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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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