Three (and a half) Ways of Looking at Rey’s Lightsaber

In a move somewhat pre-empted by her using it in all of the promotional material, Lucasfilm have announced that as of The Last Jedi, the lightsaber formerly owned by Skywalkers Anakin and Luke officially belongs to Rey. [1] While I had assumed that this was the case as of The Force Awakens – Luke has the lightsaber he built himself, after all – I did start to wonder what this actually means. You see, since watching The Force Awakens and seeing that lightsaber I had been thinking about how it functioned as an entangled object. The term ‘entangled object’ originated with the “material culture turn” in anthropology around the turn of the millennium, but I know the term through its use by James Whitley as a concept in relating ideas in the Homeric epics to the archaeology of Early Iron Age Greece – that is, the way in which objects drive the plot through their entangled relationships with characters. [2] Whitley illustrates his argument with an example from a different epic, J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings:

“Artefacts can exert a malignant force, as in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings […] It is the Ring itself (the object that links this tale with all the earlier tales, including the Hobbit [sic]) that, in many ways, drives the narrative, and has greater agency than many of the human (or hobbit, elven or dwarvish) characters.” [3]

How, then, does this lightsaber function as an entangled object? It exerts a Force (pun absolutely intended) in that for Rey touching it triggers a vision; it shows agency in choosing Rey over Kylo Ren. To a degree, it binds the three Star Wars film trilogies together (if not each individual film); but in doing so it passes between those we might consider the principal characters or the heroes of the films – Anakin, Luke, and Rey. If we think about the lightsaber itself as a character, we can look at the role it plays in the stories of Anakin and Luke to see what Lucasfilm might intend by announcing that they now consider the lightsaber to be Rey’s.

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Did the Trojan War Actually Happen?

According to the third-century BCE mathematician Eratosthenes, 11th June 1184 BCE was the date on which the Achaeans stormed the walls of Troy. That makes this Saturday, 11th June 2016, the 3,199th anniversary of the most famous military ambush of all time: the Trojan Horse. Of course, most of us accept that the Trojan War didn’t really happen, or at least that, if it did, elements such as the capture of Helen, the ten year long siege, and the Trojan Horse are mythological embellishments. But some people are more open-minded. Since Heinrich Schliemann’s excavations at Hisarlik, in modern Turkey, uncovered the remains of Troy some have felt that this supported the story of the war; others too have pointed to the Hittite texts which seem to reference a series of wars in northwest Anatolia as the ultimate proof that the Trojan War actually happened.

So, did the Trojan War actually happen? I think the case is far from proven. Those who believe it has been are exercising an extreme form of the Positivist Fallacy, which is usually understood as assuming what is archaeologically visible is historically significant, but here also includes the assimilation of historical events that may have absolutely nothing to do with one another and their correlation with archaeological remains.

The date of the war

Modern scholars, if they believe in the War, tend to date it to the thirteenth century BCE. In his Very Short Introduction to the Trojan War Eric Cline more vaguely states: “If the Trojan War did take place, both ancient and modern scholars agree that it was fought towards the end of the Late Bronze Age, near the end of the second millennium BCE.” Cline gives no impression of having any doubt that the war did take place and asserts that it was actually fought between the Mycenaean Greeks and the Hittites of Anatolia. Meanwhile, the excavations at Hisarlik revealed several levels of occupation at Troy in the Late Bronze Age, including a significant destruction ca. 1300, at the end of Troy VI, originally believed to be Priam’s Troy. Subsequent excavation, however, suggested that this may have been the result of an earthquake, and Troy VIIa, destroyed ca. 1190 BCE, is now the most popular choice for ‘Priam’s Troy’.

The ancient sources are a little less certain about the date. Eratosthenes, as already mentioned, dated the sack of Troy to 1184 BCE, but the date derived from Herodotus is ca. 1250 BCE, while the Parian Chronicle provides the dates 1217-1208 BCE. Other dates derived from ancient sources vary from the fourteenth to the twelfth century. While there seems clear consensus among ancient sources that the Trojan War was historical, they generally don’t claim to know the details of this long ago war in their ancient past.

The Hittite documents that are believed to reference the war are dated to the thirteenth century. The documents are letters between several great kings, including the king of Ahhiyawa, believed to be Mycenaean Greece. In one of these discussions, the Hittite king Hattusili III mentions that he and the king of Ahhiyawa went to war over Wilusa, which is likely to be Ilium (an alternative name for Troy), and is located in northwestern Anatolia, i.e. Hisarlik. So certainly it appears that there was a war at Troy in the thirteenth century. This war, however, is too early for the destruction in Troy VIIa, which was as much as half a century later.

What is the Trojan War, anyway?

The connection made between the Hittite texts and the Trojan War reveals another question that must be answered before we can safely say we have proof of the Trojan War: what do we mean when we say the Trojan War?

Perhaps the most famous aspect of the Trojan War is the wooden horse in which the Greeks hid in order to get inside the unbreakable walls of Troy and ambush the unsuspecting Trojans. Alternatively the most famous might be Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world, who ran away with (or was raped by) the Trojan prince Paris (or Alexander) and whose husband united the whole of Greece to fight to get her back. Finally, there are Achilles and Hector, the greatest warriors on either side, one of whom was the almost invulnerable son of a goddess, the other of whom was but a mere mortal. How much of this story needs to be true if we are to have found the Trojan War?

This question might be unfair. Rather, what we want to find is the historical basis that inspired the Trojan Epic Cycle. The question must then be: how can we do so? What evidence could be brought to bear that would show us that it was this war that inspired the story that we read in the epics? For some, it is evidence enough to show that a war probably happened at probably the right place at about the right time, with not quite the right people, but near enough that it probably makes no difference. Personally, I find this an unsatisfactory conclusion.

Does it matter?

Arguably, it doesn’t matter if some people want to believe that the war between the Hittites and the Ahhiyawa was the basis of the Trojan Cycle. It only really affects them and it makes them happy, so who cares? I have three problems with this approach. The first is that the search for Homer’s Troy did massive damage to the archaeological site when Schliemann began his excavations in the 1870s. Many of those who believe in the Trojan War and Priam’s Troy mock Schliemann for calling a treasure hoard from the third millennium ‘Priam’s Treasure’ when it dated a thousand years before the date at which they place Priam, when really it is an example of why hunting for the origin of the story was a terrible idea in the first place. Secondly, in associating the historical events recorded in the Hittite documents with the Epic Cycle that we know from several centuries later we are doing a disservice to an exciting historical discovery in its own right that can tell us interesting things about conflict and conflict resolution in the Late Bronze Age eastern Mediterranean, without relying on poems that we only know from several centuries later.

Thirdly, and related to the second point, there are just far more interesting questions to be asked about this material.

Alternative approaches

One alternative is that the Epic Cycle is much older, and if the ‘Trojan War’ actually happened then it may be that existing oral poetic forms were adapted to it, rather than new poems written about it. There are clues to this in both the poetry and the archaeological record. Susan Sherratt has pointed out that many of the features of the poem, such as the boar’s tusk helmet and Ajax’s ‘Tower Shield’, are much older than the thirteenth century, and may date as early as the sixteenth. In this case, it would be interesting to know first about the conditions represented in the Hittite documents and then to see if this affects our reading of the surviving Trojan epics – but it must be done this way around.

Another alternative is to embrace the variety in the epic tradition before it congealed into the poems that survive. Until the eighth and seventh centuries BCE there was much variety in the epic stories which intermingled and were adapted into one another, with regional differences and focus, but which were whittled down to two surviving epic traditions by the eighth and seventh centuries – the Theban Cycle and the Trojan Cycle – before the Homeric versions of the Trojan Cycle became so widespread that alternatives were almost inconceivable. However, variations survive in seventh-century art and even as late as the plays of Euripides, such as the story that Helen was in Egypt while a mirage went to Troy, or the replacement of Iphigenia with a deer before she could be sacrificed. Gregory Nagy has proposed that the epic goes through stages of change and development, before it became so well-known in the sixth century that only very minor changes could be made.

The existence of these variations makes the identification of a kernel of truth in the epic even more doubtful. Rather, they suggest an alternative way of thinking about the poems: understanding how they changed and how they reflect the periods in which they were popular and developing. It is absolutely clear that the epic cycle does not appear from nowhere in the seventh century, but how has it developed in previous centuries? Why and how does it remain relevant?

Ultimately, ‘did the Trojan War actually happen?’ sounds like an interesting question, but it obscures the much more fascinating histories of the Late Bronze Age eastern Mediterranean and the development of the Epic Cycle from the sixteenth to the seventh century and beyond.

The Prince and the Pa(u)per Mask

Over the past couple of days, two news reports about Egyptian Mummy Masks have been reported separately in news outlets across the world. One is about the damage done to Tutankhamun’s mask in the Cairo Museum; the other is about a papyrus mask of an unknown individual in a private collection which was destroyed to reveal what might be an early copy of the Gospel of Mark. I find it very interesting that these two cases have made the news so close together, but none of the news reports that I’ve seen have tied the two cases together. It is perhaps worth remembering that a huge chronological span separates these two objects – although not a span as great as that which separates us from them. And yet I believe that the parallels between the two cases are worth a few comments.

The treatment of these masks is directly related to their perceived value by their owners and curators. The first is perhaps the most famous museum object in the world, the gold mask of a long-dead king of a prosperous land around whose tomb and discovery many myths have gathered. The other was a papyrus mask of an unknown individual, of much lower status, in an Egypt which was part of a much larger empire – the mask has been described as not “museum-quality” (although one wonders how many museums were consulted about that and what defines “museum-quality”). In an effort to make the gold shine again, Tutankhamun’s mask was damaged, and the perceived need for such a valuable and famous treasure to be on display led to it being further – and permanently – damaged by a speedy and unprofessional repair job. Meanwhile, the perceived lack of value of the papyrus mask led to its total destruction in the hope of finding something with greater value in the modern world: a fragment of an early Gospel. In the former case, the object is world famous and has been recorded, studied, and photographed again and again – arguably nothing has been lost by the damage done to it. But the response, on social media and in the news reports about the damage, is incredulous. That reaction seems fair – the damage is irreparable, and many of us (myself included) will now never see the object in as perfect condition as we might. In the latter case, however, the object is largely unknown and there may not even be any decent photographs of it; it is, as far as I can tell, unprovenanced or at least not obviously from a formal excavation. So little is known about the Gospel Mask, except that it has now been completely destroyed and we may never know anything about it. But, we might argue, it could lead to a potentially more interesting further discovery. As an archaeologist largely interested in pre- or proto-historic periods, the idea that a written document of dubious date, of which we have many other copies, and which is largely of interest only to those who believe in its contents is more important than an artefact which may give us some indication about those not usually represented by written texts or shiny gold masks is troubling. What is perhaps also of interest is that whoever made this mask clearly also placed greater value on the mummy mask than on the copy of the gospel. Might we be better off questioning why that is, too?

In both of these cases, the problems seem to have occurred because of specialists; or rather, because of a lack of consultation with specialists. Rather than take the necessary time to repair the damage done to Tutankhamun’s mask, someone ordered that it be repaired with whatever happened to be around, which was a tube of bog-standard superglue. I assumed that this could not have been done by a professional conservator, but another glance at the story seems to indicate that it was, in fact, done by a professional. We don’t know what professionals, if any, have been consulted about the Gospel mask. The only names which have been spoken are not archaeologists or papyrus experts, but a New Testament scholar. The publication of the text has been delayed and delayed. It is unclear what has been done to this object or who is responsible. We do not know how this evidence might be manipulated, except for the clear case of hype-creation by leaking titbits of material to the press about the object.

These two cases highlight how we place value on historical artefacts, how this has changed from the value placed on them in antiquity, and how we perceive authority in controlling access to and disseminating information about historical objects. The case of the Gospel mask certainly deserves examination and discussion about how we should go about damaging objects, whether “museum-quality” or not – would I be complaining if the “damage” done was destruction of part of a sword to determine its metal composition? That’s work I’d even be happy to do myself, if I knew how to go about it (and was paid to do it). But the discussion needs to be about what information is gained and what information is lost. Our understanding of Tutankhamun’s burial and our appreciation of the objects created for it has declined very little, if at all, as a result of this damage. We may never understand the Gospel Mask, nor know about it in any great detail, unless it was very carefully recorded before it was destroyed. Whatever new information with which we are provided by the text on the papyrus, perhaps the most interesting thing about it is the perceived value placed on it by whoever made the mask, and was buried in it – was this reverence for the text or complete dismissal? Can we know the answer to that question now the mask has been destroyed?

There’s certainly a lot to mull over in the cases of Tutankhamun’s mask and the Gospel mask. I haven’t even considered the fact that these objects are *funerary* (largely because I have little respect for the long-dead, and no belief in an afterlife). The public reaction to these cases suggests to me that they might even be more interesting objects because of their roles in 2015 than they were when they were first created.

Prometheus Bound (1 of 2)

I have decided to write two blogs about the film Prometheus, whether it deserves them or not. The second, which shall be entitled “Prometheus Unbound (2 of 2)” will consider the themes explored in the film with reference to this blog, to which my sister directed me after I posted a facebook status about the film, as well as having Hesiod, Aeschylus, and Apollodorus at my side for reference to the myth and the interpretation within the film of what those myths mean, while using my own knowledge of the Greek world ([ego]which is considerable, as I have two degrees from the University of Oxford in that subject and am working towards a third [/ego] ) to suggest how these myths should be considered in their context. Expect that in the next couple of days. This blog, however, will consider my reaction to the film as someone with a passing knowledge of the Alien franchise, as an archaeologist, and as someone who exists within the cultural setting in which the film was made (more or less).

So that facebook status read as follows:

So Prometheus was a pretty clever film if you don’t have a passing knowledge of archaeology, biology, philosophy, or theology (also probably linguistics). If you have any of those it was a stupid film.

It has five “likes” so far and a few comments. I came to the film having glanced at reviews, but without having read any, knowing that the film was attempting to tackle questions about the beginning of life with which I would not agree, and, from the trailer, that it would begin with some dubious archaeological myth-science which probably wouldn’t make sense to me. On the other hand, it was going to have aliens and scary monsters and space and that H.R. Giger aesthetic which I absolutely adore from the original Alien films.

An aside here. I was a child raised with Star Wars, I like science fiction and space opera, Buffy the Vampire Slayer is my favourite TV show and I also enjoy comic books, not to mention those degrees (and an A level!) in Greeky things and their literature. The xenomorphs from the Alien films are probably my most favourite fictional species. I love them. They are so cool.

The biggest problem with Prometheus was that it basically failed to deliver fully on all counts, apart from looking pretty. It looks really, really pretty. Of course, I use “pretty” fairly loosely here, as the slimy alien structures and the xenomorph/Christ figure on their wall would hardly fit into a standard definition of the word. But while there were a few alien creatures there was very little of the xenomorphs, very little monsters chasing people, very little horror or even fright. And the philosophy, well . . .

Let’s start with the scene in which we are introduced to our archaeologist protagonists. They are excavating on a random hill on the isle of Skye in a tiny little area. Fine. OK, so their equipment hasn’t come on much in 80 years, but I can get behind this. It’s archaeology, a lot of us are still doing this in the way it’s been done for fifty years or so, new technology moves slowly into the field and is funding dependent. Except – they have a carbon dating stick. A stick which carbon dates. Great! OK, so its dubious carbon dating as it doesn’t give you a range of dates, but that’s OK. Simplifying for the non-archaeologists, I get that. On the other hand, it also carbon dates cave paintings in Skye to 35,000 years ago. Skye, and all of Scotland, was under a glacier until 11,000 years ago, according to my environmental archaeologist girlfriend. So, basically, they need to work on their calibration curve.

These archaeologists go on to interpret the iconography which they have found as a star map, pointing the way to the place where the giant men came from. The question I have here is: are all giant men the alien dudes who made the human race? Is King Darius one of them? Or are some giant men related to a size/importance iconography which places their entire hypothesis in doubt? Not to mention the fact that stars move in 35,000 years. But whatever. These guys are the kind of archaeologists who deal principally with iconography. They’re not scientists or anything!

Except that, for the rest of the film, they claim to be scientists. They perform autopsies, analyse DNA, do sciency things. Which is fine, some archaeologists do that (although no so much the autopsies). But really, those kind of archaeologists would think twice before following such a dubious iconographic principle which is the basis for the film. They also proceed to not understand that carbon levels on other planets would be different and need a different calibration curve so carbon dating a creature raised on another planet (ignoring the possibility that it might have, once, eaten seafood) wouldn’t be accurate using an Earth carbon dating stick. And, while we’re mentioning DNA, humans have different DNA to one another, although somewhere around 99% of it is shared with mice, dolphins, and lettuce (et cetera). So how can the alien dude’s DNA be “the same as ours” as Noomi Rapace claims? Furthermore, if it IS the same as ours, at what point does this fit into our well-known structure of evolution? The film appears to be based on the idea that evolutionary theory (which it calls Darwinism, but whatever) has enough gaps for humans to have been created, which it doesn’t. At some point we will have had to evolve. Where does that fit?

Let’s focus on the biologist for a moment. When presented with a dead alien life-form, the biologist gets scared and runs. On the other hand, when presented with a live alien life-form, which flares at him, almost certainly a sign of aggression, he sticks his hand into its mouth/vagina dentia. What kind of biologist would do that? If he wasn’t expecting there to be life, why was he on the mission in the first place?

My earlier troubles about the films philosophy were elevated during the opening credits of the film when my girlfriend commented that the writer, Damon Lindelof, was responsible for the end of the TV show Lost. I grew tired of Lost during its first series, believing the brilliant idea of a group of people stranded on a desert island had been undermined by some rubbish sci-fi twaddle, but I have read the ending and it is awful. The man clearly has no knowledge of any of the themes or history of the philosophical concepts with which he is trying to deal, and attempts to explain questions to which there are either no answers, or to which the answers are immeasurably more complicated than he is equipped to deal. Various themes come up in the film: parenthood and abortion; the beginnings of life; creationism verses evolution; the necessity of the soul; the relationship between creator and created. None of these themes are properly tackled, but are only hinted at. It doesn’t seem like any research was done into any of them, which makes me wonder why they were even there – the film could have been perfectly good if it was just a group of working people getting torn apart by xenomorphs like, for example, the rest of the Alien franchise.

That being said, I did enjoy the bits of the film where they weren’t being stupid. Michael Fassbender, Idris Elba, and Charlize Theron gave great performances. And it looked spectacular. If only it hadn’t tried to look clever, it wouldn’t have look quite so stupid.

The First Western Greeks this Way Come

Two men have died recently with whose work I should really have been more familiar. The better known of the two is Ray Bradbury, perhaps the greatest sci-fi writer in history, of whom you might expect I would have read the works. I haven’t – I am aware of the opening lines of Fahrenheit 451, so I can’t say I have never read a word, but I certainly have never read a story, or a book. I don’t know why it saddens me that I never read any of his books while he was still alive; I suppose because the option was there, and I always find it a bit difficult to think that it was someone’s death which brought my attention to them. Obviously, in this case, it wasn’t, but as a trigger it doesn’t seem like the best thing to have.

The other was the archaeologist David Ridgway, whose book The First Western Greeks I have read, and who I have listened to both in person at a lecture when I was an undergraduate, on In Our Time, and who has been in the same audience as me on a couple of occasions. I have never spoken to him, but he was a good friend of my supervisor who was with him on the day that he died at the site where we excavate, and who had been close to him when they were both in Edinburgh in the 1990s/early 2000s. I think that is why his death has affected me so much, it is sympathetic with someone I know who was closer to him. But there is a certain level of sadness that the old guard of scholars of my period, with whom I associate myself, are dying, leaving those teaching me as the elder scholars and my level as the up-and-coming generation. It’s a little more complicated than that, of course, but scholars like David Ridgway, John Boardman, and Anthony Snodgrass, with whom I might take some issues with as far as their ideas go (but only, it must be said, in the light of new evidence or approaches which they themselves uncovered or pioneered), revolutionised much of the study of my period, for better or worse, and it is sad to think that they will pass on, leaving their students to be the elderly statespeople of the Early Iron Age Mediterranean.