On Losing Virtue, Part 1

I once dated a girl who told me her therapist had, at one point, suggested that people take sex too seriously, that intercourse in particular is “just friction.”  She admitted to me, however, that she didn’t entirely buy into this view, nor did I, though at the time, I was scarcely certain as to why in any concrete sense.  Thirteen years later, I believe I’m now able to fully understand the lie that was begging to be believed.  I had a friend from high school who definitely felt I took sex too seriously and used to tell me, whenever I would share my romantic frustrations, that I needed to get laid.  He was teasing, of course, though only in part; despite his understanding my desire to connect with a woman intellectually and spiritually as well as physically, he made it clear he believed I was elevating sexuality to a significance it didn’t truly merit and that it could indeed be at once satisfying and meaningless.  Again, I had to disagree.  The only difference now is that I know precisely why.  I should have agreed with him at the time except for having some vague sensibility about the lie for which he seemed to campaign so lucidly.  It is simply this: sex doesn’t have to mean anything, or to be more specific, it only means something if we intend it to.  And by such a myth is our cultural fluency poisoned and the notion of casual sex directed, a notion that feels all too casual these days.

In the apologetic opus Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis identifies chastity as “the most unpopular of the Christian virtues,” and reflects that we’ve inherited a world filled with propaganda favoring unchastity.  This seems at least as true today as when it was first published in 1952, though I believe it is perhaps more so now; broader media restrictions and the ease of access to information through technology and the internet seem to have exacerbated the enormous mess we’ve made of sexuality, drawing it to the attention of younger and younger ages and encouraging ourselves to believe that the self-control necessary to lead a chaste life is not only somehow perverse, but virtually impossible.  Lewis makes a valid point, too, when he says, “There are people who want to keep our sex instinct inflamed in order to make money out of us.  Because, of course, a man with an obsession is a man who has very little sales-resistance” (Lewis, 99).  This always makes me smile, it’s so true.  Then again, while I can think of many benefits to entrepreneurial vigor and commercial ingenuity, the exploitation of lust is not one of them.

To clarify my own view, I see in the present age an obsession with sexual gratification that seems to annul all sense, though I admit it is perhaps merely symptomatic of a larger cultural pathology, which is an obsession with both personal fulfillment and freedom from accountability.  For now, however, I restrict myself to a discussion of sexuality, in which the current moral temperature seems uniquely characterized by a determination to divorce ourselves completely from any traditional wisdom in the matter.  It is now considered highly antiquated to remain sexually pure, particularly if you are in a committed relationship, and particularly one that seems headed for marriage.  Proponents of chastity, then, find in one another a kind of fellowship in being generally regarded by the greater population as zealots who favor self-deprivation out of some senseless religious dogma, suppressing an impulse that is perfectly natural and healthy.  Hedonistic culture currents aside, however, chastity also seems quite frequently viewed as quaintly old-fashioned, an endearing and somewhat Victorian relic of an option—which places the couples who practice it in some hyper-romantic vein of sentimentality—as opposed to a vital, reverent, and sober degree of self-control and spiritual obedience with universal benefits that bind us to the will of a benevolent Creator.  To a vast majority of the ordinary, down-to-earth people in the world, and even to some Christians, such a principle is completely ridiculous.

A young woman I once knew was dating a guy who tried to convince her that fornication was not in fact a sin at all, quoting 1 Corinthians 7:36, in which the apostle Paul discusses the merits of marriage, not fornication: “If anyone thinks that he is not behaving properly toward his betrothed, if his passions are strong, and it has to be, let him do as he wishes: let them marry—it is no sin.”  The guy’s purpose was predatory, of course.  This was not a young man soberly considering the truth revealed in Paul’s letter, but rather using a text in which he had no faith himself to attack the faith of my friend in the hope of fulfilling his own thoughtless sexual appetite.  He was quick to follow her refusal by remarking what a shame it was she would allow her religion to keep them apart.  In other words, if appealing to her doctrinal allegiance proved fruitless, he was more than happy to ask her to reject her faith completely—a move which, of course, smacks of desperation.  Every horny guy is liable to act desperately, but so is every love-starved girl.  Together, the two are spiritually volatile.  One wants desperately to be loved and appreciated.  The other wants desperately to be physically gratified.  Both sides of the stereotype can be understood, but neither can be excused.  And in fact, even among couples who have agreed to a mutually superficial exchange of affection, it doesn’t hold up.  Sexuality is only casual to those who have tried to divorce themselves from the mystery of true intimacy.  In other words, they have given themselves permission to believe a woefully permissive and thoroughly comfortable lie.

There is nothing casual about sex.  Consider perhaps the most superficial and seemingly innocuous form of “casual sex”: pornography.  And let us not waste too long on questions like is porn degrading to women? or is it art?  Of course it’s degrading to women, but it’s also degrading to the person who looks at it.  Of course it’s not art.  The purpose of porn is nothing but to excite sexual desire, and so it cannot be art, because its purpose is not artistic.  Let’s rather proceed to the simple issue of indulgence.  As Lewis further reveals in Mere Christianity, “Poster after poster, film after film, novel after novel, associate the idea of sexual indulgence with the ideas of health, normality, youth, frankness, and good humour.  Now this association is a lie.  Like all powerful lies, it is based in truth—the truth, acknowledged above, that sex in itself (apart from the excesses and obsessions that have grown round it) is ‘normal’ and ‘healthy’, and all the rest of it.  The lie consists in the suggestion that any sexual act to which you are tempted at the moment is also healthy and normal.  Now this, on any conceivable view, and quite apart from Christianity, must be nonsense.  Surrender to all our desires obviously leads to impotence, disease, jealousies, lies, concealment, and everything that is the reverse of health, good humour, and frankness.  For any happiness, even in this world, quite a lot of restraint is going to be necessary; so the claim made by every desire, when it is strong, to be healthy and reasonable, counts for nothing” (Lewis, 100).  The argument is perfectly fair, and pointedly delivers us to the most important issue concerning sexual immorality, which is the questionable validity, or rightness, of the propensities and excesses of human nature.  Porn, by many accounts, is entirely natural, though only as natural as any other human vice.  Lying is natural.  Vengeance and even murder, under a variety of circumstances, may be seen as natural.  On a larger scale, the human race seems to have come by war quite naturally and quite regularly for thousands of years.  Lots of things are natural.  Let us not allow human nature to wear the guise of virtue any more than a court of law, for instance, may wear the guise of justice.  Despite their purpose, courts are corruptible and laws abused and stupidly interpreted, because a court of law is no better than the people who operate it.  Likewise, a human being can never be of unilaterally good instincts.  So, as Lewis illustrates so clearly, the argument that sexuality is natural is a genuinely poor and altogether naïve justification for such as adultery, promiscuity, fornication, casual sex, and audience with pornography.  Some would undoubtedly argue that sexuality in fact requires no justification, that it simply is what it is and that we shouldn’t try to moralize it with sophomoric religious dogma.  Never was a view more sophomoric than to believe that the potential for human frailty and vice can transcend moralization, and once again, I believe such persons have attempted to divorce themselves from the hard-won reward of complete intimacy in deference the more immedate payoff of partial intimacy.  They have allowed a very comfortable lie to supplant their capacity for wisdom, because all people, when able to transcend their primal appetites, seek completion—that communion by which we may achieve a transcendent spiritual peace, which is an echo of the divine in each of us and a fundamental understanding of righteousness apart from one’s own instinct.  Denial of this is simply a matter of postponement.  The young man who attempted to pervert the meaning of the 1 Corinthians verse is simply too far from that stage of life at which he is able to recognize his truest need.  Or, he is so acutely aware of it that he believes fornication is his best hope in contrast to a level of intimacy he suspects he may never achieve.  In this way, sexual immorality may be a simple matter of impatience.  Sexual desire is part of being human, to be sure, but unless we’re able to govern it, like other human passions, it will govern us.  And it does.  The young man I’ve mentioned criticizes his prey for allowing her religion to upset their prospects as a couple.  Asking her to carry the entire blame is, of course, sheer hypocrisy, since he is the one who deserves it; he himself is, at least for a time, in pious deference to his own kind of doctrine, a devotion entirely accountable for impeding a right and balanced relationship.  His religion is libido.

It is a matter of passion.  No sex is casual.  The truth is we don’t get to choose what’s sacred and what’s profane.  Something in us knows the difference, and while we so desperately try to legitimize the sinful employ of the sexual appetite, it is my belief that those who claim to have emancipated themselves from the traditional ethics of chastity have simply disguised their own weakness, fear, or impatience, which is not emancipation at all, but total enslavement to these motives.  The traditional ethics of orthodox Christian doctrine do not condemn sexual passion.  The sin rather lies in the enslavement, and human beings are likely to attempt all manner of ways to rationalize their enslavement to sin.  Sexual hunger is elemental, God-given, to the person of faith, but like all things in our nature, it is susceptible to corruption.  Our hope is that if we can trivialize sexuality, we might be able to disguise how much we want it.  “Just friction” nothing.  The fact is, we want sex so badly that we’re willing to lie even to ourselves, to pretend it doesn’t mean what it really does, and we clearly wouldn’t want it so badly if it didn’t.  We’re eager, in fact, to entertain such a lie, since it allows the experience of physical pleasure in isolation from accountability and the hard work of building intimacy.  As such, sexual immorality may also represent a kind of emotional sloth.  In lieu of addressing the true meaning of sexuality and establishing its righteous context in the bonds of a commitment, many would rather just fire some neurons in the skin and call it a day.

As Lewis illustrates, “The Christian attitude does not mean that there is anything wrong about sexual pleasure, any more than about the pleasure of eating.  It means that you must not isolate that pleasure and try to get it by itself, any more than you ought to try to get the pleasures of taste without swallowing and digesting, by chewing things and spitting them out again” (Lewis, 105).  To people of faith, such self-control is difficult, but not impossible, certainly not with the help and strength of the living God, who desires right relationships, not clumsy, ill-conceived ones.  Chastity then goes hand-in-hand with acceptance principally of a universal moral law, which, according to Lewis, is known to us and yet transcends our instincts.  Instinct, then, cannot be universally trusted.  There’s a good reason sex feels right, even when it’s wrong.  If human impulse cannot be universally trusted, our trust, or faith, if you will, must then be in a higher source, a God, and in the words He has spoken to us.  But if our desire and God’s are one and the same, which is to intimately commune with a single partner, why then is sex wrong for those headed for marriage?  Rather, I would ask, what level of passion or impatience directs the previous question?  Certainly, it is not a sober one, but rather, once again, the unbridled urge to indulge without check, without commitment.  And we have a word for the commitment: marriage.  The evil of food lies in excess, but the potential sin in our sexuality is not a matter of mere temperance per se, but rather one of context and purpose.  Adopt the true purpose of sexuality, and you’ll quickly realize that the legitimization of an unchecked and uncommitted sexual lifestyle is impossible.  My opponents in this issue will surely ask, why is commitment necessary?  Who is hurt in a situation where two people already in a committed relationship allow themselves to express that commitment by engaging in sexual congress?  My response: Sexual intimacy, despite the immediacy of the pleasure it affords, demands of us, by its very design, an enormous degree of accountability in terms of the mutual exchange of trust, and the inherent safety implied by that trust; the complexity and depth of emotional attachment; and naturally, in the case of intercourse, the potential for bringing into the world a new human life and the overwhelming duty to bring that child up in, one would hope, a responsible and loving manner.  In fact, we’re required to go to great lengths of contraception to avoid the potential for pregnancy and, subsequently, an entire life, which is the natural outgrowth and clearest biological function of sex.  We have to intercept gametes in ways that admittedly defy sterling reliability.  Of course, instead of leaving these things haphazardly to one’s physical whimsy, what’s right is to work them out ahead of time.  Again, it’s called marriage.

The depth and importance of these issues, which surround the most intimate physical connection, as a reflection of the emotional and spiritual connections that justify it, ought to inspire a gravity and a reverence that supersede, in one’s judgment, the immediacy with which physical passion might otherwise be gratified, and it disgraces both parties to supplant commitment with immediacy, to take such intimate measures beyond the protection of the soberest and most sincere promise.  In other words, the only reason we insist on asking the question is because we’re too intemperate to wait.  There are many reasons to wait, but only one reason not to.

The isolation of sexuality then also signifies a salient depreciation of marriage.  The two go hand-in-hand, the one with the other.  As my good friend and colleague Jim Altizer has often said, “Passion without fidelity is adultery.  And fidelity without passion is captivity.”  The deepest measure of commitment validates the deepest measure of physical intimacy.  Likewise a lack of such commitment forfeits such intimacy.  And let us not kid ourselves that we are fully committed simply because we say we are or because we’ve entered into exclusive relationships.  Such alliances are transient.  But marriage is a solemn promise and a blessed endeavor.  Without such blessing, we are captives in sexuality.  As Lewis says, we’ll have to resist a great deal in our own nature to find peace or contentment.  To the devout Christian, this is largely a matter of obedience.  Such a person is aware that chastity is the only way to glorify God with one’s sexuality.  For many, however, even a variety of Christians, this is a tenuous incentive.  What would the world be like if all of us were of the requisite humility for it to be enough?  However, I believe my point here is to address the person of the second type, the one who isn’t satisfied not to touch the boiling pot because mom or dad says no, but who needs rather to understand that the reason is because it is boiling and quite harmful to touch, or worse, who must actually touch it and get burnt before the understanding is achieved.  Spouses might think that their sexual indiscretions prior to walking down the aisle were harmless, but the harm is in their believing so, which seeds must necessarily breed further sin, whether it is in their own actions or those of their children, having inherited the same structure of belief and the subsequent potential to debase themselves by equal or worse degrees.  Either way, firsthand experience of sex with your partner should, in my belief, never be a determining factor in your decision to, in fact, become their partner.  Don’t bother with a question like what if the sex isn’t good?  The best sex you will ever have is with the person whom you love and adore deeply and truly with all your heart, and if that love hinges on their expertise as a sex partner, it cannot be a very deep love, nor a lasting one.

The cultural diminishment of sexual virtue addresses not merely the antiquation of chastity, but also, in my view, that of humility and supplication, which are the seeds of true wisdom and both necessary to lead a good life.  Not that actually practicing chastity isn’t terribly difficult, but rather, imagining it outdated, quaint, irrelevant, or pleasantly beyond the scope of moral consideration is not well and good.  What’s strange is that even many Christians seem to find chastity so unpalatable that they prefer to ignore it or deem it quaint—yet another indication of how insidiously we’ve been convinced that our want is so great as to seem foolhardy to control.  But who is the more foolish, the one who lies or the one who believes the lie?  Hard as it is, I would rather have an insoluble, ageless faith than a conventional one that hinges on the climate of the culture in which I find myself.  Likewise, I would rather practice abstinence than give myself over to sexual desire completely, which enslavement is precisely what a “casual” approach to sexual ethics requires.  If it isn’t fashionable to be chaste, it certainly isn’t honest to oneself not to be.

Work Cited

• Lewis, C.S.  Mere Christianity.  HarperCollins, 2001.

Sweet as Carbonite

My earliest memory is of seeing the original Star Wars at the drive-in. Specifically, I have an image of Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia, with the cinnamon rolls on each side of her head, looking anxious and worried, perhaps during the TIE fighter assault on the Millennium Falcon. It’s distant, but it’s certainly the earliest picture in my mind. Some memories are murky and muddled, made of images like old photos reposed beneath layers of dust on a closet shelf. Others are crystal clear and ready to surface with arresting authenticity at the slightest trigger, perhaps precipitated by another memory or idea that scurries across the desktop of the mind. Still other memories stretch out like streams of garland gently wound about the interplay of one’s thoughts and experience, transcending any specific instance or set of images. This is such a memory, and such a feeling. It encompasses an enormous family of occasions, images, and sounds that fill a place of the imagination and a space of life. It begins on Wednesday, May 21, 1980. I can’t rightly recall if we were there opening day, but we could not have made it past that first weekend. I do remember entering the old Melody theatre—which used to be located in a shopping center at the intersection of Moorpark Road and Janss in Thousand Oaks—with my dad and my older brother Anthony, and my tiny self was aquiver with anticipation; I had not only been exposed to a variety of puzzling photos in the pages of the double-LP original soundtrack recording my parents had bought me, but had been fed a variety of disturbing rumors by Anthony and his friend Billy, who had supposedly already seen the movie, things like Luke dies, Han gets his arm cut off, or C-3PO gets blown up, all of which worried my five-year-old mind considerably. And among the pictures in the aforementioned soundtrack was the above screen shot, on which I remember fixating, wondering who Lando Calrissian was and what provocative conversation was being had between Darth Vader and this Boba Fett. I had briefly debated which main character—Han or Luke—was indeed the subject of those dark and terrifying photos of having been frozen in something called carbonite. And Han certainly appeared to be the one dipping the princess in some curious, romantic gesture, an image transfigured among other story elements and brought to life by Roger Kastel’s artistry comprising the original “A Style” (or Gone with the Wind manner) one sheet for the film. I remember standing outside the Melody, while Dad bought the tickets, staring at it quizzically in the poster case near the entrance, wondering, with some irrepressible combination of distress and excitement, what would happen, what strange and mysterious fates awaited the heroes we had met in the previous film and whose countenances were borne upon the many action figures we had been playing with for at least the two previous years, which, as you know, is a considerable epoch to a little kid. I believe I felt I had grown to know and love the characters in the Star Wars universe, and the anxiety bred by the dark dooms that awaited them in this second installment was alarming, for sure, but at the same time, electrifying, perhaps the most rhapsodical curiosity this miniscule Moya had ever known.

The film holds such a place of honor in my heart that it’s difficult to separate the various aspects of its technical and aesthetic excellence from my own nostalgic attachment. I remember being hospitalized when I was five for some kind of stomach ailment, and one of the things my parents did to cheer me up while I was there was to bring me two of the new action figures that had been released: a Han Solo in Hoth outfit and Luke in Bespin fatigues. I was delighted, of course, and slept that night in the hospital with both figures reposed happily on the pillow next to me. I remember, after my hospital stay, browsing the toy section of our Simi Mervyns with Anthony and happening upon what appeared to be the last Yoda action figure in stock. I had never seen it before and stood marveling momentarily. But before I had actually reached for it, another little boy went to take it off the hook on which it so happily rested. I can’t remember anything about this boy. But I do remember my brother asking him to let me have it, because I had already picked it out and had my heart set on getting it. By any standard, the playground charter of kid-dom or otherwise, I had positively no right to this action figure, but my brother was adamant, and the little boy let me take it.

The year or so that followed the film’s release was filled with even greater heights of play than had been waged in the era of my childhood that followed the original Star Wars and preceded Empire. I spent several years attempting to construct the Millennium Falcon and various other spaceships and scenes using only the immense cache of block-style and space series Legos from the early 1980s that lived in a giant storage box under my bed and got dragged out and spread across my bedroom floor sometimes several times a week, especially in the summer and over Christmas break. Quite simply, the story of Empire, more than either of the other two episodes in the original trilogy, became a focal point of my young imagination. By the release of Return of the Jedi three years later, I was still into it and continued to play with toys, Star Wars toys especially, for several years. And of course, I’ve never grown tired of watching the films. But there’s something special about Empire which has stuck with me.

I found myself rather recently on an Empire kick, and what a marvelous coincidence that 2010 is the 30th anniversary of its release. It’s always been my very favorite in the series, though I would like to go so far as to crown it the best beyond any sentimental preference of my own. In fact, I would rather call it one of the finest films ever made. This perhaps comes as no surprise, and I might start to seem quite the stereotype, given the enormous popularity of the classic trilogy—and of Empire in particular—among thirty-somethings. Some would roll their eyes, I imagine, particularly those who tend to reject a franchise simply out of the reactionary impulse to oppose what is widely appreciated. Incidentally, while I intend no offense here, resistance or objection to something due solely to its popularity has always seemed to me a characteristic of youth, perhaps a sign of either latent rebellion or residual immaturity. Such contrary feelings that lack sensible justification reflect the impulse to reject established norms and credible ideas in an effort to claim a unique identity. Too many people roll their eyes at Star Wars, Harry Potter, or Twilight fans for this reason alone, when in truth, all three franchises explore time-honored ideas in a unique, exacting, and authentic way. Even if they’re not your cup of tea, few can deny that the ideas are good and build on universal human themes in a legitimate and compelling way. For certain, part of Empire’s unique claim on my interior landscape is pure nostalgia. But as many would agree, it is a superior cinematic achievement for a number of reasons. It is certainly the darkest and most compelling installment in the original trilogy, and, one could argue, in the entire series, not merely by virtue of a powerful and emotionally resonant story, but also due to excellence of craft and aesthetic. Director Irvin Kershner, in particular, can be credited with broadening the performances of the actors and helping to create the grave and eerie ambience that permeates the story.

The film even opens with the ominous dispersion of Imperial probes and the descent to the icy bleakness of Hoth, followed rather quickly by the mauling and abduction of Luke by the wampa. And in the subsequent two hours of story, we find our heroes subjected to the most harrowing series of misfortunes and pummelings—delivered blow after blow by the dastardly Empire—that their plight becomes more real than in any of the other episodes, and the operatic nature of the entire saga seems almost defined by this one film. From the defeat of the Rebellion on Hoth to the relentless failing of the Falcon’s hyperdrive; the blasting apart of C-3PO; Lando Calrissian’s betrayal and being nearly strangled by Chewbacca; Luke’s monumentally unwise and impetuous departure from Dagobah, the severing of his hand, the crushing discovery of Vader’s paternity, his pathetic pleas to Ben while dangling helplessly above a fatal plunge from an antenna beneath Cloud City; and of course the torture and subsequent freezing of Han Solo in carbonite, as entertainment editor Dalton Ross says, “It’s tough to be a hero in Empire” (Ross, 39). And though it might not exceed Revenge of the Sith in its tragic proportions or its effects, it does far exceed it by virtue of script, direction, performances, and the moody atmosphere pervading its brilliant art direction. We find in Empire a very different kind of sequel. Or perhaps we find the very notion of a sequel reimagined; this movie was perhaps the first in a series of prominent sequels over the past 30 years to significantly outdo its predecessor, and given the seminal achievement and success of the original Star Wars, that’s saying something.

There are three major segments to the film: the Hoth segment, Dagobah and pursuit of the Millennium Falcon, and the Bespin segment. In these three chapters, Empire happens to contain just about all of my favorite scenes of any Star Wars film, the first of which is the Battle of Hoth and the escape of the Millennium Falcon following the Imperial penetration of the Rebel base. Countless afternoons as a child, I played out some variation of this scenario, as my play persona, whomever it may have been that particular day, raced frantically aboard a spaceship, pursued by nefarious forces, just as Han, Leia, Chewie, and Threepio rushed aboard the Falcon, narrowly avoiding the clutches of Darth Vader and his coterie of snow troopers. The Battle of Hoth is lauded to be one of the most riveting battle sequences ever set to film. Each of the three original Star Wars films contains a single large-scale battle between the Rebellion and the Empire. Another aspect that sets Empire apart is that this battle occurs not at the end of the film, like the Battles of Yavin and Endor in Star Wars and Return of the Jedi respectively, but rather at the beginning. It is also the only one of these three battles in which the Rebellion is engaged—and essentially defeated—by the Empire and not the other way around. The entire sequence is a marvel of entertainment, a classic treasure of movie-making drama from beginning to end. I remember how frightened I was for the Alliance and for the main characters when the Rebel soldiers signaled their retreat.

Another aspect of Empire that merits my devotion is that it is, by far, the most Falcon-intensive film in the original trilogy. I admit I was no different from any one of the thousands of other kids in the world who thought the Millennium Falcon to be the coolest spaceship ever to grace the stars of any space fantasy. And not only is Empire the most Falcon-intensive film, in which we are treated to the most elaborate and comprehensive exposure to the spacecraft’s interior (cool as it is), it is also the first time we get to see it darting, spinning, and dodging in all its acrobatic glory, unlike the action shots in the original theatrical version of Star Wars, which, majestic as they are, really deliver no more than somewhat static impressions of the Falcon charging either toward or away from something. The Empire sequence in which the Falcon braves the asteroid field to elude Imperial fighters is arguably one of the neatest, coolest space melees in movie history. That’s right. It’s just neat.

The central section of the film, in which the Falcon is pursued by the Empire, also details Luke’s fulfillment of Ben Kenobi’s instructions to seek out Jedi Master Yoda. As Lucas has mentioned, much of the film’s success rested on this puppeted performance, which, if not entirely believable, could have been an epic disaster under which the entire project would have collapsed. This is because Yoda is truly the emotional centerpiece of the film, and in this segment, we find something unique to all six episodes. Luke’s stay on Dagobah, during which he meets and trains with Yoda for a time, occurs in a series of rather slow-paced interludes, during which their conversations take on a languid, reflective, almost poetic quality. These scenes act very much like an emotional fulcrum by which Luke’s maturation is propelled and a variety of revelations about the Force and its duality are revealed. Yoda himself gives perhaps the most rousing and impressive speeches of all the films while describing the crudeness of the physical world and the nature of good and evil—topics of sufficient weight to have made his performance so crucial. It is in this thought-provoking middle section that we find my very favorite scene of all the Star Wars films. Luke’s failed attempt to retrieve the sunken x-wing from a dense morass on Dagobah leads to one of Yoda’s most stirring speeches and one of the most pivotal moments in Luke’s education. Luke simply cannot believe that what Yoda says about the Force is actually true. Rather he thinks the little green master is demanding something out of sheer autocratic stubbornness. In the subsequent moments, Yoda delivers more than just words and wisdom. He proceeds to retrieve the giant ship himself through the use of the Force, setting it securely on dry land. When an incredulous Luke utters, “I don’t believe it,” Yoda’s response is simple, affecting, and didactic: “That is why you fail.” It is a critical moment for Luke and one of the most moving scenes in the film. There is no easy, well-packaged success for Luke in these scenes, and we begin to empathize with how dearly he struggles to learn the ways of the Force. It is not an easy task, and these are not easy scenes. But all the better, for they lend greater weight and a true sense of realism to the difficulty inherent in the training of a Jedi knight, particularly in a swampy forgotten backwater of a war-torn galaxy in which the age-old Jedi tradition is but a faint and feeble memory.

This reflective centerpiece is, of course, interrupted by Luke’s vision of Cloud City and his premonition of the suffering of Han and Leia, at which point he foolishly cuts short his training on Dagobah in the hope of coming to their aid. What a stroke of narrative ingenuity. Luke leaves. He does exactly what he shouldn’t, and you feel a deepening sense of some terrible doom that awaits him. The moment of initial confrontation between Luke and Vader in the carbon freezing chamber is indeed one of the most epic and riveting moments in the entire saga. How can this go well? It doesn’t. And in fact, we’re left almost with a sense of gratitude at the good fortune that Luke even escapes this encounter with his life, since it quite easily could have gone the other way.

The entire Bespin sequence draws us further still into the circle of calamity that engulfs our heroes. Lando’s betrayal and the torture of Han Solo were intensely disturbing to me as a child, though I was practically glued to the screen throughout the ordeal. And following the last kiss between Han and Leia, in those fateful moments as he’s lowered into the carbon freezing pit, and Leia follows his eyes in tender desperation, Lando stares in agonizing conflict, Vader and Boba Fett “glare” ominously through the smoke, Chewie howls passionately, and the music soars above it all in a canticle of anguished majesty, at the tender age of five, my heart hung faithfully on every note, every moment. And Empire has you in its grip till the very end, as Darth Vader orders a boarding party for the Millennium Falcon, soon to be in range of their tractor beam, and it appears the ship and its passengers may well be captured. Only through the efforts of the conscientious and stout-hearted R2-D2 does the Falcon, carrying what survives of our exhausted heroes, narrowly escape.

I must at some point discuss the impact and significance of what is, in my opinion, one of the film’s most outstanding ingredients: the music, which is among John Williams’ finest and most poignant scores, sweeping in its dramatic scope, exhilarating in its punctuation of the action, and both touching and monumental in its emotional depth. This is the score that gave us, for the first time, the “Imperial March,” which is among the most recognizable movie themes ever written. It came to define the character of Darth Vader and is, to a great extent, a sonic banner for the entire saga. This is also the score that delivered what is, to me, among the most hauntingly beautiful pieces of music ever written and one that conveys both a passionate brilliance and a tender gravity which enable the viewer to transcend the story’s wealth of conflicts. It is “Yoda’s Theme.” Lest my reader believe me only too conspicuously attached to anything tied to one of my favorite characters in all of cinematic literature, while I admit to a miniscule degree of personal bias, one need only listen to “Yoda’s Theme” to feel the transcendent beauty and emotional grandeur John Williams gave this film through its music. It is the same score which also gave us a theme called “Han Solo and the Princess.” At once lofty and tender, this sweepingly romantic theme becomes a central motif, repeated at various points and in a variety forms, a theme so beautiful and, at the same time, so versatile that it might be credited with the majority of the story’s resonance, impact, and appeal. It is, in fact, the theme played in the very final moments of the film, in a powerful and grandiose incarnation, as the Millennium Falcon departs and the Rebel fleet sails into the cosmic horizon in the hope of some future triumph, and the viewer’s heart is left to swell at the scope of what has happened.

For me, Empire is the apotheosis of Star Wars and a sterling example of the sheer delight in being truly enraptured by drama and danger, the dance of mind and plot, both beautiful and terrible, wherein characters dear as old friends are brought to a simmering richness of peril and the bitterness of their conflicts alchemized in the carriage of a sweet and fragrant story. This place of the imagination, this space of life is the complete package of artistic fulfillment: the music, the images, the themes, countless hours of playing with toys, a sense of being part of the story and going with the characters through the fray of jeopardy and their arc of feats. And particularly as a child, you partake of their heroism in a way that is very different from any other time of life. Just as childhood goes with you, as subtext to what you experience and understand as an adult, so the story of Empire has gone with me, and more than any other chapter in the Star Wars saga, it shaped much of my childhood and continues to impact my understanding and appreciation of great storytelling, fine movie-making, and epic drama. Whereas the prequel trilogy can rightly be considered a different species, though I personally find Revenge of the Sith to be a genuinely good film, whether we consider the classic trilogy, in all its unaltered glory, in isolation or with its admittedly inferior prequels, the zenith of the Star Wars franchise, the jewel in this crown is The Empire Strikes Back. Even as the classic trilogy goes, all three are great, but the Force is strong with this one.

Work Cited

• Ross, Dalton. “The Empire Is Back!” Entertainment Weekly, 16 April, 2010: 39.

A Tale of Two Skivvies

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If there were an Olympic event for the slowest bona fide effort to read through a particular book, article, or other text, I would be a promising contender, a quality which occasionally leads to the lamentable state of failing to read at all; depending on the density of the language, I can often spend considerable time reading and not feel as though I’m really getting anywhere. Yes, you can imagine the difficulty I had as an English major at Cal Lutheran. Two plays per week in Dr. Murley’s Shakespeare class was enough to drive any undergraduate to sweat a few beads and shed a few tears, but for yours truly it was altogether Herculean. That my slowness should at times deter me from reading is personally

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My mom has shared with me on multiple occasions since I was a kid that in my earliest years, I was easily entertained, and because I walked and talked so late and seemed otherwise content with little attention and minimal stimulation, she came to suspect in me a somewhat deficient mental capacity. In other words, she supposed I was retarded, or as we now say, mentally challenged. I was at the very least, by all accounts, a rather mellow baby. Apparently, I could occupy myself for considerable spans with just a handful of toys rolling around the interior of the play pen. She recalls, "Sometimes I even forgot I had you," because I remained so quiet in whatever contained space she had placed me.

The photo at the right shows me in November of 1976, lounging rather contently next to my dad. The next, just below, was taken on December 22 of the same year and shows me handling one of Dad’s LP recordings of the music of Czech composer Leos Janacek. Apparently, not only did my dad have few hang-ups

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A few weeks ago, I attended the dance concert at Oaks Christian—where I work—on the same night, it turned out, as a group of young female teachers who happen to be friends of mine as well as colleagues. There had been a cursory discussion between myself and a couple of the teachers about going to dinner beforehand. So, the afternoon before the performance, I sent an email to one of them to see if any dinner plans had crystallized, but received no reply. I then approached the other to see if she had made any plans. Seeming to have forgotten any mention of dinner in our discussion from a few days before, she said she had already agreed to go to dinner with one of the English teachers along with the other young women in the group. And I got the distinct feeling that I was not welcome, and more specifically, that it was a girls-only affair. I also started to realize, from having seen them congregate in various contexts and places around campus, that this group of about five young teachers had become a kind of clique. In truth, it makes a lot of sense. These young women are all friends, and it’s entirely natural for them to bond and to wish to spend time together apart from friends and colleagues outside their situation,