The Big Flip

The Archetype of Epiphany in Storytelling Art

In fall of last year, Netflix premiered Midnight Mass, a seven episode limited series about a small island community that is transformed by a new arrival. It was a self-described “dream project” of writer-director Mike Flanagan, seemingly paid for by earlier efforts in adapting The Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor for the streaming service.

The series is nothing short of excellent, and I highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys intelligent writing, superb acting and a good, slow burn. The story is at turns inspiring, heartbreaking and terrifying, a tonal high-wire act which appears to be Flanagan’s unique gift. I won’t spoil any of it here, except to point out that its multilayered storytelling contains at least two fresh angles on Saul’s desert conversion on the road to Damascus, but with an emphasis on the hazards such spiritual journeys entail.

The reason I mention it is because its transformations occur within a specific religious (in this case, Catholic) context, such that a certain character in the story explicitly calls out the similarities to Saul’s own biblical version. But the core idea of someone experiencing an event that completely upends their understanding of reality isn’t peculiar to any one religion or philosophy. It was and continues to be archetypal, mythemic and universal. Like all such transcendent stories, it reaches deep into the heart of what it means to be human, and reminds us what we are all capable of in the aftermath of cathartic revelation.

By relaying these tales across time and in a multitude of forms, artists also remind us that we don’t always know ourselves the way we presume to. To help us function in the day-to-day world, we learn to think of ourselves as more or less completed structures, hard-wired to a given set of habits, abilities and views. This inner blindness is extended to others, who we come to likewise see as static forms, incapable of sudden and radical change.

Not only does this represent an impoverished view of the human soul, it plays directly into the enemy’s hands. They often present fearsome fronts, enrapturing minds with the twin mystiques of omnipresence and invincibility. But such ventures are far less stable than they outwardly appear, because trust is the glue that keeps human enterprises together through hard times. Organized evil is ultimately a self-destructive venture, composed of liars, thieves, backstabbers and other trust-obliterating agents. When the heat is on, evil people will turn on each other. The threat of such betrayals haunts their minds, and limits their fields of action in ways they’d never confess aloud. When you play for nothing more than your own skin, that skin becomes both a set of handcuffs and a highly exploitable weakness.

But for some who investigate evil, its illusory mystique begins to look like its actual form. For example, in my initial article on Elon Musk, I don’t dispute any of the disturbing aspects of his rise to power or stated goals, any more than I would dispute Saul’s own description of himself as “a Pharisee, born of Pharisees,” or that he was a murderer of Christians who was on route to murder more. And while I have no illusions about the dangers that men like them represent, I believe the greater danger lies in disallowing that God has the power to awaken any of his children at will, and that such awakened individuals become even more powerful agents of light than they ever were of the darkness.

It’s not naivete that compels the artists to tell tales of redemptive transformations, but rather our reconstructive observations of those in the real world. We can see the way the broken pieces can be fit together, reformulating our understanding of life itself as a result. Unlike with the betrayals of wicked men, the capacity for which lurks inside their hearts at all times, the sudden change from dark to light can be explosively effective in its tactics, taking one’s former evil allies by surprise. And those who undergo the change will often become truly invincible in that moment, as their new forms are no longer obsessed with guarding their own skin.

As a way to celebrate the coming year (and my hope for many such transformations to take place), I’m going to briefly review a few examples in popular cinema of what I’ll call “the Big Flip”: a moment of sudden and total moral and spiritual inversion, where the character abandons his evil ways once and for all. Some are big and showy, others quiet and reflective, but they’re all moments I found interesting or edifying in some way.

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“Tell your sister, you were right.”

While widely considered the weakest of the original trilogy, I believe both Lucas’s failed prequel experiment and Disney’s sundry sequels and tie-ins have vindicated Return of the Jedi in the eyes of most fans. But in my recollection, the concluding scenes inside the emperor’s throne room were universally well-received, both then and now. They even survived Lucas’ own outrageous attempt to vandalize the moment of Vader’s Big Flip by adding a superfluous and illogical dialogue track. Luckily, I have attached the original theatrical version below, in all its soaring, operatic glory¹.

The beauty of this scene is multidimensional, perfectly blending the mythical with the mundane. We are trapped with Luke in the heart of the wicked wizard’s castle, which is simultaneously the belly of a dragon. Before him lies the crippled form of his father, the Black Knight, a man who sold his body and soul to evil long ago. But this is also the tale of two soldiers set against the backdrop (in this scene, literally) of a vast theater of war, with neither man having control over its ultimate outcome. This personal duel of theirs runs parallel to it, and perhaps in some way analogizes it, but is otherwise unconnected.

Though he’s bested the father in combat, the son refuses to deliver the killing blow. Nor does he turn his sword on the wizard. Perhaps he realizes that this endgame must play out not in violence, but in sacrifice, if his father is to be redeemed. Luke has become the Master of Two Worlds, in the Campbellian sense; having atoned with the Father-God and embraced his own annihilation, he has learned to see and walk in both. So when people look for strategy in what Luke is saying or doing at the end, they are missing the point, just as they often do in confronting mysteries of the cross (in Christ’s conversation with the thieves, for example, or in crying out to his father, as Luke emulates here).

The editing of Luke’s torture at the hands of the emperor is suitably grueling. I can remember almost feeling that electricity coursing through my own body, when I first watched this as a child. But in those final moments, Vader actually joins us in the audience, to judge the two competing images of sadism and sacrifice. He finally sees what we see, and in that moment is suddenly, radically and forever transformed.

While God goes unmentioned by name in Star Wars, some religious undertones remain. In this fictional world, the Jedi knights appear similar to both Knights Templar paladins and Shaolin warrior monks, for example, while the Force itself could be thought of as a stand-in for the Holy Spirit (if not for a tripartite God Himself). In that sense, Vader gaining the strength to save his son could be seen as miraculous, given his wounds and diminished state.

What I enjoy most about his surprise attack — a “betrayal” perhaps, but of the Devil himself — are its painterly flourishes, rendered with such intention and care in the era before CGI. As he carries the emperor towards the bottomless pit, and the lightning courses through his body, we see flashes of the man inside the suit, culminating in the brief and quickly fading image of his all-too-human skull after the deed is done. Despite all of the wires and diodes, we are visually reminded there is still a man in there.

While he hasn’t much time left to bask in his revelation, Vader uses it well. The most evil guy in the galaxy, the torturer and murderer who we all hated and feared, is laid gently down at the foot of a small craft. As chaos swirls around them, he asks only for one favor; his sight restored, he wishes to gaze upon his child for the first (and last) time. As triumphant as it is bittersweet, our souls grow in the wake of this humble request.

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“I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.”

In the opening scenes of 1994’s Pulp Fiction, we are introduced to Jules Winnfield, a ruthless enforcer in the employ of an organized crime lord. In the course of performing his dark services, he and his partner Vincent Vega survive a hail of gunfire unscathed, setting Jules upon his own path of spiritual transformation.

It’s worth noting that this Big Flip is simultaneously more directly religious and less morally coherent than others in this list. Though Jules is finished with killing once and for all, he endeavors to complete his final errand of returning stolen treasure to his evil master.

It’s a thought provoking twist, bringing to mind what we may owe of our virtue even to the unvirtuous. As Jules will later explain, he must keep his word to Caesar, or even to the Devil, if he is to complete his journey into the light. One way we could think of the bullets is as the light which blinds Saul, who must then complete his ill-intentioned journey to Damascus in darkness before he can be truly reborn.

This of course doesn’t absolve Jules of any sins he commits between the miracle and the his final surrender to grace. For example, the coverup of Marvin’s death and their profane disposal of his body will leave behind an unhealable wound for those who loved him, as it does with all who go missing without a trace.

While that segment of the film seemed to mostly be played for puerile laughs, it does render Jules a curious figure for redemption. But in the film’s final scene, Jules reveals a softly contemplative side that recognizes these contradictions, and repairs them once and for all. As he notes — and to his partner’s chagrin — he “can’t go back to sleep.”

Jules even describes the moment as having occurred during the course of this conversation, not before. So in actuality, this is truly the scene in which his Big Flip occurs, reified soon after by his attempt to trigger a similar awakening for “Pumpkin” and “Bunny Wunny.”

Now that the scales have fallen, Jules revisits the “scary” bible verse he’d previously used to torment his victims. Just like his own worldview and priorities, it is permanently reconfigured on his lips, allowing him to understand what he was (a tool of evil) and what he might become (a rescuer of lost souls). Though rendered with Tarantino’s usual garish and kitschy palette, I think it qualifies as the most spiritually satisfying ending of his entire filmography.

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“Dark have been my dreams of late.”

I have resolved to fully revisit Peter Jackson’s adaptation of the “Lord of the Rings” in the coming year. While far from perfect, his earnest attempt to convey at least some of Tolkien’s themes are much appreciated in retrospect (especially when compared to the dog’s breakfast of illogical plotting, sophomoric dialogue and woke identity politics that was Amazon’s recent “Rings of Power” series).

One of the criticisms levied at Jackson by Tolkien purists was his tendency to sketch in beats of action and over-the-top “magic” in scenes where they didn’t belong. The awakening of Theoden might serve as a perfect example of this excess. In the book, this was quite a simple scene, and Theoden’s transformative moment far more mundane. While it indeed included a flash of light reminiscent of Saul’s desert encounter, Gandalf merely summoned it to silence Theoden’s treacherous councilor, so he could speak directly to the king (or, at least, that was the only effect of the spell explicitly mentioned in the text).

In the filmed version, every aspect of the scene is heightened and adrenalized. For example, its main antagonists, Wormtongue and Theoden, are presented in heavy special effects makeup that makes them look weirdly monstrous compared to their Rohan courtiers (Seriously? Nobody was suspicious about these guys?) And while it retains some of Tolkien’s key dialogue, it’s spoken in the context of a swirling melee, in which the unarmed companions fight a few random guards while Gandalf strides dramatically towards the throne.

In perhaps the most controversial change, Jackson also adds an additional supernatural layer to what’s happening. In keeping with his zombie-themed makeup, we are shown that Theoden’s corruption was akin to demonic possession, with Saruman literally in control of the king’s body.

This change is horribly confusing from a storytelling standpoint, as it obliterates the entire point of Wormtongue’s character as a fifth column agent who manipulated the king with his lies. It also detracts from Theoden’s spiritual awakening in a fundamental way; if Theoden’s choices were not his own, then his is not a true transformation. We are meant to take his “dark dreams” line literally in the film, as in his mind was asleep while Saruman ran his kingdom into ruinous decline.

Taken together, these changes remind one of Nigel Tufnel’s “these-go-to-eleven” speakers, their sound and fury signifying a boneheaded misunderstanding of the author’s original intent. But in defense of Jackson, visual adaptations of novels like “The Two Towers” are costly ventures, full of big financial risks. Faithfulness will always take a backseat to marketability as a result, and so the reimagining of Theoden’s Big Flip probably was an example of an integral scene from the book needing to justify itself on paper to the money men (“Who is this Wormtongue guy, anyway? Can we sell an action figure of him? What do you mean he’s just some bureaucrat?”)

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“You’re not the only one with powers, you know.”

For this last one, I’m gonna stretch the definition of “popular cinema” just a tad, to include TV serials that were shot on film. And thanks largely to creative passion and efficiency, Buffy the Vampire Slayer included many scenes and moments that matched or eclipsed theatrical fantasy products armed with much higher budgets.

Over the course of its seven-year run, the show had its share of both heel-turns and desert conversions. One of the most noteworthy and dramatic scenes involved both, and a showdown between two major characters that had taken very different roads to get there.

By the close of the sixth season, Willow Rosenberg had reached the end of a long arc into darkness which began with her experiments in the occult arts years before. She had since become the embodiment of experimentation of all kinds, including her own sexuality, outward expression and moral understanding of reality. As her powers grew, these experiments turned ever more radical and reckless, culminating in mind control and other reality-warping spells that sabotaged human agency. Finally, in the wake of a tragic event, she falls fully into league with Satan, and embarks upon a vengeful mission to destroy the world.

The main theme of the sixth season’s storyline is perhaps the most interesting of them all, in that the primary “monster” is the real world, with its mundane evils intruding upon the main characters’ microcosm of supernatural derring-do. One of the characters who's largely been sidelined from those latter reindeer games is Xander Harris; an unassuming young man who possesses no “powers” of any kind. His journey of late has instead been one of navigating the drudgery of his blue collar job, while trying to maintain a relationship with someone he sees as out of his league. He is Jimmy Olsen in a world of Supermen, and his existential crisis is achingly recognizable.

The payoff for both journeys arrives at the foot of what’s essentially a nuclear bomb, which Willow is preparing to set off. As lifelong friends (and even former love interests), their confrontation feels as earned as anything Joss Whedon & Co. have ever managed to pull off, or ever will.

As with Jackson’s Theoden scene, the window dressing surrounding Willow’s Big Flip is filled with monsters, magic and Kung Fu brawls. But unlike it, the power which initiates it has nothing to do with sorcery, let alone with swordplay. The sword is inside Xander’s heart, and the power he wields is greater than that of any demon or dragon.

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Some parting thoughts:

Having written all of the above, it seems clear to me that Darth Vader is perhaps the purest example of the theme. Unlike the rest, he wasn’t merely turning away from his life’s ambition, but from life itself. As with Luke and Xander, Vader solved the mystery of his own flesh. He finally understands it isn’t a treasure to be guarded, but a gift to be freely offered in the service of truth and light, if and when that blessed opportunity arrives.

It puts me in mind of something a close friend asked me recently, after walking him through the transcripts of my robot duels.

“Are you sure this is the hill you want to die on?”

I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t just mean it in some vague, professional sense. I was talking about messing with a pretty bad crowd, after all, who have some even nastier friends in high places.

“I don’t want to die on any hill,” I told him.

“But since I have to die somewhere, then, fuck yeah. Let’s dance, Skynet!”

Anyway, that’s all I have for 2022. I’m feeling strangely optimistic about what comes next. And even if our ultimate victory is denied this year, I’m grateful to be in the company of such kind, brilliant and courageous warriors in the meantime.

God bless you all, and have a very Happy New Year.

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P.S. If you found any of this valuable (and can spare any change), consider dropping a tip in the cup for ya boy. I’ll try to figure out something I can give you back. Thanks in advance.

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1. Believe it or not, the original version I sent unfortunately linked to the “Special Edition” version of this scene, which includes Lucas’s vandalism I just decried. I blame it on having multiple versions of the video loaded at the time I posted. Did I copy/paste the correct one? “Noooooooooo.”