Ugh. I’ve desperately tried to write this essay without referring–for the second essay in a row–to my Sunday living habits. They’re really not that interesting, and I understand that. But I’m sorry. Just like the last essay, the origins of this one occur during those existential lulls that seem to characterize a lot of people’s Christian Sabbath.
You see, in my household–after my morning workout– Sunday mornings are reserved for one of two rituals. One, because my wife is a practicing Catholic, we go to mass. Or, two–if we’re too lazy on that particular morning–we lay around in our sweats and my wife watches “Super Soul Sundays” on the Oprah Winfrey Network. Of the two, even though I am a blasphemer, heretic and just an outright nonbeliever, I greatly prefer going to mass, even though it means making the effort to look presentable in public on a Sunday morning and listening to some dweeb in a blouse tell me about how I need to make some more time for gahd/Jesus in my life. Even though, in theory, as the Christian gahd is omnipresent/prescient/powerful, I shouldn’t be able to get away from it in the first place–and, in fact, am gahd, but whatever. For those of you lucky enough to not know what Super Soul Sundays are about, it’s simply a series of hour-long (or two-hour long) interviews Oprah does with a litany of new age gurus, new-age groupies and new-age self-promoters. In short, as hard as it is to believe, there is simply less bullshit being spewed in a typical Catholic mass than there is on even the best episode of Super Soul Sundays.
Some people may think the choice is akin to choosing between a cobra bite and a shot of hemlock. And I’d be tempted to go with the cobra bite simply for the adventure of it all, but ultimately by going with the hemlock I’d forego adventure for simplicity and ease of use. Therefore, I prefer mass. Even though I have to get dressed and cleaned up and get the children dressed and cleaned up and wait for my wife to get dressed and cleaned up and even though we’re always there 10-15 minutes late and we walk in and the usher guides us to the only seats available which are always in the front row. We then have to squeeze the entire family through the aisles while the rest of the people in said aisles are shifting this way and that attempting to get us enough room to articulate. Everyone in the church is looking at us, while I grunt and say “sorry” as I try not to drop my daughter on the floor or on somebody’s lap. And the priest is looking at us like gahd-less heathens who should’ve just stayed home. This is still simpler and much less work than watching, I don’t know, some dingbat like Shawn Achor talk the “connection” between happiness and “productivity.”
And just what is so bad about listening to some dingbat talk about happy thoughts? Well, to be honest, I had a difficult time answering this question for quite awhile. A long while. Years, really. I just knew that every time I had to sit and watch this shit that I had difficulty keeping my shirts clean as at least a liter of foam bubbled forth from my jowls and I had to actively concentrate on preventing the Life Force from simply wilting away from my body. I chalked it up to some vague idea like “inauthenticity” (in contrast to Lin-Chi’s admonitions to just “shit, piss and just be human” if one is indeed on an authentic spiritual journey) or I simply dismissed most of her guests by stating something along the lines of, “Well, of course it’s easy to act all spiritual and enlightened when you’ve made a million dollars and can have all the material possessions you could want.” In terms of the latter, I’m one of the so-called “liars” who doesn’t believe money brings happiness. The karma of wealth tends to be that the more you have to lose, the more you worry about losing it. But wealth does bring comfort and easiness and a certain kind of peace of mind, in that survival isn’t much of an issue anymore, and in that, for most people who reach such wealth, they’ve achieved some kind of life goal, which is always a nice feeling.
In short, though, I have a difficult time taking seriously any spiritual or philosophical teacher who hasn’t found that comfort, easiness and peace of mind in the compost of life that the rest of us have to deal with. It’s easy to have some kind of perspective on life when, if you’re having a bad day, you can go cheer yourself up (at least momentarily) by buying another BMW or some shit.
Who I’m interested in hearing from is some other poor sap who has to wake up every morning, drive to some shitty job in some shitty car, deal with some shitty boss, pay some shitty bills and deal with all the challenges (and pleasures) that come with family life, and yet who is still very happy and excited about living. Or someone even worse off who, nonetheless, doesn’t fret too much about her/his situation. A spirituality/philosophy that is useless in the midst of a warzone is not much of a spirituality/philosophy, as far as I’m concerned. A useful spirituality/philosophy must hold weight even in the least grounding of situations, or it is not useful at all. Traditionally, those great spiritual/philosophical thinkers were those who didn’t have very much money, weren’t very popular, and lived difficult lives. Think Socrates, Buddha, Jesus, Ikkyu, Eckhart, Nietzsche, Joan of Arc, Lingshao, even Mohammad. Hell, it would be easier to come up with a list of great persons who were wealthy. But even that list would come with a bunch of caveats. Marcus Aurelius, for example, was the emperor of Rome, but his life was fucking rough. Same for Seneca. Same for Wittgenstein. One thing after another, after another. No rest. No comfort. No repose. Most of them were hated. Many were murdered for their ideas. They sure as hell didn’t write best-selling books and probably weren’t celebrated by their time and place’s version of Oprah Winfrey.
Maybe such persons no longer exist. Maybe they never did. We can’t really be sure. But it was just a couple of weeks ago that I think I finally nailed down what it was about these modern day self-help gurus that I found so repugnant: they made it all sound so easy. Spiritual/philosophic growth is easy. Just follow these 5 steps. Just do these 7 things. Just think positively and you’ll attract positivity–even in a sweltering hut. Just let Iyanla follow you around for several days and yell at you, beloved. Then you’re there. Then you’ve got it. Then you’ll be Enlightened.
What a stupid fucking word, enlightened. Nobody even fucking knows what it means, but everybody sure is chasing it. I sure as hell don’t know what it means. But I do know this: spiritual/philosophic growth is hard. It’s hard as fuck. It’s the hardest thing I’ve done and continue to attempt to do with my life. And it never ends. There are moments when you learn something new and wondrous and life-changing about life, and then… your monthly fucking student loan bill comes in the mail again. WHAT THE SHIT?! Why hasn’t this new, wondrous, life-changing thing I just figured out made my life any easier? I figured out something esoteric and mystical and powerful about Life, The Universe and Everything… but it doesn’t stop my the water-pump in my SUV from taking a dump in the middle of a blizzard on La Veta pass, when I’m just trying to get out of my shitty town to do some Christmas shopping.
Mary Madigan (CC BY 2.0)
This path is hard. It sucks. You see things that others can’t or don’t or refuse to see, and therefore you can’t talk to anybody about any of this shit. Sometimes–with enough desperation– you try, and that just leads to quizzical looks and awkward conversations. Nietzsche was a morbid little creep who needed to pick up a hobby or something, but he was right when he labeled the true philosophical/spiritual seeker as “the loneliest.” The vast majority of people–at least in our culture–have resigned themselves to lives of material procuration, reputational striving and media-stalking the Kardashian sisters. Then when they begin to realize that there’s this dirty, wet, pussing, ever-growing spiritual sore festering somewhere at their very core, they want Oprah to give them 12 ways to get rid of it. It’s not that easy.
None of this is being written simply to bitch and mope and complain…at least not purposely. It’s just to make the point that, just like anything else worth achieving, it takes a lot of work. I recognize that I’m a proponent of living a lazy and apathetic lifestyle, but… it took a lot of hard work, and way too much caring for Stupid Shit™ to realize just how virtuous such a lifestyle can be. And if anyone tells us any different–if anybody tells us that true-blue happiness and contentment and peace of mind is easy to attain, and that it’s the same 7 or 12 or 3,471 steps for each individual person–we should approach that person with the heavy barbell of skepticism and force them to lift it off our backs.
So, now, if things weren’t hard enough, I’ve just given out one of the most deflating pieces of advice ever: don’t trust Oprah or any of her minions. Jesus. If you can’t trust Oprah, who can you trust?
Well, I don’t know. I know who’s helped me on my own journey. Many are named throughout this essay as well as in my other essays. But for many people, reading books suck. And reading boring (for most), or challenging philosophical tomes from Seneca, or Nietzsche or Bankei or whomever takes a lot of work. And nobody wants that. Least of all, me. So maybe we should look at more modern mediums. The written word is old, archaic really. It doesn’t get things across quite as entertainingly as things like drawings and pictures and… moving pictures. Despite what some people will tell you, there’s nothing wrong with something being entertaining. The best things in life are both intellectually/spiritually stimulating and entertaining. Challenging and enjoyable. Nutritious and flavorful. To have one without the other is to miss out on half of what life has to offer. So we’ll start our journey with moving pictures.
But where? The 7th Seal? The Last Temptation of Christ? 2001: A Space Odyssey? La Dolce Vita? A Man for All Seasons? Star Wars?
All good options. But I suggest we look a little bit deeper, a little more counterintuitively. All of those movies would have a fair chance of being invited to do an interview with Oprah (but, in their defense, they’d have more to teach than most of her actual guests). We want to find a movie (or movies) that is (are) so raw, so ugly, so dirty, and, yet, so true that Oprah would sooner invite a real hero like Brad Warner or Danielle Bolleli or RA Wilson than than to even acknowledge the existence of such a film (or films).
With all that in mind, I propose we watch Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead trilogy.
The Evil Dead trilogy is generally thought of as a “cult” series, and therefore not deserving of serious consideration. However, such an assumption betrays of the critic a lack of insight and, yes, creativity (just like any other endeavor, quality criticism should display creativity and innovation, which, unfortunately most critics don’t seem to understand). When it comes to traditional elements of storytelling–plot, character, setting, theme–there is plenty to mine from the films, especially when taking the series in as a whole.
When it comes to Raimi’s signature series, criticism has focused primarily on the horror, the comedy, the special effects, the budget and the director’s innovative camerawork. These are fair subjects for criticism, but I argue that there is more going on in the films thematically than most have been able to identify. The aforementioned elements of horror, comedy, special effects, budget and camerawork are utilized in favor of, and in service to, a specific, focused and developed literary theme.
The protagonist of the series is the character of Ashley “Ash” Williams. Played by Bruce Campbell, Williams is a college student and employee in the “Hardwares” section at his local “S-Mart.” At the beginning of the series Ash is an unremarkable character. He’s a “nice guy.” He seems amiable. He’s a bit timid and comes across as somewhat “soft.” Beyond that, however, there’s not much that distinguishes his character beyond the fact that he’ heading to the cabin with his girlfriend and the two, we observe, seem to be in a love.
By the end of the series, however, Ash is almost the exact opposite. He’s an arrogant, violent smart aleck. He becomes an assertive, smooth talking ladies man. He’s still ostensibly a “good” guy, but he has a newfound sense of confidence and self-assuredness.
And the crux of the series is this character’s transformation from the former to the latter.
What I’m about to argue, though, is that the character arc represents more than just the superficial character traits. Ash’s transformation is not just one of personality, but one of spirituality. Specifically, the movie can be understood as a metaphor for the transformation from ignorant, existentially tortured student or novice, to enlightened and confident Zen master.
Now hold up! I know, I know. This is crazy and seemingly delusional. I’m stretching…painfully so. But bear with me here. Stick with me for a thousand words or so and give the thesis an honest chance to defend itself before rushing to judgments.
I realize that such themes, if they do indeed exist in the movie, exist totally by “accident.” They accidentally exist in the sense that Raimi didn’t set out to make a horror series that turned into a comedy series about a Zen awakening. I submit to the insistence that making movies about a character’s spiritual journey was not a “conscious” decision on Raimi’s part.
However, I also do not believe in “accidents” when it comes to art, and after I plead my case, I will also propose a theory for how such themes made their way into the movies regardless.
When the series begins, the aforementioned protagonist “Ash” and four friends are headed “into the woods” to spend a getaway weekend in a remote cabin. Right from the beginning, the narrative aligns with traditional stories of spiritual journeys. Throughout history those who have desired to develop spiritual maturity have left the crowded confines of civilization and headed out into the wilderness to escape distractions. The spiritual journey–as we will see–is a violent one, and a disciplined focus is needed to come out of the journey in one piece. In the midst of civilization, there are too many distractions and focus is nonexistent. Therefore, throughout history, and in legend, the seeker has ventured into solitude.
In the Zen tradition, temples are generally located on mountain sides–such as Shaolin or Wu Dang–or hills or at the edges of isolated lakes–such as at Lake Biwa, in Japan. Moreover, sometimes temples, or even basic housing, weren’t necessary. The poets and Zen masters Han Shan, Stonehouse, and Ryokan lived in remote caves or shacks. Even in Western traditions, spiritual retreats usually meant leaving the comforts of civilization and finding isolation to make progress. Jesus was in the desert for 40 days. Nietzsche’s Zarathrustra retired to a cave for years at a time. Medieval European literature is filled with references to religious hermits. Many American Indian tribes have customs that require young men to venture into the wilderness on their own to complete “Vision Quests” and other similar endeavors.
Therefore, when Ash and his friends arrive at the cabin, and it looks like shit–like something that narrowly survived an atmospheric plague of some sort– this situation plays directly into the spiritual tradition. The cabin is a long ways from home. And in the Zen tradition, beginning the spiritual path was often referred to as “Leaving Home.” Ash has left home and is about to find enlightenment within the austere walls of a remote cabin, and he will not return home until he has accomplished his goal.
Initially, Ash believes he’s entering such a situation to spend time with his girlfriend and friends. It’s to be a “bonding” experience, essentially. This is a mistake that many (most?) spiritual seekers believe: that they can take this journey with others. In Buddhism it is called the “Sangha,” in Christianity it is referred to as the “parish” or “Nazarene” or “Congregation” and in Islam it is the “Ummah.” It is typical for seekers to surround themselves with other like-minded individuals either consciously or subconsciously believing that such groups can provide support on the journey. But any true seeker, like Ash, eventually finds out that such groups are not of very much help at all. In fact, they probably even impede the journey, or make it significantly more difficult (hence, again, Nietzsche’s “loneliest”).
Anyhow, Ash heads into the wilderness with his Sangha. Like most beginning seekers he’s looking forward to the experience. He’s heard about the wonders of rural retreats. “Getting away from it all” and “relaxing” and “peace and quiet”–all that usual stuff that leads people to take vacations into the middle of nowhere. But, the spiritual seeker seeks refuge in the Sangha for many of the same reasons. They watch Oprah, or read a book by Deepak Chopra, and they believe that the spiritual journey is one of “peace, love, and happiness.” In both instances, people are gravely deceived. Taking a vacation in the wilderness, for most people, ends up being cold and lonely and boring. Beginning a spiritual journey, on the other hand, is just hell.
It doesn’t take long for Ash to realize as much. The reality of the situation hits Ash after they find an old, creepy book and a tape recorder. They play the recorder and listen as a professor reads excerpts from the old book. In the movie this act unleashes supernatural forces upon Ash and his friends. There is a precedence in the history of spiritual seeking of people’s journey beginning upon hearing someone reading from a spiritual book. In In the Zen tradition, the 6th patriarch of Chinese Zen, Hui Neng, experienced his initial satori–or enlightenment–upon hearing someone reading from the Diamond Sutra. Several Buddhists texts insist that a single hearing or recitation of their contents will unleash enlightenment into the minds of whomever the listener/reader is. Within the world of the movie, this is precisely what happens. Upon hearing Professor Knowby’s recitations of the Book of the Dead’s contents, Ash’s reality transforms into something different and unsettling–as is typical of anyone beginning their spiritual journey, as indicated by the old Zen saying, “At first, I saw mountains as mountains and rivers as rivers. Then, I saw mountains were not mountains and rivers were not rivers. Finally, I see mountains again as mountains, and rivers again as rivers.” Again, what the movie is showing is that Ash’s perspective is changing. The world isn’t what he once thought it was.
It’s important to note that Raimi’s camerawork and cinematography work to support my theories thus far. One of the elements the original Evil Dead is known for is Raimi’s innovative camerawork. From the very beginning, when Raimi puts the viewer in the point of view of the “Evil” that lives out in the forest, we, as viewers, realize that reality as we know it is gone. And while the world is recognizable to us, it is from a different perspective. Throughout the film, Raimi puts the viewer in the point of view of not just the demons, but of each of the human characters, and even inanimate objects, such as the ceiling, a doorknob and–towards the end of the movie– an axe that’s being whipped around to decapitate a body possessed. The camera angles are inventive, often times filming from the ground or from some awkward corner of a room. On a number of occasions, scenes are staged and shot so that events of interest are shot behind or at the sides of characters, so that we, as viewers, aren’t only experiencing events as they happen, but how they are occurring in physical relation to the characters. In a sense, this is empathic filmmaking. Compassionate, really, in the most literal sense of the term. The film is shot so as to be as immersive to the viewer as possible.
Anyhow, at this point we all know how the story evolves. One by one each of the human characters become possessed by demons. Death, destruction, deliciously explicit violence follow. We can note parallels between the “Evil Dead” (or “deadites”) in the movies and the idea of “Hungry Ghosts” in Buddhist tradition. The demons in these movies are literally “hungry” for souls. On a number of occasions they even state, quite plainly, “I will swallow your soul.” They can’t get enough death and destruction. This all parallels the idea of Hungry Ghosts. In Buddhism these Ghosts are humans who float through life constantly consuming. They can’t get enough power, money, fame, food, sex, whatever. They get no rest, and although they are technically human, they are more like ghosts because they experience no agency, no freedom, no rest. They are constantly seeking for more. And they will deceive and destroy to get what they can never have enough of.
Sound familiar?
In the Evil Dead films, the demons are tricky little buggers whose appetites are never satiated. They use a number of different deceptions to get what they want. They will even de-possess bodies to fool Ash into believing he shouldn’t kill them.
To me, this line of action represents Ash’s realization that the world sucks. This is what is often referred to as–outside of Zen circles–the “Dark Time of the Soul.” This is essentially an existential meltdown. Through his journey, Ash comes to find the world a dark, venal, and violent place. It’s not the type of place he or anyone else would like to live in. At this point in his journey, he feels alienated and in danger. The people he once loved are now monstrous, and they are so as a collective and he is not a member of that collective. He can’t trust them. They don’t see the things he sees. The Sangha has failed him (hence, again, Nietzsche’s “loneliest”).
One of the most interesting aspects of the first two films is how the basement cellar is used. It is in the Cellar where the “Evil” is first encountered. Ash and his friend Scotty find the Necronomicon and the tape recorder–both of which initiate the introduction of The Evil into the proceedings. But what the Cellar represents to me is the subconscious. What makes the spiritual journey so dangerous is that one has to dig deep into their subconscious and acknowledge whatever it is that one finds down there, and to bring it to the surface, so it can be dealt with. In the first Evil Dead, Ash literally brings the book and the tape recorder up from the basement–from the subconscious. And the evil that is unleashed is a manifestation of whatever it was that Ash was trying to keep below, and, when the first person–his sister Cheryl–becomes possessed, Ash tries to shove the evil back into the basement where he thinks he won’t have to deal with it anymore. He places the possessed into the basement and locks the cellar, which helps Ash to believe that whatever he unleashed from his subconscious can’t get out again. Of course, he’s wrong, eventually the evil breaks free and causes more havoc for Ash, and in the second film, he will have to arm himself, steel his resolve and head into the basement to finally confront whatever it is he’s been trying to stuff in his subconscious the entire time.
(A quick note on other aspects of the basement: in the first film there is a torn poster of The Hills Have Eyes–a horror movie– and, at one point toward the end of the movie, Ash accidentally trips a film projector which lights up, begins rolling, and becomes overrun with blood, while Ash stands directly in front of it, freaked out. In the second film, we see Freddy Krueger’s glove hanging from above–again a nod to another horror movie. [I should note here that I know that the official reasons for the inclusion of the glove and the poster is because Raimi and Wes Craven had something of a pissing contest going on, but I digress…] and I have to wonder if the basement is also a surrogate for Raimi’s own subconscious.)
Anyhow, if the first film of the series is representative of the “dark time of the soul” then the second film is about the transition from miserable idiot to enlightened idiot.
When the first movie ends, it appears that Ash has been gobbled up by the Evil. However, when the second movie begins, we see that while he becomes momentarily possessed, the combination of the sunlight and his love for his dead girlfriend works to somehow rid him of the demonic possession. All of which is simply a metaphor for what keeps a person on the path of spiritual/philosophical enlightenment. Carl Jung wrote deliberately and eloquently about the “shadow aspect” of each person’s subconscious. For our purposes, the “shadow aspect” and the “Evil” forces of the movie can be used interchangeably. And with that in mind Jung wrote that the shadow (or Evil) is the part of ourselves that we keep hidden in the basement, and only by allowing it to come to light and merging with our fully conscious aspect, can we fulfill our spiritual potential. Throughout the first film, as already pointed out, Ash deals with the “shadow aspect” of the world by trying to bury it in the basement, or chopping it up with an axe. Only when he allows himself to become that shadow, only when it–like Jung insisted it needed to–is brought out into the (sun) light, and acknowledged, only then does it cease to be a problem. The better parts of ourselves (such as the parts that love) will win out, but only if the Shadow is acknowledged in the first place. Jung discussed how this was an essential aspect of what he called “individuation”–or the process of a person distinguishing themselves into a self-fulfilled individual, as a distinct and unique member of a species. What we see between the end of the first film and the beginning of the second is Ash allowing the shadow aspect of his personality to come to the light so that he can become a self-fulfilled individual. He is no longer simply a part of the sangha or ummah or collective. He is his own person.
And in that sense the first half of Evil Dead II is nothing more than a record of Ash coming to terms with his newfound individuation. Through the first half of the movie he is alone in the cabin, confronting the Evil. The Evil plays tricks on him and confuses him. At one point he even looks in a mirror and as he reaches to touch the mirror, he finds that the mirror is liquified, symbolizing the continued loss of his original ego. He is not the “Ash” he used to think he was. That Ash never really even existed. Later he experiences something that wouldn’t seem out of place in a traditional Native American vision quest or a radical spiritual hallucination. A mounted deer’s head becomes animated and laughs hysterically at Ash, as do a desk lamp, a bookshelf full of books, and even the house itself. Again, it’s worthwhile to note how Raimi shoots the scene. It’s all high and low angles interrupted by extreme close-ups of Ash’s pained madness and wide-angle shots of the alone (loneliest?) Ash surrounded by a vile world. We can also note how, in contrast to the first film, Raimi’s cinematography in the second film is much more lush and dense and even cartoonish–but in a good way. The world is animated. Ash’s new perspective of the world allows for a much more immersive experience. It parallels Aldous Huxley’s descriptions of his experiences on mescaline in The Doors of Perception. Huxley wrote how the color of plants seemed to glow from within, what he called “naked existence.” This is what Ash is experiencing.
At one point Ash’s hand becomes possessed by the Evil (again echoing Jung’s admonitions to allow one’s self to acknowledge the presence of the Shadow aspect within one’s self) and he cuts it off with a chainsaw–an act that equates to a statement of purpose, much in the same way Hui-Ke chopped off his own arm to prove his determination and dedication of spiritual enlightenment to the 1st Patriarch of Chinese Zen, Bodhidarma (Hui-Ke would go on to become the 2nd patriarch). He also, at another point, must re-kill his already dead (reincarnated?) girlfriend–thus paralleling the old Zen statement to “kill the Buddha” should you see him walking down the street (or through the forest). In Buddhism, there is nothing more sacred than the idea of the Buddha, just for the typical American male there is nothing more sacred than his lover. But on the spiritual journey, one must learn to not rely on any ideas, no matter how sacred. Kill the Buddha, kill your girlfriend (not literally) and you shall be free.
In short, at any point, Ash can choose to give up. He can let the Evil (shadow aspect) take over and dominate, or he can just kill himself. But he never does. The spiritual journey demands such strict discipline and fortitude. Again, the spiritual journey sucks. Ash cannot take 7 easy steps or 4 agreements to freedom. He has to go through literal hell to come out of the other end intact and a better person altogether.
Through the second half of the second film, we see, first, how Ash–someone who has seen and known things about the world that most other people could never understand–has difficulty interacting with other humans. A group of 4 other people stumble upon the cabin, and they mistake Ash’s behavior for that of a madman, when, in reality, he’s the only one who knows what the hell’s really going on. Again, there is plenty of historical precedence for this kind of situation. Think Jigong, Ikkyu, St. Francis, Diogenes, the Native American tradition of the “Trickster” spiritual example, and so on. Spiritual and philosophical prophets have always been misunderstood and often times their behavior or statements have been misunderstood as nonsensical rantings of idiots. Ash is no different. Eventually, though, the visitors to the cabin learn the hard way that Ash was the only one who truly knew what was going on. One by one, they all succumb to the Evil (shadow aspect) and become hungry ghosts. And eventually Ash must take responsibility for his own karma, attach a chainsaw to his arm and enter the basement and deal once and for all with all the shadows he has unsuccessfully tried to hide down there. And only then does he achieve liberation.
At the end of the Evil Dead II, Ash inadvertently opens a portal that sends him back in time to the middle ages. What this represents is an enlightened Ash–having finally dealt once and for all with whatever it was he was hiding in the basement of his self-conscious–returning to the world of unenlightened man/woman. The themes of the third film are a natural continuation from the second half of the second film. Ash has seen, experienced and learned things that the rest of humanity does not and cannot understand. Ash expresses this when he states to a woman and potential love interest he meets, “your primitive intellect wouldn’t understand alloys and compositions and things with… molecular structures.” It’s a statement, quite again, of Nietzsche’s “loneliest.”
In fact, throughout the entire 3rd movie, Ash–having made the journey from timid, scared, insecure Ash from the first movie (a description that fits most human beings) to self-confident, wise-cracking, heroic Ash of the third movie (a description that fits most authentic spiritual leaders)–tosses out koan after koan. What else could his smart-alecky remarks symbolize? When he states, to a bunch of medieval peasants and soldiers, “Shop smart, shop S-Mart” who understands what he’s saying besides himself? This is the mark of real koans. They are statements from people who see and understand things that the rest of us couldn’t imagine. The koan only seems like it doesn’t make sense, but it makes perfect sense to the person stating it, as well as to any other person on the same level of understanding. In Army of Darkness, Ash knows precisely what he’s talking about. But it’s difficult to believe that any of the other people understand what he’s saying. They don’t know what he knows. Again, it’s a perfect metaphor for the enlightened person trying to communicate to the rest of us “primitives.”
Take, for example, all of the following koans from Zen master Ash, that, in the world of the movie, would only make sense to Ash:
“Well, hello Mr. Fancypants. Well, I’ve got news for you pal. You ain’t leading but two things right now: Jack and shit, and Jack just left town.”
“Alright you primitive screwheads, listen up! You see this? This…is my BOOMSTICK. The twelve-gauge, double-barreled Remington. S-Mart’s top of the line. You can find this in the sporting goods department. That’s right, this sweet baby was made in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Retails for about a hundred and nine, ninety-five. It’s got a walnut stock, cobalt blue steel and a hair trigger.”
“Gimme some sugar, baby.”
“Groovy.”
“Oh, that’s just what we call pillow-talk, baby, that’s all.”
“Now, whoa, whoa, whoa, right there, spinach chin.”
And so on.
What is Ash if not an enlightened person distributing koans throughout the entirety of the film?
Furthermore, we can extend the analogy to the fact that old Chinese Zen masters often used to hit their disciples with a stick to help shock them out of meaningless abstract thinking. Well, Ash had his “boom” stick, that accomplished similar goals.
By the end of the third film–and thus the series, to this point–Ash winds up back in his own time, still working in the sporting goods section of S-Mart. At such a point, he has fulfilled the ideal of the spiritual leader who is at once above men and among them. In Zen this is demonstrated by the final depiction in the 10 Ox-herding pictures, which, in some translations, is translated as “returning to the market.” Yes, Ash has returned to the “S-Mart” market and is now at peace in the midst of the rest of humanity. He–like the Zen master–“mingles” with the people of the world. Ash’s struggle was long and difficult (much like reading this essay, I imagine), but in the end it was worth it. He is able to live in society without being controlled by it. Seneca described this state as being, “the same (as the others) on the outside, but on the inside, completely different.” This description fits for Ash by the end of the series, as evidenced by how he deals when confronted by a “deadite” while working in the store. Hungry ghosts no longer bother him. They are simply a part of life, but in the meantime he will save as many other people as he can.
A couple of more thoughts before I mercifully end this damned thing. One, it’s important to note how with each new installment of the series, plot point of the previous entries were “retconned.” Evil Dead II retcons the first movie by insisting that Ash visited the cabin with his girlfriend only, when anyone who watched the first film knows there were 5 people all together. At the beginning of Army of Darkness, Ash is enslaved by the “primitives” but at the end of Evil Dead II, Ash is hailed as the savior, the “chosen one” right off the bat, whereas in Army of Darkness, he has to convince the others that he is the “chosen one” prophesied in the Necronomicon. These developments are significant because in each new installment of the series, Ash is “reincarnated.” He is given a new, different life, and yet… he is still beholden to the karma of the previous films. The details of his life change in each movie, but he is still dealing with the consequences of his actions from the previous chapters. It’s the perfect metaphor for the Buddhist concept of reincarnation.
The other thought I want to get across is that I acknowledge that Sam Raimi doesn’t exactly come across as a highly spiritually literate person. He might be, for all I know. But he doesn’t immediately come across as someone who would make movies about the spiritual journey. So how does it happen that he does just that? My best guess is that the series parallels the creative process, or, more specifically, the liberating effects of art. Raimi wrote and directed the first film when he was just 19 years old. And it’s a hell of a work for a person that age. My guess is that he realized at a very early age the liberating and redemptive effects of the creative process and the films reflect his journey from some unknown, insecure filmmaker from Michigan, to a director who has the self-confidence and understanding the make precisely the kinds of movies he wants to make. The series reflects the journey of a filmmaker making straightforward genre pieces, to much more more experimental and self-assured pieces of pop-art.
And, in the end (thank gahd), art–like spirituality/philosophy–is hell. You cannot connect the dots to create a great piece of art, and you cannot follow a few simple steps to create a great life. Just don’t expect Oprah to invite anyone who truly understands that–or at least admits to that–to be invited to explain as much to any of her viewers.
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