O'Connell: The Fugitive

Richard Kimble’s innocence and moral virtue play a large role in the film’s driving, emotional storyline, as his personal integrity must be firmly established to keep the character in the audience’s good graces. Both sympathy and respect for Kimble are necessary to retain the film’s representation of a wrongfully accused man attempting to make things right. Pfeiffer identifies these attributes as they affect the film’s atmospheric and underlying concepts:

“The audience, which is used to rooting for Ford in any number of other films, instantly feels a sympathy for his character, which is essential in such an emotional story. We have to feel Kimble’s frustration, fears, and anguish so that his final triumph is all the more satisfying.” (Pfeiffer 212)

Many scenes throughout the length of the film reestablish Kimble’s respectable character as something of a reminder of his righteousness, or atonement for the less consequential misdemeanors he is forced to commit. Just as he is in the process of escaping from his imprisonment, Kimble attempts to save the young injured prison guard from the bus wreck before the train hits it. When placed in such a precarious position, his selflessness shining through demonstrates more of how this man should not be so quickly deemed guilty, especially so in regards to the other inmate and the older prison guard, who abandon the injured guard and Kimble in the wreckage. The contrast this provides show the audience that Kimble holds the moral high ground in contrast to his “fellow murderer”, as well as to the apparent authority figure who both abandons his junior in an act of self preservation, later glorifying himself in his account to the investigators later. This reinforces all of Kimble’s virtues of selflessness, courage, and his indefatigable sense of justice.

Kimble’s heroism in this scene also reimposes his character’s highest motivation, the pursuit and capture of his wife’s true murderer. This unselfish motivation drives all of his actions, as Kimble is not simply on the run from the law, but seeks a higher objective than his own freedom, which is simply a byproduct. Were he simply concerned with his own freedom, he could have fled across country, or left the nation. However, he instead returns right back into the belly of the beast to pursue his goal at his own risk. This goal is not even simple vengeance, as we see in his first conflict with the murderer in the traincar. He does not kill him, he instead decides to incapacitate him and leave him handcuffed for the police to find, and continues to tear away the web of lies that led to his wrongful imprisonment. Kimble’s innocence and strength of character are reestablished in multiple scenes throughout the film, and are integral to the fundamental qualities of the film.

O'Connell: Mosquito Coast

Allie Fox is first introduced as an intelligent man disillusioned with modern American society. Not yet a fanatic, he is simply a man with a healthy critique of the government, as is necessary to inspire progress. He is a father trying to provide for his family, and an inventor trying to make the world a better place. But his criticism is as unwelcome to Americans as is his invention to his employer, leading him to frustration as his efforts are unappreciated. This dissatisfaction causes him to idealize an alternative lifestyle, and he abandons ship in effort to reach his own vision of society as he would make it. At this point Allie’s loyal family believes in this vision, and is willing to pursue his dream of a better world right alongside him.

After the first Act’s establishment of the new Jeronimo formed in his own image, the newly deified Allie must face the reality of his aspirations as things begin to go against his plan. He envisioned a paradise, but things rarely go according to intricate plans when one simply does not have divine power. The extent of Allie’s god complex and hubris led to a more devastating fall when the unexpected actions of the refugees destroys his intricate plans. Due to his fanaticism, the destruction of his paradise doesn’t cause him to second guess his actions, but instead spurs his attempt to gain greater control and greater independence as he rebuilds, alienating the natives in the same way he alienated America.

As the film enters its third act, and Allie’s extravagant plans have been reduced to the mere skeleton of a barge drifting on the river, an apt metaphor for his ailing mental state. His lust for control over the uncontrollable ultimately led to his sorry state of affairs, as even his loyal children begin to hate him. He has degraded to an psychotic wretch, devoid of reason and blindly pursuing his ideals endlessly, culminating in the arson of Spellgood’s church, and his own death. Even in his criminal insanity, however, one must remember that Allie’s lofty goals arose from a desire to make the world a better place for his family. “Allie is a complicated person, and it’s a complicated job for the audience to figure him out. He’s a good father and a bad father. He’s a monster, a clown, a fool, a genius.” (Pfeiffer 157) He cannot be classified as simply a deranged control freak, nor can he be considered a model father. There were many points for him to turn back and avoid continuing the doomed path he followed, but each time he took the idealized option, resulting in a greater and greater gamble each time that ultimately did greater harm to his family than that which he feared.

O'Connell: Witness

As John Book awakes in an Amish household, he is immediately thrust into a lifestyle that holds a drastically different set of ideals from his own. Coming from highly individualized and self-centered city living, Book is accustomed to managing his own affairs, and his affairs alone. It’s the English way to take care of oneself independently from others, as the rest of the population does the same in autonomous peace. When he arrives in the Lapp house, however, he is helpless and relies upon the kindness of others, humbling him and teaching him humility. Once he is able-bodied, he begins to pay it forward and benefit the community much in the way they benefitted him, as we see through his chores, the barn raising, and even rebuilding the birdhouse.

Also whilst living in the Lapp household, Book unconsciously takes on a father role as he protects Samuel, humbles himself to Eli, and falls in love with Rachel. Never starting a household of his own, this introduces to Book the importance of family values, a virtue he may have gone on without knowing were he to continue his life in the city uninterrupted. In mealtime scenes this makeshift family looks natural from the outside, and leads Book to roleplay the father in something of a training experience for him.

Though he is in constant conflict with the Amish way, making mistakes and faux pas one after another, Book eventually learns to subjugate his own cultural norms and accept the ones around him. His stubbornness slowly wears off, and as their values of modesty and hard work rub off on him, he abandons the traits of individuality and selfishness that conflict with his new way of life. His steady adaptation to the Amish way is often comic relief, but he eventually realizes that their living is not backwards or inferior to his own, and embraces it almost in its entirety.

But unfortunately he cannot completely transform into a denizen of the Amish world. As we see in his conflict with the abusive tourists, he cannot learn their stoic pacifism due to his origins in a world saturated with brutality. However, the director’s original intention was not to present this as the final message of the film. “Peter Weir wanted the climax to Witness to downplay the violence and stress the love affair between Book and Rachel.” (Pfeiffer 152) The persevering violence ingrained into Book makes a powerful statement about his nature. Though he can be conditioned into much of the peaceful Amish way of life, his failure to completely adapt reinforces the idea that these are indeed to very different worlds, just as Eli Lapp believed.  You can take the man out of the violence, but you can’t take the violence out of the man.

O'Connell: Blade Runner (Director's Cut)

The changes of the Director’s Cut are immediately noticeable with the emotionally significant “radio silence” from Deckard as his thoughts are no longer broadcast to the viewers with all the subtlety of a baseball bat to the head. The lack of narration was an important change from the original cut that was roundly disliked as: “Critics scoffed at having the script explained to them by the Deckard character-- especially since most of the narration simply stated the obvious.” (Pfeiffer 124) Ridley Scott’s original vision of the film without voiceover restored the understated poignant nuances of Deckard’s character, which Ford’s acting effectively captures. We as the viewers are not Deckard’s conscience, nor is he providing us with a record of the events. We are simply witness to them, and must make our own judgements.

As the Director’s Cut restores the subtlety and grace to the character of Deckard, it also opens up sections of the film to interpretation. By not hearing exactly what Deckard is thinking verbatim, the viewer is free to form their own perceptions of his mindset and intentions. The scene in which Deckard, at his piano surrounded by photographs of his now-questionable memories, dreams of a unicorn running through the forest is an example of the film’s unspoken message that requires some viewer input to unpack, and begin to ask questions like: how does Deckard see himself? How did Gaff know about the dream? Even Gaff’s final scene gets pulled into question in the director’s cut. When he applauds Deckard by stating “you’ve done a man’s job!” is he in fact referring to Deckard as not a man? Such questions provide thought and depth the the film, as it becomes not simply a blockbuster Hollywood action film, but a complex puzzle to which one continues to return.

Arguably the most important change from the 1982 cut is the end of the film. The Director’s Cut no longer gives the audience a neatly wrapped happy ending, and not only is Rachel’s future called into question, but Deckard’s as well. As he finds the origami unicorn, two important points are made. The first being that Gaff has been to the apartment and spared Rachel (and Deckard), which was the only message in the original cut. And second, that Deckard’s inner thoughts and memories are not the private nor random; Gaff knows Deckard better than he knows himself. Deckard makes the connection quickly, as he nods slowly and crumples the unicorn, remembering Gaff’s words. The Director’s Cut then ends the film on another abrupt door-closing with more questions than answers, in an appropriate reflection of Deckard’s future. Such a drastic change from the “peace at last” ending of the 1982 version changes the film entirely, and in my opinion, for the better.

O'Connell: Blade Runner (1982) Blog

The Hollywood interpretation of Rick Deckard we see in Blade Runner (1982) presents us with a gruff noir hero who appears vastly different from the original novel’s contemplative and alienated and main character, struggling to resolve mixed feelings about his way of life. In Blade Runner, Deckard is something of a loner. He is unmarried, lives alone, and does not appear to have permanent employment, whereas Rick in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? is fully attached, living with his wife and receiving a salary from the police department. However, Iran is apathetic if not cold to him, and his position as a bounty hunter is extremely low ranking in the police department. Both characters are somewhat alienated, but the contrast of the latter’s inhospitable way of life is a better illustration of his growing despondency than the former’s simple lack of attachment.

The book’s Rick is nearly extremely interested in animals, and his lust for both the therapeutic compassion of animal husbandry as well as the social status brought about by the ownership of an organic animal is nearly obsessive, as he even carries his Sidney’s guide on his person at all times. His consumerist desire drives many of his actions, most notably his monetary compensation for the retirement of the Nexus 6 androids. The film version of Deckard makes no mention of animals, electric or organic, nor is any type of compensation for his mission mentioned explicitly. While it’s certainly probable that he does receive payment, the simple fact that it’s not mentioned nearly eliminates the idea as motivation for his actions.

While his love affair with Rachael is complex and fluctuating in the novel, with multiple intricacies and questions left open, Deckard’s relationship with her in the film is as clean-cut as a fairytale romance. While the novel’s Rick does confess love for Rachael at first, he’s also driven to anger and murderous desire to retire her when he learns that she was employed to sleep with many bounty hunters in effort to keep them from killing more androids. The same blurred line between killing a sentient being and retiring a piece of machinery is calling into question for Rick whether his affair is true unfaithfulness to his wife with another human, or inconsequential masturbation with a machine. The film has none of these questions to their relationship.

While it’s easy to pick out the ways in which the film has fallen short of the book’s complexity, Blade Runner retained the main character’s most obvious struggle. Pfeiffer’s synopsis of the original script states: “The plot would focus on Deckard’s increasing aversion to killing these superpowerful robots or replicants. [...] Deckard’s problem is in identifying the replicants and resisting the urge to treat them with the same compassion one might extend to a human being.” (Pfeiffer 120) Though much was omitted, the film adaptation portrays Deckard’s inner turmoil and questioning appropriately, which was certainly just as much of a focus in the novel as well.

O'Connell: Androids Blog

Michael Heilemann’s essay promotes many interpretations of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep that are relatively obvious and acceptable, however in his conclusion, he postulates that in relation to the androids, the novel’s “real” humans are:

Stupidified by 23 hours of moron-TV every day, unable to provoke emotions except through a mechanical device and blinded by their devotion to their new religion. A religion which no one really understands or even makes an effort to understand, it’s merely accepted as yet another possibility of total escapism. (Heilemann 12)

This is an opinion that I feel conflicts with many of the novel’s statements about humanity, and the nature of Mercerism.

Though Mercerism is presented as a religion, I believe its role for mankind is not to inspire blind devotion or similar escapism to Buster Friendly’s 23 hour broadcast, but to remind the followers of their humanity. Empathy is the measurement by which the androids are considered insufficient to be human, therefore the greater one’s empathy, the greater their humanity. Through reassurance and communal compassion, the Mercerists are kept in touch with their truly human natures. Not necessarily by literal definition, as a man like Phil Resch, though human, is a killer, lacking in the (figuratively) humanizing empathy. New, updated versions of androids are constantly being released, getting closer and closer to this ideal of human that many humans are unable to reach. Luba Luft criticises Resch openly for his android-like lack of empathy, to the point that she is convinced he is one. After being given the book of Edvard Munch prints by Deckard, Luft says of Resch “It wouldn’t have occurred to him; as he said, never in a million years.” (Dick 133) As the line between organic and electric is already blurred to this point, the androids are obviously on a track towards indistinguishability from humans as they improve and get closer to empathic response.

It is not simply the humans’ attempting to foster artificial exclusivity by stating the unachievable by the androids. Consider Isidore’s distraught conversation with the Mercer via the empathy box, immediately after his exposure as a fraud.  

“I am a fraud,” Mercer said. “They’re sincere; their research is genuine. From their standpoint, I am a retired bit player named Al Jarry. All of it, their disclosure, is true.” [...] “They will have trouble understanding why nothing has changed. Because you’re still here, and I’m still here. (Dick 214)

The point of Mercerism is not the divinity of the figure, Mercer, but the empathy itself through the vehicle of Mercer’s ceaseless pilgrimage and hardship. It is only the lack of compassion that keeps androids from achieving humanity. Theoretically, if the androids were to reach such a tier of empathy, they would finally be truly equal to humans.

Works Cited

Dick, Philip K. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? New York: Ballantine, 

1996. Print.

Heilemann, Michael. “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep and Blade Runner”. 2001. Blackboard. Web. 13 Mar 2014.

O'Connell: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a notorious film for tacking one more attempt at greatness on to the already complete series, but to say one thing in its favor, it is definitely a work born of passion for the earlier films, especially Raiders of the Lost Ark. Packed with reference after homage after fedora tip, the film is a love letter to the earlier trilogy with countless tributes to the other films.



The scene taking place at Jones’ residence wherein Indiana has just learned of his “indefinite leave of absence” is especially packed with references. Structurally, it is the same as the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark in which Dr. Marcus Brody shows up to tell Indy of the new mission and share a celebratory drink, however the drink he shares with Dean Charles Stanforth is a mournful one as the two men are both out of work. This time, Indy is not packing with eager anticipation, but with disheartened acceptance. Note how instead of first grabbing his trademark jacket and coiled leather whip, he first packs neatly folded shirts, underwear, socks, and a coiled leather belt, a sad image of the adventureless life that awaits him.

Similar to Indiana’s disillusionment with the government in the end of Raiders, there is a continued animosity towards the government in this film and this scene, as Charles states “I barely recognize this country anymore, the government’s got us seeing communists in our soup. When the hysteria reaches academia I guess it’s time to call it a career.” (Spielberg, Crystal Skull) After his run in with the government agents at the beginning of the film, Indy is no more thrilled with them than he was in ‘36. When the agents come to the university to search Indiana’s office, Charlie must to allow them, but is forced to resign as he defends Jones. During their conversation, Indy apologizes for having doubted Charlie’s loyalty, who then responds “no, you have reason to question your friends these days”, referencing both the betrayal of Mac in this film, and on a larger scale the constant betrayals of Jones’ many companions over the years.

This scene looks back in many ways, as Indiana is struggling with his own mortality. We learn that in the recent past, both Marcus Brody and Henry Jones, Sr. have passed away, leaving Indy with few companions, and he looks through an old journal that quickly flashes upon a picture of a youthful Indiana who has also gone the way of all things. Indiana has little to look forward to at this point, and instead both Indy and the audience are nostalgically remembering the glory of the past.

O'Connell: Last Crusade - Makeup

Taking place so far in the past, the opening scenes of Last Crusade make up for the lack of character development in the previous films, showing Indiana as not the ideal of masculine bravado we’re used to, but a young squire, exhibiting just a suggestion of the full-blown hero he will be in the future. River Phoenix’s performance perfectly suits adolescent Jones’ as a confident and educated young man with much of the daring do he is known for in the future, but as of yet holding little power and finding himself at the mercy of forces larger than him. The opening scene is a microcosm of Indiana’s later adventures as he puts his life on the line for his ideals, and ends up betrayed by those he seeks to serve -- in this case, the sheriff. It also elaborates upon the origins of a good deal of character traits that were otherwise left unnoticed. “Within a few precious minutes, the scene manages to explain the origins of everything from Indy’s fear of snakes to his acquisition of his trademark Stetson hat.” (Pfeiffer 180)

While in the past two films, Indiana is something of a male Mary Sue with his idealized, nigh flawless character and powerful screen presence, the opening scene presents to us a more vulnerable Indy, as is the theme throughout Last Crusade. Our hero is time and time again robbed of his dignity and seen with egg on his face. This allows us to see Indiana through his father’s scrutinizing eyes, making the opening scenes almost as illustrative about Henry Jones, Sr. as Jr. Going to his father for help after obtaining the crucifix, Henry Sr. fails to take his son seriously, and ignores his claims, instead forcing him to count backwards in greek. The emasculating shame Indiana feels reminds us that he is still only a child, and a shadow of the hero we see him as later in his timeline.

Indy hates the thieves for their selfish desires, reiterating his position that the artifact “belongs in a museum”. However, the man in charge of them dresses exactly like Jones does in adulthood. This draws a parallel between them, where Indy considers himself to have the moral high ground, but in the future he is little more than a glorified grave robber himself at certain points in his career, like during the events of Temple of Doom. The man plays the roll in Indy’s life that is later filled by Belloq in Raiders of the Lost Arc, snatching victory out from under him after he believes himself to be safe. At the same time, the man encourages Indy to continue his pursuits, giving him his signature hat and giving him hope for the future through negative example, displaying to him the graverobbing thievery to which he could succumb and motivating him to retain his ideals.

O'Connell: Raiders of the Lost Ark

With Temple of Doom taking place so soon before the events of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones’ character goes through quite rapid changes. His rivalry with Belloq plays a contrasting role, displaying the moral superiority of Indy, but just a year prior, he and Belloq were identical, doing whatever it takes to reach goals for their own benefit. Monetary reward is only a small, technical concern to Jones, who only needs a sponsor to allow him to partake in another adventure. The US government acts as the lord to which he is sworn on his quest, but it seems that deep down his loyalties lie in the pursuit of the artifacts themselves, and his fascination with history. From what I understand, not having yet seen the film, The Last Crusade will see Jones graduate from servitude to a lord towards a more spiritually fulfilling goal, meaning that the Indy we see in Raiders is in just as temporary a state as the “anything goes” mercenary in Temple of Doom; he is never a perfect, stable, archetypal role. Ford himself mentions the depth of character as well, stating: “Jones is a character who has some other dimensions. He’s kind of a swashbuckling hero type, but he has human frailties, fears, and money problems, and therefore is more down to earth.” (Pfeiffer 115)

Look at him… fresh faced, and ready to serve America.

During the course of Raiders, Indy really just seems to be giving indentured servitude a try in his pursuit of recognition and his passion for history. A year earlier, he cared only for himself, and by the end of Raiders, he becomes disillusioned with his lord when they fail to live up to his expectations. He exhibits almost naivete as he accepts the mission and fulfills his duties at risk of life and limb, only to be let down by the government’s failure to meet his standards, as they hide away the ark rather than learn from it. But such is the life of servitude; it is not for him to question the motives of his lord. This seems to be what he learns in the final scene as he displays his dissatisfaction with the agents and storms down the steps of the government building. He is frustrated with the cause to which he pledged himself, and once again turns towards concern with the self, decrying the agents as “bureaucratic fools” and leaving with Marion, presumably cleaning his hands of government work and breaking off his service to the authority of a lord due to their inability conform to Indy’s ideals. This acts as a cliff-hanger of sorts, with an unsatisfactory conclusion that sets up Jones’ character for further development later in the trilogy, when he embarks on his grail quest to achieve spiritual fulfillment.

O'Connell: Star Wars Trilogy

Try as I might, I cannot help but see Luke as the traditional hero as per Campbell’s archetype. Han, while certainly heroic, doesn’t follow the format closely enough to be interpreted the same way, instead fulfilling a more modern concept of the hero, complete with flaws and some less-than-heroic traits. Though I’m sure a convincing argument could be made for his fulfillment of the role, I personally don’t believe Han has enough backstory or motivation to make a complete claim to the position as a Campbell Hero. Han is much too earthly in his journey to consider it akin to Luke’s spiritual journey. Han is instead a realist, the civic hero to contrast with Luke’s otherworldly priorities of the struggle between good and evil, more concerned with the here and now, the lives of the common people, and his own human concerns.

However, Luke’s claim to the role as Campbell’s hero is glaringly obvious, as the format of the trilogy so directly utilizes the format of The Hero With a Thousand Faces. He fills all four characteristics of the hero, in that he is male, of lowly birth, orphaned, and bears a nobility of purpose. As we’ve already looked at in the past, Luke’s Departure for his journey has a distinct Call to Adventure in A New Hope as Obi-Wan informs him of his potential, and begins the journey after Luke’s refusal, and subsequent resolve to defeat the Empire. His Initiation also takes place in A New Hope, as he progresses on the Road of Trials in his first encounters with the Empire on the Death Star, and discovers his true powers of the Force as his Supernatural Aid and succeeds in destroying the Death Star. From a narrative perspective of the entire trilogy, the climax of The Empire Strikes Back acts as The Belly of the Whale. Luke is almost defeated, and things are looking their darkest as he loses to Vader, but it is also the point of rebirth as Luke finally learns the truth about his father, and is physically altered with his new robotic hand.

Return of the Jedi finally gives us a true conclusion, wherein many of the loose ends the previous films have left us with are resolved. Most importantly is the Atonement of the Father, as good triumphs over evil in Vader’s final hours, redeeming both he himself, and by extension Luke as his son, struggling to come to terms with the dark inside his heart, granting both Skywalkers clarity they were previously missing. As the reading states in startlingly appropriate terms, “[The Hero] beholds the face of the father, understands -- and the two are atoned” (Campbell 147). Finally, Luke has his Return, perhaps slightly morose, but spiritually fulfilled and gratified by the end of his journey, finally awarded the enlightenment and self actualization pursued by the contemplative hero.

O'Connell: Star Wars - The Empire Strikes Back & Return of the Jedi

Though he does not consciously recognize it, the Dark Side tempts Luke throughout the films whenever he becomes consumed by ideas of revenge. The Force as Yoda teaches emphasizes balance and inner peace, whereas the Dark Side allows for passion, emotion, and the temptation of the great power those create. In the climactic final fight between Darth Vader and Luke in Return of the Jedi, Luke overcomes Vader by submitting to his rage at the idea of Leia coming into harm’s way. Though it’s not immediately obvious, the Dark Side gains it’s power from love, which nearly allows it to consume Luke entirely before he lets go of his hate and embraces the principles taught by Yoda and Obi-Wan.

Revenge is the driving force behind much of Luke’s action in Return of the Jedi, as he is impatient to resolve his conflict with Vader. Though it is necessary, it goes against the way of the Jedi and pushes Luke closer to the Dark Side. The previous title of the third film was Revenge of the Jedi, and as Pfeiffer states “Lucas was reminded by many fans that Jedi knights do not give in to feelings of vengeance. Therefore, the word ‘Revenge’ in the original title was at odds with the Jedi philosophy of peaceful coexistence” (133). It is only in the climax of Return that Luke realizes the direction his thirst for revenge is taking him, and he rebels against the hatred, instead forgiving Vader and absolving him of his sins as he in turn rebels against the Emperor.

The memento of the Dark Side with which Vader leaves Luke

Luke’s inner conflict between his passion and his sense of justice is the root of his character development, and we see it reflected in different ways. The same battle between light and dark is represented by the contrast of the natural and the mechanical. Vader has very little of his physical body remaining, and we see only small glimpses of flesh, much in the way we see small glimpses of the good left in him, such as having mercy on Luke in The Empire Strikes Back. Luke presents a mirrored version, as he is almost entirely human, but for one mechanical hand that is only ever visually noticeably when it is first installed, and when his artificial skin is injured by a blaster shot in Return of the Jedi. Throughout Return, Both Vader and Luke are attempting to strengthen that small iota of conflict in each other, and though Luke hangs precariously over the penumbra of the Dark Side, it is finally Vader who returns to the side of light, both leading himself to salvation, and redeeming the Dark in Luke.

O'Connell: Star Wars: A New Hope Blog

If Star Wars is Lucas’s interpretation of Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces, then A New Hope only the beginning of the hero’s journey, as the film almost entirely fits within the Departure stage. As the film was only a small portion of the full story, this makes sense from a storytelling standpoint, mostly due to the unfinished ending leading audiences to desire a more complete conclusion.

The Call to Adventure and subsequent Refusal are very brief, taking place on Tattooine as soon as the characters have been introduced. Obi-Wan presents Luke with the prospect of finally being able to follow his dreams and help the Rebel Alliance, and Luke must then weigh this departure against his normal life and his insatiable desire for power converters. As the decision is made for him by the loss of his home and family, Luke rediscovers his determination and responds to the Call.

The wise, old mentor then begins to provide the hero with their only form supernatural aid in the form of the Force. Obi-Wan trains Luke in the properties he will need to cross the first threshold as they first infiltrate the Death Star, which itself seems to play the role of the threshold guardian. As Luke, Han, and Obi-Wan enact their rescue mission, they face the hurdles that transform the hero, allowing him to find his own courage and personal motivations. The death of Obi-Wan is most transformative to Luke, in that it fills him with his own desire to push forth into his own destiny, rather than following. It’s this drive that brings him to the Belly of the Whale stage of rebirth, as he finally becomes a pilot, and joins the attack on the Death Star. In this attack, Luke truly discovers his own abilities, as well as the power of the Force and Obi-Wan’s training, displaying to the audience his potential for greatness.

Though Lucas’s adherence to Campbell’s heroic journey is intensely accurate, Princess Leia is his attempt to modernize Campbell’s hero and apply it to contemporary social norms, rather than to the archetypal mythology it was intended for. Leia does not fit any of Campbell’s typically female roles of Goddess or Temptress, nor does she especially fall in line with the symbolism of life, creation, or motherhood. Instead she is shown to be capable and driven by her own initiative. Though she is introduced to the hero via a standard damsel in distress cliché, the audience is aware of her strength of will and courage after seeing her actions during the opening sequence, shown knowing her way around a blaster and fearlessly voicing her disdain for Darth Vader. This divergence is a way of interpreting the hero’s journey for modern film, not criticizing its weakpoints, but adapting them to a newer form of media.

O'Connell: Hanover Street Blog

The two male leads, Halloran and Sellinger, offer contrasting views of heroism. Halloran's brash American machismo paints him as the stereotypical hero, piloting into danger without batting an eye, the traits that Sellinger so admires. Sellinger, however, as mild-mannered or "pleasant" in his own words as he is, faces the very same type of danger without backing down. Though as Pfeiffer puts it, "[Halloran] is courageous only because his loneliness prevents him from having a fear of death," and as soon as he has someone else to live for besides himself, he loses his foolhardy bravery. Sellinger already loves his wife and daughter, and jumps into danger even though he risks losing them. It suggests that Halloran's heroism and bravery were flimsy, that his courage was easy to achieve, seeing as his life held little value. Alternately, it shows Sellinger's valor to hold greater value, as he truly has much to lose, and yet still takes his life into his hands.

Sellinger greatly desires the image of a "hero" that Halloran dismisses. It is a rather egocentric desire, but the contrast between the two views of glory illuminates each character's motives. As "the archetypal upper-crust British gentleman who discovers he would rather die than remain dull." (Pfeiffer) Sellinger is driven by a desire to better himself, to become a dashing hero for his family to look up to, he shows the concept of heroism as the bright and shiny glory of masculine valor. Halloran, only experienced with the hollow heroism that comes with putting a valueless life on the line, has a very different understanding of their actions. While perhaps he still has an idea of such rose-tinted bravery, he certainly doesn't apply it to himself.

After the plane crash, the reluctant Halloran follows along with the starry eyed and inept search for glory, all the while Sellinger is optimistic and confident. As the film reaches the espionage and excitement of their mission, we see Halloran struggling to deal with his newfound fear of death. It turns the tables as Sellinger, already used to valuing his own life, now plays the fearless role. When he sustains a near-fatal wound, Halloran's new respect for life and fear of death push him to rescue Sellinger, in what is perhaps the most heroic action scene in the film.

The role reversal between the two characters is a fascinating development in the film, as both characters learn from one another how to overcome their defining traits. Sellinger learns to put his life on the line, and Halloran learns when not to do so. As Sellinger explains to Halloran, you can only be courageous when you have something to fear, otherwise it's nothing but foolishness.