minor issue I wanted to discuss in season two. Season three was largely uninteresting, but then came season four. I’ve already taken issue with a three-part miniseries appearing there, even while generally defending Gladwell. And there was little to like in season five. Even when I disagreed with RevHist initially, it was fun to argue with. Lately I just find it disappointing, so I guess I should find another podcast to listen to.


Read Subsequent Addendum

Appropriating a Missing Past


Read the Original Article

Roll Over McFly


Read Previous Articles in the Gladwellocalypse Series

Part 1: The Limits of Revisionist History

Part 2: The Unfit “King”

Part 3: Descent into the Absurd


Notes

  1. Macolm Gladwell, “In a Metal Mood”, Revisionist History, 2019.
  2. January 10th Broadcast, Late Night with David Letterman, 1984.
  3. Otis Blackwell, Interview with Jan-Erik Kjeseth, 1984.
  4. Margo Jefferson, “Ripping Off Black Music”, Harper’s Magazine, 1973. She’s quite frank with her language.
  5. Letterman.
  6. Jefferson.
  7. Ibid.
  8. Ibid.
  9. Collected respectively in Fictions (Ficciones), 1962 and Misreadings (Diario minimo), 1993.
  10. Jack Hamilton, “How Rock and Roll Became White”, Slate, 2016.

Indelible Women

The female warrior in Japan

Often correspondents make me aware of articles they feel I’d be interested in. This was the case a while back when Vice featured one about Japanese women warriors. It’s definitely a topic I’m interested in and the actual information about the historical women warriors was pretty good, though it wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before.

I did, however, take issue with the central argument of the piece, which right from the title, is that these figures were “Erased from History”.¹ The claim is somewhat self serving, of course, as the journalist makes herself the discoverer of this lost information. When did this erasure take place and by whom? I wondered, thinking immediately of the well-known exploits of Tomoe Gozen (巴 御前), among many others. The article seems to offer multiple theories: during the Tokugawa bakufu (徳川幕府, 1600–1868), the Meiji era (明治, 1868–1912), or by Westerners coming into contact with the culture.

Let’s look at these claims one at a time, beginning with the Tokugawa or Edo period (江戸時代). In the article, Hastings states:2

The advent of the Edo Period at the beginning of the 17th century brought a huge shift to the status of women in Japanese society. During these years, the dominant Neo-Confucian philosophy [宋明理學] and burgeoning marriage market heralded a radical change for the onna-bugeisha [女武芸者], whose status as fearsome warriors stood in stark opposition to the new order of peace, political stability, and rigid social convention.

However, the Edo period marked a shift for everyone in Japanese society. In particular, the historically landed samurai class (侍), were dispossessed and their lands handed over to their feudal lords, the daimyō (大名). This left three options open to samurai, the first, and most unappealing one, was to become peasants, the second to become rōnin (浪人), which also meant leaving the country as it was at peace, or finally to find roles as paid retainers of the daimyō; essentially aristocratic bureaucrats and administrators. In short, there was no place in Japan for warriors of any type, although of course these changes would have landed harder on onna-bugeisha. Rulers at the end of the warring states period (戦国時代, Sengoku Jidai 1467–1615) sought to curtail the excesses of the warrior class in general, with both Oda Nobunaga (織田 信長) and his former retainer who came into power after him, Toyotomi Hideyoshi (豐臣 秀吉), conducting sword hunts (刀狩, katanagari) late in the 18th century—immediately prior to the ascendancy of the Tokugawas. The countryside was scoured and weapons confiscated under these edicts in order to prevent others from coming into power by force of arms as these two just had done.

As to Confucian thought being a factor, paradoxically, it had come to Japan in the form of the the ritsuryō (律令) system, which contained both administrative and criminal codes, well before the time Hastings suggests, during the Asuka period (飛鳥時代, late 6th century–710). And moreover, the system’s collapse during Japan’s medieval period—again immediately prior to Tokugawa rule—is what actually ushered in widespread patriarchy across Japan. Before these changes in the social order, for example it was the norm for a man to marry into a woman’s family instead of the other way around.

Additionally, these male-led family structures may have been the norm, but exceptions could naturally be made among the aristocratic samurai class. A pair of letters sent by Toyotomi recently came to light, which were sent to his allies, the Munakata (宗像) clan, whose male head, Ujisada (氏貞) had recently died:3

Both letters were addressed to Saikaku [才鶴], showing that Hideyoshi acknowledged Ujisada’s wife as head of the Munakata clan.

In any case, as we saw in the case of Huā Mùlán (花 木蘭), when Confucianism encountered the woman warrior where they wanted to see a devoted wife and mother, rather than “erasing” her, they simply altered the narrative to better fit within their social dictates.

Hastings’ claims about the naginata (薙刀), a polearm with a sword-like blade, also struck me as odd:4

Martial arts training, therefore, was a means for a woman to practice servitude towards the men of the household, and cultivate an ordered, domesticated life free of the energies of war.

I was unable to find any support for this claim, but she did attribute it to an article by Ellis Amdur, a martial arts instructor who does not provide any source for his information, in his decidedly unscholarly work.5 The naginata was used ubiquitously in feudal Japan by samurai in general, warrior monks known as sōhei (僧兵), as well as ashigaru (足軽) general infantry, for entirely practical purposes: the weapon features the cutting prowess of the sword as well as the longer range of a polearm, which also allows better ability to block and greater leverage in attacks.

In any case if the erasure of warrior women was supposed to have been effected during the rule of the Tokugawas, Hastings herself contradicts it by opening the piece recounting the deeds of Nakano Takeko (中野 竹子) who fought in the Boshin War (戊辰戦争) in 1868, one of the conflicts leading up to the Meiji Restoration (明治維新) later that same year and long past the reforms of the Edo period.

But let’s talk about the Meiji period in case this is when women warriors are meant to have been disappeared. The government actually outlawed all samurai, male and female, also making Nakano one of the last if not the last of this warrior class—that’s right, the last samurai was a female one, and sure as hell not Tom Cruise. Again, this woman warrior being active after the Edo period flies in the face of Hastings’ claims as to any erasures having taken place during that time.

As for Westerners effecting an erasure of warrior women, Hastings presents no support for the idea. Such an effacement of a culture’s history would be rather unlikely to affect the people’s own views and as I’ve discussed in other articles, already during the Meiji era, foreign influence was being pushed back on, which became quite thorough during the subsequent Taishō period (大正, 1912–1926).

Nonetheless, as Hastings suggests, Westerners have fetishized Japanese women essentially from their first sight of them, with French naval officer Pierre Loti writing the novel Madame Chrysanthème in 1887, a nearly autobiographical account of an affair he had with Kane Kiku (金菊) when he was stationed in Nagasaki (長崎) in the summer of 1885. The work was highly successful, running to 25 editions in five years, and inspiring several other works including Giacomo Pucini’s 1904 opera Madama Butterfly. Loti’s exoticist and reductive view was summed up as, “France for food, Japan for wives.”

Writer Lafcadio Hearn, although also from the West (Greek-Irish by way of the US), settled in Japan, was married, had a family, and became a teacher. Understanding the culture on a much deeper level, he commented:6

Of course Loti is very unjust to the Japanese woman, and has not yet even learned that to understand the beauty of another race so remote as the Japanese, requires both time and study. It does not strike a European at the first glance. He knows also nothing about their morals or manners, and his divinations are all wrong on these subjects.

And so finally, there is a thread of truth here: I doubt that you’ll hear much about Japan’s warrior women in a history class outside of the country unless you get in pretty deep. I may indeed have stumbled onto the germ of Hastings’ article, whence I conjecture an editor asking for its claims to be more far reaching. It should probably have been something like:

Hey, Uneducated Roundeye, You Probably Haven’t Heard of Japan’s Warrior Women

Which actually would have been a good bet, but means this article is not directed at me. Not only did I live and work in Japan for several years, certainly researching history extensively while working on many of the highly accurate games based in Japan’s past my employer, Kōei (光栄) was famous for, but I also acted as a bit of a research assistant for my wife when she produced a set of books about the nation’s history and culture as part of her master’s degree. As Hearn did, she and I both came to understand Japanese culture on a deeper level, including the fact that while it appears patriarchal, the apron strings are strong, as writer Kaori Shoji notes:7

On the surface, Japan is entrenched in a fukenshakai (父権社会, patriarchal society), but if the nation’s women were to quit their chores en masse, the damage would be far more serious than any earthquake. This is probably why the kanji characters for state (国家, kokka) consist of kuni (, country) and ie (, house) and finances are often called daidokorojijyō (台所事情, kitchen circumstances).

This is why, for example, banks and insurance companies always target women in advertising—with few exceptions they are the financial decision makers of the household.

Another point of access to the Japanese traditions of the woman warrior for me was ukiyo-e (浮世絵), an art form I’ve been a fan of for quite a long time. Edo Japan being a closed society, there was a high degree of regulation and censorship of the arts, and even sumptuary laws dictating what the burgeoning merchant class could wear. As to art, even in the somewhat more open culture of late 19th century Britain, Leopold I of Belgium warned his niece, Queen Victoria:8

[D]ealings with artists, for instance, require great prudence; they are acquainted with all classes of society, and for that very reason dangerous.

Ukiyo-e was especially troubling as it was an art clamored for by the masses: beautiful, vividly colored works that, as they were prints, could be reproduced in vast numbers and sold cheaply. The Tokugawa government went from outright bans and punishment of artists to dictating everything down to the sizes of paper that could be used and heavy censorship of themes, content, and representations thereof. Artists were required to produce smaller scale black-and-white proofs of the works they intended to create and submit them for approval before they could proceed. The final prints feature government stamps showing that they had been officially authorized. And there are many, many prints of female warriors.

Therefore these woodblock prints tell a different story—they made it past the careful censorship of the Tokugawa administration, so they can’t have been controversial, and were included in series about warriors rather than beauties (Bijin 美人)—an extremely popular theme. We can only conclude the artists and the government wanted to celebrate their badassery without regard to gender.

And also, it seems without regard to origin: legendary warriors from China and Korea also appeared in prints. When I worked on Bandit Kings of Ancient China (『水滸伝・天命の誓い』, Suikoden: Tenmei no Chikai, the subtitle translating as “oath of destiny”), a game based on the Chinese classic, The Water Margin (《水滸傳》; Shuǐhǔ Zhuàn), I created a black-and-white splash page image based on a woodblock print by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi (月岡 芳年), one of my favorite artists of all time. The image is of one of the main characters (and one of the most colorful ones), Lu Zhishen (魯智深, Japanese Rochishen), who is in the process of smashing the guardian statues of his own monastery, ’cause he’s drunk and crazy.

Later, while I was still working at Kōei I visited Aomori (青森), at the northern end of Honshu (本州), Japan’s main island, for the Nebuta festival (ねぶた祭り), which presents heroic figures in colorful floats made of paper and lit from within. The imagery is closely connected with ukiyo-e both thematically and visually, and indeed some of the merch sold there was two-dimensional art. I selected a noren (暖簾) featuring Gu Dasao (顧大嫂, Japanese Kodaisō), somewhat personal to me from having worked on Bandit Kings, in which she appears. Her image adorned the doorway to our kitchen for many years and I regretted not knowing there were awesome ukiyo-e of this warrior woman such as this one by Utagawa Kuniyoshi (歌川国芳) when I was working on the game.


Notes

  1. Christobel Hastings, “How Onna-Bugeisha, Feudal Japan’s Women Samurai, Were Erased From History”, Vice, 2018.
  2. Ibid.
  3. Kunihiko Imai, “Hideyoshi acknowledged woman as head of samurai clan”, Asahi Shimbun, 2019. Note that there’s a weird tradition of using the leader’s given name.
  4. Hastings.
  5. Ellis Amdur, “Women Warriors of Japan, The Role of the Arms-Bearing Women in Japanese History”, 2002.
  6. Lafcadio Hearn, Letters, 1893-1894.
  7. Kaori Shoji, “Nadeshiko—adorable till they die”, The Japan Times, 2013.
  8. The Letters of Queen Victoria: A Selection from Her Majesty’s Correspondence Between the Years 1837 and 1861, 1907. The quote has appeared lately in a slightly pithier form and with various incorrect attributions.

Those Frumious Jaws

The self-aware failure of Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (Interactive storytelling, Part 2)

Hardly one not to be late to a party, I noted Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (BMB) more than a year ago, but have only recently bothered to watch it. Gamedev circles were abuzz when it came out late in 2018—not only was it an interactive narrative, but the subject was the early history of gamemaking—so I heard about it quite a lot.

In brief, the story, written by series creator Charlie Brooker, concerns a young developer named Stefan Butler (played by Fionn Whitehead), working on a game incorporating interactive story elements in 1984. The protagonist’s psychological issues stemming from the death of his mother and deadline pressure from the company he’s working for propel the tale’s action.

Game nerds, naturally enough, gravitated towards discussion of where and how the story branched, and the number of endings there were. My focus was more on if or how the piece expanded the form, which sadly, I can’t say it did.

Present was the foldback, the device I’ve described before as a way to end up with the same result after making different choices. Ben Allen wrote in the Radio Times:1

In some cases, we arrived at the exact same scene, just with different options.

Indeed, in our playthrough there were choices that were repeatedly pointed to, which felt rather like being led somewhere than choosing your own adventure. I believe the combination of foldbacks and forced decisions to which the NYT review refers, saying:2

[I]t’s the “decisions” masquerading as free will that are really frustrating.

Many reviewers and acquaintances alike pointed to the first few branches of the tale which are quite innocuous and almost definitely inconsequential. The NYT piece reports:3

The minute choices you get to make, like which album he listens to, read as eye roll-worthy contrivances only a small child would get excited about.

As to the endings, Hollywood Reporter contributor, Jackie Strause says:4

[…] Brooker and Jones are clear as to not “prescribe” one ending over the others, especially because they couldn’t agree on what exactly defines one.

But this is BS; the ending where you have Stefan take his meds and the game is delivered on time as a commercial flop is clearly a bad ending, which also sends the awesome meta-message that it’s OK for artists to sacrifice their personal health and well-being to produce superior entertainment experiences. Even a rather effusive review from David Sims of The Atlantic finally notes the serious shortcoming:5

Through the various branches I found, I never got to an ending of “Bandersnatch” that felt truly happy or fulfilling, though I’m sure one exists; the best (and last) one I arrived at was, at least, somewhat peaceful and touching, if a little mournful.

The tone of the Black Mirror itself might be what’s at work here and no good ending is intended, but as I noted in Part 1, bad endings are a common feature of the format. I “played” BMB with my family and, as nearly everyone has at least a passing understanding of the form, they played it safe, routinely choosing the path that seemed the least likely to result in disaster. Atlas Obscura contributor Sara Laskow noted of another such work, Journey under the Sea:6

This book is particularly tough on readers. One analysis found that more than 75 percent of the endings are unfavorable or deadly.

Even apart from this unpleasant feature, the more general ways interactive narratives break the rules of traditional ones are not surprising and delightful but off-putting. What is lost is the reader’s ability to anticipate what will happen and either have those expectations gratified or thwarted by the author. Back in 1995, The Economist dedicated a lengthy editorial to the form, offering various criticisms, including the following that mirrors mine:7

The snag with most electronic stories is that they tamper with the foundation of narrative: structure. When stories wobble and change with our whim, they lose their believability, and with it our willingness to care. […] But what the typical reader wants to know is: which is the right word to click on? Which path generates the closest thing to a satisfying linear story, the sort that life, experience and thousands of years of story-telling have taught us to expect? For every path taken, there is the path not taken. In frustration, we re-read the story, trying to exhaust all the possibilities in the search for the satisfying tale that surely must lie somewhere within.

So, if you take BMB on the superficial level of an interactive narrative, it is a failure in all the usual ways such vehicles are. However, this film is self aware, and that saves it as art to an extent—as I already pointed out above Brooker understands and subverts the expectations of someone playing it safe by giving them a mediocre ending for their trouble. He is attempting to comment on the form rather than simply using it as a gimmick, as several critics have noted; Stefan even says, “Free will is an illusion.”

Right from the start BMB is self-referential, beginning with interactive narrative: the game Stefan is making is the same form as the film, and the game is based on a book that’s one too. Bandersnatch was also the title of a real game project from the period which not only failed to launch after being heavily hyped, but bankrupted the developer, Imagine Software. This is alluded to directly with a cover of classic gaming mag Crash carying news of the company’s closure appearing in BMB. Finally, there is a scene in the film where Stefan can turn down the opportunity to make his game, mirroring the way Brooker and EP Annabel Jones initially turned down Netflix’ offer to make an interactive film—in both cases they decide to do it anyway but on their own terms.

File:New-alice-bandersnatch.png

Another obvious Bandersnatch connection is to the Lewis Carroll creature. It appears in Through the Looking Glass in the famous nonsense poem “Jabberwocky”:8

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
he jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

It appears again in The Hunting of the Snark in greater detail, but the point in BMB is that of multiple realities, such as the Looking Glass world of the Alice book. The film even contains a scene in which Stefan literally goes through a mirror just as Alice does after conjecturing as to the existence of this other reality:9

And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away, just like a bright silvery mist. […] In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly down into the Looking-glass room.

Another such notion is present in Carroll’s work that everything and everyone exists in the Red King’s dream and would disappear if he were to wake. Other references fly thick and fast in the film: to Philip K. Dick’s Ubik, with psychic spies in a world where the shape of reality begins to shift, and Katsuhiro Otomo’s (大友 克洋) Akira, where powerful psychics cause people to be sucked into other dimensions.

These allusions are made manifest in the film as different theories the characters have as to the nature of the reality they exist in. One other is explored; that of a massive government conspiracy, which is present in both of the above works, but particularly in Dick’s. This author got a little crazy, or at least obsessive himself, even attempting to kill his third wife, while some paths in BMB have Stefan murder his father. 

At least in the realm of computer game versions of interactive narratives, there’s an awkwardness that’s created because there is a distinct separation between you, the player and the character you are playing. This structure denies immersion in the role as you telling them what to do is essentially deus ex machina. A sampling of the dialogue between played and player points out this failing:

  • “That’s not on fire.” —Grim Fandango
  • “That doesn’t need to be kept fresh.” —Escape from Monkey Island
  • “Pick up the moon! Are you nuts?”—Escape from Monkey Island

Again BMB explores this space, with Stefan beginning to question and resist your choices if they don’t seem natural to him, and therefore essentially criticising the way you are playing. Eventually, he speaks directly to you, asking who is there and demanding to know who you are. In the film’s world, Stefan’s sense of someone outside telling him what to do is seen as part of his growing psychosis, though we as the audience know he is telling the truth.

Another element that refers back to the nature of interactive narrative is “the glyph”, essentially an upside-down squared-off Y that Stefan obsessively draws at some point in the film. This represents the branching structure just as the Samian letter  does, with a single path bifurcating to a pair leading to either virtue or vice. And as I’ve previously noted, the repeated branching needed in interactive narrative leads to the madness of geometric progression.

But as I said, all this impressive self-awareness fails to lead to a good work of art. There’s high irony in that the bad ending—Stefan’s safe production of a mediocre game—is the fate shared by BMB itself, which received a tepid 72% Tomatometer compared to the series’ overall 83%.

I know some will think me a traitor to the medium I work in. Interactivity is an important element of games, which would seem on its face to suit it to the realization of interactive narrative. My goal in games is to give players meaningful choices that are supported by continued, engaging gameplay, so false choice is a huge pet peeve of mine as it runs directly counter to that. Print remains the main realm in which I’ve seen a possibility space created within a narrative for the reader to explore.

Based on the reading experiences he had enjoyed most, together with some postmodernist semiotic theories, Umberto Eco codified and espoused what he termed the “open work” (opera aperta). In his works on the topic, he declares that a “closed work”, one that limits the reader’s understanding to a single, unambiguous, linear interpretation is the least rewarding one—which I’ll note is essentially what interactive fictions do, but with bad storytelling and false choices along the way to make things even worse.

Eco’s starting point seems to have been James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, which he described thus:10

[Finnegans Wake] constitutes the most terrifying document of formal instability and semantic ambiguity that we possess.

I must confess to have washed out on a full reading of this book, but as with many games, I’d argue that it’s not about getting to the end, but the journey. The difficulties in reading the book are down to the words themselves, many of which are invented. Take one of my favorite passages:11

Which we all like. Rain. When we sleep. Drops. But wait until our sleeping. Drain. Sdops.

The basic level of meaning here is, “we all like rain when we sleep, but wait until our sleeping stops.” but the breakup of the sentences is poetry—evoking the interruptive quality of the actual raindrops, whose sound begins to intrude on the meaning of the words themselves with the word “sdops”, which then also links to the Italian word sdoppiare, “to split in two”, and so on. Eco in fact sees such fields of possibility even within single words within the work, such as “meandertale”, which he discusses at length as to how it can a pun on “Neanderthal” which appears nowhere in the text:12

Our experiment thus has two senses: first, to see if, from a point outside Joyce’s linguistic universe, we can enter into the universe; then, departing from a point internal to that universe, to see whether or not we can connect, through multiple and continuous pathways, as in a garden where the paths fork, all the other points.

The reference to Jorge Luis Borges’ “The Garden of Forking Paths” (“El jardín de senderos que se bifurcan”) is not accidental here as Eco was a fan of his works as well and for similar reasons. So here, in effect, Eco is saying that Joyce’s work is a realization of Borges’ concept of expanding possibilities in book form.

Still, the qualities that Eco sets forth for the creation of an open work are available to any medium; they are:13

  • Dynamism
  • Indefiniteness
  • Ambiguity
  • Indeterminacy
  • Defamiliarization
  • Suggestiveness

I’m quite keen to produce a work in games that incorporates these elements in order to build an active interplay between the audience and the work in constantly shifting ways of generating meaning as Eco describes. But such a work would almost necessarily not be a commercial one, and unfortunately I need to earn a living.


Read Previous Articles in This Series

Part 1: Lizzie’s Game


Notes

  1. Ben Allen, “How many endings does Black Mirror’s interactive film Bandersnatch have?”, Radio Times, 2018.
  2. Aisha Harris, Margaret Lyons and Maureen Ryan, “‘Bandersnatch’ Has Many Paths, but Do Any of Them Add Up to Anything?”, NYT, 2019.
  3. Ibid.
  4. Jackie Strause, “‘Black Mirror’s’ Interactive Film: How to Navigate ‘Bandersnatch’”, The Hollywood Reporter, 2018.
  5. David Sims, “The Branching Horrors of Black Mirror’s ‘Bandersnatch’”, The Atlantic, 2018.
  6. Sara Laskow, “These Maps Reveal the Hidden Structures of ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ Books”, Atlas Obscura, 2017.
  7. “Multimedia feature: Interactive fiction. But is it story-telling?”, The Economist, 1995.
  8. Carroll, Through the Looking Glass, 1871.
  9. Ibid.
  10. Eco, The Limits of Interpretation, 1990.
  11. Joyce, Finnegans Wake, 1939.
  12. The Limits of Interpretation.
  13. Eco, The Open Work (Opera Aperta), 1962.

Hellenism Schmellenism

Judaism’s Rich Curse Traditions (Defixiones, Part 8)

Thus far this series has explored the defixio (Roman lead curse tablet) around ancient Europe, the Near East and North Africa, as well as generating its own spin-off series. But it’s still not over: I ran across yet another striking example that bears looking into and which takes us further in the direction begun in the previous part. Although drawn from a peculiar place and source, which I’ll get to shortly, the item is clearly of the correct type, requiring a formula to be inscribed on “a strip of lead pipe” as follows:1

I hand over to you angels of disquiet who stand upon the fourth step, the life and the soul and the spirit of N son of N so that you may tie him in chains of iron and bind him to a bronze yoke. Do not give sleep, nor slumber, nor drowsiness to his eyelids; let him weep and cry like a woman at childbirth, and do not permit any (other) man to release him (from this spell).

This might be a bit controversial because the actual manuscript is dated quite late—from the late third century to early fourth AD. Still this text, the Sefer HaRazim (ספר הרזים‎, “Book of Secrets”, SHR hereafter), purports itself to be much older, having been given to Noah by Raziel (רזיאל‎), the “Angel of Mysteries”, eventually being passed down to Solomon (שְׁלֹמֹה), who was renowned for his wisdom and mystical powers. Some see SHR as belonging to Hellenistic Judaism, while others see it as merely heretical. 

Nonetheless I will attempt to establish here that cursing is deeply ingrained in Judaic tradition, including some of the specific elements that relate to the defixio, as well as that there is continuity with the Babylonian praxes which are ultimately the wellspring for this type of magic. This is to say that even granting the influence of Hellenism on some of the specific content of the SHR, since Greek magic was based on Near Eastern models, it would have easily resonated with people who had already long since been influenced by those same sources.

Genizah Manuscripts - Faculty of Divinity 50 Treasures

First a bit more about the source: the SHR was pieced together by Jewish scholar Mordecai Margalioth from a group of fragmentary manuscripts known as the Cairo Geniza in the mid-’60s. The dating is also uncertain as much of the Geniza is still more recent, leading some to push for a still later date, but there is no indication that this book was original and not copied from still earlier versions. In fact, similar to a book of recipes it was likely collecting previously extant scattered folklore and magical information into one cohesive treatise. And as we’ve seen there is a general Western bias toward moving dates later for Near Eastern materials. There is actually some doubt about the entire concept of Hellenistic Judaism—implying a joining of Greek mysticism with Jewish religious tradition—as relates to various texts including SHR:2

Sefer HaRazim cannot be dismissed as mere magic and superstition. Nor can evidence […] hitherto considered to be “pagan,” be ignored, especially where the documents are shot through and through with Judaic allusions and possess little or no pagan references.

The bit of biblical evidence for cursing I provided in Part 7 was really aimed at establishing the practice among the Canaanites whose land the Israelites had moved into in the Book of Judges, adopting some of their customs. In short I was looking at it as an outlier and didn’t expect to find a rich tradition within Judaism proper.  But I was wrong—it’s everywhere, so I’ll end up quoting myself a bit here. As an example of how curse-laden even the religious canon is, most of Deuteronomy 28 is taken up with imprecations against those failing to obey God.

One important element of cursing both in the Graeco-Roman world and in the Near East is that of the dead mediating help from (the) god(s): I’ve laid out the practice of depositing defixiones in necropoleis and’ as we saw in the previous part, Assyrian texts present remedies for when one’s figurine has been “handed over to Eresh’kigal (𒀭𒊩𒆠𒃲, Queen of the Underworld) in dilapidated places,” which is to say tombs, where someone dead performs this mediative function. While this may seem to some to be at odds with Judeo-Christian values, it’s actually been there since way before Christendom’s reliquaries of saints’ body parts. The tomb of Rachel at the north entrance to Bethlehem has been a place of pilgrimage from ancient times—i.e., before Israel was subjugated by the Neo-Assyrians in 722 BC—to this very day, with barren women visiting to pray directly to the matriarch to grant them progeny. David, Maimonides, and Rabbi Simeon Bar Yochai, apparently also fall into this category. Such a matriarch or patriarch is:3

[…] privy to the requests of supplicants and himself has, as it were, the ear of the deity. That the deceased constitutes an active intermediary, rather than a passive instrument of communication, seems evident in that prayer may be addressed to the deceased rather than to a divine being. More properly put, the deceased has become a divine being in some serious sense, and therefore like God or an angel, may be efficaciously beseeched in prayer.

Another divine agency to which the petitioner can appeal are angels, as can be seen in the formula from SHR. This might seem strange at first blush, but as professor of Jewish Studies Philip S. Alexander notes:4

[A]ngels, shockingly, function like demons […]  there is no moral dimension to the ill that they are required to inflict.

Again this is not at all out of line; the distinction between angels and demons is a fairly recent one in the Judeo-Christian milieu, likely entering post-biblical Judaism under the influence of Zoroastrianism—which sees the world as a battleground between the forces of good and evil—and transforming them into the semi-divine benevolent beings familiar to us today. The word itself comes down to us from Mycenaean Greek a-ke-ro (probably angelos as it is in Modern Greek) simply meaning “messenger”, probably a via Semitic loanword with a related meaning, ’engirtā (𐡀𐡍‬𐡂𐡓𐡕‬𐡀‎ “message”). The term demon in fact has similarly ambivalent origins, coming from Ancient Greek δαίμων (daimon) simply meaning a deity.

Archangel Raziel (Escuela Española).jpg

As we can see from the SHR formula we started with, one cursed is “handed over” to these angels who are meant to cause physical harm. Of one such group of angels the SHR reports:5

There is no mercy in them but they (wish) only to take revenge and to punish him who is delivered into their hands.

Persuasive analogy is another key element of sympathetic magic, one seen everywhere in the Graeco-Roman context, as well as in Mesopotamia, for which I provided an example in the previous part from the third millennium BC:6

duggazzagin khegazgaz

May it be smashed to bits like a pot!

Which would also have had the supplicant physically break a pot.

Not only are such persuasive analogies part and parcel of Judaic cursing, as we can already detect in the SHR one, but this exact analogy is also present in the Book of Jeremiah, with the titular prophet being told by God to, “Get a potter’s earthen bottle and go to the valley of the son of Hinnom,” and:7

Then shalt thou break the bottle in the sight of the men that go with thee, and shalt say unto them: Thus saith the LORD of hosts: Even so will I break this people and this city, as one breaketh a potter’s vessel, that cannot be made whole again.

Here the divine agent is the divine agent, God himself:8

Whilst divine agency features in many curses (especially in Tanakh), in imprecatory cursing, God is explicitly addressed through prayer as the one who will inflict physical suffering in the form of a curse upon another.

The SHR also carries on the pot-breaking tradition, prescribing a rite using “unfired pottery vessels” which are to be broken:9

[A]ccept from my hand at this time that which I throw to you, to affect N son of N, to break his bones, to crush all his limbs, and to shatter his conceited power, as these pottery vessels are broken. And may there be no recovery for him just as there is no repair for these pottery vessels.

Lest you think there’s still a significant difference in character between Biblical curses and the ones from this text on black magic in spite of the similar themes and  rhetoric applied to both, let’s get down and dirty. Here is one from Psalm 109. The psalmist is falsely accused by his enemies who seek to have him tried and put to death. He begins with a direct address, “O God, whom I praise, do not remain silent”, asking for vengeance against those who have wronged him. The subsequent text resonates with the plea for justice type of defixio where quite explicit and exaggerated punishments are called for. Further, reversals appear as well as various other persuasive analogies:10

Let his days be few;
Let another take his charge.
Let his children be fatherless,
And his wife a widow.
Let his children be vagabonds, and beg;
And let them seek their bread out of their desolate places.
Let the creditor distrain all that he hath;
And let strangers make spoil of his labor.
Let there be none to extend kindness unto him;
Neither let there be any to be gracious unto his fatherless children.
Let his posterity be cut off;
In the generation following let their name be blotted out.
Let the iniquity of his fathers be brought to remembrance unto the LORD;
And let not the sin of his mother be blotted out.
Let them be before the LORD continually,
That He may cut off the memory of them from the earth.
Because that he remembered not to do kindness,
But persecuted the poor and needy man,
And the broken in heart he was ready to slay.
Yea, he loved cursing, and it came unto him;
And he delighted not in blessing, and it is far from him.
He clothed himself also with cursing as with his raiment,
And it is come into his inward parts like water,
And like oil into his bones.

It ends with a sort of ex-voto oath, telling what the psalmist undertakes to perform if the aid he asks is given: “With my mouth I will greatly extol the LORD; in the great throng I will praise him.” 

In general, biblical scholars are clearly uncomfortable with these passages and attempt to dismiss them in various ways—these things are not meant literally, they belong to magic and not religion, the curses are actually those of the psalmist’s enemies—but their objections ring false. Here’s another quite explicit curse formula taken from the Qumran version of Deuteronomy:11

They shall begin to speak and shall say: “Accursed are you for all your wicked, blameworthy deeds. May God hand you over to terror by the hand of all those carrying out acts of vengeance. May he bring upon you destruction without mercy, according to the darkness of your deeds, and sentenced to the gloom of everlasting fire. May God not be merciful when you entreat him. May he not forgive by purifying your iniquities. May he lift the countenance of his anger to avenge himself on you, and may there be no peace for you by the mouth of those who intercede”.

Just to put a fine point on it, let’s date the sections of the Bible we’re looking at here: Jeremiah’s ministry was active from around 626-587 BC and the eponymous book of the Hebrew Bible was set down soon afterward—at latest by the end of the same century. The last of the Psalms likely come from the post-Exilic period, that is the 5th century BC, so this one would be some time before then. Finally, Deuteronomy, meant to be authored by Moses, is generally agreed to date from between the 7th and 5th centuries BC, with the actual Qumran manuscript coming from somewhere between the last two centuries BC and the 1st century AD, but almost necessarily drawing on earlier material. The period of Hellenism is 323-31 BC, so only the Qumran Deuteronomy and the Geniza SHR have actual overlap. Also despite Graeco-Roman curses presenting numerous, colorful persuasive analogies, I haven’t seen pot-smashing appear except in Mesopotamia and the examples above.

So while there may have been some Hellenizing influence on the SHR, it seems that the Judaic curse tradition was already present, much of it drawn directly from that of the same culture that influenced those Western praxes. This is likely why the Greek materials resonated with those clearly already in existence among Jewish mystics, found favor, and were incorporated into the SHR.

As to the idea that the SHR is a heretical text, according to professor of Jewish thought and folklore, Yuval Harari, it seems to have been quite popular…12

[…] during the Byzantine period [395–1453] and the subsequent centuries. Near the turn of the millennium it was mentioned by Karaite leaders as a paradigm of the “Rabbanite books of magic.” It was repeatedly copied in both Europe and the Muslim world and was partially embedded in the most influential magic compilation Book of the Angel Razi’el.

So those wishing to denounce it today are really just trying to rewrite history.


Read Previous Articles in This Series

Part 1: The Curses of Aquae Sulis

Part 2: Malefic Traditional

Part 3: Sympathy for Sauron

Part 4: Bargaining with the Gods

Part 5: Secundina’s Beef

Part 6: More Than Money Can Buy

Part 7: The Punic Curse Trail


Notes

  1. Michael A. Morgan, Sefer HaRazim: The Book of Mysteries, 1983.
  2. Jack Lightstone, “Christian Anti-Judaism in its Judaic Mirror: The Judaic Context of Early Christianity Revised”, Anti-Judaism in Early Christianity, Volume 2: Separation and Polemic, 1986, Peter Richardson, David M. Granskou, Stephen G. Wilson eds.
  3. Ibid.
  4. Philip S. Alexander, “Sefer Ha-Razim and the Problem of Black Magic in Early Judaism”, Magic in the Biblical World: From the Rod of Aaron to the Ring of Solomon, 2004, T. E. Klutz, ed.
  5. Morgan.
  6. Deliver Me from Evil: Mesopotamian Incantations, 2500–1500 BC, Graham Cunningham, 1997. I have used my own transliteration and translation.
  7. Jeremiah 191-15, The Holy Scriptures According to the Masoretic Text, a New Translation, Jewish Publication Society, 1917 (JPS Tanakh).
  8. David Raymond Smith, ‘Hand this man over to Satan’: Curse, Exclusion and Salvation in 1 Corinthians 5, 2005.
  9. Morgan.
  10. Psalm 109, JPS Tanakh.
  11. 4Q11:1-6, Dead Sea Scrolls.
  12. Yuval Harari, “Sefer ha-Razim (the Book of Mysteries) (Jewish magical text)”, The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, Roger S. Bagnall, Kai Brodersen, Craige B. Champion, Andrew Erskine, and Sabine R. Huebner, eds., 2012. Not anthropologist and historian Yuval Noah Harari—this is a different guy.

Devoted More Than All Others

The Etruscan affinity for esotericism (The continuity of magic from East to West, Part 3B)

I’ve remarked already on the sparsity of Etruscan inscriptions, but that might’ve given the wrong impression. There are actually thousands of them although many are quite short—limited to just names of people or places. I related in Part 3A that the script is closely related to Greek and also quite close to Phoenician, the ancestor of both alphabets. Some letterforms and the reading direction suggest direct transmission Phoenician. Still, Euboean Greeks (Εὐβοῆς) were present on the Italic Peninsula at the same time (at least by circa 700 BC)¹ so there certainly could have been multiple influences. At any rate, because the Etruscan script is easily read and our understanding of the lexicon has improved greatly in recent years, most of these inscriptions can be easily read, with only the longest ones presenting some difficulties especially from the occasional hapax legomena, and even those can generally be guessed at from the context.

One of the best known of these comes from the Pyrgi tablets, which are important as a key to the Etruscan language as well as evidence of direct contact between this people and the Phoenecians. The artifact consists of three gold tablets and a fourth fragmentary bronze one, with the third of the gold ones inscribed in both languages. It comes from the Tyrrhenian coast where the port for the southern Etruscan town of 𐌀𐌓𐌔𐌉𐌀𐌊 (Kaisra, L. Caere; for whatever reason we only know the Latinized form of the Greek name of the port, Πύργοι) once stood. The tablets record the dedication in around 500 BC of a shrine to a syncretized 𐤏𐤔𐤕𐤓𐤕-𐌉𐌍𐌖 (Uni-’Ashtart) by Kaisra’s king, 𐌔𐌀𐌍𐌀𐌉𐌋𐌄𐌅 𐌄𐌉𐌓𐌀𐌚𐌄𐌈 (T’efarie Welianas). ’Ashtart is an extension of the Sumerian Inanna (𒈹), “Queen of Heaven”, who the Assyrians called Ishtar.

The alliance of the two peoples is shown by the fact that one of the most important events in the reign of Ἱέρων Α (Heiron I) of Syracuse (Συρακοῦσαι) was the defeat of an Etruscan-Phoenecian fleet fleet at the battle of Κύμη (L. Cumae) in 474 BC. The Syracusan tyrant commissioned Πίνδαρος (Pindar) to compose an epinician ode—his first Pythian Ode—recounting this deed and we have an Etruscan helmet inscribed in Greek and dedicated as a votive at the sanctuary at Ὀλυμπία (Olympia) for another attestation.

What is both remarkable as well as handy for my subject is that the overwhelming majority of Etruscan texts were of a religious nature. As Livy put it in his History of Rome:²

[…] gens itaque ante omnes alias eo magis dedita religionibus, quod excelleret arte colendi eas […]. 

[The Etruscans were] a nation which was devoted more than all others to religious practices, because it excelled in the art of cultivating them […]. 

Because of how influential the Etruscan culture was on that of the Romans it can be quite difficult to disentangle the two. Nonetheless, Roman writers such as Livy and Cicero tell us about the things they borrowed from their neighbors including that these people had a rather vast and detailed body of writing codifying their religious rites, texts referred to in Latin as the Etrusca disciplina. Although they are mostly lost, their names as rendered into Latin and general contents are known:

  • Libri Fulgurales: divination from lightning
  • Libri Haruspicini: divination from animal entrails
  • Libri Rituales:
    • Libri Acherontici: the afterlife
    • Libri Fatales: founding cities and sacred places
    • Libri Ostentaria: interpreting prodigies

There were also the Libri Tagetici and the Libri Vegoici, which included the revelations of the prophet Tarkhies (𐌔𐌄𐌉𐌗𐌓𐌀𐌕, L. Tages) and the prophetess Wecu (𐌖𐌂𐌄𐌅, L. Vegoia) respectively. Finally, according to one 4th century Latin writer, Maurus Servius Honoratus, there was yet another set that discussed animal gods.

Tarkhies is a particularly important legendary figure, who is said to have emerged from a plow furrow resembling an infant but with adult features, he proclaimed his doctrine to a large assembly of leaders of the Etruscan people. This event occurred in Tarkhna (𐌀𐌍𐌗𐌓𐌀𐌕, modern Tarquinia) one of the oldest and largest of the civilization’s cities, whose name may also derive from that of the prophet. 

Although the actual disciplina are elusive, there have been advances in study and newly unearthed artifacts that have begun to illuminate the period in which the books were originally set down and propagated. Firstly this time has been identified as beginning in the 9th and extending to the 7th century BC and many of the details about the disciplina are confirmed by secondary evidence.

Furthermore, as I have discussed, the art of haruspicy in particular is both a major element of Etruscan mysticism as well as a strong connection to the Mesopotamian origins of such practices across the ancient Mediterranean and indeed Europe generally. Just to return  briefly to the etymological connections, Greek τέρᾰτᾰ, “signs, omens, portents” of uncertain origin in dictionaries, seems quite close to Akkadian têrtu, meaning “divine instruction” which was used specifically to refer to liver reading, also connecting to the name 𐌀𐌉𐌔𐌄𐌓𐌄𐌕 (Teresia), meaning “that from beyond”, found in Etruscan, and also in Greek as Τειρεσίας (typically Romanized as Tiresias), a long-lived blind Theban (Θηβαῖος) soothsayer of myth.

cuneiform DI.RI.DA
têrtu: “divine instruction”

Again it’s hard to separate the Roman practices from the Etruscan ones as haruspices were fully integrated into the cultic practices of the former but those rites seem to have been of clearly Etruscan origin. Despite a few 4th century prohibitions, this form of divination continued on into Late Antiquity. Indeed, the influence can be seen in Greece where some of the Etruscan elaborations of the technical science appear in their rituals as well.

As I mentioned previously, the main reason the art seems to have remained Etruscan even after that culture’s absorption is that it was passed from father to son. This is explicitly described in many Roman sources including repeated references by Cicero and quite explicitly by Tacitus:³

[P]rimoresque Etruriae… retinuisse scientiam et in familias propagasse….

Noble Etruscans retained this knowledge and passed it down to their families….

And here we come to one of those rare but important pieces of the corpus of the Etruscan language. It’s also a primary source on the timeline of liver divination in Etruria: the third century sarcophagus of Laris Pulenas, (𐌔𐌀𐌍𐌄𐌋𐌖𐌐 𐌔𐌉𐌓𐌋) also from Tarkhna. Typically these sarcophagi bear little more than the name of the deceased, but the sculpted image of this one includes Laris holding an inscribed volumen (scroll), with nine lines discussing his lineage, accomplishments, and offices.

akg-images -

The operative lines here are the opening ones:

Laris Pulenas, son of Larce, grandson of Lart’, grandson of Welt’ur, great grandson of Pule Laris Creice… he wrote this book of haruspicy.

In Etruscan art the practice is represented from circa 450–400 BC, with images of famous prophets appearing in the mid-4th century and realia such as liver models in the 3rd and 2nd centuries. Images on the backs of mirrors are common, such as the one I included in Part 2B depicting the mythic soothsayer 𐌔𐌀𐌗𐌋𐌀𐌗 (Khalkhas L. Calchas) in a characteristic pose with his left foot resting on a rock, holding the liver in his left hand and examining it with his right. Again it’s clear that this strong continuity reflects a practice that has to have existed from the Archaic period (600–480 BC) and have become progressively more widespread.

The inscription on Laris Pulenas’  sarcophagus also matches entirely with the idea of the heredity of divinatory art among the Etruscans, which, taken together with the other evidence, can only lead one to conclude that the art was well established and documented by the Etruscans at least as far back as the Roman Kingdom (753 BC–509 BC), making the Orientalizing period (ca. 730–580 BC) seem still more probable as the point of its transmission from the ancient East.

Turning to Mesopotamia, we also see a clear model for the hereditary tradition of esotericism in cuneiform documents:

The secrets of ashipu-art, the knowing one shall show them to the knowing one; he who does not know does not see them; to your son whom you love, make him pronounce the name of god Asallukhi and god Ninurta, and show him.

This carries on into the Judaic tradition, a common occurrence as we have already seen. Such lineages are taken for granted to such an extent that Amos feels he must point out that his mystical abilities were not gained in this way:

I was no prophet, neither was I a prophet’s son; but I was a herdsman, and a cultivator of sycamores: and Jehovah took me from following the flock, and said unto me, “Go, prophesy unto my people Israel.”

As to the other forms of divination that round out the disciplina, they again follow on models clearly present in the ancient Near East and Mesopotamia, where the close observation and interpretation of natural phenomena as a system of signs from which knowledgeable priests could understand the will of the gods.

One of the loci for the direct transmission of the arts from the Near East to both the Greeks and Etruscans is a mixed population of these two peoples and Phoenicians in a community on the island now known as Ischia, but known then as Πιθηκοῦσαι (Pithekousai) or 𐌄𐌌𐌉𐌓𐌀 (Arime) both deriving from their respective words for “monkey”—presumably there was a Phoenician word for the place as well but it is lost to us. This settlement began in the 8th century BC and was home to as many as 10,000 people by 700.

File:Chimera d'arezzo, fi, 04.JPG

Votives point both forward as a common Graeco-Roman practices as well as back to those of the Near East. There is a large body of Etruscan anatomical votives, seemingly given at shrines in thanks for healing the corresponding part of the donor, as well as a variety of household goods. One sanctuary in Tarkhna held an axe head, a musical horn, and a round shield, the latter two of which were deliberately destroyed so that they could only be used by the god. The Chimera of Arezzo (Etruscan 𐌌𐌉𐌕𐌉𐌓𐌀 Aritim) stands as one of the finest examples of the culture’s art, but also served this function, as it was found with other votive objects, and its right foreleg bears an inscription reading:

𐌋𐌉𐌅𐌂𐌔𐌍𐌉𐌕
TINSCWIL
Offering of Tinia

𐌀𐌉𐌍𐌉𐌕 (Tinia) being the sky god at head of the Etruscan pantheon.

As for the chimera, we’ve seen already that such beasts were favored in Mesopotamia and this one’s a doozy, which has a clear prototype from the Neo-Hittites in Carchemish dating from the 9th century BC—instead of a goat’s head it incorporates a human one and it has wings, another common feature of Near Eastern beasts. The rich and detailed demonology of the Etruscans also tends to contain many winged creatures.

So it seems that the magical traditions of the Near East found a particularly receptive audience in the Etruscans, who continued to refine and codify these arts. These were later adopted by the Romans, and to some degree the Greeks as well, eventually spreading across much of Europe.


Read Subsequent Articles in This Series

Part 4A: Romancing the Hellenes

Part 4B: The Chthonian Connection


Read Previous Articles in This Series

Part 1: The Griffin and the Phoenix

Part 2A: Hark, a Haruspex!

Part 2B: Go West, Young Mantis

Part 3A: Coda Etrusca


Notes

  1. This terminus ante quem comes in the form of an abecedarium from Marsiliana.
  2. Titus Livius, Ab Urbe Condita Libri, 5.1.6.
  3. Marcus Tullius Cicero, De Divinatione 1.92, Pro Caecina and Publius Cornelius Tacitus, Annales 11.15.
  4. M. Weinfeld, The Organizational Pattern and the Penal Code of the Qumran Sect, 1986.
  5. Amos 7:14, I’ve composited a few different versions for clarity.

Descent into the Absurd

Religio-Moral Exoticism (Gladwellocalypse, Part 3)

Even though it had been my intention to put this series to bed, and indeed, I had never intended it to be a series at all, the Gladwellocalypse was in full swing during this last season of Revisionist History to such a degree that I couldn’t ignore it.

I still usually enjoy Malcolm Gladwell; when he’s the interviewee on a show I might not normally tune in to, I will. There are several topics on which he is able to contribute reliably well, such as the US’ broken system of higher education and he’s hardly ever dangerously uninformed like many hosts of political satire programs.

Some of Gladwell’s critics say he’s a stupid person’s idea of a smart person. His enthusiasts refute that, one such describing his process of popularizing intellectual thought in his books and podcasts as:1

[U]nearthing material lying dormant in the rarefied realms of academic psychology, sociology and anthropology and shooting bolts of narrative electricity through it.

At base, the type of criticism pushed back on here is one strongly rooted in elitism, specifically the notion that mere accessibility invalidates something as intellectually worthwhile. Gladwell himself notes that such popularization is literally what his process is about, with an added kiss-off to any such critics:2

If you’re in the business of translating ideas in the academic realm to a general audience, you have to simplify […] . If my books appear to a reader to be oversimplified, then you shouldn’t read them: you’re not the audience!

His work along these lines has led many to hail him as a “public intellectual”, but a different bearer of that same title, Umberto Eco, has also warned against the dumbing down of culture for capitalistic ends:3

The culture industry appeals to a generic mass of consumers (for the most part quite unaware of the complexities of specialized cultural life) by selling them ready-made effects, which it prescribes along with directions for their use and a list of the reactions they should provoke.

One such work directly relating to the Italian semiotician is The Da Vinci Code, widely known to have borrowed its plot and details from Eco and the sources he was satirizing in Foucault’s Pendulum (Il pendolo di Foucault). Dan Brown’s particular take the  popularization of material from the intellectual realm had some predictable consequences because of his lack of real research and careless use of unreliable sources. When these are unravelled it’s a descent from bad to worse to dismal:4

[T]he legitimacy of the Priory of Sion history rests on a cache of clippings and pseudonymous documents that even the authors of Holy Blood, Holy Grail suggest were planted in the Bibliotheque Nationale by a man named Pierre Plantard. As early as the 1970’s, one of Plantard’s confederates had admitted to helping him fabricate the materials, including genealogical tables portraying Plantard as a descendant of the Merovingians (and, presumably, of Jesus Christ) and a list of the Priory’s past “grand masters.” This patently silly catalog of intellectual celebrities stars Botticelli, Isaac Newton, Jean Cocteau and, of course, Leonardo da Vinci—and it’s the same list Dan Brown trumpets, along with the alleged nine-century pedigree of the Priory, in the front matter for The Da Vinci Code, under the heading of “Fact. Plantard, it eventually came out, was an inveterate rascal with a criminal record for fraud and affiliations with wartime anti-Semitic and right-wing groups.

Eco is hardly heavy-handed on the score of morality but as he is a former Aquinian scholar, his works are almost necessarily steeped in it. Simon Simonini, who creates the real-life hoax of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion in his The Cemetery of Prague is clearly portrayed as an evil man perpetrating an evil deed. While Eco portrays the scheme at the heart of Foucault’s Pendulum as a misguided game, Brown fully endorses a similar plot, portraying it as fact, and even winning some of the lawsuits arising from his work through use of the claim that history can’t be plagiarized. Although the content of the two works is similar, the intent is thus completely opposite: Where Eco’s is a postmodern look at the irrationality of the universal conspiracy theory, Brown’s is a post-ironic embrace of alternate facts.

Also a bit of inaccessibility is neither here nor there to me; I’d never condemn anyone for being readable but I’ll also do what it takes to get to the information I’m looking for, up to and including learning a smattering of dead languages. I enjoyed the weighty opening chapters of each book of Les Misérables as setting up important historical, political, and philosophical context before diving back into the melodrama. I appreciated the way the density of Joseph Campbell’s writing early in The Masks of God acts in a medium-is-the-message manner as an initiation into the mysteries therein revealed. I’m definitely not down with slogging through a bone-dry read with no payoff though and even when Gladwell is wrong at least he’s still typically entertaining.

No, my critique is a different one. The tagline for the RevHist informs us it’s:

[A] podcast about things overlooked and misunderstood.

But there are reasons some things have been forgotten and also reasons they should remain so. Or in the case of casuistry, the topic on which Gladwell dwells for no fewer than three episodes, rather than needing to be rehabilitated as he attempts, it is precisely that type of history which should be studied so it might not be repeated. In brief, casuistry is a process of reasoning which reached its height in the mid-16th to mid-17th centuries under the Jesuits. The term remains one which is almost universally used in a pejorative sense, which is indeed the history Gladwell is trying to revise.

I’m somewhat hesitant to dive into a diatribe about a religious group; my general attitude is live and let live although I don’t partake. And I must also acknowledge that my point of view is decidedly Anglocentric, therefore all forms of Catholicism carry some amount of negativity to me, but there are plenty of other well-known reasons apart form that. It’s also important to note that Gladwell is not a Catholic either, and so seems to be engaging in a bit of religio-moral exoticism here.

In any case, let’s turn the clock back to Elizabethan England. When the Religious Settlement put the capstone on the Reformation, the Continental powers sent Jesuits to the island to sow dissent, up to and including assassinations and violent overthrow of the government.

One such was the Babington Plot, which saw Jesuit priest John Ballard recruit Anthony Babington into a French-backed plan to assassinate the queen, support a Spanish invasion of England, and finally place the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots on the throne in her stead. Double agents uncovered the scheme, which ended instead with 15 executed for treason including Mary herself.

A still more extreme plan was hatched during the reign of the next king, James, which, if successful, would have remained to this day the largest ever act of religious terrorism. The Gunpowder Plot, also known as the Jesuit Plot, would have blown up Parliament during the State Opening killing not only King James and his close relatives but much of the aristocracy, the Privy Council, the senior members of the legal system, and the heads of the Church of England as well. By any estimation England would have been plunged into chaos, and it’s likely that its existence as an independent nation would also have been at serious risk.

And the thing that allowed all this subterfuge, all this covert plotting and planning was—you guessed it—casuistry. The specific fruit of the process at play here was one termed mental reservation, or more simply, equivocation, or still more directly, lying. Lying was considered a serious sin to this point but the Jesuits had reasoned that where justice and truth came into conflict, justice had to trump truth, terming it a “lie of necessity”.

Casuistry additionally offered convenient justifications for other previously morally inexcusable but highly desirable acts including usury, homicide, and regicide. Blaise Pascal derided and satirized the process in his refutation, Provincial Letters (Lettres provinciales), the TL;DR version of which is that casuistry could essentially be used to justify just about anything. Indeed, the use of the process to wriggle out of any moral quandary rendered the term Jesuitic a synonym for cunning or deceitful.

The order, and its specific deployment of casuistry were broadly condemned even by contemporary Catholics: immediately upon his 1676 accession Pope Innocent XI condemned 65 of their propositions as “laxorum moralistarum” (lax moralities) and forbade their teaching on pain of excommunication, focusing particularly on mental reservation. Non-Catholics, especially in England, were still less pleased with the order and its works, with someone cited simply as “a recent English author” in 1845 commenting:5

[T]he Jesuit […] conceals his right name, hides his real object, contracts his brow and disowns his party, [he] is as contemptible as he is dangerous, and to be scorned as much as he is to be feared. […] The unblushing Infidel, the bold and reckless Atheist can be better met, and is a far less dangerous foe to Christianity, than the slippery, turning, vanishing, masking, equivocating Jesuit.

Gladwell does dig into some of the controversial early modern uses of casuistry with Father James Keenan, a Jesuit theologian. Together they present these problems as strawmen and fully endorse with a handwave the justifications that plunged the order into centuries of disrepute.

In modernity, there has been a revival of casuistry based on the notion that it was not the process itself that was the problem, but its abuse. This is closely akin to the slogan, guns don’t kill people, people do. I’ve never understood how this has been used as pro-gun; yes, people are fallible, so giving them the means to act in drastic and irreversible ways is inherently a bad idea. A quite similar saying but with entirely the opposite intent is present in Japanese:

気違いに刃物
kichigai ni hamono
(don’t) give a knife to a crazy person

To their credit, in more recent years the Jesuits have become more progressive than the Vatican on a variety of topics including HIV/AIDS, homosexuality, and abortion. Gladwell does bring up one such area, birth control6 without establishing in any way that casuistry was at work, and the other episodes misapply casuistry to topics that have nothing to do with the order or its practices. He sums up the case he is trying to build for casuistry thus:7

St Ignatius Loyola […] gave his followers a set of moral instructions: to set aside principal, to descend into the particular, to listen closely. Why? Because only then can you fulfil one of the most important human obligations: to offer consolation to those who are suffering.

But this is some Cloud Cuckoo Land version of casuistry Gladwell has constructed for himself, not casuistry as was practiced in the early modern period when it was originally criticised and discarded, nor yet how it is practiced today. Pope Francis, by all accounts one of the most progressive and sympathetic pontiffs ever, and a Jesuit himself, decries the practice, saying that it seeks to establish general laws on the basis of exceptional cases.8 Which is not only exactly the error it fell into in the past, but also morally far worse than the principled stand Gladwell is attempting to supplant with casuistry in his miniseries. And this is ultimately how casuistry has repeatedly worked in actual practice: insurance for a 16th century merchant ship is “like another captain” (how weaselly is that?) in that it seeks to keep the cargo safe, therefore usury is morally right in this case, and therefore usury is morally right in all cases—quod erat demonstrandum, hic et ubique.

Just as the news media help elect authoritarian populists by slanting coverage in their favor, sensationalism, in this case applied to the distorted popularization of an intellectual process ultimately with a profit motive, might be what’s behind Gladwell’s search for ever more controversial claims. And I, in fact, might simply be feeding the troll here.


Read Previous Posts in This Series

Part 1: The Limits of Revisionist History

Part 2: The Unfit “King”


Notes

  1. Ian Leslie, “Malcolm Gladwell Is Underrated”, I. M. H. O., 2013.
  2. Oliver Burkeman, “Malcolm Gladwell: ‘If my books appear oversimplified, then you shouldn’t read them’”, The Guardian, 2013.
  3. Eco, Opera Aperta, 1962.
  4. Laura Miller, “The Last Word: The Da Vinci Con”, The New York Times, 2004.
  5. Alexander Duff, The Jesuits: Their Origin and Order, Morality and Practices, Suppression and Restoration, 1845.
  6. Gladwell, “Dr. Rock’s Taxonomy”, Revisionist History, 2019.
  7. Gladwell, “Descend into the Particulars”, Revisionist History, 2019.
  8. Francis X. Rocca, “Pope to meet with sex abuse victims for first time in June”, Catholic News Service, 2014.