Guest post by J. M. M. Wahl
This article is intended largely as a review for the newly released movie, Furiosa. This movie was a prequel to Mad Max: Fury Road, which was released several years ago. There may be some spoilers in this article, although some of them relate to the film Fury Road, and might be assumed knowledge going into Furiosa. Nonetheless, you might consider watching this movie, which is now available to rent on Amazon and Youtube, before reading this article. The film is Rated R for gore and violence, which obviously relates to the theme and topic of this article (although I do not intend to make this article overly graphic).
Something which I always found touching about G. K. Chesterton’s short stories, The Father Brown Mysteries – especially in the first one where he introduces the character of Fr. Brown, is how at first Fr. Brown seems timid, innocent, and even delicate; however, as the murder mystery continues, and the details grow increasingly dark and morbid, Fr. Brown is the only character among seasoned detectives who never feels out of his element. Despite having an innocent purity, he is quite comfortable with the dark and macabre; this is implied to have two reasons; first, the fact that he is grounded in something bright and wholesome; and also the fact that, as a priest who has “heard it all” in Confession, he is more acquainted to the darkness of human hearts than the veteran police officers. (Chesterton actually wrote these stories before his own Catholic conversion, and so was largely inspired by the practical element of how hearing Confessions would expose even an innocent priest to the dark mysteries of a human heart). In another one of his writings, Chesterton states that only the artist understands how beauty often grows out of something ugly and morbid.
I have a hard time saying why, exactly, I found the new movie, Furiosa, to be so captivating. But I just finished watching it for the second time, and find myself just as absorbed as the first time I watched it in theatres. Perhaps part of it is that the lead actress, Anya Taylor-Joy (the chess girl from Netflix’s Queen’s Gambit) is rather intriguing in an almost unsettling way, and excels at giving a quite haunting performance, time and again. But I think part of it – and this might sound odd for a sci-fi film taking place in a post-apocalyptic nuclear “Wasteland” – but somehow it feels relatable. I don’t even know why it should feel relatable, as the struggles of the heroine are unlikely to ever be faced by modern-day Americans, and certainly not by me. But I think the film, at it’s core, is really a story about finding ‘yourself’ in the midst of overwhelming adversity. And this is probably an inevitable theme, as the movie was quite literally an origin story for one of the heroes from the previous film, Mad Max: Fury Road. But the film is just so striking for the inspirational grit and courage of a young girl who is forced to grow up way too soon. Also the unique visuals of a world grounded in… not Steampunk, not ‘atom-punk’ like Fallout (which was inspired by the original Mad Max Trilogy) … but rather, the unique visuals of a world grounded in ‘diesel-punk’, certainly don’t hurt the movie, either.
Using this movie as the catalyst and inspiration, I would like to take a closer look at the meaning of “scars”; both physical and psychological, and on the Christian attitude (as I see it) which is given to scars and to suffering.
What is an Origin Story?
Now while there certainly are notable exceptions, there are many adventure stories – in book or film – which usually focus around a young, inexperienced protagonist who begins a huge journey into a world of adventure – a world of adventure which they had, hitherto, been unexposed to.
We should differentiate, however, between the main protagonist and the idea of a “hero”. Usually the protagonist is the main hero of the story, but (especially when they are young and inexperienced), there are usually other, complementary heroes in the background – wiser, more experienced mentors or saviors or guides – who sometimes do more than the main protagonist to move the story forward. Think of Dumbledore in Harry Potter, or of Aragorn and Gandolf in Lord of the Rings.
Now in film media, for a few decades there has been a trend of creating an “origin story” for some of these background heroes. This trend began in the 2000’s decade, I believe. It certainly comes from an understandable place – the audience loves this one character who propelled the plot so much in their favorite movie, and they just simply want to know more about that mysterious background hero. For instance, in the original X-men trilogy, while much of the plot follows the young students of Professor X’s school, they later came out with “Origin Story” films about Wolverine (X-Men Origins: Wolverine), as well as Professor X and Magneto (X-Men: First Class).
Now in Mad Max: Fury Road, Furiosa does not seem to be the primary protagonist – the storyline more closely follows Max, who is a very silent prisoner of the war party, and he is often just “along for the ride”. But Furiosa is one of the biggest “heroes” of the story, as she largely propels the plot forward. Nonetheless, for whatever role she plays in the movie, her past is often alluded to, but never at length. So the new movie, Furiosa, is intended, obviously, as an origin story for her character.
Now a personal observation I’ve seen, is that these background heroes and mentors often have some kind of ‘trademark’ scar or wound or disability. I think this is usually used as an artistic short-hand device, to show the audience that the character has “been around the block”; it symbolizes strength and experience. This might be visible, or it might be something you glimpse or discover later on about the character. But it is, essentially, a hint at a complicated past that you don’t fully know, and which gives depth to the character. In X-men, Professor X is crippled and wheelchair-ridden, and Wolverine mysteriously has no memories of his life prior to the film’s opening. In the first Dune book, Gurney Halleck often rubs his trademark “ink-vine scar along his jaw” – a scar which always reminds him of his kidnapped sister he couldn’t save from the Harkonnens. In the Avengers, Nick Fury is missing an eye. Aragorn has a similar “psychological scar” in his forbidden love of the Lady Arwen, which was the reason he spent decades of his life as a wandering vagabond, prior to our meeting him in Lord of the Rings. In The Princess Bride, the Spaniard Inigo Montoya has the trademark slashes across either cheek, from the “six-fingered man who killed [his] parents”. This principle works as well for villains. Darth Vader is crippled and lives in a sinister-looking suit which serves as a portable breathing apparatus. The Joker (at least in the Heath Ledger version) has scars along his cheeks to form a “smile” on his face – scars given him by a drunken, abusive father. In the Hunger Games, President Snow always has a trademark scent of “roses and blood”, and it is revealed the smell of blood is from open wounds in his mouth which never heal; these come from a dark past of trying to poison his own political enemies, and cunningly toasting over the poisoned drinks.
Now, when an Origin Story is made about a background hero who has such a “trademark scar”, it will almost inevitably touch on how such a scar or disability was acquired.
Such is true for the new Furiosa movie. It seems to me that, in the original Fury Road, Furiosa was given a mechanical prosthetic arm, largely to give depth to her character and hint at a complicated past which showed her prowess and experience in “road warfare”. In her origin movie, however, this is not the only detail of her past which is dived into – we watch the basis of many psychological wounds as she plays witness to her mother’s brutal death, her kidnap from her childhood home, and more. And, of course, the producers of the movie could scarcely have failed to show us how she first lost her arm. They had to show us this, because the audience would inevitably want to know. Because this is such a huge part of the character of Furiosa, and so it must matter in learning how she became who she is.
And that, really, is the heart of what an “Origin-story” is. It looks at a popular but mysterious hero, and tries to answer the question, “how did this person become who they are; or rather, who you knew them as?” The mysterious character has to have a past, if they are to be a strong and inspiring hero… or a formidable villain.
Meaning of Scars
Scar tissue is a unique kind of tissue; it doesn’t share the unique properties found in skin tissue, muscle tissue, lung tissue, brain tissue, or wherever else it might develop. In many ways, especially when it forms in the heart, lungs, brain, liver, bowel, etc., it is “useless tissue” that prevents the proper functioning in that region of the organ. Scar tissue is living, as any other type of tissue in your body, and so it regenerates itself, replacing dying scar tissue with new scar tissue, and so it is a permanent change in your body’s makeup. In this way, although people may think of it similarly, it is a very different thing from something like a tattoo – the tattoo is never really a part of your body, it is just a material object (the ink) which is buried in your skin, in between the cells. Your body is constantly pushing the ink out or drawing it in to dispose of, which is why tattoos fade over time. But it is technically a material substance which is alien to your body, like a splinter; whereas a scar creates a new kind of cellular tissue which your body perpetuates.
I don’t know if I have really written enough here to give a full thesis on ‘what scars represent’; but certainly they are a vital part of the character becoming “who they are”; even, in becoming “who they are meant to be”. They can come from multiple types of injuries; meaningless accidents to huge sacrifices for a cause. But even when it came from a seemingly “tragic accident”, the scar usually still stands for a painful experience or a time of suffering, and it is usually shown how that pain or suffering ushered that character towards developing the grit and gravitas which eventually allows them to become strong and capable of being great.
As we follow along in the “Origin-story”; the acquiring of the scar or disability almost inevitably represents a sort of “turning point” for that character. In some ways, it truly has to represent a turning point, as it changes the character, or at least changes how they look. It very often changes how we see them, or even how they see themselves. The scar also represents a certain permanence – something which the character can’t ever take back; and very often it portrays, at least visibly, some kind of a “loss of innocence”. And it does this radically, because it does this in such a split moment – either a moment of indecision/inability, or (as in Furiosa), a moment of ultimate decision.
The character changes in the moment they acquire the scar. It could be the final culmination of a long process in which the character was changing, or it could be the catalyst which begins a long process of change, but there is a decisive moment when the flesh is cut, the spirit is broken, and it is a “moment pregnant with change”, where the character is a different person, at least physically, because of it. And that can never be undone. This is what a scar inevitably represents.
This is so in Furiosa. There are some psychological scars we watch her acquire – she must change forever, in the “moment” when she watches her mother’s torture and death. Likewise, she changes again when, as a young girl, she tattoos the star chart on her forearm, and this represents the determination being planted in her heart as well as her flesh, that she will never give up on her home. But the major, glaringly obvious “scar” which she acquires in the movie, is the loss of her arm. You could, possibly, see the loss of her arm as the culmination of a long journey of change which began with her mother’s death.
But I think that would be the wrong way of seeing it. I would rather propose, that there is a crucial change to the character of Furiosa at the beginning of the movie, represented by her mother’s death, and this change redirects her in a certain direction for her life’s course. But towards the end of the movie, she undergoes another crucial change, represented by her dismemberment, which again redirects her completely and sets her in a new lane of life. Afterall, both of these events, in the movie, are marked not only by immense suffering, but by a heroic, almost super-human grit and determination. Afterall, as a young girl she faces the momentous temptation to end her mother’s suffering, if only she can simply point in the appropriate direction where the forested river valley lies (one of the last “green places” in the whole of Australia). And as an adult, she has the gall and incredible strength, to saw off her own (already maimed) arm, presumably with a hidden knife, in order to escape her hanging bondage as the bad guys are distracted playing a sadistic execution game with her military partner/mentor.
Moments pregnant with change
I recently heard a Greek-Rite priest discussing the concept of change, according to God’s time. Among other things, he was discussing how, in the Bible, whenever Christ confronts people who he is about to heal from physical infirmities, he often gives them a mere open-ended question; “What do you want”, or “What are you seeking?” And part of the point he was trying to make, as I remember it, was that very often our hearts are not ready yet for some big change; the time is not ripe or we are not open to it. But eventually there might come a time when we are ready for it. And I think we see this even in media, including in some “origin stories”; how often in a character’s narrative arc, do they know they need to do some big and difficult thing, but spend a long time avoiding it or putting it off, because they are not ready? But eventually something changes – often a big, sudden, unexpected change in the character’s life, and then they are ready for the big mission or whatever it is.
This priest discussed the idea of “God’s time”, and he pointed out that, in Greek, there are two different words used to express moments in time. The word, ‘kronos’ refers to an analogical passage of time in minutes, days, and years. This is the root of the English word, “chronology”; so kronos refers to a chronological sequence of moments or events. But there is another word used in different contexts; ‘kairos’ refers to a “moment” in a more figurative sense, which is to say, a “moment” as we very often use the word in normal language – it is a “big moment”. It’s not a chronological point in time, but rather it is a point in time which rises higher than others. He referred to this idea of ‘kairos’ as “a moment pregnant with change”.
Change very rarely happens in a linear progression across time. Rather, in human experience, change almost always feels like “starting a new chapter”. There is a longer period of your life which might feel relatively stable and where you are just “doing your thing”; but then that gets turned over anew in what feels like a moment of radical change. It might be a singular notable change, but very often, there are a series of big changes that all happen in rapid-fire succession. This times of rapid-fire changes, as I understand it, are precisely what the priest meant by ‘kairos’, or “moments pregnant with change”.
Of course, change happens slowly as well as rapidly. Growing up is a gradual process over years, and this certainly makes up a bulk of the Furiosa film; she spends years aging through her teenage years and learning the skills of a mechanic. She spends unknown lengths of time in the nomadic war-party of Dementus, and unknown lengths of time as a Praetorian truck-driver, and in both she is adjusting to a chaotic and unruly world. And yet the film is built around the structure of the two primary moments of ‘kairos’, both of which occur within about a single scene; the death of her mother and dashing of Furiosa’s old childhood; and the scene wherein she is captured and escapes by sawing off her arm. And yet neither of these scenes exists for their own sake; both scenes, rather, exist for the narrative of what comes before and after.
So both of these measurements of time are vitally important: kronos, which is the chronological passage, not just of units of time, but also the chronological passage of life and minor events; as well as, obviously, kairos, those “big moments”, moments pregnant with change, the moments that make you into a new person than you were before it happened. Of course, film media necessarily centers around these “big moments”, because the art form naturally features momentous scenes for visual display. Also, there is something human about acknowledging that these big moments rise above other, lesser chapters which simply fit into a lengthy chapter. But life would be chaotic and senseless if that was truly all there was: indeed, the largest meaning can only be given to these moments of kairos, if they usher in a new period of kronos.
This, it seems to me, is precisely what the event creating a scar represents; both in film media, as well as in real life. It is a moment of pain, which forever marks you afterwards. It is a clear delineation between “before” and “after”. And this is as true, actually it is far more true, for psychological or emotional wounds, as well as physical ones.
But the priest was not speaking of scarring when he was discussing kairos and kronos. In some ways, he was discussing the exact opposite idea. He was discussing miraculous healings. The curing of disabilities or ailments. And yet these obviously cannot be opposed to each other; for while Christ does heal us, He also does allow our suffering in the first place. So a moment of kairos can happen upon a scarring event, but it also can happen at the healing of those wounds. And just as both fit together in the complex narrative of our life and of our growth into strong ‘heroes’, so both can fit into our ‘fate’, and God guides us through all of this. This is not to say, of course, that God wills a truly evil tragedy. Scars can happen through tragic accidents, and they can happen through evil plots or designs. It is conceivable that God planned some harrowing experience for the growth of heroic virtues in a person, although if the scar came from an experience truly evil, this is obviously very different and not something He would have chosen. Still, sometimes through the greatest evils, God uses it to bring about incredible good.
But one day there will be a healing from all that is truly debilitating; and not just that, but a healing from anything which is ugly; just as He will wipe away all lies and deceit, so He will wipe away all ugliness. Afterall, Christians believe in the three “transcendentals” of truth, beauty, and goodness.
Now there is some debate about whether or not we will have scars in paradise, and I do not know if I am qualified to answer this. Certainly Christ is seen to have kept his scars after his Resurrection; but then, the open wounds of Christ are not really normal human “scars”, and must have a transcendental connection with the restoration of humanity and of all creation. It seems obvious that if Christ cured people of infirmities and disabilities during His time here, He will certainly do so in the life to come. It also seems to be a general consensus among Christians historically and contemporarily, that natural processes of death and decay, probably even including old age and natural corruption, will be reversed as well. And if he can rejoin body parts that were sundered after death, I don’t see why it would be any different to rejoin body parts which were separated before death as well. Ultimately though, I just don’t have any basis to speak on what will become of scars at the Resurrection. But this also seems to me to be… simply not a very helpful or relevant topic to focus on. I think we must content ourselves with the fact that much of “the final things”, or Eschatology, is a mystery hidden from us for many reasons.
But at least in the life we know, it seems clear to me that scars and wounds and disabilities, at least for the Christian, need not be senseless and tragic, as they certainly are in other philosophies. Buddhism necessarily teaches that “life is suffering”, and so the point of your life is to escape, not just life, but even consciousness itself, and so join the impersonal powers of the Universe. Modern American philosophy as well, with all of our obsession over youth and perfection, and superficial beauty, sees even natural and unavoidable scars, such as occur as a natural part of aging, with horror and contempt.
But in Christianity, we have a Savior who saved the world… by his scars. The entire ethos around Christianity, centers around the idea of Redemption – redemption from evil, redemption from corruption and decay. And it is usually portrayed – especially historically – not as redemption from suffering, but redemption through suffering.
There will be a time when tragedy and evil and corruption are banished into a void. There is some debate about the role of pain in a world without sin. While we might conceive of Heaven as being bliss without pain, as Catholics we don’t believe this is the final conclusion; in our very Creed, we proclaim an anticipation for “the life of the world to come”; a Resurrection of the body, and a new heavens and new earth.
Pain is not the same as suffering. Needless suffering will surely end, but there are some interpretations of Genesis that there was a call for sacrificial love; for painful love, even dangerous risks borne for love, in the Garden of Eden. One of my favorite interpretations of the story of the Garden of Eden, puts the first temptation of Eve somewhat on Adam’s initial shortcoming. The idea was that Adam was asked twice to lay down his very life for Eve; the first time he willingly did, as he “fell asleep” and allowed God to remove his rib to create Eve. But the second was in God’s command to “shamar”; to keep and protect the Garden. I’ve heard that the “serpent” was actually called by the word of “Leviathan”; which we see again elsewhere in the Bible, such as in Job, as a huge and horrifying beast. Essentially, it wasn’t a small, hapless garden snake that spoke to Eve – it was something closer to a dragon. This is true especially when you consider what a “serpent” would look like before it was punished to writhe and slither on the ground in the following chapter – it can’t have looked merely like a lizard, for lizards remained.
The point is this; Adam failed to keep and protect the garden. It would have been difficult not to notice a huge ‘dragon’ approaching from the wilderness surrounding the Garden, and difficult not to notice it’s presence once it was there – especially if he was being diligent in ‘keeping and protecting’ his charge. He had a command to “lay down his life”, potentially to fight this ‘dragon’, and instead he allowed it to approach and engage his wife, to whisper lies in her ear and deceive her.
So even in the Garden of Eden, and by extension, possibly in the Resurrection, we may still be called to danger and adventure, and this, almost by definition, will not preclude some level of pain and scars. Granted, we will not be given over to the laws of corruption and decay, and so the processes of scarring might look different or be less permanent. But something in us, I think, shudders at the common Protestant idea of sitting around for eternity on a cloud and listening to flutes. We want to believe there will be still the thrill of adventure, even of meaningful danger. And scars are a real result coming from a world of real consequences. A world, a life, which is to be at all interesting, must allow for such things.
Sacrifice, if it means anything, must mean pain. And very often scars can signify exactly this. Becoming a person means growing up; “putting away childish pursuits”; learning and making judgements. This has to include the chance to get it wrong, or else you are acting as someone else’s puppet. But it also means, even if you don’t “go wrong”, gaining real responsibilities. And this often means hard work and even pain, although hopefully it will be fruitful pain which ‘makes it worth it’, rather than fruitless, meaningless pain.
And this is exactly what I am trying to communicate about scars. They are an outward sign, very often, of immense internal struggles, both leading up to the scar, and stemming off of it. And this is a huge part of growing, of leaving behind youth for adulthood, of leaving behind ignorance for wisdom, and of leaving behind weakness for strength. This is what it means to bear your scars; knowing they make you greater. So bear your scars, and be grateful for your strength. After all, that is yet another thing scars represent: it usually wasn’t something you intentionally did, and even if it was (like Furiosa), it represents something you wouldn’t have chosen. So bear your scars, and be grateful for the strength that came with them.