Category Archives: archetypes

On Clark Kent

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Being the alter ego of Superman cannot be an easy role to play. Designed to be the outward disguise of a superhero, Clark Kent was, is and always will be much more than that. Klutzy, slow, a little witless, he is supposed to an Everyman who goes to work everyday, does his working man thing, then goes home at the end of the day. One supposes that Clark only wants the things and relationships that we all want so we are not bored or lonely: a roof over our heads and a companion with which he might share his time and emotions. Yet, Clark Kent is really none of those things because he is Kal-El, he is Superman and superman, both the hero and iconic ubermann who is superior in all ways to those around him. His very role as hero with exceptional powers prohibits him from having a normal relationship with others, so his pretend public persona must appear inferior in a variety of ways to other men so that he might fit in. The existence of Clark Kent presents a strange paradox between the ideal man and a real man, with all his failings, faults, and problems. His ineptitude is magnified and enhanced by the strange problem of trying to date a woman who is in love with his “super” self and uninterested in his fallible human alter ego. Lois Lane only has eyes for Superman, but couldn’t be less interested in the bumbling office mate who always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is very un-super of him. In other words, being Superman has no real benefits other than being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, a skill most can do without. Being Superman is, then, a bittersweet situation: you can impress the ladies with your physique, but the tender side of your personality has to stay locked up and caged. Superman is not just Superman, he is also Clark Kent, and vice versa, which means that both characters are facades for a larger character that has seen fit to split his personality, a la Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in order to function in a larger society. No one wants a tender and caring Superman, but Clark is supposed to be less than graceful, even weak. Eventually, the integrated character Superman/Clark Kent must come to terms with their existential conundrum of who they might really be, a character that is neither Superman nor Clark Kent. The general public craves the presence of Superman with all the ethical and moral burdens implicit in that relationship, making Clark Kent an interesting mask behind which the superhero might hide without being asked to save the world: no one expects Mr. Kent to do anything but bring Lois a fresh cup of coffee and sharpen the pencils–a primitive analogue for keeping the computer booted and running. Clark Kent must even feign a reserved masculinity in order to deflect interest from himself as if his own sexuality inhabited a liminal non-sexual space that is neither male nor female, almost a eunuch as it were, the complete opposite of “the man of steel.” Nevertheless, Kal-El does not permanently go around as a superhero because that persona is more sustainable than Clark Kent. The brooding super-human character of the hero must suffer constantly from an existential anxiety of purpose, ideals, identity, future, ethics, and violence. Perhaps it is that last things that so divides him from his alter ego, a peaceful, non-fighter who eschews violence while seeking non-violent solutions whenever possible. The internal battle between the hero and his non-heroic alter ego is constant, ongoing, and unresolvable, creating an ethos of melancholy and resignation as he tries to integrate into a society that will never either accept him as an equal or even give him a chance to be a whole person.

On Clark Kent

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Being the alter ego of Superman cannot be an easy role to play. Designed to be the outward disguise of a superhero, Clark Kent was, is and always will be much more than that. Klutzy, slow, a little witless, he is supposed to an Everyman who goes to work everyday, does his working man thing, then goes home at the end of the day. One supposes that Clark only wants the things and relationships that we all want so we are not bored or lonely: a roof over our heads and a companion with which he might share his time and emotions. Yet, Clark Kent is really none of those things because he is Kal-El, he is Superman and superman, both the hero and iconic ubermann who is superior in all ways to those around him. His very role as hero with exceptional powers prohibits him from having a normal relationship with others, so his pretend public persona must appear inferior in a variety of ways to other men so that he might fit in. The existence of Clark Kent presents a strange paradox between the ideal man and a real man, with all his failings, faults, and problems. His ineptitude is magnified and enhanced by the strange problem of trying to date a woman who is in love with his “super” self and uninterested in his fallible human alter ego. Lois Lane only has eyes for Superman, but couldn’t be less interested in the bumbling office mate who always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is very un-super of him. In other words, being Superman has no real benefits other than being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, a skill most can do without. Being Superman is, then, a bittersweet situation: you can impress the ladies with your physique, but the tender side of your personality has to stay locked up and caged. Superman is not just Superman, he is also Clark Kent, and vice versa, which means that both characters are facades for a larger character that has seen fit to split his personality, a la Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in order to function in a larger society. No one wants a tender and caring Superman, but Clark is supposed to be less than graceful, even weak. Eventually, the integrated character Superman/Clark Kent must come to terms with their existential conundrum of who they might really be, a character that is neither Superman nor Clark Kent. The general public craves the presence of Superman with all the ethical and moral burdens implicit in that relationship, making Clark Kent an interesting mask behind which the superhero might hide without being asked to save the world: no one expects Mr. Kent to do anything but bring Lois a fresh cup of coffee and sharpen the pencils–a primitive analogue for keeping the computer booted and running. Clark Kent must even feign a reserved masculinity in order to deflect interest from himself as if his own sexuality inhabited a liminal non-sexual space that is neither male nor female, almost a eunuch as it were, the complete opposite of “the man of steel.” Nevertheless, Kal-El does not permanently go around as a superhero because that persona is more sustainable than Clark Kent. The brooding super-human character of the hero must suffer constantly from an existential anxiety of purpose, ideals, identity, future, ethics, and violence. Perhaps it is that last things that so divides him from his alter ego, a peaceful, non-fighter who eschews violence while seeking non-violent solutions whenever possible. The internal battle between the hero and his non-heroic alter ego is constant, ongoing, and unresolvable, creating an ethos of melancholy and resignation as he tries to integrate into a society that will never either accept him as an equal or even give him a chance to be a whole person.

On Skyfall

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Has anyone ever wondered where James Bond comes from? Ever since his earliest incarnations via Sean Connery, he has been a brooding, enigmatic, and dangerous character, already a man, never a child in spite of logic to the contrary. The 23rd Bond film is highly reminiscent of those earlier Bonds as producers, writers and directors strive to resurrect the fifty-year-old series. This Bond is not indestructible or infallible, and the opening series of shots, a high speed urban chase, end in disaster for the British Secrete Service, Bond sinking to the bottom of a river, apparently dead. As the movie progresses, the audience finds out that Bond is an orphan who has not yet dealt with a traumatic past which has left him vulnerable in a number of ways. The evildoer de jour is very evil, specializing in cyber attacks and dark personal vendettas, which make him dangerous and problematic because he is not driven by larger or universal ethical concerns for society at large. He’s a sociopath who is uninterested in larger geo-political concerns, driven only by the money he might extort from this or that victim. An ex-gent who has worked for M, the evildoer is a cinematic doppleganger of James Bond in the sense that they both have the same experience and training. The evil agent wants to kill M, the mother/father figure who, at some time in the past, gave him up to the other side. The entire movie then is about two things, vengeance and resurrection. The images of water in which James finds himself confronting death and life strongly clash with the images of dry death and decay with which the bad guy surrounds himself. Though one might question the mere existence of Bond, a violent assassin who is used outside the normal channels of law and order to eliminate, with deadly force and extreme prejudice if necessary, security problems that the Crown might have. This is a lingering question that haunts the film: are there problems which might invoke a state of exception? One would like to suggest that in a post-cold war world, that Bonds and others of his ilk would be superfluous. It would seem that, given the complexity of our digital/cyber world, other kinds of dangers may still lurk in the shadows that might require exceptional treatment. The movie humanizes Bond, showing what a remarkable subject he really is and that his special qualities, abilities, and strengths have less to do with physical prowess and more to do with mental toughness and mental agility, the ability to think six moves ahead of his opponent. The metaphorical chess match between the two combatants is of apocalyptic proportions, one combatant locked in his path of self-destruction and madness, the other blazing a trail out of the allegorical savage forest where he has been lost and pursued by old personal demons. The screenplay parses out these conflicts bit by bit, carefully peeling away layers of guilt, hate, betrayal, treason, sacrifice, cruelty, hypochrisy, nihilism, self-destruction, doubt, fear, and envy. One knight looks for his destruction, the other, his resurrection. The allegorical battle between good and evil plays out slowly, ambiguously, without clear answers as to who is good and who is bad. If the movie is about being reborn, it comes through small steps, small symbols, a classic car, and old country house, a hunting knife, thin ice, an old chapel, the wilderness. Though this is a classic Bond film, perhaps one of the best, and subtlety is not one of its great qualities, the 23rd Bond film gives viewers a lot to think about in terms of right and wrong, terrorism, vengeance, growing old, and, curiously, retirement. There is both the fresh air of innovation in this film and a wink at Bond tradition, shaken, not stirred.

On Skyfall

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Has anyone ever wondered where James Bond comes from? Ever since his earliest incarnations via Sean Connery, he has been a brooding, enigmatic, and dangerous character, already a man, never a child in spite of logic to the contrary. The 23rd Bond film is highly reminiscent of those earlier Bonds as producers, writers and directors strive to resurrect the fifty-year-old series. This Bond is not indestructible or infallible, and the opening series of shots, a high speed urban chase, end in disaster for the British Secrete Service, Bond sinking to the bottom of a river, apparently dead. As the movie progresses, the audience finds out that Bond is an orphan who has not yet dealt with a traumatic past which has left him vulnerable in a number of ways. The evildoer de jour is very evil, specializing in cyber attacks and dark personal vendettas, which make him dangerous and problematic because he is not driven by larger or universal ethical concerns for society at large. He’s a sociopath who is uninterested in larger geo-political concerns, driven only by the money he might extort from this or that victim. An ex-gent who has worked for M, the evildoer is a cinematic doppleganger of James Bond in the sense that they both have the same experience and training. The evil agent wants to kill M, the mother/father figure who, at some time in the past, gave him up to the other side. The entire movie then is about two things, vengeance and resurrection. The images of water in which James finds himself confronting death and life strongly clash with the images of dry death and decay with which the bad guy surrounds himself. Though one might question the mere existence of Bond, a violent assassin who is used outside the normal channels of law and order to eliminate, with deadly force and extreme prejudice if necessary, security problems that the Crown might have. This is a lingering question that haunts the film: are there problems which might invoke a state of exception? One would like to suggest that in a post-cold war world, that Bonds and others of his ilk would be superfluous. It would seem that, given the complexity of our digital/cyber world, other kinds of dangers may still lurk in the shadows that might require exceptional treatment. The movie humanizes Bond, showing what a remarkable subject he really is and that his special qualities, abilities, and strengths have less to do with physical prowess and more to do with mental toughness and mental agility, the ability to think six moves ahead of his opponent. The metaphorical chess match between the two combatants is of apocalyptic proportions, one combatant locked in his path of self-destruction and madness, the other blazing a trail out of the allegorical savage forest where he has been lost and pursued by old personal demons. The screenplay parses out these conflicts bit by bit, carefully peeling away layers of guilt, hate, betrayal, treason, sacrifice, cruelty, hypochrisy, nihilism, self-destruction, doubt, fear, and envy. One knight looks for his destruction, the other, his resurrection. The allegorical battle between good and evil plays out slowly, ambiguously, without clear answers as to who is good and who is bad. If the movie is about being reborn, it comes through small steps, small symbols, a classic car, and old country house, a hunting knife, thin ice, an old chapel, the wilderness. Though this is a classic Bond film, perhaps one of the best, and subtlety is not one of its great qualities, the 23rd Bond film gives viewers a lot to think about in terms of right and wrong, terrorism, vengeance, growing old, and, curiously, retirement. There is both the fresh air of innovation in this film and a wink at Bond tradition, shaken, not stirred.

On Perry Mason

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This television show, a black and white gem of the late fifties starring Raymond Burr, was a brilliant tour-de-force in the detective-noir genre of the mid-twentieth century. The show predates color television by about five years, and it was filmed in a glorious black and white and a million shades of gray, not just fifty. The plots are the same plots that crowd television today: jealousy, greed, evil, passion, sloth, ire, hate, and shame. The human creature is capable of almost anything driven by poor thinking, loose morals, and confused ethics. Into the middle of the chaos strides Perry Mason, ready to defend the innocent, pursue the guilty, and bring justice to all. The ever enigmatic Raymond Burr played Mason with a sly smile on his lips, but his eyes never gave away what he was thinking. Burr’s Mason was utterly and completely cerebral, always considering all of the possibilities while putting the pieces together and solving the crime. Sorting out who was lying from who was telling the truth was Mason’s strength, supported by the ever loyal Della Street and his energetic side-kick and investigator, Paul Drake. The conventions of the show–crime, innocent suspect, trial, confessing criminal, happy ending–were well-known to everyone. The show rarely varied from its well-established formula. Even so, the show was comforting because it was about establishing justice, resolving a mystery, and returning everything back to normal: the killer is caught and incarcerated, the innocent go free, and the ethical and moral social structure has been re-established, much to the relief of everyone. The weekly mystery always presented a world undone, tipped over, out of sorts. The police and other authorities always seemed, however, to get it wrong, and it was Mason’s job to set things right. In the Cold War world of the fifties, moral ambiguity was beginning to flower, and the moral certainty of the world which had been so clear right after World War II was beginning to wane. All of the problems which would explode in the sixties with drug use, the sexual revolution, civil rights, women’s liberation, and the Vietnam War, all existed in nascent form in the fifties and are reflected in the problems that all of the characters face. Mason, however, is a monolithic figure who never becomes very emotional or excited. We never get to see him outside of his personae as lawyer, never see him date or kick his shoes off at home. His black suit and white shirt are his armor and chain mail, and one would never see him out of that costume. Some questions, such as his true relationship to Della Street, are never meant to be answered–they add to the mystique. Larger than life, Mason was a big man with an imposing presence who could go toe-to-toe with any prosecutor, any law enforcement official, any lying witness, any stern judge, and come out on top. The show is still better than 99% of the crap that is on television today. He knew what was right and wrong, and he didn’t have to worry about moral relativism. If only things were that simple today.

On Perry Mason

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This television show, a black and white gem of the late fifties starring Raymond Burr, was a brilliant tour-de-force in the detective-noir genre of the mid-twentieth century. The show predates color television by about five years, and it was filmed in a glorious black and white and a million shades of gray, not just fifty. The plots are the same plots that crowd television today: jealousy, greed, evil, passion, sloth, ire, hate, and shame. The human creature is capable of almost anything driven by poor thinking, loose morals, and confused ethics. Into the middle of the chaos strides Perry Mason, ready to defend the innocent, pursue the guilty, and bring justice to all. The ever enigmatic Raymond Burr played Mason with a sly smile on his lips, but his eyes never gave away what he was thinking. Burr’s Mason was utterly and completely cerebral, always considering all of the possibilities while putting the pieces together and solving the crime. Sorting out who was lying from who was telling the truth was Mason’s strength, supported by the ever loyal Della Street and his energetic side-kick and investigator, Paul Drake. The conventions of the show–crime, innocent suspect, trial, confessing criminal, happy ending–were well-known to everyone. The show rarely varied from its well-established formula. Even so, the show was comforting because it was about establishing justice, resolving a mystery, and returning everything back to normal: the killer is caught and incarcerated, the innocent go free, and the ethical and moral social structure has been re-established, much to the relief of everyone. The weekly mystery always presented a world undone, tipped over, out of sorts. The police and other authorities always seemed, however, to get it wrong, and it was Mason’s job to set things right. In the Cold War world of the fifties, moral ambiguity was beginning to flower, and the moral certainty of the world which had been so clear right after World War II was beginning to wane. All of the problems which would explode in the sixties with drug use, the sexual revolution, civil rights, women’s liberation, and the Vietnam War, all existed in nascent form in the fifties and are reflected in the problems that all of the characters face. Mason, however, is a monolithic figure who never becomes very emotional or excited. We never get to see him outside of his personae as lawyer, never see him date or kick his shoes off at home. His black suit and white shirt are his armor and chain mail, and one would never see him out of that costume. Some questions, such as his true relationship to Della Street, are never meant to be answered–they add to the mystique. Larger than life, Mason was a big man with an imposing presence who could go toe-to-toe with any prosecutor, any law enforcement official, any lying witness, any stern judge, and come out on top. The show is still better than 99% of the crap that is on television today. He knew what was right and wrong, and he didn’t have to worry about moral relativism. If only things were that simple today.

On horror stories

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Human beings are fascinated by horror stories–obsessed, one might say. From our earliest times we have created narratives filled with monsters, ghouls, trolls, ghosts, and creatures whose only purpose seems to be threatening or killing people in out of the way places, dark houses, empty castles, lonely highways, cold mountain passes, haunted spaceships, lonely planets, and creepy little towns. The very space created within the horror narrative is menacing, ghastly, deserted, dusty, filled with cobwebs, forgotten spaces. Both attics and basements are particularly hazardous spaces, but empty jungles, strange swamps, and wind-swept mountains can also be problematic, especially if you are a scientist in an out of the way place such as Antarctica, a space ship on its way to Mars, an old freighter navigating a long way from its home port, at the bottom of the sea. All of these spaces are a long distance from a safe port and speak to the inherent danger of far away places, places that are unknown and unsafe. Strange beings–half man, half reptile–inhabit these places waiting for their next meal to come along. Most of these narratives begin innocently enough with calm seas and smooth sailing, blue skies and light winds, before things start to go wrong. A crisis ensues, a problem arises, a computer goes haywire, a storm blows up, somebody ignores a warning, and the bottom falls out–a ship sinks, a monster gets loose, communications break down, an earthquake occurs, a volcano erupts, a typhoon strikes, and the characters start to die in horrible and miserable ways. In the middle of these narratives, a hero arises who must fight to overcome the obstacles, monsters, and spaces that lie between him/her and safety. We consume these stories as if there were no tomorrow. They seem to reflect some of our darkest fears of abandonment, of the unknown, of the dark, of technology, of power, of the future, of change. We fear that we are poisoning our world, that technology is moving ahead too fast, that space is a dangerous place, that there are unexplainable supernatural things that are not dreamt of in our philosophy. The archetypal ghost stories seems to be a paradigm inherent in any serious discussion of the genre–a strange place, a vengeful ghost, isolation, mayhem. Perhaps horror stories haunt our collective psyche because the raise existential questions of the highest order: who are we, what is our purpose in life, what does all of this (life) mean? So we let the vampires, werewolves, and mummies run through our nightmares, hoping against hope that they will stay there.

On horror stories

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Human beings are fascinated by horror stories–obsessed, one might say. From our earliest times we have created narratives filled with monsters, ghouls, trolls, ghosts, and creatures whose only purpose seems to be threatening or killing people in out of the way places, dark houses, empty castles, lonely highways, cold mountain passes, haunted spaceships, lonely planets, and creepy little towns. The very space created within the horror narrative is menacing, ghastly, deserted, dusty, filled with cobwebs, forgotten spaces. Both attics and basements are particularly hazardous spaces, but empty jungles, strange swamps, and wind-swept mountains can also be problematic, especially if you are a scientist in an out of the way place such as Antarctica, a space ship on its way to Mars, an old freighter navigating a long way from its home port, at the bottom of the sea. All of these spaces are a long distance from a safe port and speak to the inherent danger of far away places, places that are unknown and unsafe. Strange beings–half man, half reptile–inhabit these places waiting for their next meal to come along. Most of these narratives begin innocently enough with calm seas and smooth sailing, blue skies and light winds, before things start to go wrong. A crisis ensues, a problem arises, a computer goes haywire, a storm blows up, somebody ignores a warning, and the bottom falls out–a ship sinks, a monster gets loose, communications break down, an earthquake occurs, a volcano erupts, a typhoon strikes, and the characters start to die in horrible and miserable ways. In the middle of these narratives, a hero arises who must fight to overcome the obstacles, monsters, and spaces that lie between him/her and safety. We consume these stories as if there were no tomorrow. They seem to reflect some of our darkest fears of abandonment, of the unknown, of the dark, of technology, of power, of the future, of change. We fear that we are poisoning our world, that technology is moving ahead too fast, that space is a dangerous place, that there are unexplainable supernatural things that are not dreamt of in our philosophy. The archetypal ghost stories seems to be a paradigm inherent in any serious discussion of the genre–a strange place, a vengeful ghost, isolation, mayhem. Perhaps horror stories haunt our collective psyche because the raise existential questions of the highest order: who are we, what is our purpose in life, what does all of this (life) mean? So we let the vampires, werewolves, and mummies run through our nightmares, hoping against hope that they will stay there.

On RGIII, medieval knight errant

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Though I am sure that Cervantes thought that there were no more knights errant, I am also sure he never met Robert Griffin, III. Granted, contemporary knights no longer carry swords, scale castle walls, rescue kidnapped princesses, or awaken sleeping beauties, but they do throw footballs, run for first downs, and score touchdowns. Watching RGIII slay the formidable New Orleans Saints on the Saints’ home turf reminded me of the kinds of brave deeds performed by knights such as Arthur, Lancelot, Tristan, and Gawain. They used both their brains and their brawn to defeat their enemies, slay the frightful dragon, overcame impossible odds, and like the heroes they were, come out on top. They all knew how to marshal their forces to their best advantage, to fight on when the situation seemed hopeless, to strike the fatal blow when necessary. RGIII didn’t have to drawn blood to defeat Drew Brees, but he did have to score touchdowns, which is the central metaphor of the football game, a contemporary riff on medieval jousting. Getting the ball across the line is akin to stealing the dragon’s egg or rescuing a damsel from a high tower. The defense are the evil-doers who are their to impede the knight’s progress, and the knight, the quarterback, must marshal his other knights in such a way as to defeat Grendel’s mother or Mordred or a Packer or a Steeler. RGIII was the better field general who inspired his men to follow him into the darkness of the valley of death, fight hard, and come away into the light with a victory in hand. RGIII is the leader that all men want to follow because he is a natural winner, a hero, an alpha male who only continues to prove that he may be one of the best to ever play the game. The medieval knight had to result to extreme violence, and frequently found himself in life and death situations. The modern quarterback, an analogue of that medieval knight, must face extreme violence, and although modern football games are not a life and death struggle, the ethos present in a knight’s challenge is not too dissimilar from that of third down and long from your own ten yard line, down by two with less than a minute to go on the clock. The contemporary knight does not face death, just humiliation at the hands of the press and ire at the hands of the fans. A bad quarterback is a failed knight that must go into exile, unable to face king and country. Bad quarterbacks don’t die, they just fade away. RGIII is a new knight in the kingdom, at the Round Table. He is already larger than life, mythic, legendary, and appearing on the cover of Sports Illustrated this week, he is also iconic, humble, Christian. The troubadours are already recounting the travails of his stunning deeds, his astonishing accomplishments, his superhuman actions. Will he ever be defeated? Of course, but for the moment he is riding the wave of popular acclamation and unmitigated success. All decked out in his shiny armor, the crowds cheer wildly.

On RGIII, medieval knight errant

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Though I am sure that Cervantes thought that there were no more knights errant, I am also sure he never met Robert Griffin, III. Granted, contemporary knights no longer carry swords, scale castle walls, rescue kidnapped princesses, or awaken sleeping beauties, but they do throw footballs, run for first downs, and score touchdowns. Watching RGIII slay the formidable New Orleans Saints on the Saints’ home turf reminded me of the kinds of brave deeds performed by knights such as Arthur, Lancelot, Tristan, and Gawain. They used both their brains and their brawn to defeat their enemies, slay the frightful dragon, overcame impossible odds, and like the heroes they were, come out on top. They all knew how to marshal their forces to their best advantage, to fight on when the situation seemed hopeless, to strike the fatal blow when necessary. RGIII didn’t have to drawn blood to defeat Drew Brees, but he did have to score touchdowns, which is the central metaphor of the football game, a contemporary riff on medieval jousting. Getting the ball across the line is akin to stealing the dragon’s egg or rescuing a damsel from a high tower. The defense are the evil-doers who are their to impede the knight’s progress, and the knight, the quarterback, must marshal his other knights in such a way as to defeat Grendel’s mother or Mordred or a Packer or a Steeler. RGIII was the better field general who inspired his men to follow him into the darkness of the valley of death, fight hard, and come away into the light with a victory in hand. RGIII is the leader that all men want to follow because he is a natural winner, a hero, an alpha male who only continues to prove that he may be one of the best to ever play the game. The medieval knight had to result to extreme violence, and frequently found himself in life and death situations. The modern quarterback, an analogue of that medieval knight, must face extreme violence, and although modern football games are not a life and death struggle, the ethos present in a knight’s challenge is not too dissimilar from that of third down and long from your own ten yard line, down by two with less than a minute to go on the clock. The contemporary knight does not face death, just humiliation at the hands of the press and ire at the hands of the fans. A bad quarterback is a failed knight that must go into exile, unable to face king and country. Bad quarterbacks don’t die, they just fade away. RGIII is a new knight in the kingdom, at the Round Table. He is already larger than life, mythic, legendary, and appearing on the cover of Sports Illustrated this week, he is also iconic, humble, Christian. The troubadours are already recounting the travails of his stunning deeds, his astonishing accomplishments, his superhuman actions. Will he ever be defeated? Of course, but for the moment he is riding the wave of popular acclamation and unmitigated success. All decked out in his shiny armor, the crowds cheer wildly.