The Harrowing Journey (and the Warriors)

 Of all the genres of fiction, I think my favorite is the desperate journey: a small band, trying to get somewhere important (usually home), against long odds in hostile world. There's just something powerful about the desperation, the no-choice aspect, and the need to (as my grand-dad used to say when confronted by something difficult) "duck your head, grit your teeth, and get to it".

The Lord of the Rings relies heavily on this theme, from Frodo leaving the Shire to the Fellowship leaving Rivendell, all the way to Frodo and Sam heading east alone. They set out against long odds because they have no real choice. The line "one does not simply walk into Mordor" has become a meme, but in the context of the story, it's the equivalent of Hugo Weaving sending the Fellowship on a suicide run. Only Gandalf, Boromir, and Aragorn really know how long the odds are, but everybody else has a pretty good idea; and yet they set out anyway, because there are no other options. 

Side note: Boromir saw some pretty swell options, but (as a testament to his character), he still sets out to do what needed to be done. His heart remains steadfast but for a single instant, that tragic instant, and that's why I love him.

One does not simply talk shit about my main man.

Incidentally, I'm firmly in the "Boromir is the real hero" camp. But maybe I digress. A bit.

The doomed-journey trope is really just a variation of the standard Hero's Journey, but in this case, the hero's obstacle / foe is distance; it's hostile territory, miles and miles without a friendly face. It's not a single enemy to be fought, it's everything between here and there, and that's a mighty long way.

The classical example of this trope goes all the way back to 400 BC: Xenophon's mostly-true Anabasis recounts the tale of ten-thousand badass Greek mercenaries backing Cyrus the Younger, contender to the Persian throne. Deep in Persian territory, Cyrus gets shanked, and Xenophon and his men find themselves friendless and alone, with no choice but to march back to the sea, every hand in the land against them. They are outlaws, far from home; fighting, not for glory or conquest, but for simple survival. It's powerful stuff when the battered survivors finally find themselves looking out over the waves, knowing that they've finally made it.

Snobs can scoff all they want, but the purest descendant of Xenophon is the 1979 film The Warriors. Set in a grimy version of 1970's New York overrun by gangs, the leader of the largest gang in the city calls for a "gathering of the armies". His proposition? That, united, the gangs outnumber the police, and they could run the city. In an obvious nod to the source material, this charismatic prophet is named Cyrus, and Roger Hill's portrayal of Cyrus is no-shit mesmerizing.

Can you dig it, suckas? Yes I can, Cyrus.

A rogue gang of psychopaths (fittingly named the Rogues) shoots Cyrus for no reason other than the love of chaos, and pins it on the Warriors. The entire city is turned against them as every other gang and the cops hit the streets in pursuit.

Gods among men, these guys.

The Warriors are just the best. Rag-tag? Check. Plucky? Check. Basically decent? With one exception, check. They took the train all the way up from Coney Island, unarmed, wearing their colors, to hear Cyrus out. When Cyrus is killed and they are framed, they find themselves the same way: unarmed, wearing their colors, and a long, long way from home. Along the way, they run a gauntlet of often-Geek-inflected horrors: close-up interludes of a smooth-talking DJ's sexy lips and microphone serving as the Dramatic Chorus; ghostly, bat-wielding Yankees fans called the Furies; and, strangely, a side-trip to the island of Lesbos. They descend into the Underworld like Odysseus and emerge, like Xenophon's weary ten thousand, to finally reach the sea.

I'll skip the plot summary. Yes, they eventually get home, and, yes, it's awesome. Seriously, go watch it again. 

Good Old Books

 I used to read a lot. It cracks me up, here in this graceless online age, when I hear someone say (usually on YouTube) that they're a voracious reader. Scrolling Goodreads and putting up an aspirational list doesn't count, squirt, and audiobooks are dubious at best. I was a voracious reader in an almost literal sense, like I'd eat books and would shrivel up and die without a steady intake. And I ate well, being no snob: I wasn't reading Dostoevsky all the time, it was mostly paperbacks, mass-market stuff, science fiction and horror and fantasy books with barbarians and nekkid wimmen on the cover. I'd read one and move on to the next.

What else is a sissy kid in central Texas supposed to do, back in the olden-days 80's? I lived fifteen miles north of town, surrounded by horse pasture and scrub oak and mesquite. I'd wander around and find a shady spot and eat beef jerky and read Fritz Leiber and Tolkien and Larry Niven books.

I got the book gene from my mom. She was a reader, always had a book, and she was no snob, either. She was mainly an Agatha Christie gal, with a healthy dose of Stephen King and Peter Straub thrown into the mix to keep things lively. (I never got a taste for Agatha Christie, myself; it took me about three books to realize that they were the adult equivalent of Encyclopedia Brown books: neat, predictable puzzlers, formulaic as a feature, always wrapping up into a neat package at the end. I understand the appeal, but it just never clicked with me. I like a few loose ends and unexplained corpses in my thrillers).

The horror stuff, though...now that left a mark. I read Stephen King's short story collection Night Shift when I was maybe nine years old, and that shit left scars. King has a way of sucking you in so you aren't so much suspending your disbelief, it's like he strips you of your ability to disbelieve. When he's on a roll (and no, he's not always on a roll, sometimes he falls flat as a fritter), but when he writes the ones that snag you in that first paragraph, you're as credulous as a kid sitting at a campfire. You might look back later and shoot holes in his premise or plot; but, while you're reading, you're hooked, you're along for the ride...buckle up, spud. Now try taking that particular thrill ride when you're an impressionable nine year old. Zoinks.

Now that I'm old and crusty, I try to read new things and not just wallow in nostalgia. Hell, if I'm being honest, it's an effort to just read, period. YouTube and Xbox and streaming have really driven a wedge between me and my books. I'm still pretty good, though, knocking back a book every couple of weeks or so. But, being old and crusty like I said, sometimes it feels really good to go back and read something from back in the day, to revisit that lonely little nerd sitting under a scrub oak in Salesville, Texas on a 103 degree August day in 1982.

So, with that long-winded preface, I present you with Peter Straub's Shadowland, an understated little gem from 1980. I'm going to skip the analysis and plot summary, and just leave you with this: Straub evokes a Bradbury-esque vibe with this book, but in a more sinister, menacing way. Maybe Bradbury in a Something Wicked This Way Comes vein. It's spooky, but it has a wistful, melancholy undertone that I find really satisfying. It's Peter Straub, which means it's a bit slow off the starting line, but that undertone is strong enough to keep you moving, even when things get a little off the rails. 

If you put a gun to my head and told me to describe it in a single word, I'd say it's a beautiful and sad fairy tale, wrapped up in a modern novel's packaging. And then you'd shoot me, because that's a lot more than a single word. But at least I'd go out knowing I'd been honest.

That's it. Go read it. Or don't. But if you don't, you're missing out, and probably a bad person who would shoot somebody for going over their word-count. 

listening to: Billy Squier
drinking: Coors Light (in the weird pint can-bottles)