Would You Buy a Ticket to Isla Nublar?

Over the last couple of years, due to more exposure to cable TV, I’ve found myself pondering a particular question: why is there almost always a Jurassic Park movie playing on one channel or another at any given time? It may not sound like a compelling issue, but it’s one of those idle questions that a cultural mythologist might actually be able to answer. We’ll start by assuming that the explanation has to do with the appeal of the movie and not some dull reason like the fact that broadcast costs were set lower for the franchise due to a relationship between the movie studio and the network. Those are the types of mundane but reality-based reasons that make a mockery out of a well-meaning attempt to explain something in terms of zeitgeist or the collective unconscious or some other depth psychological explanation. For all I know, there could be a mundane reason—but let’s assume not.

I find that unless one of my favorite programs is on, I tend to be drawn toward any Jurassic Park movie that may be on, no matter which one it is, and no matter how many times I’ve seen it. I admit to a special fondness for the earlier movies in the franchise, but that’s probably because the new cast of characters simply hasn’t had enough time to grow on me yet. It’s tough to compete with beloved characters like Alan Grant, Ellie Sattler, Ian Malcolm, and John Hammond, and I might have preferred park operations manager Claire Dearing to be a little more of a match for ethologist Owen Grady in Jurassic World—but aside from that, I obviously find the movies entertaining enough to watch over and over.

First and foremost, it’s the dinosaurs, of course. Almost every kid catches the dinosaur bug at one time or another (big kids, too), and it has to do with the fact that these fantastic beasts, which would seem the stuff of legend if we didn’t know they were real, roamed the earth in a far-distant epoch of the past. There are probably vestiges of “paradise lost” in the appeal of these creatures, despite their ferocity, simply because of the fact that they’re lost to us and represent a past to which there is no returning. They're also compelling in the way any top predator, or any overwhelming force of nature, usually is—whether it be a grizzly bear, hurricane, volcano, great white shark, or supernova. It’s evidence of how big the universe is and of how small we are.

Jurassic Park puts forth a vision of what it would look like to recover the past. The people in the films (as well as viewers) are always awed by their first view of the dinosaurs, and the park itself is presented as a kind of tropical Eden. Were it not for the predators—the T-rex, the raptors, and the rest—Jurassic Park would still be awe-inspiring, but the films would lose the engine that drives them, the Man vs. Nature conflict that is ever-present but sometimes glossed over in our contemporary world of computers, manufactured goods, high-tech inventions, and modern cities. Jurassic Park makes the power of nature a central, inescapable fact in the lives of the characters. Whether they live or die depends on their ability to adapt and respond when the park’s carefully planned defenses fail and the dinosaurs overrun the limits humans have tried to place on them.

There is always a message in these movies about the dangers of hubris, a warning about placing too much faith in human control and technology—at the same time, there’s a childlike wonder in the fact of achieving so ambitious a goal and of recovering the distant past. There’s always a character warning others about their presumptuousness and overreach, there’s always someone just looking to make a profit and not really seeing the big picture, and there’s always someone who thinks they can put down any dinosaur insurrection whatsoever if you give them enough firepower. Jurassic Park is a little like A Wizard of Earthsea in its depiction of a dangerous force set loose in the world that resists any and all attempts to bring it under control once it’s out. There’s also a heavy dose of those old literary conflicts Man vs. Himself and Man vs. Man.

Should we reign in our natural curiosity and our growing sophistication in the use of technology because there could be unintended consequences if we persist in using what we’ve learned? Is it hubris or simply a commendable wish to explore the world around us that leads us to experiment with nature? How do we resolve differing attitudes toward nature, our place in it, and the best way to pursue and use knowledge? All of these questions are raised in the films, and to their credit, the films do not try to force an answer on you.

For every lecture Owen Grady or Ian Malcolm gives entrepreneur John Hammond or park manager Claire Dearing, there is a reply in the existence of the dinosaurs themselves in all their grandeur. Would it be better if Jurassic Park had never been created at all? No matter how much havoc ensues, the answer is never an unqualified “no.”

Would it have been better if we had never explored space or invented the Internet? Most people would probably say “no,” but would the answer change if we began to experience more negative consequences: some devastating bacteria brought back from a distant world or a global Internet breakdown affecting banking, communications, security, and other sectors? Jurassic Park evokes the wonder and magic of recovering a bit of lost Eden while also asking us to consider the implications of manipulating nature. Like a Greek tragedy, it warns of the dangers of hubris but then moves beyond tragedy to present scientific endeavor as something glorious. In our post-Edenic world, the movies seem to say, what we do is up to us—as long as we are willing to live with the consequences.

Wordplay’s Lost Marble, Explained

Q. Wordplay, you recently had a photo of what looked like a blue marble on your Facebook page and jokes about the “Lost Marble of Wordplay,” or something like that. Could you tell me what that was about? Was it supposed to be funny?

A. Sure, I can answer that. The lost marble of wordplay is a small blue marble about a quarter-inch in diameter that escaped from my “Lost Marbles” jar one night when I was trying to move something in the car.

Q. You mean, it’s an actual marble?

A. Yes. A blue one. It has some friends, too, and they all live in the Lost Marbles jar when they aren’t escaping and rolling inconveniently under seats and into inaccessible corners. I probably said a few bad words the night it happened.

Q. You actually have a “Lost Marbles” jar, or is that a joke, too?

A. Well, it may be a joke, but it’s an actual jar, too.

Q. Can’t you explain it any better than that? I don’t see why you’d waste time and space on something like that. It’s not even really that funny.

A. Well, it may not be that funny, but it was more just a matter of seeing a photo of something very unlike the marble and then just making a joke out of the size disparity.

Q. But why is it funny?

A. Well, think of it this way. Wallace Stevens wrote a poem called “Anecdote of the Jar”: “I placed a jar in Tennessee/And round it was, upon a hill.” It’s an object that’s somewhat out of place, insignificant, and slightly ridiculous in a way, but everything in the landscape seems to rearrange itself around it so that it assumes an outsized importance. It’s sort of like someone just saying, “OK, everybody look at this,” and all of a sudden, that jar is the center of the universe. It’s kind of like that.

Q. Who’s Wallace Stevens?

A. Well, now, did you pay tuition to Wordplay so that we are now responsible for teaching you about modern poetry? The check must have gotten lost in the mail.

Q. Geez, it was a civil question.

A. And a civil answer, considering. Just type “Anecdote of the Jar” into Google.

Q. So it was a literal jar?

A. Probably metaphorical, actually. Unlike my “Lost Marbles” jar.

Q. So, how exactly did you lose the marbles again?

A. A unicorn jumped on the hood of the car, dislodging a sleeping and entirely innocent bison, and in the ensuing fray (which I failed to get a photo of), the jar fell over.

Q. But . . . Were the unicorn and bison in the car with you, or were they on the hood? I thought you said . . .

A. I’ll tell it to you straight: there’s no room in my car for either a unicorn or a bison. But don’t you think the sudden appearance of a unicorn would startle you enough to make you drop something?

Q. There’s no such thing as unicorns; you’re making that up.

A. Well, yes, but they did somehow become the national animal of Scotland.

Q. So you were in Scotland when it happened? How did you get your car over there?

A. It grew the wings of Pegasus and flew over the Atlantic at breakneck speed, landing in a patch of heather.

Q. But what caused it to grow wings? Cars can’t grow wings.

A. Not under normal circumstances.

The Wordplay One-Room Schoolhouse

With school being back in session here and in other places around the country, Wordplay is feeling its teacher-y side coming out. You may be of the opinion that one college degree (or two if you really must) should be enough for anyone. Here on this blog, we realize that not everyone has our propensity for running around studying everything that interests us. If we were going to design a curriculum for a basic understanding of Western Culture that would be accessible to anyone without the time or money to sink into four years on a well-appointed campus, we’d base it on what’s essentially a twelve-course curriculum.

You should realize that, while we’re in general agreement with the basic outlines of a humanities education, Wordplay might lend more weight to certain subjects than others would do. This is based on our own experience of what’s useful, and by the way, we mean practically useful as well as just sort of “good for you in a general sort of way.” It’s practically useful because knowledge in certain areas helps you understand references that pop up over and over again in conversation, the sciences, the arts, and the media. Never again would you have to wonder, for instance, why in the hell someone would name a moon Chiron or what the Oracle of Delphi was if you had had a course in Greek mythology.

When I look back over my education, I realize that even in elementary school, I had some very formative experiences. I’m not even going into the old-fashioned way I learned how to spell through phonics class (and it’s nice to not have to worry about spelling and punctuation: it frees your mind for other things). There was the teacher who often read to us from a world folktales book after lunch, and the geography class that made me realize what an interesting place the world, with all its varied cultures, really is. There was the Shakespeare class in high school. (Everyone needs one. I’m sorry to tell you this if you don’t like Shakespeare, but maybe you’ll thank me for it some day.) There was the World History class that opened a window to the past, and the many English classes that gave me a wide introduction to reading in what is called the “Western Canon.”

I don’t think I regret a single literature class I ever took, but aside from that, here are the courses I would recommend.

1. Greek and Roman mythology. Not surprisingly.
2. Renaissance Art.
3. Introduction to Shakespeare.
4. Music Appreciation. (You can also get a long way just by listening to a lot of music. I once had a crush on a violinist, and you wouldn’t believe how helpful that was in introducing me to a lot of classical music I wouldn’t have heard otherwise.)
5. Middle English. (This means any course in which you study the literature in Middle English, not in translation. The day you start to hear the music that underlies the English language—which is most apparent when you start to separate the rhythms from the meaning—is the day you’ll agree with me about this, and not a minute sooner, I predict.)
6. Introduction to Poetry. You really ought to have a separate class on the English Romantic poets, I think. Understanding why female English majors tend to develop crushes on Keats probably doesn’t hurt the boys that are interested in the female English majors—but make responsible use of your knowledge.
7. Any course that combines literature and depth psychology.
8. Introduction to Philosophy. (And Logic, too, if you can get it.)
9. Introduction to Film.
10. World Religions.
11. A foreign language of your choice. Or more than one, if possible. Then you’ll know just enough to be dangerous, like I am.
12. World History.

Of course, everyone needs to understand science and mathematics, too; they should be part of a good education. I personally disliked Algebra II and Trigonometry and went no further than that in math, and I have trouble wrapping my mind around certain concepts in Physics, but I recommend going as far as you can. My list is more for an understanding of culture than of science—but of course, science is a part of culture, too. I really don’t believe you have to cover everything; sometimes an introduction to a subject is all you need to open up not only that topic but to lead you into connections between various areas of knowledge. That’s when things really start to get fun.