The Archetypal Action Hero

According to Chris Palmer, the essence of cultural collusion is “intuitive coincidence”; contemporary popular culture, independently of earlier, canonical sources, recreates the trends, popular symbols, or thematic systems prevalent in the popular cultures of earlier societies. This intersection, following Palmer, “says interesting things about the connection between our moment” and those moments that preceded, not only demonstrating a similarity in the cultural conditions that lead to the creation of the earlier text, but also saying “something quite telling about our present condition.”

Perhaps there is no more typified representation of American popular culture than action films, a genre largely noted for its classic though incessant repetition of tone and mundanity of story. Action movies are often relegated to an inferior status; “dumb movies for dumb people,” as Yvonne Tasker calls them. Though it is certainly true that these movies often lack in plot, character development, and an overall story line, action movies do offer a fascinating glimpse into the world of masculinity by demonstrating an exaggerated and overstated sense of what it means to be a “real man” through the gaze of American cultural standards. These films “perform” the masculine, developing scenarios in which an ordinary individual is transformed into a muscle-bound superhero who single-handedly rights wrongs, saves the day, and in general glorifies the male body (demonstrated through an enlarged musculature and stimulated libido), persona (often displayed through flashes of caustic wit utilized in highly inappropriate moments, thus demonstrating an extreme sense of coolness under fire), and sense of honor (shown when the hero refuses to “sink to the level” of the villain, though the villain is often conveniently destroyed in the end of the film anyway, allowing the hero an honorable scene of destruction). Designed specifically to exploit and explore exaggerated male social constructions, action heroes, according to Barbara Creed, represent “an anthropomorphised phallus, a phallus with muscles, if you like... they are simulacra of an exaggerated personality, the original [concept of masculinity] completely lost to sight, a casualty of the paternal signifier and the current crisis in master narratives.”

The archetypal action film works, for the most part, on the following precept: an individual, a lone male, sometimes accompanied by family or significant other, seeks isolation and retirement from an occupation or society that often forces him to assert his already overdeveloped masculinity. This man may perhaps be a retired or vacationing soldier, police officer, government agent, or something similar, a real “man’s man” who, for the moment, is trying to disenfranchise himself from the society that he did not create but often attempts to control by retreating into a paradise of some kind, an Eden offering him shelter and, more importantly, tranquility. Something intercedes—perhaps an old enemy, or simply an irrevocable situation in which our hero finds himself. Suddenly, chaos reigns, and our hero is the only man capable of restoring order to what was once paradise. Working against seemingly insurmountable odds, through a hail of gunfire, countless explosions, and innumerable hired thugs, our hero triumphs, and order is restored to the world once again. Our hero is then rewarded, either by being reunited with loved ones, or, perhaps more commonly, with a kiss from the film’s love interest, almost always on hand, the yin to our hero’s yang, to remind him of his less violent side and of the existence of a more feminized and less violent side of society as well.

This pithy but accurate description of action films and action heroes, culled from dozens of such films, applies equally well to a genre of literature that appears centuries before the invention of such film. Viking saga literature features situations and characters very similar to current American action films. While this seems hardly surprising—the outline is basic enough—it is interesting that almost every aspect of the exaggerated masculine genre and caricature is captured by another society also fascinated with masculinity. Yet in the thirteenth-century Icelandic work Njal’s Saga, the character of Kari Solmundarson capably represents the archetype of the action hero, redefining levels of masculinity while performing the masculine in his attempts to gain revenge for the burning of Njal, Njal’s family, and Kari’s own son Thord.

How the archetype of American masculinity appears in this work not only demonstrates similarities in the cultural identities between the masculine standards of both cultures, but also proffers an interesting view into the ideas of masculinity—and its distortions—in both societies as well. Thus, here we see cultural collusion at work—two similar tropes being achieved independently of one another as a result of identical or nearly identical cultural phenomenon affecting the popular culture of the day. This is not to state that the two creating cultures must be identical; rather, it indicates that some aspect of the previous culture is independently and of its own volition echoed in the latter, and this echo results in cultural collusion. Thus, Kari is a thirteenth-century equivalent to Arnold, Sly, and Jean-Claude, and while there is no direct lineage between the two, they exist as cultural simulacra representative of similar, transhistorical ideals emerging from separate times and places.

In Njal’s Saga, Kari is the figure who best represents cultural collusion, as both a creation of the representative culture and an iconic mimic of today’s action hero. The archetypal American action hero is not born; he must be created, almost against his will, through a precise set of conditions found in the society around him. This process is what will ultimately separate Kari from the other characters in Njal’s Saga and works to explain why he and only he represents the archetypal action hero.

Kari first appears in the saga in blazing glory, sailing in to save Njal’s sons Helgi and Grim from a marauding band of Vikings. The anonymous author describes Kari as “a man with a magnificent head of hair, who wore a silk tunic and a gilded helmet and carried a spear inlaid with gold.” This is a glorious description by the standards of the author of Njal’s Saga, who often ignores personal detail in favor of necessary descriptions of the complex but historically-based plot. Kari is called “the stranger” by the narrator, a tactic later mimicked by Clint Eastwood westerns; when he sails in to save Helgi and Grim, he becomes a selfless warrior risking his own life and ship for two people he does not know. This good Samaritan scene lays the foundation for Kari’s rise to archetypal masculinity; he is shown to be courageous, feckless, and larger than life: in short, a hero. Though this type of figure is not uncommon in Njal’s Saga (several men fit the same description), it is important to his development as action hero that Kari’s journey towards archetype begin as simple hero; it is, after all, only the good and brave man, such as the cop or the soldier, who can be transformed into the exaggerated pattern of masculinity prevalent in the sagas and the action film genre. Thus, step number one in becoming an action trope—the establishment of a solid system of values and almost foolish sense of bravery—is achieved.

Kari is heartily accepted into his new family; he marries Njal’s daughter, has children with her, and becomes a surrogate son to Njal himself. This is step number two in his transformation; a wandering stranger cannot become the archetype action hero; he must be wedded to something—such as the law—though, ideally, he should be a family man. The presence of wife and child reaffirms the sense of normalcy that the hero both fights for and longs to return to, as well as stands to confirm his own potent sense of heterosexuality. While an exaggerated masculinity is not often confused with homosexuality, the male-dominated homosociality of the action hero could potentially lead to “embarrassing questions.” The hero must be viewed as an everyman, maintaining a wife, kids, and the proverbial picket fence; he must be a man with much to lose. Often, it is the threat of this loss (and in some cases, the actual loss) of his family and his lifestyle that will spurn the reluctant hero to action.

This loss translates into suffering, the key ingredient and third step in the making of an action hero. As Tasker states, “within this structure, suffering operates as both a set of narrative hurdles to overcome, tests that the hero must survive, and a set of aestheticized images to be lovingly dwelt on. [Through this,] the hero is subjected to torture, humiliation, and mockery at some level,” thus challenging, and through overcoming this challenge, reaffirming the hero’s masculinity. Kari’s suffering includes the burning of his son, Thord, his father-in-law Njal, his brothers-in-law, and the attempted burning of himself by Flosi. As with all archetypal action heroes, the escape is close, and some physical suffering, as well as psychological, must be endured: “Kari’s clothes and hair were on fire by now, as he threw himself down off the wall dodged away in the thick of the smoke.” The escape is made, but it had been close, and the hero must now carry the aesthetic evidence of his suffering wherever he may go.

The creation of our hero is almost complete; a good man, accepted into a surrogate family, has now suffered a great and terrible loss; what must follow next is a great and terrible reckoning. Revenge is a way of life in Njal’s Saga, but Kari advances beyond the simple blood-feud; he desires to “have his sword harden... in the blood of the Sigfussons and the other Burners.” He will not accept any settlement, though he encourages others to do so, to spare them the anguish of what is to come. The path of the archetypal action hero must be traversed alone; Kari rids himself of steady companionship and seeks revenge on his own. He does not weep, he does not lament; as he himself states, “there were more manly things than weeping for the dead.”

These “manly things” consisted largely of lusting for revenge. Kari’s existence is now defined largely through the burning; to him, there is nothing else:

Sleep is denied my eyes
Throughout the night,
For I cannot forget
That great shield of a man;
Ever since the warriors
With the blazing swords
Burned Njal in his house,
I cannot forget my grief.

Kari’s life is no longer his own; his creation as archetypal action hero is now complete. A man possessed, there remains only one thing left to do.

In action, Kari is simply awe inspiring, performing deeds no mortal man ever could:

Kari Solmundarson came face to face with Arni Kolsson and Hallbjorn the Strong. The moment Hallbjorn saw Kari he struck at him, aiming at the leg; Kari leapt high, and Hallbjorn missed. Kari turned on Arni Kolsson and hacked at his shoulder, cleaving shoulder-bone and collar-bone and splitting open the chest. Arni fell down dead at once. Then Kari struck at Hallbjorn; the blow sliced through his shield and cut off Hallbjorn’s big toe. Then Holmstein Spak-Bersason hurled a spear at Kari, but Kari caught it in mid-air and returned it, killing a man in Flosi’s following.

Kari’s revenge is bloody and terrible, but just under Icelandic law. The action hero may work outside of the law, or the law may officially frown upon his actions, but he never really breaks it. The law is powerless to stop him, though it may wish to do so. In perhaps the most stark of all of Kari’s revenge scenes, he “ran the length of the hall and struck Gunnar Lambason on the beck with such violence that his head flew off on to the table in front of the king and the earls.” Sigurd, one of the aforementioned earls, acting as an official of the law, orders Kari seized and put to death. No one moves; no one pursues him. They stand in awe; Flosi, head conspirator against Njal, defends Kari by saying that “he only did what was his duty,” pointing out that Kari had refused to accept a settlement and was thus legally entitled to blood compensation. The earl himself is amazed; “there is no one like Kari for courage,” he finally notes.

Ultimately, Kari must conquer Flosi, the head of the Burners, the equivalent to the mastermind villain in the saga. Flosi is not an unremitting evil as villains tend to be in American action films, but his actions are deplorable and acted under tenuous motivation. He is powerful and well-protected, like any villain surrounded by a cartel of thugs, and true to the filmic formula, Kari eliminates Flosi’s henchmen and co-conspirators one by one. In the saga, Kari ultimately does not kill Flosi, but instead reconciles with him. This seems at odds with the action film, where the villain always dies, but it is important to remember the formula inherent to these flicks. The villain is cornered by the hero, who, after hesitation, agrees to let him live and face legal prosecution for what he has done. In doing so, the hero elevates his violent masculinity above that of the villain; the hero, at last and however tenuously, has found mercy, the action-film equivalent of a deific characteristic; by demonstrating clemency towards his arch-nemesis, the action hero wipes out all memory of his past violence and reminds the audience of his innate goodness, a quality easy to lose in a sea of bad-guy blood. The villain, though, always foolishly attempts one last great act of evil, and this is when he must die; he leaves the hero no other option. The hero’s ethics, then, remain unquestioned, and the audience leaves satisfied at the just death of the villain.

In Njal’s Saga, Flosi lives, but lives wisely; rather than attempt a futile revenge on Kari, he marries his daughter to him, presenting Kari with a new family to replace his old, and placing himself in the unlikely but enviable position of having his former enemy become his protector. This ending, though, is very reminiscent of the American action movie; the hero “gets the girl,” as it were, and order is restored to chaos. Kari recreates the life he had before the burning, and in the perverted logic of action films and Icelandic sagas, everything is back to normal.

The end result of Kari’s revenge, though, is that his prestige is greatly enhanced. He becomes legend, the last note of a long and winding historical saga, not simply by surviving the tale, but by thriving in the saga’s end. Even Kari’s enemies constantly note that “there is no man like Kari;” even they admire his singular bravery, tenacity, and skill. This is the true sign of the action hero; only an archetype is admired and respected by friend, foe, and the law alike.

Jurgen Reeder, in “The Uncastrated Man: The Irrationality of Masculinity Portrayed in Cinema,” believes that this enhanced prestige is the end result of the ordeal our hero survives, and that ultimately, this ordeal “is a nostalgic wish to find a way back to ritual forms of becoming a man.” Reeder believes that exaggerated masculinity can only be applied to the man who has undergone this new “ritualistic form” for becoming a man; through this, the bar in becoming a man is raised too high for other, lesser heroes, such as Gunnar, Skarp-Hedrin, or Njal himself, all of whom are not only killed (and the archetypal hero, obviously enough, must remain veritably immortal; he must constantly face death but never succumb to it), but contain important flaws in their characters: Gunnar does not heed the wise advice of either Njal or his mother, nor does he leave Iceland when sentenced to do so, and thus dies for his sentimental foolishness; Skarp-Hedrin likewise rashly chooses to ignore his father’s advice and also is noted for his quick tongue and abrasive manner; Njal is passive, a strange element in his society and very accepting of his own fate. It seems odd to label these characteristics as flaws; Gunnar’s sentimentality makes him likable, and Njal’s passive wisdom makes him perhaps the most appealing and admirable figure in the saga, at least from a modern perspective. These flaws, however, prevent them from becoming action heroes. The hero must fight, always, even against terrible odds, and most especially when he wishes not to; the hero must rid himself of worldly attachments, save those things he fights for. The hero must be singular and singular-minded; he must demand perfection of himself, and he must find it, and it is this tenacious quality that serves him best, assuring his victory.

What does it mean, then, that the Icelandic saga’s concept of exaggerated masculinity and our own as exemplified by action film heroes seem to be virtually identical? In a larger sense, what type of implications does this cultural collusion have for other popular cultural similarities that may crop up? Are we noting that these two societies are more alike than they seem, or that they at least shared a similar fascination with masculinity? Or does it mean that the issue of societal masculinity itself has plagued mankind for centuries, and that this formula occurs in other forms of popular culture, if one only looks for it? Do we still yearn for a ritual to tell us we are men, like the Jewish bar mitzvah, or do we now make the standard so impossibly high that we can never achieve true masculinity, allowing ourselves the comfort of not having to be like Kari Solmundarson, of not having to suffer uncontrollably and then surrender life itself to terrible vengeance? Perhaps this is why we live so vicariously through these sags and movies; it is the closest any of us wish to come to this type of exaggerated masculinity. Thus, one could say that Kari Solmundarson in Njal’s Saga demonstrates not what we wish to be, but that which we hope most fervently never to become, an almost admonitory though fascinating and compelling simulacra of potency and judicious destruction that our contemporary culture seems just as marveled by as the Icelandic Vikings were almost a millennia ago.

October 2003