Supernatural Article at Helium

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Spread the Gospel

At Comic-Con '07 this past summer, series creator, writer, and executive producer Eric Kripke related to fans the news that his show, Supernatural, came within a hair's breadth of being cancelled after the Season 2 final episode. While this may not have come as a complete surprise, his words had the effect of galvanizing a dedicated fanbase like a Winchester punch in the gut. "Go forth and spread the Gospel of Supernatural," Kripke exhorted.

"Tell your friends to tell their friends," added Jensen Ackles, who plays Dean Winchester alongside Jared Padalecki as his brother Sam. With a team of writers, directors, producers and technicians that reads like a who's who of the science fiction and horror movie genre, including writer and producer Ben Edlund, who worked with Joss Whedon on Angel and the short-lived but critically-acclaimed series, Firefly; Kim Manners and John Shiban, director and writer, respectively, from the X-Files; talented writers Sera Gamble and Raelle Tucker; and Robert Singer, producer and director, who was the executive producer of Lois & Clark: the New Adventures of Superman, as well as producing Cujo, Independence Day, and the TV series Dracula, the team charges forth each week with a heart-stopping, stomach-churning, breathtaking ride with the Winchester boys through the back roads of American myth.

Joined by Jeffrey Dean Morgan, who guest-stars periodically as their father John Winchester; Jim Beaver, who plays veteran demon hunter Bobby Singer; Samantha Ferris as the dedicated and street-wise Ellen Harvelle, Sam and Dean not only take up the challenge of saving innocents from things that go bump in the night, but battle evil in the form of demons, poltergeists, vengeful spirits and horrifying mythical creatures that spring from modern urban legend and ancient religious lore from all over the world. None of this is paying work, you understand. The boys live under the radar as best they can, on credit card fraud and hustling pool. It's all part of the hero/anti-hero premise, much like that described in Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey. With humor and heady passion, the brothers' journey is a headlong rush into the unknown and unpredictable, where they struggle with almost as many internal demons as those "real" ones sent from the depths of hell. Goaded at first by revenge over their mother's and Sam's fiance's deaths at the hands of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Sam and Dean followed their father through the American countryside, tracking signs of demonic activity and gathering clues from cryptic messages left on cell phones and in the pages of the journal he left behind. The demonic plague on their family threatens to consume them, as first Sam and then John Winchester fall victim to otherworldly possession.

But here's where Supernatural shows itself to be something more than a mere story: the ties that bind the Winchester family seem to be stronger than death itself. Be it the saving of souls through exorcism or the selling of their own to Satan's ilk, nothing, no sacrifice is too great for this family. And the angst! Oh, the angst. Enough honest-to-goodness real-life conflicted soul-torturing for the most die-hard Oprah fan, this show skillfully walks a fine line between "no chick-flick moments" and the unfathomable yet irresistible enigma of true martyrs. Sam and Dean are at times typical bickering siblings, who band together at the moment of truth to become larger-than-life warriors at the gates of hell, soldiers who will stop at nothing to protect the innocent and those whom they love.

Dean's is a tortured soul; the streetwise elder brother who describes his first kill at age sixteen in detached yet somehow awe-struck terms. He is hedonistic, a smart-alecky wisecracker, whose love for his brother knows no bounds. Unbelievably at times, his tears will flow in honest hope, love and occasionally regret. He is a man of extremes, a risk-taker who moves with calculated precision. Sam, who left law school, raised mostly by his elder brother as Dad was off hunting demons, researches cases on the 'net and stays away from the frivolous pleasures sought after by Dean, for fear of hurting or causing another death either by tragedy or association. Both are formidable fighters and their well-choreographed teamwork in planning and execution are just plain awesome to watch.

The brotherly banter abounds and the two are not above making practical jokes on each other, but nowhere on television will you find a more devoted, intractable and firmly cemented relationship between two characters. The chemistry between Ackles and Padalecki as Dean and Sam is palpable. These two talented actors have created a phenomenon that has inspired one of the more explosive and dedicated fandoms in recent years, causing stats on the Hey Neilsen website to rise 7000% in 24 hours when notices shot through the boards at the CW, LiveJournal, TwoP, and many others to go out and show support for "their show." In addition, the fandom has used websites, email campaigns, and even a charity fundraising initiative, all to broadcast "the Gospel of Supernatural" to the masses.

Their daily lives a whirlwind, few quiet moments exist for these two outside of motel rooms and their beloved '67 black Chevy Impala, a legacy left to Dean by their father that is often described as the "third character" on the show. The car's expansive trunk holds an arsenal of ghost and evil-fighting equipment. Listening to Dean's classic rock cassette tape collection, the brothers travel steadfastly from town to town in search of their next "gig." They pick up clues from newspapers and local tips, then follow them resolutely and skillfully to the ultimate confrontation: be it a Reaper summoned and controlled by a warped member of a religious flock, a genie hulking in an abandoned warehouse greedily sucking the life from its victims, or trying to help a disturbed young man with paranormal capabilities, counteracting the latest threats from an overzealous FBI agent called Henrickson, or even a rabid demon-hunter who is convinced that Sam is the anti-Christ, the brothers thread the needle to find solutions that will hurt the fewest innocents while confronting the demons in their own psyches. This season brings even more challenges in the form of a demon named Ruby who claims to be able to help save Dean from his crossroads deal, and Bela, a mercenary who is in the market for stolen goods -- including some of the artifacts and talismans the Winchesters must use in order to win in the fight to save mankind in the coming Apocalypse.

It's a thrilling, often shocking bloodbath when these two let go in a battle to conquer evil. It's just as heart-stoppingly inspiring when Dean cuts down a victim who has been left to die, saves a drowning child, or Sam places a calming hand on Dean's chest after an especially stultifying close call. When these two get onto a metaphysical level and confront issues of their own self-worth and destiny, it's nothing less than a lesson in the purely redeeming alchemy of human empathy. Each vowed to stop at nothing in order to save the presumably doomed other: Dean having sold his soul and left with one year to live, Sam being possibly the heir to a kingdom of which he wants no part. Each has his own lessons to learn, his own wisdom to share, and demon asses to kick. In this time of waning consumption of fossil fuels and the yawning threat of the end of the American dream, in the face of fear, despair, and the sure knowledge of impending doom, there is in the American psyche an unwillingness to give in to all of this. So perhaps the best thing about Supernatural is the emphasis it places on the preservation of hope, love, and ideals. There are still wide open highways to roam together in a kick-ass muscle car. Saving lives. Hunting things. The family business.

And I, an avowed environmentalist and social activist who not too long ago totally eschewed television, plan to be right there with them every step of the way. Somewhere bound up in all of the work that the show's creators do, there is the timeless theme of humanity's search for what is good, right, and honorable in all of us, perhaps especially the not-so-perfect. And that is an important and worthy thing for television to be doing nowadays. So yes, I'm spreading the Gospel of Supernatural, one of the finest pieces of collaborative art to brighten the universe in a long, long time.

Susannah Eanes writes, dances, bakes bread, tends a flock of heirloom chickens, is mother to five living with her archaeologist husband on an eighteenth century plantation in rural Carolina, and is a total Dean Girl.

Veritas

Men hate passion, any great passion. Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

I defy the tyranny of precedent. Clara Barton.

I am faced with an exposition of the most ridiculous kind. It is almost as if, by turning round and round upon myself, within myself, I am finding out the true nature of the world at large. Fie! It is an old shoe, a bastard, losing daily whatever dignity it has gained at its own behest. I am well to be rid of it.

The world itself is an oasis that draws us out of ourselves, to interact and play nicely with our neighbors. I am all about community, of course. Enjoying friends and family is one of the greatest joys on earth. And here is the rub, see. An oasis is only that which stands out in the middle of the wasteland, providing nourishment and the opportunity for rest for weary travelers. An oasis! Yes, there I’ll be bound.

And miss the boat entirely, of course.

Why linger at an oasis? Why settle, why drink, why sleep? If life is a journey, hadn’t we better get on with it? Saddle up the camels, do something, for heaven’s sake. Or if life is a banquet, should we at least find a place that has good food? God. Get me away from these mongrels, who do nothing more than clasp and smile and make us all feel so damned good.

Take me somewhere I can hear myself think. I have work to do.

I am a promethean, which means I take my work seriously not as art, but of the fact of its usefulness, probably more so than many. It is the work itself that is the point, and nothing that comes after. And I have no opinion at all on whether or not the work is successful, only that it is good, and says what I want it to say. Otherwise, why do it? Why produce, unless to express oneself? If I were going to express another’s opinion, or mimic another’s work, what reason would I have to exist? I do honor by the fact of my existence in bringing my own view to the forefront. Which, I realize, is basically what Ayn Rand said, in billions and billions of words.

That being said, too often the world itself gets in the way. Why? Because I am shy, introspective, and withdrawn by nature. I listen too often to others and quiet my voice. I write what people want to hear, I know pleasant turns of phrase, am witty, clever, and so I am quite repugnant to myself. I mimic so well the acclaimed voices. Eventually I must stop, it will be my undoing. The roar in my ears does not go away when I lift my hands from the keyboard to cover them. I shout at those nearby; I am shouting at myself. Only when I write does my real voice speak. You will almost never hear it from my lips. That is the way of things, perhaps it makes me who I am. I no longer apologize for being several things at once, I am who I am. That cannot change, or who would be me? What of worth would I have to offer; again, why else should I exist?

I know things, things that I left out of the most recent work. I am a miner of the soul; I will go and put them back in. It was wrong to take them out –I am happy now that someone pointed it out to me. As if to say, “Why did you not –“ and “It would have been better if you had –“ when all along I truly believed no one would have understood had I done so. I am glad to put them back. They will complete the work as I originally envisioned. I sigh a deep sigh of completion, and gratitude.

This past week was a vacation for me and the children. We went home to the mountains, to the blue sky and clear air of Virginia. We visited post-card towns and had tea & cakes with the vicar –okay, he was imaginary, but we had them outside on the lawn behind the library not fifteen feet from where I first made out with the father of one of them when I was about thirteen years old –and no I did not mention it! That would have been gross. To continue painting the pastoral scene, we shopped and walked and took miles of pictures. We bought fabric at Schoolhouse Fabrics to make new fall dresses for the girls & me, and a cool grey shirt for my son. We lived and breathed and sang and tromped down to Asheville to take in Biltmore and the highlands in all their pre-fall glory. And about halfway through it, while walking along atop a century-old rock wall in Rocky Mount, Virginia, my youngest said to me, “Mommy, it feels like we are in a movie.”

And I said to her, “That is passion, dearest.”

“What’s passion? I thought what happened to Christ was The Passion.”

“Yeah, that’s passion, too. Passion is when you love something so hard it becomes real.”
She giggled, skipping ahead. “Oh, I get it. Like how I love my turtles when I talk to them.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Get me down, Mommy.”

I held out my arms to her and she jumped, landing neatly on the cracked sidewalk. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” And hugged her tight.

She walked on ahead of me, and eventually climbed back up to walk along the top of the wall. “It still feels like we are in a movie,” she said presently.

“That is good, I’m glad.”

“I like it.”

“You should. In fact, that is the best. You should feel that way every single day. Don’t ever lose that feeling, OK? Don’t settle for anything less.”

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t feel this way hardly ever.”

“You hold onto it. It makes you strong. Don’t ever lose it.” And I laughed with her.


The work will be a beacon, when it is finished. Again. This I know. And yes, it is all about me. I am the only one left to tell. It is my mind, my entrance upon the world’s stage. I gather up the bits of straw from the threshing floor – the fleeting bits that fall from my fingers in the times when I must compulsively be writing something about passion, for the voices will not stop – and toss them skyward. They fall on happy faces who lick their lips and feed upon them, devouring the little bits of my heart I’d sewn in so carefully. I am happy to do that, their happiness makes me smile.

But there will be more in the morning. So watch, and see. It is practicum for the larger work, it flexes my working muscles and makes me concentrate on plot and character and making something totally imagined real.

Soon I must leave the oasis. It is discipline, yet it is too much in the world. When I have completed it, it will be time for surgery on the original work. The one that has followed me around for the better part of two decades. That has received two lovely long letters of encouragement from now two editors who press me to add voices to it, find an agent, and submit to, as one put it, “a larger publisher with a more literary (quieter, less pop-fiction-readership-oriented) audience.” This is the work that defines my vision of experience and reality between the perfectly imperfect man and woman. That rocks my boat. That frustrates me no end because I just don’t want to give up and feel all the things working in this mine field makes me feel. And so I take the coward’s way out, and try to make it a popular read. I got what I deserved.

I received the go-ahead to basically be true to myself, my vision, and write what I know. What good does it do within me, when it is obvious that the work would be so much better with it out?
And so I will do. That accomplishment will give me the peace I affirm is the only true peace, in the end. That is the point of my existence.

For nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere
--John Donne, Aire and Angels