There is an important aspect of narrative fiction which J.R.R. Tolkien called “eucatastrophe”, which he described as “The sudden happy turn in a story which pierces you with a joy that brings tears,” making the brilliant observation that “the Resurrection was the greatest ‘eucatastrophe’ possible.” Everyone who has encountered a good narrative has probably encountered eucatastrophe. It takes place at the climax of the story, after the main character (or characters) has struggled tremendously to achieve some good, and when all hope seems lost, that good arrives in a manner that moves the audience to tears. Tolkien himself brought this about in his own The Lord of the Rings when, after a grueling trek through Middle Earth involving countless struggles and hardships, Frodo and Sam finally arrive at Mount Doom where the Ring is destroyed.
There are several ways that eucatastrophe can come about, and it is up to the writer(s) of the story to come up with a creative way to present it to the audience. One such way is in character development. I was recently given the generous opportunity to write a review of the newest film from Marvel Studios, Captain Marvel. One of the things I noted in the review was how Carol Danvers (played by Brie Larson) undergoes no significant development as a character throughout the story, which detracted from the quality of the film. The absence of such character development, I think, calls for some reflection on exactly what such character change consists in and why it’s eucatastrophic. Some notions from Aristotelian-Thomistic philosophy, I think, may be helpful in this respect.
Aristotle and St. Thomas Aquinas’s notion of change is of crucial importance to understanding their philosophy. By “change” they mean exactly what you’d think they mean: when something goes from being one way to being another way. When blue paint gets spilled on a cat, for example, the cat changes from being non-blue to blue. Aristotle observed that in order for change to occur, there must be something which is potentially a certain way, which then becomes actually that way. In our example, the cat lacks blue and so is potentially blue before the change. The blue paint is actually blue, and accordingly in the change makes the cat to be actually blue. Thus, in order for there to be real change, for Aristotle and Aquinas, three principles must be present: a principle of potentiality (called “matter”), a principle of actuality, (called “form”) and privation (the pre-change lack or absence of something). Notice, however, that something can only go from potency to actuality if moved by something “in act” (i.e. actually a certain way). Hence, a dog, which was also only potentially blue, could not have made the cat actually blue; only the blue paint could have done so. (Of course, one might say that the dog could have knocked the can of blue paint over, spilling the paint onto the cat so that we can say that “the dog made the cat blue,” but the dog could not have made the cat blue in the same way the blue paint did, and it is the latter sense that I’m talking about.) The point is that matter, which is potential, is essentially receptive, whereas form, which is actual, is essentially active.
Now, in any sort of art (whether it’s literature, film, or what have you), we seem to take delight in the way it reflects nature; and change is a part of nature. Moreover, we especially take delight when it’s human nature that art reflects, the completion and perfection of which is happiness or beatitude. Thus, it is delightful to us when we see someone (in literature, film, etc.) undergo some change (some move from potency to actuality), for the better, i.e. some change which brings him closer to human happiness or beatitude.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse
To illustrate this, I’ll use as an example (to contrast with Captain Marvel) the Oscar-winning Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. (I choose this movie [a] because it is still fairly new and hopefully fresh in people’s minds and [b] because it won an Academy Award, evidence that there was a successful eucatastrophe of sorts in the film.)
The main character, Miles Morales, is introduced to the audience as a fairly normal, relatable high-school student. He’s young, immature, and has a less-than-desirable relationship with his police-officer father, preferring to spend time with his former-prisoner uncle. Thus, we see the first aspect of change: the privation. Miles is not yet a man, and he lacks the true virtues of a hero. Yet he not only lacks these qualities, but we see that he is in potency to them; we want to see them actualized in him.
Remember, now, that something that is in potency to being a certain way can only become actually that way by something else that is actually that way. It is in the nature of matter (potentiality) to receive form (actuality) from something else already possessing that form. So after Miles is bitten by the spider, he meets Peter Parker and Gwen Stacy, both of whom try to teach Miles how to be Spider-Man; that is, they try to impart the form of “Spider-Man” to him since they already possess it actually while Miles only possesses it potentially. Miles, then, ends up just sort of tagging along and stumbling around, trying to fit in while they try to save the multiverse. He wears a Spider-Man suit, reflecting his potentiality to be fully Spider-Man, but it doesn’t fit well, reflecting that the Spider-Man “form”, so to speak, has not yet been perfected in him. Hence, Miles here is more of a “reactionary” character in the sense that, rather than acting, is more acted upon.
The plot line reaches its climax when Miles finally works up the courage to take the “leap of faith” to become Spider-Man, ready to take on all that that entails. For his suit, he takes an old Spider-Man suit and paints over it, reflecting the fact that he has received the “form”, the “actuality”, of Spider-Man (from Peter Parker, the “main” Spider-Man) and made it his own. He then goes on to defeat the main villain of the movie, Wilson Fisk, alone, i.e. after he has sent Peter, Gwen, and the others back to their proper dimensions, reflecting that he no longer needs to be a recipient of action because he is now an agent of action, which is characteristically actual, rather than potential.
What makes Spider-Verse so good and is that it presents this fairly ordinary aspect of nature, namely, change (particularly, human change), in an extraordinary way. The film was done so well because it made the moment of Miles’s change, the process from potency to actuality, the focus of the movie and emphasized it. The filmmakers, knowing that that moment is the most important in any story, made sure to put their efforts into making it as eucatastrophic as possible, making the music, cinematography, and all other aspects of the film serve that purpose, galvanizing the film with both emotion and grit. For, as was said earlier, we take delight in watching someone change for the better, i.e. take major steps towards the ultimate good we all long for: happiness. Here, we saw Miles do just that, namely, change from a boy into a man, by acquiring qualities and virtues proper to manhood: courage and persistence, among others, which are all necessary for the perfection of moral life. (This, I take it, is why “coming-of-age” stories are so popular.) He also grows closer to his father, the main figure of manhood in any boy’s life, learning to love and appreciate him.
It is for this same reason that Captain Marvel was so disappointing (among other things). Although it had foundations for a “turning point” of change for Carol, it failed to deliver. We don’t see Carol go through any sort of real development as a character, and consequently there is no eucatastrophe, no moment of passion or joy for Carol. She hardly goes through any struggle and faces little to no hardships or trials. Consequently, we are given little to no reason to rejoice for her outward victory against her foe because there was no inward victory against any vice, and that is what is compelling to an audience.
As I said before, there are countless ways that filmmakers and writers can go about presenting a eucatastrophe. It takes much skill and creativity to do it well. But one of these ways involves the fundamental process of change. Understanding such process in Aristotelian-Thomistic terms can perhaps bring us closer to an understanding of what we like to see so much in such eucatastrophe, and why perhaps Spider-Verse succeeded at it and Captain Marvel did not.
Julian Sicam
Julian is a graduate student studying philosophy at the Center for Thomistic Studies at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, TX. He recently started a blog at thisshirtisblue.blogspot.com.