Applications and Implications

What is the use of knowing the archetypal relationships between characters, the symbols that haunt various literary traditions, and the types of stories that emerge from the tensions and desires of different archetypal people?

The most obvious application is for the composer of narrative: whether you are a story-teller, a novelist, a poet, a film-maker, a dramatist, or an actor, archetype is the fabric of your artistic life. For someone crafting a narrative, an understanding of archetypal tensions can be instrumental in culling parts of a story that somehow just don't work, in weeding out unnecessary complications and characters who are a poor fit, and in adding more psychological punch to scenes. This is not a substitute for inspiration: several Hollywood Writer's seminars seem to have stumbled across a couple of the archetypal rubrics – particularly the Princess/Prince/Usurper story, and the Warrior and Valkyrie vs. Sun-King story. Uninspired, card-board characters are plonked down into the story, symbols are used with relatively little meaning or impact, and everything proceeds very straight-forwardly, without surprises. The result is a devolution into stereotype: the archetypal content is not revealed in a new and surprising way, but merely repeated, with superficial variation. An understanding of narrative and character absolutely cannot be substituted for inspirations, images, and real characters who are actually alive within the psyche of the author. It can, however, be used to hone and focus inspirations that have already been unearthed.

For poets, visual artists, and prose writers, an understanding of archetype can key the psyche into some of the words and images that ring true within the human mind. Certain words, ideas, and symbols have tremendous power – what I usually call “archetypal resonance,” particularly when they are paired with similar or related archetypal ideals. This is why something like Tennyson's “Lady of Shallot,” which is practically incomprehensible viewed as a literal narrative, and which immediately becomes disappointing or debased the moment that it is straight-jacketed into any sort of allegorical rubric, is so successful. Even if the story does not, strictly, make sense, we recognize its archetypal truth, and so it is meaningful.

For actors and directors, an understanding of archetype can be useful in developing an interpretation of a play. Discussions of different “interpretations” of a story or a character are often the result of archetypal transpositions: did this particular company choose to play Ophelia as a plucky Orphan who eventually falls into a fantasy world and goes insane, or did they decide to make her a miserable and vaguely spectral Victim from the first scene of the play? Good scripts are often open to many different archetypal interpretations – and an understanding of archetypal relationships can mean the difference between a successful, ground-breaking production that explores the characters in a new, but still entirely valid, way, and one which breaks the play apart at the seams and turns it into a hopelessly pretentious “avant-garde” mess.

Archetypal theory is also of benefit to critics – both “literary” critics who seek to understand the nature and meaning of works, and also for “popular” critics, who decide what is good, and what is bad, and what ought to be recommended to Joe and Jane. So often, one has the feeling that something is wrong, but can't quite put one's finger on it. This character seems out of place, that plot-line seems hackneyed. Seeing how the story has strayed from archetype very often makes these matters clear. It also makes it clear why some things seem to have merit, and others do not.

Finally, an understanding of archetype stands as a bulward against modern theories of art which make it impossible to judge or distinguish “good” art from “bad,” except on the grounds of subjective opinion. Philosophy of art has floundered, in recent years, when asked to provide some sort of standards. The theories of Aristotle are too simple to be fully applicable to all modern art forms. The aristocratic idea of a “cultivated taste” is nonsensical if the cultivation doesn't amount to something concrete, that could be described to the masses. People are understandingly unwilling to accept the argument that good works will survive the “test of time” -- especially since they want to know which of the movies in the theatre they ought to go and see this week-end. More to the point, though, we want to understand why the great works survived: what made that great arbiter, Chronos, single them out as worthy of longevity?

Archetype seems to be a way of penetrating these questions, of providing the service which criticism is meant to provide: of showing what is good, in order that others, by understanding the principles of Truth and Beauty, may create new Masterpeices to enlighten the world.

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