Last week I talked about returning to 4e DnD. It was a decision that just... happened. I may never be able to fully describe it. It just seemed to happen to me, as opposed to me making it. Whatever it was, it was not to be argued with. I've begun planning a Dark Sun campaign in full earnest, happily throwing myself into that setting. But something a little odd happened to me. I am not going to try to understand it or analyze it. But maybe it will prove useful to others. Maybe you'll understand it. Who knows until you're done reading it?
In the years since I stopped playing 4e I've been looking at various Indy RPGs. And who could blame me? Burning Wheel opened up a whole new world. But there was another impetus in there. I wanted to prove to myself I wasn't yet another DnD drone. That's not a particularly positive tendency, mind. My misanthropic tendencies are well known to me, even if not dealt with as well as they should be. I wonder how many of my own issues would be fixed if I figured that out.
See, the problem was that the more stuff I looked at the more this curious chasm of desire began to open up. Something wasn't right. I didn't know what, but reading these games wasn't making me any happier. At the time I'd a lot of other things to focus on, and I was quite happy with Burning Wheel. It is an odd fact of human nature that you can be otherwise happy but yet yearn for something more. I was very happy with Burning Wheel's character centric gameplay; that engine can help generate more meaning in a night than other systems can in years. And if there's anything I crave it's meaning.
And yet that gnawing continued.
Finally I stopped futzing about. I'd been doing multiple Burning Wheel campaigns for years. I was burned out. I needed to do something else. And I did! I tried out Bleak Spirit, Torchbearer, Trophy Dark and Gold, Tenra Bansho Zero, Sword and Board, and Hearts of Wulin, and others I've forgotten about. And some of these games really stuck with me! Bleak Spirit, Hearts of Wulin, and the Trophy games are great palate cleansers for me. Each of them helps me blow off steam from my time with Burning Wheel. I'll definitely go back to them from time to time.
But the hunger continued.
And I began to feel desperate.
Like I said previously, the decision to return to 4e wasn't something I made. It seemed made for me. I've been questioning this reality, but have decided to see where it goes. Well the other day I went into a Barnes and Noble. I just needed a place to burn some time and what better place to do that than a bookstore? Now most of the time I'll head to the RPG section. I'll look at the section, and kinda fantasize about getting the whole freaking shelf. Just to have it. I wouldn't even do anything with them. Just have them on my shelf to have them.
So I went to The Shelf.
And felt absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
I picked up a copy of The Mutants and Masterminds GM Guide. I own the Hero's Handbook. I opened the book. And immediately thought "I'll never want to play this." Superheroes at one point was something I had thought about getting into, but as I held the book I knew there was only one thing I really wanted to do: fantasy. That's where I've found my chief meaning in fiction, from the more grounded high concept/slice of life like Clannad to the weird science fantasy of The Solar Cycle and Star Wars.
In case it wasn't clear already, I demand that I put meaning in what I do. It's not an option. The world is a pretty meaningless place these days, and to be able to give meaning? That's actually an escape for me. The world only has the meaning we infuse in it. Man named the animals and what name Adam used was the name of that animal. Man is the creature who names, who gives meaning.
And when I looked up from the GM's Guide to that shelf there was no meaning I wished to give to any of it.
Oh, don't get me wrong, I wandered the shelves in shock for about a half hour, trying to find something to tickle my fancy. There was a phantom hunger in my soul. But I couldn't give any additional meaning to the things I found. There was nothing in me to give.
You can either have a pleasing life or a meaningful one; most of the time you won't get both. The older I get the truer this rings. Most of the times I've been happy I don't remember, because I wasn't actually trying to engage with that moment. And the times I was happy while engaging the moment? Being happy was a nice side effect; being present is a reward in itself.
I'm still working out whether it's better than being happy. Hedonism is so hard to kick.
Definitely the most meaningful thing I experienced this year was a new addition to our family. It's amazing how much one can find out about oneself with the addition of one entity to the system you live in. There's upheaval, doubt, and pure untarnished beauty. The whole experience has been more incredible than I can say. I mean, I'm stressed out and exhausted, but I can't really change whether I'll be stressed and exhausted, only what I can be stressed and exhausted about. And this is exactly the sort of thing that makes said stress and exhaustion worth it. Welcome, little one! We love you!
The collapse of our civilization continues to show itself. I don't think we notice because we have so much stuff on these stupid phones to distract ourselves with, but it is there. I know when I get myself off this stupid device it becomes clear just how lonely life really is at this point. I don't know who my neighbors are, not really, and I've been living near them for years. But this has led to an opportunity to read and learn. I've read more than I ever have before; I may never again get this opportunity. So I'm using that time to the best of my advantage. All things change. This will too.
I continue to put the time in for mental and spiritual health; I've never regretted it. Not once. It requires me to slow down and really work at focusing, which isn't comfortable, but how much does being quick benefit me anyways? And, while it was hard to do so at first, I've begun to share more of my spirituality with my children, something I've found tremendously satisfying. Perhaps it's the cynical modern in me, but I'm coming to realize that I want what I know and experienced to be passed on. Who I am should not die with me, it should be known. My life and what was in it should be known to my kids. They may do with it as they wish. But it is worth passing on the reason for my hope.
But perhaps the greatest gift, that I am gradually learning to accept, the one that gives context to all the others, is the realization that I am grateful for the struggle. I continuously find myself arrayed against interior forces that make the exterior decay of our world look like a cake walk. Time and again I try to turn back to the events going on in the world, only to find it is only an escape from my interior chaos. It is easier to deal with others, to make them look evil and bad and awful and cruel, than to realize that I am most definitely all of these things and so much more.
I find that I am not a captive, but a willing traitor to mine own self.
The more I learn the more the Bible's talk about the heart of man being treacherous becomes a gentle reminder, as opposed to the judgmental statement that the world would like me to believe. Words that once felt like an unnecessary indictment become the slightest of nudges to look inside and own what is there. I absolutely must resist the wretchedness in my own heart. Most of the time I don't even recognize the evil for what it is! I find myself making excuses for it; it was necessary at one point, or so I thought, why can't I keep doing these "survival" techniques? Excuses are so easy, they're readily available from my friends and family. It's not my fault I'm so angry, I was screwed over in pretty much every conceivable way one of my background could be! Whose sorrow is like mine? My Jerusalem was destroyed and it would be so easy to sit in it and despair!
But I find that if I resist this interior slide into chaos that I become more myself. Success is a byproduct: the struggle itself is the thing that I find enjoyable. And I don't mean in a nasty and wretched sort of a way. To resist chaos by dwelling in the purposeful Silence is a beautiful thing. To feel the pull of discordance and to feel interior repulsion is invigorating. I do not think such joy is permanent; the Christian will not end in conflict, but in Eternal Light. So I know it will change. I enjoy the Light chasing out the dark. Cobwebs get swept away, I board the ship, and wait for the day it is repaired and I get to see the swift sunrise. It is not for awhile yet; I will have to wait a very long time. Much was destroyed, and I had more than a small hand in doing it. But seeing the ship repaired, to know that it will be sturdy (even if it's not now), to see the preparations and plans, is rewarding in and of itself. Until then, the struggle awaits. That is my present.
This universal feast of Catholic and Orthodox Churches comes from the Gospel of James. Joachim and Anna, righteous but childless, finally had a daughter in their old age. Mary had an attachment to the Temple, and at three went to live there. Escorted by her parents she came to the steps of the Temple, fifteen in number. Not only did she go up the stairs herself but she danced. This was her home. Zacharias took her into the Holy of Holies. Mary lived in the Temple until twelve, frequently visited by her parents until their deaths. She didn't want to leave the Temple when she turned twelve, but propriety demanded she go. And thus Joseph, an old widower who really just wanted to be left alone, was found.
Childhood love is everything. Sometimes this is obvious; I'm married to my childhood sweetheart. We now have babies of our own. What I experienced in my wife then carried forward into adulthood and new life has come from it. Very few people can claim that, or should. It's not like my wife and I married our childhood memories of each other. We found that what we have now, in the present, was marriage material. Neither of us had rejected the things we'd loved about each other in the first place, and so our childhood impressions stuck with one person.
But that doesn't mean what you love as kids stops mattering. I'd argue it never really goes away. If anything those are the memories I think one should clutch to the hardest. That feeling of beauty, of grace, however you found it? That can keep you going. I know it did me. What memories do you have that are beautiful? That make you better for remembering, no matter how painful it can be to do so? Nevermind if you think it's irrelevant. I assure you it's not, but is far more important than you know.
One of the most powerful memories I have is sitting up in a friend's treehouse on a farm in Illinois. The sun was setting; the fields were bathed in gold and shadow. I was by myself. It was quiet. Sitting there, after a long day of playing, I was struck by the silent light. The world was wrapped in a golden hue. A few minutes later and I found myself singing. It seemed the only way to really add to the beauty at the time. A few minutes later and I found myself climbing down to play with my friends.
It's a simple moment. My appreciation for it never seems to fade. I have to learn to do this more often, but every time I go back to that moment I'm a calmer, more thoughtful person when I come back out. It doesn't really have a lot of "deeper meaning" to it.
I think the Theotokos dancing up the steps of the temple at three is one of those moments. She was going to live at the temple, where she always wanted to be. She was happy. And anyone who has seen a three year old climb steps knows it can be some work for them. But the Theotokos saw them as an opportunity to dance. And I'll bet you that moment stuck with her, all her life. A moment of pure joy, where the usually laborious steps were an opportunity to dance.
I'll bet we all have moments like that.
Don't leave them, okay?
I know it's not easy.
But I think it's worth it, to fan that little light.
Last week I took Flanagan to the woodchipper over his solutions to the critiques of Catholicism and Orthodoxy that he brought. It's not good when I can make an Azathoth joke, folks, it really isn't. But those who diagnose problems rarely have good solutions. That doesn't make their data any less helpful. And Flanagan's criticisms of modern Catholicism and Orthodoxy are right on the money. But in order to show you what Flanagan is so right about we must discuss what an ideal Apostolic Church actually looks like and why it works.
It is no secret that the Catholic and Orthodox Churches are pathetic. Petty squabbles over doctrine, systematic hypocrisy, and plain bad ole witness to the truth abounds. If you are an honest believer these should be not just acknowledged, not just mourned, but you should actively hate these things, not to mention seeking these cancers out and cutting them out of the Body of Christ. That's the unvarnished truth of the thing.
I'm not saying these things didn't use to exist. Of course they did! The Church (if you bristle at the thought of being lumped in with either Catholics or Orthodox I promise you all this applies to you and then some) has always been amongst fallen people. Humans are wretches by default, monsters if left unchecked. A simple yardstick to whether you're being a monster or not is to ask if you feel glee over some act that separates you from another.
Congratulations. You found it.
You're welcome.
So yeah. Christianity is for the wretch, a corrective to the monster in us all. So it makes sense that things were always ugly, we're ugly beings! But the original model did a pretty decent job at keeping this in check. And decent is as good as you're going to get.
Each city had a church. In that church was a bishop. Think of each bishop as a head doctor. This doctor had received his pedigree from three other doctors (at least) and had been thoroughly vetted and approved by his patients, the laity. There was no mysterious overlord telling you what was best for you, although other bishops did have to confirm the appointment. Now, each bishop (doctor) needed assistants, nurses we call them in the medical field. Nurses take a look at the patients and make sure the minutiae get sorted out. You need someone who's got some experience to fill this role, someone who we know has had their heads bashed in a few times. They were called presbyters, or later on priests. Now, whether you like it or not, churches do need to be run, they require administration. And that's where we get deacon(es)s.
For the conservatives (what exactly are you conserving? I promise it isn't a a healthy system) yes, female deacons were not just a thing, but necessary. Not everyone had the same way of ordaining them, but the Byzantine female deacon ordination service is almost identical to the male one. Sorry, nobody was thinking about in persona Christi for clergy. Really wasn't a thing like it is now in the Roman Catholic Church. And that's part of the problem.
Notice the comparison to medicine! Clergy are not there for your normal spiritual life. Health does not require a physician. Oh sure, regular checkups are necessary (Confession), and getting your regular doses of God is necessary (Eucharist), but very few practical spiritual works talk about Communion, but instead focus on what you do assuming you have it. Supernatural grace was assumed before the 19th century to be a normative part of tht spiritual life, with each member of the Body of Christ having gifts that helped heal and glorify the community.
There are exceptions to this general model, of course. All models are fake. Some models are useful. And this is a good and useful way to look at the early Church. Each city was its own Church, because each city had its own bishop. This Eucharistic model was more or less the norm.
The problem was that, as the Church grew, the model of one bishop in a city became impractical. Too many people were now in the cities to have one (or even a few) churches. Did we realize that the important thing was to keep bishops as local as possible? I mean, when there are more bishops you get more staff in general, but especially doctors and nurses, right?
Nope. We made the doctors politicians and made the nurses do the doctor's job, with none of the graces or privileges.
Are humans stupid or what?
The thing is the model only really works if the bishop is around. Without the bishop the living grace of the apostles isn't readily available. I strongly suspect this is why the grace of monasticism began to flourish: to get around our idiotic ideas of bishops as politicians. Take that with salt, of course, but it is what I think, so whatever that's worth.
Regardless, however, the laity internalized this similarity between monastic and bishop. The churches followed suit: celibacy is officially regarded as the true way of Christianity in the Latin Church, mandating that all their priests be celibate, and the Eastern Churches usually only pick bishops from amongst the monastics.
This distance creates simplification.
Simplification leads to overestimation.
Overestimation of others creates a lack of trust in your God- given, baptismal graces.
Which leads to Clericalism: that which is distant is superior. Which is the exact opposite of the point of Christianity. We are to be gods by grace, not sycophants of the hierarchy!
If you don't value your own experience, you won't go looking, reject what you do have, and will hang onto the first megalomaniac who has no scruples.
Like Father Paul of this show.
So how do fix this, assuming I'm right?
I've absolutely no idea.
As my angel of a wife frequently reminds me, I have no charism to fix the Churches. But I do know that a spiritual strengthening of the laity isn't just a nice idea.
So here are my suggestions for my lay brethren, Catholic and Orthodox:
When you were baptized you were made priest, prophet, and king/queen. You were given much. Trust in the gifts God gave you! He is in your heart and if you show Him you are ready He will show up.
At the same time you have to acknowledge that God didn't just appear to only you one day. God left a Church, which has made some attempts at archiving spiritual practices and doctrine that hold to God. I do not mean listen to your clergy blindly. Unlike medicine spiritual knowledge really doesn't change that much, and it's important to have a good range of knowledge of what came before you. You are not a special snowflake; God is not going to contradict what He told folks for the last 2000 years.
Keep it short and simple, at least at first. The following books can get you a pretty decent grounding.
Arise O God (which I have reviewed on this blog before) is the only English work I know that sums up the Gospel with all the mythological and spiritual considerations necessary. It is small and mercifully short. Catholics: do not let the fact it is by an Orthodox priest throw you off. This is pure gold. And it's so mercifully short and simple to boot. A real home run of a book!
Unseen Warfare is the best introduction to the spiritual life I've ever read, hands down. It is, not coincidentally, a book that has both Catholic and Orthodox contributors, over a few centuries. You can use it either way, which I heartily recommend. Maybe if we get a common parlance again it won't be so hard to talk.
To be ignorant of the Scripture is to be ignorant of Christ. That's not a trite saying. Scripture is to the mind as Communion is to the soul. But what's missing from common Catholic thought is that Scripture is incomplete without the Fathers and Mothers of the Church. They show what prayerfully receiving Scripture can look like. I personally use Ancient Christian Commentaries,which breaks it down into as short and easy to manage chunks as possible. You can pick any book you like to start out, although you really can't go wrong with the Gospels.
If you're in the mood to read more than that short amount (and a lot of the time I'm not) I find perusing the Old Testament to be extremely useful, given that the Old Testament is the context for the New. I go off a program suggested by the second most important book of Catholicism, The Golden Legend:
Revelation for Easter season
Pentecost through Advent/Phillips Fast: Samuel, Kings, and Maccabees
Christmas to Lent: Isaiah
Lent: Genesis and Exodus
I personally don't go through commentary here, not yet. I let the stories puzzle me. You are under no obligation to be so masochistic.
I also have The Book of the Elders, which is a collection of stories and sayings from the Desert Fathers. There are two editions: Latin and Greek. The Greek is longer, of course. I take these with heavy doses of salt and may puzzle over them for months.
I assume regular participation in the Sacraments, particularly Communion and Confession. The rest is just context for your walk with God in the Sacraments.
I take Flanagan's criticisms very seriously. I cannot solve the full scope of the problem as I see it, but I can suggest ways that have helped this cantankerous layman stay in the basket God is using to yank him out of Hell. There's more, of course. What I suggested is just barely a drop in the ocean of information out there. But anyone with the grounding I suggest would have been much, much, much harder to fool than the sad folks in this show.
I suppose this was going to happen sooner or later. Almost a decade later and I'm not just returning to 4e, I'm staying for the foreseeable future. For all of 4e's faults there nothing like it. Whether it be longings for deep tactical play, excellent character building, the skill challenge system, re-evaluating my concept of story games, or just plain ole nostalgia... it's just time to stop wandering. Time to go home.
Let's face it: nothing has ever done 4e's type of tactical play in an RPG. From what I understand Pathfinder 2e does something similar, but the resource management system of 4e's damn-well near universal At-Will, Encounter, and Daily set up hasn't really been attempted since. It's a very specific itch to have.
No, 13th Age doesn't count. I count it as a step backwards.
Like, when I think back to 4e that's the thing I really miss the most: everyone having a similar system of resources. This lets them figure out more intricate plans and really treat combat as a puzzle.
But that's only one half of the tactical picture. 4e's secret sauce, the thing that keeps the above framework interesting, is Page 42, which allows for strong and effective improvisation. You marry these two systems together and the conversation of combat becomes a free wheeling affair, especially if you're willing to let players sacrifice their power slots to make better on the fly effects. There's a lot of freedom in 4e, but that's specially because of the framework it operates in; any other system it wouldn't work quite as well
Character creation in 4e is a bit tricky. On the one hand you can have people do it together, and get some really cool workshopping, with people coming up with combos and intentionally shoring up each other's weaknesses and increasing strengths. But it has to be purposefully done. For whatever reason I remember folks not doing this sorta thing by default, but when it is done it's deeply enjoyable. And yeah, I miss it. I'll make sure it happens.
The skill challenge system has gold at its heart, even if it has issues. The GM tells you how many successes you need before three failures; you get XP based on how many checks you had to make, not on how many successes you had. This gives you a good basis for getting XP on the nights when combat isn't on everyone's mind. 4e could be a surprisingly open system for how heavily focused it was on combat, even having rules for getting XP for straight up RP. This doesn't make it a good straight up "story" game (more on that nonsense in a minute), but the game has built in alternatives for when you're just not in the mood to pull out the battle map.
The term story game is bullshit. Period. The term is not positive, it doesn't actually have its own identity. It just means "We don't like DnD and that makes us superior". This isn't to say that DnD is a good game necessarily (5e is hot garbage), but liking DnD is certainly not proof of being uncultured or something like that. That's not to say you can't make a term for the various types in the indie scene. I'm sure better classifications can exist. PBTA (Powered by the Apocalypse) is now very much its own thing, as are FitD (Forged in the Dark) and RiT (Rooted in Trophy). Maybe instead of using story game or Indy as some weird form of identity we simply say what we play and have done with it? I acknowledge not everyone does this. But I know I did, and it robbed me of a lot of fun I could otherwise be having.
I'm not here saying I think 4e is a perfect game. To the contrary, I think there's a lot of room to house rule. Combat takes way too long sometimes, some of the classes need significant help to be effective, and the system doesn't reward role-playing as it could. But, as it turns out, the design team was cognizant of these issues and were working on evolving the system! Dragon Magazine published a lot of Unearthed Arcana articles, addressing many problems of the system. Turns out that the designers had put a lot of thought into improving 4e and I like a lot of their ideas. From rewarding role-play with action points, long term wounds, go a complete backstory system, I can tell that the designers had more than enough to make a new edition that would have been an actual evolution of 4e. So yeah. 4e ain't perfect. But the ideas presented in Dragon Magazine are great and I'm definitely going to try them. But that means dropping the pretensions to grandeur. 4e's story isn't going to be Dostoevsky, more John Wick. But John Wick has a fantastic story in its own right, easily standing on its own.
And yeah, there's more than a little nostalgia at work here! 4e was the first RPG I legitimately loved. That's just not going to go away. Trust me, I tried to kill that and here I am, ten years later, right back to where I started. I've learned a ton along the way, and will always have Burning Wheel, Trophy Gold, and Bleak Spirit, not to mention Crescendo (whenever that gets done). I learned a lot. It'll make my present so much better.
I remember going to see Iron Man in theatres. I liked it, but it sure wasn't Shakespeare. Robert Downey Jr was Iron Man, that I could tell, but beyond that? It was fun. But that really was it. Fun. There's a lot of technical craft and whatnot, but the movie lived and died by its lead, period. Sure as hell wasn't because of the script, that's for sure.
"I am Iron Man." What a fantastic way to end that movie!
And y'know what? Over the years I've warmed to the movie as a singular work. Still not my favorite thing, but there's a lot of heart in the film and I appreciate that.
But I don't know of a soul who wasn't sent into a geekout by that post-credits scene! It was bold. Brave. And I wanted to know what would come next.
I make the distinction here between Iron Man the movie and Iron Man the promise. One of them is okay, the other pure gold. No one had ever tried this! The Avengers! Wow!
Folks, The Incredible Hulk still has a much softer space in my heart. I know that's heresy. But my goodness I love that movie. But Captain America is not a movie I love. Nor is Thor. But each one ended with a promise: this is going somewhere.
Y'know what I call that in the gaming industry? The Treadmill. Get something good (but not too good) along with a promise that it'll all add up in the end. That's one of the reasons I got out of Marvel Champions; I realized I was playing for what the game could become, with just a bit more time and money.
The Avengers is an amazing movie, on its own merits. Whedon took something that hadn't a snowball chance in hell of working and not only did it but did it with style. I was fine with it ending there. Marvel had managed the impossible. Whedon will never not have that to his credit.
But then they showed Thanos. And we got another dopamine hit. The Treadmill continued.
Let's cut to the chase. Some of these 26 movies are excellent. Winter Soldier, Civil War, Ragnarok, the Guardians Movies, Iron Man 3... and the rest are merely okay. At best. But The Treadmill had been activated and we wanted to see where it was going. Infinity War was actually pretty dang good.
But what would happen with Endgame? Y'know, the end?
There was a moment in the final fight where I yawned. Yup. Everything up until that fight had been done... alright. But something was wrong and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And I can tell you what exactly is wrong with this movie, but it may actually work to show you what this movie could have looked like, without the stupid checklist that restrained the Russo Brothers.
Most of the film I would have kept similar, up until that final fight. Hulk does The Snap, everyone asks if it worked and-
BAM!
THANOS!
Thanos comes in for the kill. Immediate bombardment. Devastation so horrible it would have one upped Avengers. Iron Man, Thor, and Captain America crawl out of the wreckage to find Thanos with the gauntlet almost on. Steve just grabs Mjolnir ("I KNEW IT!") and thrashes Thanos.
Oh, Chris Evans keeps the freaking beard. Not. A. Question.
Cap's not holding back, calling down a lightning storm that almost fries the atmosphere. "AVENGERS ASSEMBLE!!!!!" Steve roars it at the top of his lungs, rattling the fillings of everyone in the audience. Thor and Iron Man jump in. This a brutal, ugly, awful fight. Cap, Thor, and Tony are fighting like animals. They've no idea if a cavalry is coming, they don't know where Hulk is. It's life and death. And it looks like it's going well, too! Until Tony makes a mistake, gets too close. Thanos uses him as a meatshield for one of Cap's super bolts. The suit lights up like a Christmas tree, and then goes dark. Friday's gone. Tony looks dead.
Steve almost stops at that point. He killed Tony! But Thor pushes on. They have to win. They must. They're all that's left. He finally has his moment of leadership. And Steve gets up. He's a mess, but he gets up. But without Tony it's just no use; Thanos cleans their clocks. "I am inevitable."
Steve gets up, one last time."No, you're afraid. And fear, it makes you less. Makes you hunker down, refuse to be vulnerable, not enjoy the time you do have. Fear gives you tunnel vision." Thor gets his ax into Thanos, "The Inevitable does not need fear. And I am just that." Thor is punched off planet. Cap's arm's broken a moment later; he drops Mjolnir.
"Hi Inevitable. I'm Iron Man." Tony's been getting the damn glove on the whole time. We switch to his POV. We watch the fingers snap. And then the camera falls to the side, with the sound cutting out. It's getting dark.
There's a flash of light. And Stephen Strange walks into the POV frame, one finger held up. And then there's Peter, sobbing, pulling Tony into his arms.
And then there's Pepper. We rest on her face a second. She's luminous.
Darkness.
And then we cut to all the restored heroes standing around Iron Man.
If you cannot tell what I think is wrong with Endgame from that, I don't know what else to tell you. My version would certainly need revisions and probably a bit of pacing work, but y'know what it isn't doing? Checking boxes with a pen. There's no artificial inflation of a fight scene that had very little emotional weight. There was definitely no stupid stupid stupid dear God stupid "We've got her back" pandering nonsense. Just our three heroes, the three that we'd been following in one form or another this whole time, finally reaching their full potential, together.
That's all I needed
Instead I got The Treadmill. Again.
No, not this time folks. If something is being reported as truly excellent I'll give it a look. But I'm done with "Just wait for the next! It'll all add up!"
Peter wanted me to watch this show. I did. I've a lot of thoughts. And I'm going to start with what I disagree with in this show. Understand I do not do this to show disrespect. On the contrary! This is a good show worthy of your time. But I need to get the bile out of the way. So bear with me please.
This is the most accurate and cutting take on modern Catholicism and Orthodoxy I've ever seen. If you are a believer in either Church you owe it to yourself to watch it. Period. It's not a question. Flanagan is an Ex-Catholic, who has measured and reasonable critiques of both Churches.
Yes, oh smug and self-satisfied Orthodox, especially you.
We'll get there.
But first, my critiques. Flanagan makes two points I think need to be broken, and hard. I think them a smudge on what is an otherwise pristine production. Flanagan's thoughts on why religion exists are catastrophically wrong, and his ending statement on pantheism is a bandaid on the gaping wound which is theodicy.
Now, to the best of my knowledge, Flanagan is an atheist. And I will respond like he is. And, like most atheists, Flanagan posits that religion was developed for two reasons: the fear of death and early mankind being stupid. These aren't new claims, of course, and are just as tired and trite here as the first time I heard them. Religion was not invented due to a fear of death and needing to explain it. We think of Egypt and its detailed murals of the afterlife for its Pharaohs... and then forget Judaism didn't really have an afterlife. And that the Greek's underworld was a sad and dismal place for most, except the favorites of the gods. Norse mythology certainly doesn't have great options. I could probably go on.
But I won't.
Here's how religion came about. I think.
Go into the woods. Or on the prairie. Mountains. Somewhere isolated from our society. Leave your phone behind.
Quiet, isn't it? It's a different kind of quiet than being in a city. Cities have always felt dead to me. All that concrete, you just get used to things around you not being alive.
Not out here, though. Everything is alive. Stay out there for about an hour or three. However long you can. And listen. Soothing, isn't it? As you walk through the place you're in you'll find places quieter than others, where it almost feels.. well.. personal! There's an awareness you can find there. It's not an awareness like yours, of course, but if you sit in it and actually listen, jettison your expectations and just... exist... you can be aware something is there.
Now imagine if you couldn't get away from it. Imagine you didn't have that phone. Or anything else in your modern life. We're not aware of it, but electricity actually does make noise. It pulses all around us and blocks out everything else. But if you could hear that silence, all the time, and didn't really travel all that far, you'd get used to that presence, in that place. You'd probably go there just to feel like you're not alone.
And then one day the thoughts in your head aren't yours. It's Something Else. And, after some initial shock, you might find yourself talking to it. It doesn't speak in a way you'd normally recognize but it is communicating. Turns out you have to have an open mind to the idea that not all consciousness works like yours. You have to accept real diversity.
No, the basis of religion is wonder and joy, as Carlyle says. And it is a wonder and joy that is now alien to us, living in the wreckage of the world wars. Men were different before World War I, that is a fact of history. Only a time as disllusioned and stupid as our could say something so ridiculous. So I don't fault Flanagan. I think that's a far more accurate take. Pre-moderns weren't cowards like us. Death was so present they didn't notice it the same way we do now. To even bring death into the center of the picture is so laughably modern that it almost doesn't deserve a response, except that it's a central idea in this show. So yes, it's wrong, and can prove it by picking up any pre-modern story and forcing yourself not to sneer. It's a titanic effort. But it's worth it.
Flanagan, through the words of Riley, who is really the hero of this show, posits that man likened stars to campfires, and that they had to be incredible because they were in the sky. Basically, since man had limited ways to figure out the world he anthromorphized everything. It is with reason, with science, that the world needs to be examined. Standard new atheist stuff, right out of that modern playbook of foolishness, The Golden Bough. The problem isn't just that this is inaccurate to every single actual shred of evidence we have of ancients, it's that science can only give is information about the material world. You cannot ask what the best way to raise a family is, whether or not morality need exist, or even why we exist. Those aren't scientific questions. Science has its limits, being a method for getting information about the material world. Morals aren't material. Neither is joy. You can't figure those out with science. You can collect material data on them, sure, but that doesn't make thing you're talking about material in itself.
The other thing that Flanagan does that I disagree with is he makes an open case for pantheism as a solution to the problem of evil. The self is just a dream of the cosmos. This sounds familiar.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Azathoth, the Blind Idiot God! He sits in the center of the cosmos, where many profane beings play on their discordant flutes to make sure he keeps dreaming. See, we are his dreams. If he wakes up we wink out. He is all. I'm not sure he even counts as distinct from us. And what a horrifying dream it is, isn't it?? Death and disease and terror and despair and people singing insipid Marty Haugen songs at Catholic mass and dictators and the World Wars and all the petty personal evils I commit involuntarily and paperwork and-
Have I made my point? If we are God we deserve what we get. The child sleeping on my chest as I write this, her energy comes from someplace evil and profane and I owe it to the world to snuff it out, so that way the dream doesn't turn into a nightmare again.
No?
Too dark?
I didn't ask if it was too dark. If you're going to follow the logic follow the fucking logic, all the way to the end. If the abyss blinks you may as well smile and wave and hold its gaze, cause I got news: you came out of it and to it you will return.
No, painted pantheism doesn't solve the problem of evil.
And Flanagan saying it does is the true horror of the show.
Next week let's be more positive. Flanagan gets so much right. And I can't wait to talk about it. So much good can come out of this show, and I can't wait to share it with you.
Middle school was a truly wretched time for me. Puberty had triggered bodily memories (i.e. I couldn't consciously remember) of my childhood rape, which meant that I was having regular panic attacks with no known cause. Every. Single. Girl. In existence. Tripped off some form of flashback or another. All of them. Especially if it was wrong or gross. The attacks from the neighborhood kids had reached a fever pitch, particularly on my siblings, and I found my pacifism was more than a little challenged. Some part of me had sworn peace and it could no longer justify the position, but didn't know what to move to instead.
And, in case anyone forgot, middle schoolers are some of the cruelest creatures that will ever exist. If any of you think you're a decent person I will ask you one question: "What were you like in middle school?"
Think long and hard before you answer.
Middle School had rigid ideas about what was acceptable or not. This was mostly related to clothing, of course. Given I was dirt poor and a spastic mess (not to mention extremely small and sarcastic) I was towards the bottom of the social ladder. There were a few kids down there, who were particularly grungy and filthy types, whose homes were much worse than mine and were trying to be kind to each other in the hopes of preserving whatever soul they had left from their childhood. And we'd sit in our little corner table, talking about them, the cool kids who didn't let us have a moment to ourselves (which was untrue, in hindsight). But we were the kind ones, the good ones.
And then one day I got a set of cargo pants and the jocks talked to me for more than two seconds.
When my supposed friends came up to me to talk I shunned them. They were not dressed as I was. I had this involuntary revulsion, this twitch of the body as I became a part of something cool and they weren't. The reaction was outside of my control.
I lost something very important that day: my self-respect.
Because that day I realized that I wasn't really in control of my actions. And had never been. I'd been conditioned by something as simple as my clothing to reject people who had always been kind to me. I was a product of what others had decided upon. It didn't occur to me until later that my friends may have done the same in my shoes. I can hope that's not true, but I'll never know. I withdrew into my own shell after that, and didn't really come out for the rest of my time in middle school. I didn't want to be what others made me, I wanted to be free. And if that meant being alone then so be it.
I really wish I could tell you I learned that lesson right then and there. I really want to. I want to end it on a note of "This was the day I became a free-thinking individual". I want to so badly. But I can't. Because it's not true.
No no, I went and did worse. I could have bounced back from the clothes thing. That's silly, after all, at least in isolation. That doesn't suggest a problem.
At thirteen I got my first girlfriend. My mother thought it quite sweet. And who could blame her? Megan was a sweet girl. She had a gorgeous voice and wanted to become a professional singer. She certainly had the talent for it. And we got along! I mean, according to my own boyish egotistical way of thinking we did. She laughed at my jokes. She didn't look at me like pond scum. That was quite the step up for someone my age.
And then the cool kids caught wind of it. I think I was mocked in good spirit? From what I can remember it was an attempt at good fun. It certainly wasn't cruel. But I'd been so conditioned, so badly beaten, molested, harassed, broken, that I more than overreacted. I immediately broke up with Megan. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 bucks. It couldn't have even been a day later. I dodged questions from my concerned mother about why I wasn't talking to Megan anymore. I hid in my room.
The story took an unanticipated turn, one of which we shall not go into here, beyond that I wound up living in my wife's family's forest, and was removed from having to see Megan, who happened to live up the street.
No, fuck it, we're talking about the flowers too.
Sorry folks, we're going back a second.
See, one day as I walked over to see Megan I saw a bunch of flowers in varying front yard gardens. They were gorgeous flowers. Me being the at-heart amoral person I am, I picked the ones I liked and had a beautiful bouquet to give her. She was absolutely delighted. But later she asked me if I had picked any of the flowers and, if I had, if I had asked permission. Because she walked by those gardens on her way to school and really liked them and wanted to make sure they were taken in good faith.
I opened my mouth to tell the truth. "Yeah, they really liked the idea!" my voice said. Wait, what??? "Totally cool with it." No, no, wait, what's going on???????
This is pertinent, because a few months later I was set to move to the Chicago area. Things had more or less fallen apart with the woman I was to marry later in life, an episode so painful that it would define my teenaged years. But, as I cleaned my room for one of the final times, I got the idea that I needed to call Megan.
She was not happy to hear from me. I opened my mouth. There was so much I wanted to tell her. How everything had managed to fall apart, that I had disappointed myself so thoroughly, that she deserved the truth about those damn flowers and a lot of other lies I'd found myself telling her and wondering why on God's green earth I'd done so.
"Hey Megan, remember when I broke up with you?"
Just, what the hell, folks, what the hell.
"Yeah. I remember."
"Well, I'm leaving. I'm moving." It was all I could get out. I had no idea what on earth I was doing, this girl had never been anything but honest with me and here I was, twisting the knife instead of telling her the truth. I regretted being ugly to her, that I had always wanted to tell the truth but couldn't afford to lose her because of what I was. There was some seriously dark shit in my head, and I was afraid if one piece of the truth got out the rest would come tumbling out as well.
And then I'd be alone.
Yes, there was a pause about this long on the phone.
"Okay. Bye."
That phone click still. STILL. Reverberates in my head.
"But Nathan, you were thirteen! You're thirty-three now!" is what you are all saying now. You miss the point. Thirteen, thirty-three, one hundred and three, it happened. There was a total breakdown in my person, one in which I was merely a slave to something inside of me that caused me to be cruel. It is the privilege of the happy, the majority, to excuse cruelty. It is a prerequisite for being a part of any group, any social movement at all, that you will be cruel. Because of how we have chosen to organize society cruelty is unavoidable. And it is the fantasy of the marginalized that their marginalization makes them more virtuous. It certainly was for me. The instant we think our skin is on the line we turn on each other. It is a fact of human nature. And I promise you that you don't control it like you think you do.
I have since tried to instill an allergy into belonging to any group, for any reason, at all. Being in a group increases your capacity to be cruel. And I can't, just can't, do it again. Never again. When I was in highschool this manifested as me constructing my own social group, with people pulled from all social cliques. I refused to fit with anyone, and if I got too comfortable with a particular group I abandoned them quickly. They didn't seem to notice or mind; I never really fit anyway. But that's exhausting to do. I don't know if it's particularly healthy.
One day the church youth group went into Chicago, to give food to the homeless. The rest of the group was afraid of these dirty and stinky and sometimes crazy folks. I wasn't afraid of them, however. These were the faces of individuals who knew where they stood in the world and had accepted it. And were happy with it, even! How could I be afraid of them? If anything I admired them. They were what they were, in all their hideous glory. As we were handing out food one of them, a tall and skinny black man shouted out to me "HEY, BROTHER!"
I looked at him.
And I couldn't. I just couldn't. He was so damn happy, in that moment. I didn't envy him, I saw him as my better. He knew who he was and he was comfortable. He didn't feel the need to belong to anything, he was just himself. And he was free. And he was calling me his brother. He meant it. I felt that this man could see right into me. He saw it all. And he still called me brother.
Something inside of me breathed for the first time in awhile. I found that I had strode over to him. We hugged, tightly. It was like angel wings were around me. And for one second I felt the weight come off my soul. And I didn't have to question it. For once. And then he was walking away, food in hand, laughing and thanking me for the hug, that it had been a long time since someone had been nice to him like that. Everyone else was asking how the hell I could touch someone like that.
How could I not?
He had seen me.
How could I do anything else? After everything I'd done, involuntary though it was, to be given a chance like that? To have a real choice? Real choices don't come by often, folks. Believe me, I know quite well how rare actual moments of choice are. And what you do with them between the other things you don't actually have control over is what defines you.
There is no author with half the influence upon Crescendo as Gene Wolfe; Crescendo is meant to emulate the deeply psychological and spiritual fantasy shown in The Solar Cycle and the Latro Trilogy. But Wolfe's works are almost impossibly large, not to mention byzantine in structure. So what do I mean when I say Crescendo is heavily influenced by Wolfe? I mean a few things. Protagonists make their way through worlds that are always moving, regardless of their actions. Wolfe's stories are as much about the protagonists learning to be a part of the world, with adventure being just one aspect of their lives. Stories are not centered on defeating the Big Bad(s), but end when the protagonist has reached a point of development that makes an ending statement. Wolfe's stories are almost ruthlessly character oriented. Crescendo grabs all these points and is attempting to make a cohesive RPG from them.
Sorry, no complex interweaving of enigmas, not yet! If anyone has ideas for that let me know! But I've never personally felt a draw to the puzzle-unravelling that a lot of people seem to have with Wolfe. What Wolfe is saying, behind those puzzles that I can't figure out, is a lot more interesting to me than the puzzles themselves. That's not a knock upon those who like doing that, but if you're looking for a game that is an enigma in a box, I'd suggest Bleak Spirit. Maybe some of that tech may wind its way into Crescendo. But it's not my focus, not at the moment.
Most RPGs I've played and read are not deliberately psychological. Play centers around the actions of the characters, with the psychological impact of those actions left up to the player. Crescendo will be a deeply psychological game. Players draft Tenets, which are what their character is willing to fight for. These Tenets have what are called Resilience Points, which measures how much failure the Tenet can take before the player has to make a decision about that Tenet. Characters also have Limits, which are traits that the player can use to recharge the RP of Tenets; act on the Limit and heal your Tenets! There's a lot more than that involved, but those are the basics: act upon Tenet, lose RP, and use Limits to recharge. At each stage of development I've checked in with licensed psychologists of varying backgrounds to ensure that the mechanics are psychologically accurate andhealthy,with more input to be sought in the future.. I have always found gaming to be a cathartic and helpful experience, and wish Crescendo to be deliberately so.
The Catholicism of Wolfe is indispensable in understanding his work. But Wolfe was no ordinary Catholic; he was well-experienced in the healing power of God, not to mention his historical, theological, and philosophical background. Thanks to my own experiences (some of which I have put on this blog), combined with my private studies of the Philokalia, Leanne Payne, Thomas Carlyle, The Book of the Elders, Antirhetikous, Meditations on the Tarot, The Emerald Tablet, The Golden Legend... I really hope I'm up to the task. Cause I assure you that's a drop in the bucket in comparison to what Wolfe had read. Wolfe's emphasis on the healing of a personality by encountering Others, especially those of the supernatural order, will be a primary theme throughout the mechanics of Crescendo. To be whole one must encounter the whole of creation. Locales provide feedback loops that create encounter that would be random in any other game, but here are deeply significant to the development of your character.
The setting the players have crafted will always be in motion; the actions the players take will be mirrored in the setting, producing a living and breathing world that will have an uncanny familiarity to them. On the GM's side this means Movements, which are the big three things happening in the setting at the moment. The GM and players will keep journals of some of their actions, so that they can be imitated by the NPCs in the setting, as well as informing further actions in the narrative. Your decisions matter, they reflect into the world over the course of the game.
One of the things that's struck me as I've read Homer and other ancient writers was their emphasis on games and festivals, not to mention philosophical discourse. Characters exist in a larger world and not only do they enjoy it but they talk about it! Wolfe takes this trope and runs with it. And so will Crescendo. There's festivals, executions, strategy games, and other contests. Characters get bored and will have conversations that build the world, as well as the themes of the story. This means that when conflicts do occur, whether by word or steel, they are quite unusual and intense. Crescendo will not just be about the big plot. The game will reward any action you decide to take equally, so it can take almost any tone you like in any given session. But because of the focus upon the player's Tenets and the GM's Movements you'll find that the experience is cohesive. Wolfe writes to see the journey of a character. The narrative meanders along, with elements from the background jumping in to develop the protagonist... only to fade into the background when its end is complete. Crescendo is entirely based upon the interactions of the players. There's no grand scheme at the forefront of the action. What the players put on their character sheets is only a beginning, the fuel you put the fire of your time to. Each session ends in a twist, wrenching the narrative into unexpected territory, forcing the story to stay on the characters.
And this brings us to what I think Wolfe and Crescendo are about: the person, with all their flaws and virtues, in the context of their world, with all its flaws and virtues. Person and world crash into each other, evolving into something different and new. After processing what they've changed into they run into each other again. And again. And again. And at some point you know they're going to be fine, somehow. So you leave them be.
Everything I've read of Wolfe's has made me a better person, in no small part because he's part of the original story, the primal narrative of the ancients: man looks at the cosmos; the cosmos stares back. They size each other up, trying to understand each other.
There's a dream I don't tell people about. I've been having it for decades now. I'm wandering in an old dilapidated house with people I know. One by one they vanish; their impressions in the thick dust were never there. It gets quieter and quieter. Not the quiet where you hear less, but where the ambient noise starts to vanish. Finally the only thing I can hear is my own ragged breathing. The world becomes grayer and grayer. Finally I'm in the basement. No one came with, of course. The darkness coils around my ankles, whispy and not quite there. I'm cold.
And there It stands.
The only thing darker than the blackness trying to force its way into my throat.
I know It well.
I look down, and find I'm just as dark as It is. My eyes now shine with crimson too. And it feels so good. To be honest with what I always was. My hands are shaking as I look at them, both in typing this and in the dream. It feels so good to stop running.
My mouth opens to scream at It in a final act of defiance.
"You failed. Your siblings were ruined, your wife will leave, your children will figure it out sooner than your wife. There's only one answer here," is what comes out of my mouth. It's a voice I recognize.
But it's not mine.
A sword, blade writhing with pitch-black something, appears between us, the crimson from our eyes illuminating it.
All of a sudden I'm afraid.
I've woken up from this dream once in my life. I'd suppressed the basement part.
Animosity brought it back.
Now when I close my eyes I see It. Waiting. The sword's between us. I wouldn't touch it.
But that's not the only thing that's come back. Memories of my first day of highschool have come back too. All in black, skin practically boiling with the rage pushing up from under it, what the hell was I thinking? Why would I come back to any school, willingly?
"What, are you afraid?' My priest's challenge a few months before had led to an outburst of angry splutterings, muttering of how cheap a move that was, and a resolve to prove him wrong.
But, as I stood in that hallway, I was afraid. So very afraid. When would they realize I didn't belong? When would the attacks start again?
"YOU SON OF A BITCH"
I jumped. So did everyone else. Barrelling down the hallway were two guys. Blood hung in the air an impossibly long time as it came out a nose, rolled off a fist, and stayed there just long enough for me to figure out I could be next.
Puddles of rust. Shouts in the air. I practically ran to class. I was so afraid.
But that's not all this song has brought up.
Sam, the best dog I ever met, head in my lap, as I sobbed in my wife's family forest.
My wife's smile as I walk up to her. I felt heavy. I don't anymore.
The screams of "DAAAAAAADDY!!" and the hop skip and a dance as I'm wrestled ever so lovingly. I'm laughing.
My siblings' smiles each time they come to visit.
And all of a sudden I'm back in that basement. The world is colored crimson. I can feel It breathing through my lungs. It likes it.
Fucking parasite.
My mouth opens. But I don't say the words. I laugh, a sound that may actually come out of the depths of Hell. It's a long cackle.
But it's my cackle.
And It shrinks back. Afraid.
The blade is between us. My fuligin hand grasps the hilt. I know what to do with this. For so many years I shrank back because I didn't know what to do. But now I know. God, I know.
The darkness sloughs off the blade into my own palm. I tilt my head back.
The oily blackness is gone in one gulp. It screams in fear, eyes practically pink with intensity.
The fight at school happened because a ten year old brother was given cigarettes. I had every reason to be scared then. It's okay that I hid next to a door, shaking so hard that I could barely see straight. It's okay that I regretted my decision, even though I was wrong. It's okay that I didn't know how to reach out to anyone and that I thought everyone was a threat. I don't now. Forgive. Forgive. FORGIVE.
"Go in peace," I thunder. Cerberus would have run from me; things don't smash their way out of Hades.
But here I am. I have crawled, fought, my way here. My pilgrimage from the land of the dead to the land of the living has not been kind to me. I am bruised to the point of absurdity; the fulligin isn't from the demon. I know that now. My eyes have almost been pounded out of their skull, I can barely see past the blood. It made me think the crimson liquid was a demonic light.
And it's not a cackle coming from my throat, but a retching cough; my lungs are full of blood.
Excalibur glows in my hand, free of the roiling ebony I drank. The demon can't get out. I am blocking the exit. Sam's snuggles, my wife and children's laughter, THIS SONG, have sharpened the sword better than any smith could. Arthur himself would be jealous. Crimson flows from my eyes, but I'm holding the scabbard like there's no tomorrow. My skin begins to become grey.
"You're right. I know what to do with this, " I say as I hold the Sword of Kings aloft.
I've always known, somehow.
There's a flash of light.
The white separates and restores the color and sound in the world.
Spoilers incoming! I also assume you have read the poem and watched the movie.
This is a prologue to my post. In order to understand my ultimate point about this movie I highly suggest reading this prologue. Danke.
At the turn of the 20th century there was a German composer by the name of Strauss. Strauss was a naturalist composer: he valued painting a scene with sounds over melody. He was quite good at it... but that doesn't mean everyone liked it. I'm not sure I would. Regardless, Strauss was regarded as the greatest composer since Wagner.
In the twilight of Strauss's career he was asked to provide music to a production called Joseph and Potiphar's Wife. Now, in order for you to understand my point about The Green Knight we need to discuss what the actual story of Joseph and Potiphar's Wife is, and contrast it with the Strauss.
Joseph's story is the capstone of the book of Genesis, thematically closing that book out. Joseph was a good man, but whose jealous brothers sold him into slavery, into Egypt. When Joseph arrived in Egypt he was sold to Potiphar. Now, most Americans think of slavery like Uncle Tom's Cabin. That's not what slavery was in the vast majority of world's history. Think more parent-child: the owner was responsible for keeping the slave safe and fed, and was held accountable for his slave's behavior. The slave in turn obeyed the master and did the work assigned to him. People would sell themselves into slavery to pay off debts.
There is an American equivalent to slavery: joining the military. You'll find many of the trappings of historical slavery present in all militaries, and without them you wouldn't be able to defend a country. Period. Sorry to all liberals who wanted to entertain the notion that slavery is inherently horrific and that we've removed it from our society. It's not and we really can't.
Now, Joseph proved himself many times over to Potiphar. Potiphar grew to rely upon Joseph so much that he barely paid any mind to anything else than what he ate.
Welp, Potiphar's wife wanted to sleep with Joseph. Joseph said no, so Potiphar's wife accused him of attempting to rape her to Potiphar. Joseph ended up in prison, and from there managed to become second in the whole kingdom. He saved his brothers from a famine and brought them to live with him in Egypt, where they had their own land. Evil was transmuted to good, and forgiveness won out.
Strauss's version paints things very differently. Potiphar's wife is a dissolute woman, craving experience to cure her ennui. She has everything she wants materially and is thus miserable. When she meets Joseph she sees the spark of what she's always wanted: joy, fulfilment. She attempts to seduce him, in an effort to make him (and thus his spiritual experiences) hers. Joseph repulses her, and the angels come and rescue him, leaving Potiphar's wife to collapse into complete spiritual death. There's no forgiveness, no resolution, no overcoming of evil with good. There's nothing but darkness.
If Joseph and Potiphar's Wife doesn't sum up the 17th-19th centuries then life is absurd. Having thoroughly bought into materialism and industry, Western Europe had become obsessed with war as the final glory. To be European and American was to love war, as the cultural myth told it. But the rise of occultism, Socialism, and democracy proved the soul of humanity was still in there, yearning for true experience, but assembling the absolutely wrong ways to go about getting it. A great war had been prophesied by many for years. The spiritual rot was almost total. And everyone felt it, somehow.
World War I happened; Potiphar's wife collapsed in on herself.
Aesthetics is the height of morality, as Anne Rice unerringly stated. To enjoy something is to say it is consonant with the narrative that you live in. This narrative is a complex interweaving of culture, religion, and personal experience, which those who are wise can barely parse out. So when something is regarded as highly as The Green Knight is by our culture it's important to be mindful that your opinion is rarely your own. What the world values is always flawed, is always fundamentally wrong. And it is a part of you and how you think. So is their admiration of The Green Knight misjudged, truly evil, or something stranger than both?
We'll get there folks.
Some adaptations are just an attempt at a remake of their source. They usually miss their mark, as no movie can equal the depth of a book. Movies have a different strength, one of images and movement. It's usually better for an adaptation to be a response to the source, possibly even a critique. What makes the source (in this case the poem) so good? The best adaptations I've seen ask this question and stick to it. The Green Knight is one of the best adaptations I've ever seen. Each detail is lovingly rendered, the acting is poetry, the way the story is filled in would make any poet jealous. It's obvious Lowery -the director - has an immense love for the poem and his movie is meant to be taken with the source, not in replacement of it. This is one of the few adaptations I've seen that drips with such affection for its source material. There's a deeply personal element in this movie, so strong you can practically see it in the mists.
I'll take it a step further: The Green Knight is prophetic of our age. It is the Joseph and Potiphar's Wife of the 21st century. Lowery's personal response strikes a chord so deep it's transcended individual experience and become reflective of Western civilization in the 21st century. And, just like Joseph and Potiphar's Wife, it tells what will happen to our civilization. There's something so primal going on that it can be nothing else.
And that is utterly terrifying.
For, you see, Gawain is not like Sir Gawain at all. There is very little honor in him. His shield, the same shield with the Theotokos which protects Sir Gawain of the poem, is smashed because of a lack of gratitude. Appearing good (what Gawain calls honor) is the only thing that truly drives him. It is a flimsy thing, this honor, only slightly more flimsy than the green sash his mother gave him. And Gawain's conception of this honor crumbles when actually faced with death.
And to be fair, Sir Gawain fails at the last as well! Even though he saves Camelot from becoming a second Troy his resolve falters and he tries to cheat death. Despite what Sir Gawain does right he can't stick the landing either. But Sir Gawain puts the green sash where others can see it, goes home, confesses his faults, and isn't just forgiven: the other knights wear the green sash in hopes they can live up to Sir Gawain's failure. The poem is a Christian story, at heart. Your wrongs need not control you. There is hope, always. And the virtue of a person does not go away merely because they made a mistake. And no one can avoid mistakes. So therefore no one is destroyed by them.
David Lowery is not a Christian.
Neither is our culture.
Presented with a similar situation, of failing to face death, Gawain imagines what his life would be like if he ran. And he decides it would do him no good to run from the axe. He wouldn't change. And Gawain needs to change. But he has no hope, so he can't forgive. So he can't change. Neither does America; we have no real hope, so we won't forgive, and thus change, either. We must have our sick version honor, as we cancel and riot and lie lie lie lie in an insane need to feel something other than the yawning darkness before us that we cannot forgive, and thus conquer. Whatever things can get you to not look at the darkness, that's okay. Do it.
Ha, just kidding! Eventually all our escapes will fall out.
I have the worst dice luck in the world. The worst. In one of my latest games I'd marshalled 12 dice, with a Dragonzord in the wings. We were all so excited! 24 possible damage! I picked up the dice.
Twelve. Twelve. TWELVE
0's.
We won that game, for the record. Somehow. Turns out that Rocky's Risky Moves is an amazing card to pair with... Pretty much anything. More on that on a different day.
Point is, TJ was made for my kinda luck in mind. Y'know, folks who can't roll dice in this game, not without throwing around words to make a sailor blush. TJ's utility is obvious. And playing him is therapeutic. I would argue there's not a whole lot of depth to TJ: swap out dice for guaranteed damage. He does some interesting deck manipulation, but he's definitely a one-trick pony. That isn't a disparagement, for the record. Not everyone who plays this game is going to want a complicated puzzle to finagle into cooperation. I am usually not one of those people; Jason Zeo Gold may be my favorite ranger to play at this point. But simple can be nice. And TJ is simple. So yes, this post is going to be short.
TJ's are variations of losing a die in favor of flat damage. Unless you're playing a completely defensive team these abilities are never not going to be useful. Some character and zord abilities might not see use in every battle. I seriously doubt that'll be the case with TJ and his zord. Someone's always gonna need something to be for sure.
Buster Rifle is TJ's bread and butter attack. Everything else offensive either sets it up or imitates it. Cosmic Cleave is specifically designed to make Buster Rifle work better; Cosmic Cleave can be a good spot to get guaranteed damage on, just saying ! Astro Axe is just a souped up version of Buster Rifle. If you can get your team to use some deck manipulation characters then you'll be able to dish out three consistent damage easily. That takes a weight off of everyone else, allowing other people to recover or go to other spots. If you do TJ right he can solo entire teams of footsoldiers, just with Cosmic Cleave and Buster Rifle.
Strategic Defense is there specifically so you can get your Buster Rifle into a prime spot. It's also nice to have when you know FAST cards are a serious contender, allowing everyone to get their decks ready for rocketing. This is definitely one of those cards that can completely change the course of the battle, as it throws that extra energy into the pool. You can go and throw out a Power Weapon without dipping into people's reserves, creating situations where you're already on the right foot.
Precision Tactics is one of those fun little cards that's great to throw at Power Weapons. Most of the time I don't want spike damage with a power weapon, just something consistent. Precision Tactics gives you that. It's also a nice card to throw onto a chain of "play another card", of which we're getting more and more. Last game I played with TJ we were playing MMPR Jason, MMPR White, and Jason Zeo Gold. We had rounds where we were just passing from player to another, throwing in modifiers, always ending the handoffs with TJ so we could throw out 5-10 damage for practically no energy, not to mention no dice rolling!
TJ is a really simple character. He can either amp up everyone else by removing dice from the equation or solo a few rounds of footsoldiers. He's not the most complicated character in the world, but he's good to throw at beginners who feel more comfortable with some complexity and have them feel effective, especially if you spend a moment showing them how the deck works. He's not my favorite, but some days.... with 12 0's... I'm glad I got him.
In the interest of full disclosure, the author play-tested a prototype of TJ. A most sincere thanks to Jonathan Ying and the folks at Renegade!
