Upon the release of the Barbie movie last summer, a firestorm of hatred and criticism ensued toward a movie that was, so the criticism goes, obviously supportive of the idea that the “patriarchal” West needed to be replaced with radical feminism. Underneath these narrative critiques lies the undeniable truth that many people, especially young ones, loved the movie. Perhaps that is hardly surprising. It is a well-produced, colorful, and at times funny film. However, this begs the question: Why should people find any enjoyment whatsoever in any movie about a fake person, existing in a fake place, struggling under a fake conflict, striving alongside other fake characters? Of all ideas, a movie about pieces of plastic coming to life garnering such attention, or any attention at all, for that matter, is rather unusual on its face. One might say: “But, the movie is fun!” That answer still begs the question.
The Barbie movie is simply a stand-in for any other story or narrative, its political messaging aside. Ultimately, the question at hand is this: why is the human race seemingly obsessed with stories? Stories which, at least on a very practical level, do not help our condition. If anything, one could argue spending dozens of hours binge-watching the latest show on Netflix is a terrible waste of time. Those same hours could have been spent on things that are necessary or beneficial to oneself or society. In many instances, people say as much during these binge-sessions:
“Statues: unemployed but w/ lots of free time to binge watch series and eat,” one X (formerly Twitter) user said.
“That moment in between Netflix episodes when you see your reflection on the black screen and wonder what you are doing with your life,” a different user posted.
As comical as these statements are, they certainly probe at something real. Martin Tupper said it more seriously: “Good books are the best of friends….” Why is it that narratives captivate so much when they are fake, with little to no bearing on reality? Insofar as a simple answer can be given, it would be this: human beings are fundamentally people of narrative.
Humans are not merely narratively driven in a reflective sense, that is to say, as a matter of observation. Rather, the fact of our narrative obsession itself makes a statement about our condition. There is something about narratives that captivate us time and time again. Consider just how pervasive narratives are. We tell the story of people, groups, and nations through stories, and our telling is more than just the recitation of a series of facts in order. Instead, we impose (wrongly, some say) a story upon the facts. We tell the story of the United States with more than just dispassionate oration. It is done with feeling, with a sense that the struggles of the nation somehow matter more than the truth of the facts themselves.
We create from real events a greater sense of their impact to elevate certain virtues. George Washington once was viewed as a kind of paragon of virtue and triumph; in other words, he was made to be the embodiment of all the virtues of the nation. That was not done in an attempt to conceal the truth or bury Washington’s faults (which, of course, are plentiful). Rather, it was done to foster the virtues that were levied upon him. As Abraham Lincoln said, “Let us believe as in the days of our youth, that Washington was spotless. It makes human nature better to believe that one human being was perfect—that human perfection is possible.”
Just as an image of Washington can promote good virtues, narratives can just as easily be used for ill. Throughout human history, entire dictatorships have used narratives – propaganda – to manipulate and control what others view as true. A few lies told to the right people in the right places can cause an unfathomable amount of damage and harm. It was an entire nation believing a particular narrative about the Jews that led to a systematic effort to annihilate them. In light of this, it has been argued that stories are just too dangerous and that all narratives are suspect. The irony is that such a claim is itself a kind of narrative. Like many other things, such as technology or even freedom, narratives are not necessarily good or bad. They just are. It is how humanity uses them that matters.
Now, all this might seem well and good. Narratives are, for some reason, critical to human beings. They are inescapable. That provides a basic explanation for our original inquiry: why do people love the Barbie movie? Because we love narratives, and that one happens to be particularly appealing to some. However, the deeper question, of why narratives exist or matter to us at all, is far, far more difficult. It is one thing to observe something is true and quite another to determine why. To illustrate this point, consider G.K. Chesterton, who, in Orthodoxy, said: “I had always felt life first as a story: and if there is a story there is a story-teller.” For Chesterton, it is not simply enough to acknowledge that life is a story; he takes it further, looking for the consequences of that realization. At least in his case, he believes it implies a storyteller, a God.
So, in our circumstance, we have acknowledged that there are narratives and that they are ubiquitous. They are found in places that we do not first expect them to be and are so commonplace that we do not pay them any mind. What then are the consequences of these realizations?
Let us consider three in ascending order of controversy and truth. First, it is not just the case that humans love narratives in and of themselves. They are loved for what they communicate and represent. No one would deny that some stories are bad or unlikable. Why we dislike them is another matter; perhaps it is a matter of personal preference, for instance. Nevertheless, personal taste is not always the reason. In a story, for example, wherein the narrative introduces a character and an idea, develops those creations, and then unceremoniously destroys them in favor of some character entirely unrelated to the established narrative. The people who consume such a narrative would not enjoy it. It would be as if Indiana Jones, 12 minutes into Raiders of the Lost Ark, was suddenly killed and replaced by Bob the Builder who went on to make a shelf for an elderly woman. It is unlikely that any person watching would enjoy that story on a critical level, save perhaps out of the sheer hilarity and absurdity of it.
Secondly, even in a cohesive and coherent narrative, the ideas themselves that are represented matter. It is at this point that we thoroughly depart from relativists who would like to claim that every story is equal in its value, so long as it makes sense. Some stories are better than others because they are more true, good, and beautiful. A story about self-sacrifice is worth more than one that glorifies a selfish man who destroys everything around him. Now, a story might contain the selfish man, but the good one will do so to illustrate his faults and glorify the truth.
Thirdly, there is a story that contains the highest goods, truths, and beauty. There is an ultimate narrative that contains and defines goodness. That narrative is the divine narrative. It is the story of the divine Logos who is order and truth, bearing upon Himself the ultimate price for the restoration and glorification of the world and its people. It is a story that has unfolded and is unfolding across thousands of years. It is a story that has the power to destroy an empire, change lives, and remake the world. It is the story of Jesus Christ, who is the Logos, the Truth, the Good, the Beautiful. The narrative of Scripture is true in more ways than it is factually accurate; it is the only true myth, true in the sense that it is truth itself.
These are bold claims that cannot be adequately defined or defended here, but consider the world through the Divine Narrative, and see if it is the best description of why we are so captivated by things we call “fake.” It is a world in which goodness, truth, and beauty only exist because they are the qualities of the Storyteller, and in His story, those ideas find their most accurate depictions. They are universally appealing to the human race because the human race itself is reflective of that Storyteller, and His ways have been placed within us, though distorted. So then, it is not surprising in the least that human beings are obsessed with stories. It is how we define the world. Thus, in our very best stories, it is no wonder that we love them as much as we do for this reason: they communicate things that are good, true, and beautiful. It is no wonder that we love Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. It is a story of hope, and Christ, in His person, is the epitome of it. It is no wonder that we love Rowling’s Harry Potter. Her story contains self-sacrifice, and Christ is the ultimate sacrifice.
These stories, despite their differences and faults, serve as dim reflections, cloudy images, and incomplete tellings of fundamental truths. Even those lacking symbols possess enough of that truth to drive us to our knees in joy, to bring tears to our eyes, and Sehnsucht to our souls. They can, if only for a few moments, be windows to heaven itself. On their surfaces, the human race can find, incompletely, the face of Christ, staring back.
