Beowulf is a Christ-like figure both in this revision and the original epic, sacrificing himself for the good of the people but not before, as Gilgamesh would say, his name was stamped on bricks. Yet, while he did vanquish Grendel in the film, he gave in to temptation as that young hero (you have to see the film). His attempt to atone for his sin as an older king does free his people, but brings down his son, and by implication, his way of life as well. With the death of Beowulf and his son (you have to se the film), the age of heroes comes to a close. A new king has been crowned and the old ones must pass into legend.

I’m reminded of the end of John Boorman’s Excalibur: Arthur kills his son Mordred, but sacrifices himself in the battle. Both Kings (Beowulf and Arthur) are left without heirs, so their reins must come to an end with their respective deaths. Both kings, too, are laid to rest on boats, but while Arthur is destined for Avalon and perhaps a return some day, Beowulf sinks beneath the waves as his ship becomes his pyre. Boorman and Zemeckis both tell the stories of the end of epochs — not the demise of patriarchy, but a change — perhaps with one superstitution being replaced with another.

Zemeckis’ film deals with the guilt of the father. The human women are chattel, as one would expect in an epic, but they are sympathetic and strong, demanding respect from the heroes. (There is a scene where one of Beowulf’s men — who we know is married — tries to have his way with a girl. She says “no” and struggles out of his grasp, delivering a final slap across his face before leaving. Cool.) Grendel’s mother is the most interesting: she is the demon of a heroic age (I can’t help but think of Circe, the sirens, Helen, Eve, Medea, Dido…) that has a magical influence over even powerful men. She desires a son, too, like a king — an heir to her kingdom. She represents disorder to the patirarchs Beowulf and Hrothgar, but she also has a potency that neither can resist.

The end of the film is fascinating. It’s a transition, but one that’s bittersweet and ambiguous. I didn’t think I’d like this film very much; I’m not a fan of the go-motion animation. However, this one is provocative and exciting, both in a viscreal and a thoughtful way.

It makes me want to go read Beowulf again.

One of the first characteristics of a hero that the class suggested is bravery. Indeed, bravery seems to be a universal characteristic of the hero. At on point, Palmer Joss asks Ellie why she wants to be the one to take the machine seat. She cannot answer explicitly, and Palmer tells her that she is the bravest person he has ever met. She relies, “Or the nuttiest.” Ellie’s desire to see what’s on the other side represents her community’s current need to see what’s beyond their world. It’s interesting that Contact came out in 1997, at the height of the X-Files‘ assertion that “the truth is out there.”

Part of Ellie’s bravery, and perhaps that of the hero in general, is her unselfishness. This might also suggest her sacrifice, her pioneering action, her strength, her ability to survive, and her endurance. Indeed, we want our heros to do what we cannot: these deeds are what make them heroic. Ellie’s endurance, her drive in the face of adversity to pursue what it is she believes in is admirable. Perhaps this also suggests that heros need to be idealistic and a bit impractical. If Ellie had listened to Drumlin, she would never have heard the signal from Vega. If she let witch hunters like Kitz wear her down, she would invalidate her integrity and be less heroic. When is the last time our culture lionized a sell-out?

In fact, Ellie became a scapegoat in the end during a scene reminiscent of the McCarthy hearings of the 1950s. Senator Kitz tries his best to force Ellie to renounce her testimony that she ever traveled to a distant part of the galaxy. His relentless questioning and citing of tangible fact had Ellie doubting her own experiences by appealing to her reason as a scientist. Since she had no proof of her journey — something science relies upon — Kitz suggests that she imagined the whole thing. Her refusal to be swayed even by hard scientific evidence suggests her strength and endurance, and also shows how she grows as a character.

Heros must be human; therefore, they must have flaws. Ellie’s flaw was her inability to conceive of answers that can be proven by science. Ellie’s experience with the machine and her journey to Vega teaches her about faith, in belief that transcends the empirical.

Some negative characteristics were also suggested: pursuit of fame, pride, and arrogance. The former has been a characteristic of many heroic traditions. The Greeks believed is a grim afterlife, so any living would have to be done while alive: that was the time of the hero, as Achilles teaches Odysseus in Book 11 of the Odyssey. By proving one’s skills, one could achieve fame, an immortality in the verses of the poet. While this sort of fame was important to the Greeks and others, our culture often views fame as a hollow pursuit, one that is essentially the desire for money and power. An indeed, Ellie seems to want this as well: when her idealism is stomped on at every turn by the opportunist Drumlin, her disappointment is always evident. Her pride and drive also keep her from making an enduring connection with Palmer Joss and the rest of her community. These traits show that a hero is often a leader, but that leadership can be a lonely and isolating place.

Finally, heroes are often mythic and archetypal. Here is where the hero enters the realm of the poet and takes on a life beyond the physical. Myths are stories of profound truths of a culture. Though they might not be “real” in a sense that they actually happened, their significance paradoxically is in the ideals, answers, and guidance that they provide for a culture. Facts, here, become irrelevant, or at least superseded by the story. This is a difficult lesson for the scientist to learn, and is perhaps a lesson for our age.

As our culture takes its first “small moves” into space, we might find that we need our heroes again. When myths of the previous age encounter the realities of the present day, we find ourselves searching for new truths — new stories to help guide us into the next age, perhaps with that notion that the truth is out there. What will we do when we realize that we are not alone in the universe? We will need the heroes and the poets again. The deeds of the hero mean nothing if there’s not a poet to record them. Pay attention to this relationship as you read the selections this semester. Often the poet and the hero are one-in-the-same. This relationship suggests the continued importance of our own literary traditions and the heroic efforts of those that try to keep them alive.

For in my heart and soul I know this well:
the day will come when sacred Troy must die, [. . .]
That is nothing, nothing beside your agony
when some brazen Argive hales you off in tears,
wrenching away your day of light and freedom!
–Hector to Andromache, the Iliad, VI.396-97, 405-07

Book VI of Homer’s Iliad shows the contention in the heart of Hector, Ilium’s champion, but also a husband and new father: he is torn between his responsibilities as a hero to his people and as a the head of the household. Like so many soldiers going off to battle today, Hector is a new father who must risk his life to maintain his people’s way of life. Hector knows that Troy is doomed, but he must do his duty as champion and prince, even though it means the enslavement of his wife and child. In Hector’s plight, we see what is perhaps the utmost position of humanity in war: to lose does not mean just the death of the hero, but his death precipitates the death of the society that he protects.

At least one characteristic of the hero in the Iliad is his resolve to meet fate bravely. Hector communicates this belief to Andromache, before returning to the battlefield:

Like Oedipus’ anagnoresis, Hector’s position is much the same: while we cannot avoid our fate, we can decide how we’ll meet it. Our actions are our responsibility, even though, as Achilles muses in Book IX, death will claim us all: “The same honor waits / for the coward and the brave. They both go down to Death” (IX.386-87). In fact, while Hector and Achilles both seem to be considering death — under the extreme circumstances of war, what else would one think about? — they both approach it differently.

Hector is a family man, but he is a champion first. Even though his status as the son of Priam and Hecuba is a factor, his pride affects his position, and stokes his responsibility to his people: “I would die of shame to face the men of Troy / and the Trojan women trailing their long robes / if I would shrink from battle now, a coward” (VI.389-91). Hector is concerned about his place — and his perceived place — as champion; he must not let his people down. He even admonishes his brother Paris for not doing his duty, for languishing in his room instead of fighting. Yet, in this resolve — a resolve that will be put to the test in Book XXII — Hector’s responsibility will also win him glory and renown.

Achilles, on the other hand, questions the validity of this position. Since breaking with Agamemnon and the rest of the Achaeans, Achilles has obviously had some time to think about life. In Book IX, Agamemnon’s forces have been beaten back nearly to the ships and an embassy of heros is sent to Achilles to attempt to win him back to the battle, while Achilles sulks by his ships. After being surrounded by death, Achilles considers whether or not he should accept his responsibility as a hero. After all, he has two choices:

Achilles has decided to choose the latter course; he is determined to set sail the next morning, having lost faith in the leadership and subsequently lost faith is his hero’s pride and glory. The champion of the Greeks even advises the others to flee, since defeat seems nigh (IX.507). It’s only after Patroclus’ death that Achilles is reminded of his duties to king and country, though he is motivated by that rage begun by Agamemnon and stoked to its full fury by Hector, and does his duty, establishing his fame, but cutting his life short.

Hector does his duty for his people, but Andromache’s lament for Hector and their son in Book XXII shows how duty to country is not always compatible to duty to one’s family. Yet, the death of the family is a microcosm of the reality of the Trojans: their culture, as it is now, is doomed. Hector’s death means the inevitable defeat of Troy.

Much of Gilgamesh concerns the theme of taming the natural or the unruly which seems to stand in direct opposition both literally and figuratively to civilization. Humanity seems to be a product, or at least a requirement, of civilization: Gilgamesh must learn to temper his lust for women and violence; Enkidu must learn the “woman’s art,” shave and comb his hair, drink wine and eat bread — the “custom of the land” — and wear clothes. In fact, the first book of the epic concerns itself with this civilizing of both heroes. After the warriors battle each other, they seem to short circuit the animal in each other, both tempering each other’s behavior and social practices so that they are simpatico with the custom of the land. Yet, once they have learned control, this aggression must soon be directed outward to other feats of taming.

The heroes’ killing of Humbaba is at best a dubious undertaking. However, seen in the light of what might be called manifest destiny — akin to that pioneering attitude of the American spirit — what are the heroes of a culture to do but help that culture to survive, prosper, and spread. While Humbaba might not have been an immediate threat to Uruk, the idea of Humbaba is what keeps humans living in fear, shaking in their caves of superstition and ignorance. Like true heroes, Gilgamesh and Enkidu are the scapegoats for their people: they will face what the majority cannot, defeat the evil, and usher in a new era of prosperity for their society.

However, like manifest destiny, this undertaking speaks of humanity’s arrogance when it comes to exploitation or the environment. When they kill Humbaba, they begin to fell the cedars, literally for the continued construction of Uruk, and figuratively for the reasons I mentioned above. However, in killing Humbaba — what Gilgamesh calls “evil . . . ‘Hugeness,’ a ferocious giant” — a confusing and chaotic scene, suggesting that perhaps Humbaba is a manifestation of the psyches of the heroes, Gilgamesh and Enkidu take what they want from nature, leaving only destruction of the environment in order to ensure the prosperity of their people. Something glorious dies with the cedars: “the cedars shivered when Enkidu felled the watcher of the forest.” Subsequently, when they have slain Humbaba, they go to work on the forest: “They attacked the cedars, the seven splendors of Humbaba were extinguished . . . and while Gilgamesh felled the first of the trees of the forest Enkidu cleared the roots as far as the banks of the Euphrates.” While it’s uncertain what the seven splendors were, the latter part suggests that perhaps one of them is the old growth trees of the forest, the “first of the trees” that Gilgamesh cuts down, presumably the tallest, straightest, and largest.

As a result of their desolation of the forest, Enkidu is sentenced to die by the gods. Perhaps this consequence should be a warning to a humanity that must destroy to prosper, rathe than live in harmony with our natural surroundings. It seems that our current need for oil has sent us again to the banks of the Euphrates, unconcerned with the trees that we fell and its consequences that are bound to make themselves apparent in our immediate future. As Enkidu lies dying, he curses the gates of the city, the same gates that are made out of the cedars that they fell and that represent humanity’s ostracized position from nature. Will his bittersweet lesson be ours?

Perhaps these concerns help to explain book five, “The Story of the Flood”? It seems that even before Gilgamesh and Enkidu, humanity spread like a virus on the face of the planet, so obscenely so that Enlil had had enough:

Yet, Ea takes pity of Utnapishtim and warns him: “tear down your house and build a boat, abandon possessions and look for life, despise worldly good and save your soul alive” (41). Seemingly a new age attitude millennia ago: get back to nature to save your life, except in this case literally. Interestingly enough, Ea tells Utnapishtim to take into the boat the “seed of all living creatures,” suggesting that humans are simply one of many in nature, nothing more special or more deserving. This then is not a moral issue, but one of survival. If we forget the forests, mountains, and seas where we were born, perhaps it is just those things that might spell our destruction.

Then God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.” . . . “See, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them for food.” (Genesis 1:26 and 1:28)

Well, since the beginning, humans (why do I want to write “man” here?) have had divine sanction to do whatever it is they desire to the flora and fauna (“creeping things”) of the earth. Many have taken this to heart and continue to use the word of the God of Genesis as authority to rape, pillage, and squander all that the natural world has to offer. Indeed, much of what humanity has taken from the earth has directly led to our continued evolution through superior technological developments, but what is lost by a careless and prodigal waste of these god-given resources? The Judeo-Christian Old Testament is not the only work of literature that addresses the ecology; the Sumerian epic Gilgamesh also looks at humanity’s progress, but perhaps not so wantonly.

Humanity’s progress seems very much linked with the character of Enkidu. Created as a wild man, Enkidu had “long hair like a woman’s,” and he “was innocent of mankind; he knew nothing of the cultivated land.” While the comment on having hair like a woman’s deserves some treatment, that will have to wait for another entry; however, there does seem to be a link between woman a nature the pervades the epic, as if women supply a link somehow between men and nature, a sort of gateway between the innocence of animals and the experience of civilization. Enkidu is animal-like at the beginning of the epic, and it takes the ministrations of the harlot to make him a man. While the latter has ideological and social ramifications as well, what’s important to the present topic is that Enkidu, once he has slept with the harlot — “For six days and seven nights they lay together, for Enkidu had forgotten his home in the hills” — he is no longer accepted by his former animal brethren, as if the harlot had contaminated him with the stench of humanity: “Enkidu was grown weak, for wisdom was with him, and the thoughts of a man were in his heart.”

Here is where the dichotomy between nature and civilization begins to be made clear: nature is frightening and in need of control and domination — it must be civilized so that humanity can live and function within it. Nature must be tamed and ordered so that civilization can continue to grow. They somehow seem mutually exclusive, as if the natural world reminds the civilized world somehow of a bestial past that it’s trying to overcome and repudiate. Enkidu is created for this very reason: to tame the wild heart of Gilgamesh, so that he can become a good king for his people. In order to live together, humanity must have common goals and laws; both Gilgamesh’s and Enkidu’s wild natures must be assuaged and controlled for them to become human.

Once Enkidu has tried unsuccessfully to return to his wild life, he comes back to the harlot who “divided her clothing in two and with one half she clothed him and with the other herself; and holding his hand she led him like a child to the sheepfolds, into the shepherds’ tents.” Clothing represents humanity; like Adam and Eve after they ate from the tree of knowledge “the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves” (Genesis 3:7). Clothing comes from the cultivated land, not from slain beasts, for the latter suggests an incivility while the former expresses humanity. For instance, when Gilgamesh and Enkidu slay Humbaba, the first thing that Gilgamesh does is wash himself and change his clothes: “he threw off his stained clothes and changed them for new. He put on his royal robes and made them fast.” And when Enkidu dies, Gilgamesh repudiates the civilization that led to his death, and he “dragged off his splendid robes and flung them down as though they were abominations” and trades them for the “skin of a lion.”

Similarly, what one does with his or her hair also symbolizes civilization. Once Enkidu has joined the shepherds, he “rubbed down the matted hair of his body and anointed himself with oil.” Combed and cared-for hair marks one as civilized, just as disheveled and dirty hair suggests a beast. This motif runs concomitantly with clothes throughout the epic, for Gilgamesh also “washed out his long locks” and “flung back his hair from his shoulders” after his battle with Humbaba. And, again, after the death of Enkidu, he vows to “let my hair grow long for your sake.” The change in Gilgamesh’s appearance has the desired effect, for when Siduri sees him “coming towards her, wearing skins” she thinks he is a criminal or a beast come to do her harm. Hair and clothing make the human, just like they do today.

Along with clothes and hair, what one eats also speaks of one’s culture. As part of Enkidu’s education, he is presented with bread and wine, but “Enkidu could only suck the milk of wild animals.” Both bread and wine take knowledge and skill to make, not feats that can be accomplished by animals. He quickly learns to eat like a civilized person and he “became merry, his heart exulted and his face shown.’ Only after Enkidu had followed the instructions of the harlot — “Enkidu, eat bread, it is the staff of life; drink the wine, it is the custom of the land” — is it finally evident that “Enkidu had become a man; but when he had put on man’s clothing he appeared like a bridegroom.” Indeed, Enkidu is now married, or about to be, to the customs of humanity, never able to return to the state of innocence that he has now, perhaps unwittingly, repudiated.

The epic makes other comparisons between eating the flesh of animals and that of taming the resources of the natural world in order to make civilized food, like wine and bread. When Gilgamesh wanders the land after Enkidu’s death, the god Shamash sees Gilgamesh “dressed in the skins of animals” and eating “their flesh,” activities that distress the god. This implied criticism favors the more civilized customs of eating what human knowledge cultivates, not what aggression and violence procures. Perhaps this is an implicit suggestion that vegetarianism is more civilized than eating meat? This notion, as we who have tried being vegetarians know only too well, does not sit well with the current customs of our land.

Yet, in order to grown grapes and grain, land needs to be cultivated; therefore forests need to be cleared. Forests are also used for the literal building of cities, used to protect humans from the unknown dangers of the wilderness and the known dangers of the elements. In order to impose a human order on a hostile nature, one of the first steps will be the killing of Humbaba, Lord of the Cedars. Using what currently seems a very viable reason for killing, Gilgamesh reasons “Because of the evil that is in the land, we will go to the forest and destroy the evil; for in the forest lives Humbaba whose name is ‘Hugeness,’ a ferocious giant.” Precipitated out of sheer boredom — Enkidu complains that he is “oppressed by idleness”) — Gilgamesh decides that Humbaba is part of an axis of evil and must be destroyed, even though the ferocious giant is no immediate threat to the people of Uruk. In order to even get to Humbaba’s they have to travel half-way around the world, at least the world as they knew it. What better way to justify heroic deeds than to call it evil, a menace to society?

Yet, figuratively, Humbaba stands as a symbol for a nature that must be tamed if humanity’s civilization is to grow and prosper. While Humbaba does not offer an immediate threat to Uruk, the idea of Humbaba represents a holdfast to the continued growth of a civilization that places such importance on land that must be cultivated and cities that must be built and reinforced. In order to destroy the holdfast, Gilgamesh and Enkidu must first be armed for battle, weapons must be cast. This arming, while an aspect of the epic, also represents another aspect of human civilization and knowledge: skill and intelligence are necessary to the blacksmiths; a knowledge of ore and and how to order it to work for humans is something provided by nature and tamed by humanity.

As far as epic battles go, the fight with Humbaba is not very spectacular. It seems that most of the danger was just a product of the heroes’ minds, for Humbaba the ferocious giant fell as easily as one might cut down a tree. In fact, much of the battle with Humbaba includes the cutting down of trees: Gilgamesh “felled the first cedar and they cut the branches and laid them at the foot of the mountain.” When Humbaba is felled “for as far as two leagues the cedars shivered . . . for this was the guardian of the forest whom they had felled to the ground.” After the guardian of the forest is dispatched, the heroes attack the forest itself: “They attacked the cedars, the seven splendors of Humbaba were extinguished”; “While Gilgamesh felled the first of the trees of the forest Enkidu cleared their roots to the banks of the Euphrates.” These actions sound like the present-day clearing of old-growth forests in the name of progress. In order to make the land usable by humans for agriculture, the roots, too, must be cleared so that crops may be planted. Humanity is able to spread its influence, but no regard is given for the forest, the creatures that lived in the forest, nor any consideration for the future implications of this clearing.

An ethical critique is offered by the god Enlil: “Why did you do this thing? From henceforth may the fire be on your faces, may it eat the bread that you eat, may it drink where you drink.” As if Nature herself cries out and curses the very aspects of civilization that Gilgamesh’s people hold dear, Enlil knows why Gilgamesh and Enkidu have slain Humbaba, but he cannot reconcile the waste and disregard for nature that seems to accompany human progress.

However, with this progress also comes pain. As punishment, the gods send the Bull of Heaven as punishment for their trespass, and Enkidu bears the brunt of this assault and is mortally wounded. The Bull of Heaven might symbolize the unpredictability of nature, like the consequences of expansion on nature (El Niño) or even strains of disease that might be direct results of human expansion. Through the death of Enkidu, we are made aware of civilization’s double-edged sword: not only does it help humanity to grow, survive, and evolve, but it also destroys an innocence that might have made death less painful. Enkidu curses what represents for him civilization: women, Uruk, and the trapper. These took from him his happiness in naïveté, his innocent existence with the animals and replaced it with death. With civilization comes the knowledge of one’s own mortality, as if all human endeavor only leads to this certainty: “It was I who cut down the cedar, I who leveled the forest, I who slew Humbaba and now see what has become of me.”

Perhaps part of how we deal with death is how we live as humans. It seems that while we pay lip service to civilization and knowledge, we also give little thought to that which sustains us. We are part animal, and therefore still need that which nature provides. Even to grow grain for bread and grapes for wine requires a symbiotic relationship with nature, not a destructive one. What are the consequences of our continued waste of the land? Can we learn nothing from a 4500-year-old epic?

Much of the heroic ideal seems to be in how the culture defines human and the hero’s relationship to humanity. For instance, Gilgamesh had to learn that he is part of a culture, and to be a good leader, he must learn to value others’ lives as much as he values his own, or that of his friend Enkidu. Achilles, much like Gilgamesh, only learns this lesson when his friend Patroclus is slain by Hector in battle. Hector pays for this with his own life, and Achilles dies soon after. When Odysseus encounters the shade of Achilles in the Underworld (book 11 of the Odyssey), the latter laments that he would rather have been a humble part of humanity than to be known for his personal feats in battle. There seems to be, then, a bittersweet quality to the hero: a hero, out of necessity, must represent the heroic values of its culture at a time of national importance or crisis, but because he must stand apart, he often laments his own inability to connect with the people he must save.

Odysseus also stands apart, but must learn to value others, like Elpenor, who are sacrificed in order to make Odysseus the hero (cf. book 10 and book 11). Odysseus, like Achilles, relies on his own abilities, and therefore does not trust anyone else fully. Perhaps Odysseus, had he shown more trust in his crew, would not have wandered the Mediterranean for 10 years after the fall of Troy. Yet, Odysseus’ intelligence and wiliness are characteristics that the later Homeric culture seemed to regard highly.

Many cite this as Odysseus’ flaw, like Virgil and Dante. In the Aeneid, Ulysses is often seen as a loner: one who might be solely blamed for the fall of Troy: he is duplicitous and conniving, only out for his personal glory. Virgil upholds pietas as the Roman heroic ideal: an ideal that emphasizes the eschewing of the hero’s personal wishes to favor instead the good of his community. Aeneas gives up his personal desire for Dido so that he might fulfill his duty to his people: the founding of Rome. The pilgrim Dante, too, becomes a scapegoat for Italians at the end of the middle ages; in The Divine Comedy, Dante suffers through Hell and Purgatory in order to show his people the way to Paradise.

Similarly, the Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf emphasizes the ideal of comitatus, a solidarity or allegiance between a warlord and his band of noble warriors: each agree to defend the other with their lives. Yet, while similar to Virgil’s heroic ideal, Beowulf’s also emphasizes personal achievements and glory in superhuman feats that will be remembered in song, like his defeat of Grendel and his mother, and later the dragon.

External Links

• Happy Trails, Hans: Roy Rogers as the New Heroic Ideal – Elizabeth J. Abele looks at the heroic ideal in contemporary American films.
• The Heroic Ideal in Beowulf – by Rosemary Allen, Georgetown College.

Gawain and Beowulf are very different heroes. The pre-Christian Beowulf is ultimately concerned with glory, while Gawain’s concern lies with his immortal soul. Yet, the genesis of the knight’s code of honor and fidelity are found within Beowulf’s comitatus. This agreement shared between a lord and his followers is expounded upon in Gawain, having been influenced by Christianity. The issue of religion now presents the hero with ubiquitous moral challenges to face on top of the physical; the latter is now not as dangerous to the knight for it can only end his worldly life while the former may result in damnation. The hero must now concern himself with goals of a metaphysical nature: things like chastity (purity of mind and heart) and a loyalty and obedience to a higher power than even that of his lord or king. Gawain’s plights prove that he has more subtle monsters to contend with than Grendel, namely woman.

Women in Gawain, unlike those placid, amenable supporters of the male he-men in Beowulf, are more dubious and by no means as harmless. The woman has become both the symbol of goodness and purity (represented by the virgin Mary) and the evil temptress (Eve-like). According to Gawain, the life of a knight would be easier if it were not for women who trap “their true knight in their trammels so quaint” (iv.2413). His attitude is to him justified by his recent experience in the realm of Morgan le Fay. Yet, Gawain fails to see, without those temptations the challenge of life would be no challenge at all; therefore, life would be dull and meaningless. At the close of Gawain’s vituperation against women, he states: “And one and all fall prey / To women that they had used; / If I be led astray, / Methinks I may be excused” (iv.2425-8) [my italics]. Perhaps women are disgusted with being used, Gawain, and this duplicity of action and thought is a retaliation for Beowulf-like treatment. While there remains a negative aspect to the image of women in Gawain, she is no longer just a place setting in Hrothgar’s court.

Along with the development of more-than-two-dimensional women characters came the courtly love convention. Instead of being generally unimportant as in Beowulf, women were now idealized and worshipped. Courtly love’s elements include humility, courtesy, and especially adultery; since marriage was a business transaction (similar to Beowulf), love had to be sought elsewhere. Here we have another paradox: the knight’s mistress was the earthly manifestation of the Virgin Mary, yet there is a breach of chastity. Therefore, while indulging in worship, there is also the sin of adultery. There is additional niche of complexity within Gawain. Gawain has pledged his troth to the lord of the castle, in which they would both exchange what they received during the day. For two days this is faithfully executed — the hunt of the lord paralleling Gawain’s bed-chamber plight. However, on day three, Gawain swears his troth to the lord’s wife that directly contradicts his agreement with her husband — Gawain, like the fox, tries to elude the inevitable. Gawain keeps the girdle (Hey, Gawain, the girdle’s green, man — take a hint!) hoping that his small breach of fidelity will save his life and go unnoticed. His infidelity does not go unnoticed, but it is not a crime punishable by death. Good and evil, right and wrong are no longer as evident as they were in Beowulf — this is a new world of intricacies and subtle perils.

Along with the nature of women and their relationship to men, the view toward nature has also changed in Gawain. There is a hostile representation of the outside in both poems: the outside is cold and foreboding, ominous and deadly while the inside is safe and comfortable with the hearth and friends; evil comes from the outside while what is good is contained within. Beowulf sanctifies the Heorot (heart) again by removing the outside evil, Grendel. Gawain laments at having to leave Arthur’s court during Christmas — he must leave his hearth companions and enter the cold and dangerous outside world. Yet, like women, nature has changed. Indeed, the outside still contains physical danger as it did in Beowulf, but the inside is the more perilous to Gawain’s soul. Ostensibly, Gawain is safe inside; yet, Gawain’s soul is at sake — the temptation is Gawain’s Grendel. Yet, while Gawain’s world view has become more complicated, the narrator’s outlook is less grim.

Nature in both poems is cyclical. Yet, Beowulf’s cycle is pre-Christian and is therefore a hopeless cycle of misery and contention. Gawain’s Christian world is one of danger as well, but it contains hope of the after life. This perhaps accounts for the former’s grim, dark narrative style, while the latter is more humorous and capricious. While both worlds are subject to mutability, at least the denizens of Gawain’s world can laugh.

Finally, unlike Beowulf, Gawain opens and closes with references to the Trojans, specifically Brutus, the legendary founder of Britain. Perhaps, like Virgil’s Aeneid, the Gawain poet is linking the glorious history with the Greeks and Trojans for a broader and richer historical context, both temporarily and spatially. Like Aeneas, Brutus founds a great Western empire: “It was high-born Aeneas and his haughty race / That since prevailed over provinces, and proudly reigned / Over well-nigh all the wealth of the West Isles” (i.5-7). And, like Romulus, Brutus lends his name to his newly-found kingdom. Therefore, Brutus’ scions are descended from a heroic stock, beginning with the Trojans and the gods. Gawain ends restating Britain’s heroic beginnings, thus completing the allegorical cycle of the poem. While the spring sun will soon shine upon the new hero Gawain, ushering in a rebirth and a continuation of the heroic tradition, Brutus and his heroic, god-like progeny are again alluded to revealing a hopeful continuity in this great land and in God’s worldly design.