Genre Films – Ash Clifton, Writer

Today I Learned a Word: “Eucatastrophe”

Ever since I stumbled upon it some years ago, In Deep Geek has been one of my favorite video podcasts. In each episode, the creator/narrator (known only as Robert) goes into extreme depth on some subject of profound interest to fans of The Lord of the Rings, The Witcher, and A Game of Thrones. I’ve never seen those two latter shows (yeah, I know; I live under a rock), but I am a big fan of LOTR, so I watch those episodes with great interest and enjoyment. I don’t know Robert’s background, but I would guess he has some training in English Literature. His explications—which are unfailingly graceful, insightful, and genuinely interesting—remind me of the “close readings” I used to do as an English Major.

One especially perceptive episode is one that I saw recently on the subject of Tolkien’s Eagles. These are, of course, the race of giant, sentient eagles that play a small but crucial role in the lore. In fact, they literally save the heroes from catastrophe, flying in to assist in the Battle of the Five Armies at the conclusion of The Hobbit, and rescuing Frodo and Sam from incineration on the slopes of Mt. Doom in The Return of the King. As Robert explains, the eagles provide a eucatastrophe—a word I had never heard before, and one which (as Robert helpfully goes on to explain) was coined by Tolkien himself.

You don’t need to be a linguist like Tolkien to get the gist of what the word eucatastrophe means. Basically, it’s the opposite of a catastrophe—a sudden, unexpected change of fortune that saves the hero(es) from near certain doom. I think the key adjective here is unexpected. Indeed, a true eucatastrophe must be not only unexpected but unforeseeable, coming (quite literally, in the case of the eagles) out of the blue. For example, the ending of Star Wars: A New Hope, when Luke Skywalker uses the Force to blow up the Death Star, is a great, thrilling ending, but it’s not a true eucatastrophe. After all, Luke did what he came there to do. Yes, the odds were incredibly stacked against him, but the ending is not unforeseeable. It’s just very, very unlikely (and, therefore, very exciting and dramatic).

Upon being introduced to the term, one might wonder—as I did—what the difference is between a eucatastrophe and the classic Deus ex machina ending, as used in the theater of ancient Greece. Literally the “God-from-the-Machine,” it took the form of an actor playing Zeus or Poseidon or some other God, who was “levitated” over the stage using a wooden cherry-picker called a mechane. The “God” would then deliver some boon that rescues the protagonists and resolves the drama. Basically, a happy ending, courtesy of the divinity.

All good writers know that a Deus ex machina-style ending is usually pretty lame, simply because it has nothing to do with the drama that has preceded it. It doesn’t force the characters to get themselves out of trouble in a way that has meaning for the reader (or viewer). It’s the sudden “happy ending” that completely subverts the conflicts and themes that the reader has invested themselves in and is anxiously waiting to see how they will be resolved, not by some magical deity swooping in and snapping His fingers, but by the characters themselves.

Clearly, this is not the kind of ending Tolkien had in mind, nor does it describe the rather fabulous and exciting conclusions of both The Return of the King and The Hobbit. Rather, in both cases, the sudden appearance of the eagles seems somehow perfect. Unexpected, yet totally satisfying. And fitting.

But how? How does Tolkien do it?

I think it has something to do with the fact that, in Tolkien, the appearance of the eagles only comes near the end of some great struggle. In The LOTR, for instance, when the eagles rescue Sam and Frodo, the main goal of the story has already been achieved. That is, they have already destroyed the ring and defeated Sauron. More importantly, they have overcome—not just Sauron—but themselves. Their own fear, exhaustion, and despair, as they held the true course to victory.

Tolkien knows that if Sam and Frodo were to die afterward, their deaths would serve no purpose, either dramatically or thematically. So, the eagles’ showing up at the critical moment seems not only fitting but logical; the eagles have witnessed the Hobbits’ ordeal, and, like us, they seek a better ending for those poor little fellows who have saved the world.

In other words, unlike a Deus ex machina ending, a true eucatastrophe comes as a result of what has come before. It is a kind of miracle, but an earned miracle.

Also, as Robert points out so beautifully in his video, the eagles also function as a stand-in for God in Tolkien’s legendarium, Eru Ilúvatar. Ultimately, a eucatastrophe represents a kind of divine intervention. A deliverance from evil.

As Robert states:

This is sometimes dismissed rather sneeringly as Deus ex machina…. The writer intervening in the plot to save characters or move things along in a way that otherwise wouldn’t happen in that created world. The eagles, some have said, are a failing in Tolkien’s writing. A convenient, easy way to save characters from whatever scrape they find themselves in. But to think that would be to completely misunderstand Tolkien’s notion of eucatastrophe and what the eagles represent. The eagles’ appearances aren’t failures of imagination on Tolkien’s part. They are deliberate and intentional, and they are supposed to feel like God intervening. They are God in the works.

The important thing to note is that intervention comes after the fact. The battle, in a sense, must already be won, if only symbolically. In the Battle of the Five Armies, for instance, the true victory—the coming together of dwarves, elves, and men in common purpose—has already been achieved, even before the battle starts. The intervention of he eagles to finally win the day is, more or less, just icing on the metaphysical cake.

Come to think of it, there is a kind of eucatastrophe in Star Wars: A New Hope. It comes, not at the end of the battle for the Death Star, but just before it, when Luke is about to be blown to smithereens by Darth Vader. “I have you now,” Vader intones from inside his deluxe, specially fitted TIE Fighter as he prepares to pull the trigger. At that very last instant, though, Vader’s ship is hit by a laser blast and disabled. Luke is free to finish his mission.

But where did the blast come from? All of Luke’s friends are already dead.

The blast was fired, of course, by Hans Solo, who has come to the rescue in the Millenium Falcon. The moment feels momentous because we, the viewers, know that Solo should not be there. He has, in the previous scene, vehemently declared himself to be a selfish man—a cynic—concerned only with his own survival. He would never be a sucker for any crazy, doomed cause like the Galactic Rebellion.

Yet, there he is—a symbol of people’s ability to change, to discover their own basic, human decency and courage. And, just as the eagles are a stand-in for Eru Ilúvatar, Solo is a stand-in for God, The Force, or whatever you want to call it. He represents the potential for good in all people and living things.

R.I.P. Sam Neill

No self-respecting cinephile could live with themselves if they failed to mark the passing of a great movie star like Sam Neill. Yes, Neill was a movie star. He seldom played the lead in big-budget films—Jurassic Park was a lucky exception, and even that film was more of an ensemble piece—yet whenever he was on-screen, it was impossible to take your eyes off him. And that inexplicable quality, more than anything, is what defines a movie star.

I say inexplicable, because no one can really define it. Yes, it has something to do with good looks, and Neill was definitely handsome. (Early in his career, he was an outright heartthrob in his native New Zealand.) Intelligence, too, often has something to do with star-power, and Neill was certainly, obviously smart. And charming, albeit in a reserved, unassuming way.

But there are lots of other good-looking, smart, and charming actors who never achieve the status of movie star. Neill did. How did he do it? I’m not sure. If I had to assign Neill one of my 15 Hollywood archetypes, I guess he would fit best in the Noble Everyman slot. But he was almost too handsome for that category. Really, he was almost his own archetype—that of the quiet, capable, professional man.

These terms certainly describe the first role I saw him in, which made me a fan—that of the titular superspy in Reilly, Ace of Spies. A 12-part miniseries shown on the Masterpiece Theater program in America, it told the story of the dapper, aristocratic, and amoral Sidney Reilly, a Russian-born secret agent who works for the British Empire circa 1910. With his deceptively soft, incisive voice and penetrating intellect, Neill was perfect for the role, and it made him a star.

Throughout his subsequent film career, he played many other resourceful, smart, but quiet characters, often in supporting roles. He played naval officers (Dead Calm, The Hunt for Red October), scientists (Jurassic Park, The Dish), and, of course, spies (Reilly, Ace of Spies, Plenty).

Whatever he played, though, he always exuded a kind of affable, open, benign quality that viewers instinctively warmed to.

He was one of my favorite actors.

Godspeed, Mr. Neill…!

Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover: “Damnation Alley”

For this latest entry in my Classic Sci-Fi Book Covers series, I’ve chosen a fairly recent (2004) edition of Roger Zelazny’s Damnation Alley. The book is a great, sci-fi action yarn about a post-WWIII America in which most of the heartland is scarred by nuclear radiation. Gale-force winds above 500 feet prevent any kind of air travel between the coasts, where the few remaining cities struggle to survive. When an epidemic breaks-out in Boston, officials in Southern California offer a tough criminal, Hell Tanner, a pardon if he will lead a convoy through Damnation Alley, a cross-continental route that bypasses the worst radiation spots. The rest of the story is a kind of post-apocalyptic Iditarod, complete with bandits, micro-hurricanes, and grotesque mutants (both human and animal), all of which Tanner must survive in order to deliver a vaccine.

If you grew up in the 1970s, you might remember the really cheesy (but fun) B-movie that was adapted from it (starring George Peppard, no less!). But even if you’re younger than that, the outlaw-turned-hero plot might seem familiar, mainly because it’s been ripped-off so many times in movies, from Mad Max: The Road Warrior to Escape from New York to Pitch Black.

Speaking of movies, Zelazny himself was probably inspired by numerous Westerns from the 1950s and 60s that used the same story. (I’m thinking of The Magnificent Seven, 3:10 to Yuma, and even The Searchers). All such tales focus on a criminal whose ruthlessness and brutality cause him to be ostracized from civilization under normal circumstances, but whose strength and cunning become indispensable in a crisis.

The idea, of course, goes back further still. Greek and Hindu epics like The Iliad and The Mahabarahta are full of instances of big, nasty warriors who must face a seemingly insurmountable gauntlet of enemies (warriors, monsters, demi-gods, etc.) and defeat them all to achieve some seemingly unattainable boon. In the process, the hero delivers his people from danger and (usually) achieves some kind of moral rehabilitation, if only after his death.

But there are a couple of key differences between modern tales like Damnation Alley and The Illiad. In ancient literature, the warrior’s violent tendencies are not a minus; they’re a plus. Paleolithic civilizations valued and glorified violent aggression even more than we do, probably because they faced real, existential threats much more often. Also, in ancient myths, it’s usually the hero himself who, seeking glory, embarks on the challenge of his own free-will. In stories like Damnation Alley, the hero (really more of an anti-hero) is compelled by others to take part in the saga. In the end, he might fight some deeper, non-selfish part of himself—or not. It all depends on the worldview of the author.

I really like this cover (by renowned comic book artist Dennis Callero) because it highlights the book’s anti-hero—Hell Tanner—in all his badass glory. He looks like a Hell’s Angel because, according to the story, he is a Hell’s Angel (back before the world got nuked). Now, instead of a Harley, he rides a tank-like vehicle called a Landmaster, bristling with weaponry, which is shown in the background. I also like the greenish glow (of radiation, presumably) coming from the edge of the picture.

Most of all, I admire how the cover, which was probably done using some kind of digital tool, still looks like an oil painting from old days of 1960s and 70s sci-fi illustration. It’s realistic, but not photo-realistic. It looks like…art.

“Manhunter: The Final Cut” Coming to a Theater Near You!

If you enjoyed my essay on Michael Mann’s great movie Manhunter, you might be interested to learn that a new, remastered, 4K cut of the film has been made. Called Manhunter: The Final Cut, the film will have a limited release in cinemas starting on July 4, 2026 in the U.S. and on September 25 in the U.K.

So, if you live near a theater that sometimes shows re-releases of classic films, keep your eye it. It’s a great film, and everyone should get a chance to see it on the big screen (as I did, lo those forty years ago).

Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover: “The Man in the Maze”

Once again, I have the great library district of Alachua County to thank for my latest classic sci-fi book cover post. I was browsing through the library’s website, looking at their most recent e-book purchases, when I stumbled upon this oldie by famed sci-fi author Robert Silverberg. I don’t know how exactly, but I never read Silverberg before. I had heard of him, of course. I knew that he was a famous sci-fi author (he’s actually still with us, at 91, as of this writing), often lumped in with the New Wave that emerged in the 1960s.

Having read one book by him now, I must say that he feels more like a Golden Age writer to me. The Man in the Maze, after all, has not one but two brilliant, highly educated yet macho heroes (ala Heinlein) who live in a Buck-Rogers-style galactic civilization of the future (ala Asimov), where they are very successful with the hot babes of many, far-flung planets.

Still, this book has a lot more character depth and thematic complexity then the average sci-fi tale, then or now. In fact, it’s clever as hell. I mean, how many other sci-fi works are based on an ancient Greek play? Specifically, this one is a retelling of Sophocles’ drama Philoctetes, in which the titular hero, a great archer and warrior of the Achaeans, is wounded early in the Trojan war. His wound is of a supernatural origin—literally a curse from the Gods—and will not heal. It also stinks to high-heaven, so much so that the other Achaean Greeks dump him on an island called Lemnos, where he stews in his own self-pity and growing hatred of all humankind.

Silverberg cleverly transposes the tail to a far-future civilization, where interplanetary diplomat Dick Muller is similarly afflicted after completing a mission to a newly discovered planet, Beta Hydri IV. During his visit, the Beta Hydrians bestow upon him the “gift” of telepathy. Unfortunately, the kind they give him only works one way, outward. When he returns to human-occupied space, he is horrified to learn that his innermost and darkest thoughts, fears, and impulses are constantly transmitted to those around, to the point that people literally run away.

Basically, he stinks. In despair, he exiles himself to a bizarre planet (called Lemnos, naturally) which was abandoned millions of years earlier by a highly intelligent but now extinct race. All that remains of their civilization is a huge, diabolical maze, filled with automated traps and snares that kill virtually everyone who goes into it. Except Mueller, that is, who finds his way to the center and takes up residence there.

All this occurs before the main action of the novel, when, as in the original Sophocles drama, Muller’s old friends soon realize that they desperately need the forsaken man to save them from a new crisis. In the play, the Achaeans learn via prophecy that only Philoctetes, with his awesome archery skills, can secure the final victory over Troy. In the novel, Muller’s old friend, Charles Boardman (the guy who sent him to Beta Hydri IV) seeks his help in dealing with yet another alien civilization, this one threatening to enslave all humanity.

I really like this cover from the 1987 Avon edition because it feels like a great, archetype 1980s cover. Done by master illustrator Jim Burns, it has the photorealistic, industrial style that was typical of that era, the age before digital art was even a dream. (It feels a lot like a Syd Mead work actually.) It’s also got a strangely muted scene, with a rugged-looking man—Charles Boardman, presumably—sitting in the cockpit of a starship while a younger comrade—Ned Rawlins, presumably, whom Boardman convinces to venture into the maze and befriend Muller, in hopes of gulling him into coming with them back to civilization. And behind Rawlins, of course, is the insane, sci-fi maze of Lemnos.

It’s a really fun book. Kind of a precursor to The Hunger Games and The Maze Runner and lots of other, later yarns. Check it out…

You’ve Heard of Anti-Heroes? How About Anti-Villains?

A couple of weeks ago I reposted an old essay of mine called The Anti-Heroes of American Cinema: A Tribute. Ever since then, I’ve been thinking that there is a counterpart to the anti-hero—the anti-villain. Whereas anti-heroes often display characters that seem to contradict the classical definition of a hero, such as occasional selfishness, comical cowardice, and foolishness, anti-villains often run counter to the classical definition of a villain. That is, they can be courageous, charming, and even noble (albeit in a misguided fashion).

Ironically, it is classic literature itself, I think, that gives the first, prototypical anti-villain: Hector, the Trojan prince who flummoxes the Greeks in The Ilyad. Hector is, in many ways, more compelling and even sympathetic than the nominal “hero” of the work, Achilles, who spends most of his time sulking in his tent. Hector, whose moniker is “the breaker of horses,” is determined to defend his country from the invading Greeks, which makes him far more relatable than the glory-hound Achilles. He is also shown to be a devoted family man, gentle to his wife and infant child, as well as being a loving son and older brother.

In the same way, the very best films of American cinema often have a great “villain” who is actually more of an “anti-villain.” In John McTiernan’s Die Hard, for instance, Alan Rickman gave a career-making performance as the hissable Hans Gruber. Hans isn’t just smart. He’s resourceful, courageous, and disciplined. When he accidentally gets cornered by John, he fakes a brilliant American accent that we can understand how someone would fall for it.

But what really makes Hans such a compelling character is that, in some ways, Hans seems to be struggling almost as much as the hero, John McClane. We sense that Hans really needs this heist to work. That, despite all his bravado and (yes) cruelty, he’s really just a guy trying to make his mark while there is still time. “You’re just a common thief,” Holly says to him, to which he replies, “I am an exceptional thief.” And we have to agree. He is exceptional.

More importantly, he feels like a fully rounded, three-dimensional character. Yeah, he’s still the bad guy, with wicked and even evil motives, but he is still compelling, likeable, and real. Much of this depth, of course, comes from the brilliant script by Jeb Stuart and Steven E. de Souza, but is it mainly due to Rickman’s refusal to play the character as a trope, the dimestore villain. As Rickman explained in an early interview: “I’m not playing ‘the villain’. I’m just playing somebody who wants certain things in life—who’s made certain choices—and goes after them.”

To take another great film from the 1980s, Oliver Stone’s Wall Street presented us with one of the great anti-villains of all time, Gordon Gekko, as brilliantly played by Michael Douglas in an Oscar-winning performance. Gekko is whip-smart, ruthless, and willing to play for table-stakes when the circumstances call for it. He also has a bit of an inferiority complex, as he reveals in an early scene when he and the film’s young hero, Bud Fox, play squash. Bud compliments Gekko on the luxury of his health club, to which Gekko responds, “Yeah, not bad for a City College boy. I bought my way in, now all these Ivy league schmucks are sucking my kneecaps.”

Of course, this kind of admission on Gekko’s part—that he comes from humble beginnings, and that he harbors a huge amount of resentment against the American aristocracy—serves to make him more compelling, not less. In other words, he becomes an anti-villain. We can understand how the movie’s young protagonist, Bud Fox, would be in awe of the man’s talent and grit. It’s only later in the film, when Bud figures out the man’s true, reptilian character, that he turns on Gekko and reclaims some of his dignity.

Come to think of it, Oliver Stone’s other great movie from the 80s, Platoon, also has a great anti-villain, who also tempts the movie’s young hero toward the dark side. In Platoon, it is the ruthless Sergeant Barnes (brilliantly played by Tom Berringer in a career-highpoint). Barnes is surely the most capable and lethal soldier in his platoon, displaying enormous courage and self-control in battle. He seems to genuinely care about the well-being of his troops (up to a point) and to harbor an authentic (if perverse) form of patriotism. Unfortunately, he is also a bit of a fascist, set on revenge against the Vietnamese people (both the Viet Cong and the villagers who sometimes aid them). We sense the depth of the trauma he has suffered from his previous war experience (manifested in a symbolic wound, the disfigurement of his face).

An earlier Vietnam movie, Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, presents us with another great anti-villain, the mad Colonel Kurtz (played by Marlon Brando). As we learn from the film’s (anti-)hero, Willard, Kurtz is a former war-hero, a West Point grad whose patriotism and courage led him to achieve high rank at a young age. But then, deep in the existential maw of Vietnam, he suffered a psychic that led him to go rogue, becoming a renegade war-lard in Cambodia, waging his own horrific, private version of the war.

It’s not surprising that Vietnam was such a great source of cinematic anti-heroes (and anti-villains), considering the way moral lines became so blurred in the long, horrific conflict. In the same way, modern military conflicts in the Twenty-First Century also generate their share of vexed, morally complex characters. In fact, one the greatest anti-villains of all time appeared in Dennis Villeneuve’s 2015 thriller, Sicario. In that film, the nominal hero, a young police officer named Kate Macer (Emily Blunt) finds herself entangled in a covert, CIA-run military operation against a Mexican drug cartel. One of the CIA operatives, Alejandro (Benecio del Toro), becomes a kind of demented mentor to her, showing her how to survive in the morally-inverted universe of the U.S. War or Drugs.

Alejandro is such an effective villain because neither the viewer nor Kate realize he is a villain until late in Act III, when we discover that Alejandro is, in fact, an assassin—the “hitman” of the film’s title—whose mission is to kill the cartel’s leader, Fausto Alarcón. The entire plot is then revealed to be an elaborate scheme to secretly insert Alejandro into Mexico, where he breaks into Alarcón’s house and kills him—along with his wife and children—while the family is having dinner.

It’s a shocking moment, one that might sink any other film. But Villeneuve and the screenwriter, Taylor Sheridan (later of Yellowstone fame), have prepared us for it by fully fleshing-out Alejandro’s character to the point that we can understand—almost—his actions. Throughout the movie, he is presented to us unfailingly cheerful yet lethal, fearless yet controlled, protective yet ruthless. We also learn that Alarcón brutally murdered his daughter in the past, which goes a long way to explain his wrath.

Most importantly, in the climactic scene in which Alejandro first sneaks into Alarcón’s house, he is spotted by a kitchen maid. Instead of killing her, though, he lets her go, knowing she won’t warn anybody about his presence. In this way, the film subtly suggests that Alejandro doesn’t necessarily kill the wife and kids out of wrath. Rather, he has to make the assassination look like an inter-cartel hit, so he has to be as brutal as required—but no more so—to maintain that fiction.

It’s a great movie, and it also presages what I’ve seen as growing development in American action cinema. Namely, the blurring together of anti-heros and anti-villains, to the point where they are not only indistinguishable from each other, but they inhabit the same (main) character. What is Walter White of Breaking Bad if not an agglomeration of anti-villain/anti-hero? Or Frank Lucas in American Gangster? Or John Wick?

It’s almost as if Hollywood has entered some kind of time-warp and looped back to the gritty, neo-noir films of the early 1970s. Movies with dark, morally ambiguous protagonists like Point Blank, Charley Varrick, The Mechanic, and even Super Fly. That Vietnam-era when the American cinema goer became more hardened, more cynical toward government and law enforcement and Capitalism and…well…just about everything.

Sound familiar?