Muses of a Fire: Essays on Faith, Film, and Literature
By Paul Krause.
Stone Tower Press, 2024.
Paperback, 227 pages, $24.95.
Reviewed by Jesse Russell.
Roman Polanski’s 1974 masterpiece Chinatown is not only a classic of film noir, but it is also one of the greatest (if not the most moral and family-friendly) films ever made. Like films of other masterful directors like Stanley Kubrick, Alfred Hitchcock, and Akira Kurosawa, in Chinatown (nearly) every shot, every word of the script, and every action of the characters is flawless. However, the film’s message is ultimately pessimistic. Chinatown ends with the (in)famous lines, “Forget it, Jake, it’s Chinatown.” The message is that no matter how hard one tries, he or she cannot defeat the inherent corruption of the political system. In fact, it would be better to do as little as possible.
This (semi-)stoic resignation in the face of tremendous evil is one of the dominant existential modes of the twenty-first century. Many feel as though politics, religion, and business are so corrupt that nothing can be done, and it is best to simply carve out a piece of the pie for oneself. In his recent work, Muses of a Fire: Essays on Faith, Film, and Literature, Voegelinview editor (and Law and Liberty contributor) Paul Krause presents a much more hopeful and redemptive vision of art and life.
In his introduction, Krause outlines his vision as being fundamentally Christian. He argues that Christians can benefit from reading works of literature and watching films. He also believes that Christians can engage the world through culture and criticism. In his introduction, Krause further lays out one of the core literary methods in the book: exploring great works of literature and film through an Augustinian-Romantic lens that chronicles the triumph of love over evil. The first work that Krause explores is Homer’s Iliad, which has come under critical gaze from the political left due to the New Right’s embrace of classical culture and education. The left largely seemed worried that many on the right, including Elon Musk and Jordan Peterson, present a too simplified and militaristic vision of classical culture. However, Krause’s reading is rich and multivariate. While Homer’s epic is known for celebrating the wrath of Achilles, Krause sees the work as ending with the love of Achilles and the love and kindness of other Trojans and Greeks.
Many of the defining moments of the Iliad contain carnage and slaughter, but some of the most important elements of the poem are scenes of profound love. Hector is famously a loving father and husband (who is, in return, loved by his wife and son). Patroclus is a kind healer of comrades. Achilles reconciles with Priam in the end. Krause’s main point is that the Iliad is not simply a proto-fascistic glorification of violence, nor is it a work ready-made for woke deconstructive readings. It is a work that demonstrates that, while strength and moral courage are essential elements of a hero, it is love that ultimately triumphs.
Indeed, despite the refusal of many contemporary critics to acknowledge it, the triumph of love is a thread throughout much of Western literature. As Krause further notes, nineteenth-century English novelist Emily Brontë’s 1847 Wuthering Heights is likewise read in contemporary literature circles as being a fundamentally bleak novel reveling in lust and violence. On the contrary, Krause argues, Brontë crafts the novel as a warning about the dangers of lust and violence. Wuthering Heights’ Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff are vile characters. Catherine, before dying, begs for Heathcliff’s forgiveness, which he, of course, refuses. When Catherine Earnshaw’s daughter, Cathy Linton, comes to Heathcliff’s estate of Wuthering Heights, which, as Krause notes, has been poisoned by Heathcliff’s corrupted spirit, she is able to counterbalance the evil with love and kindness. It is this love that redeems Heathcliff and Wuthering Heights. Once again, the bleak vision of humans reduced to the state of savage animality—a viewpoint prominent on the left and, sadly, among elements of the New Right—is a jaded and incomplete vision that misses the core of much of Western literature.
Krause does not only dwell on great works of fiction. While many on the New Right are attracted to pagan imperial Rome as filtered through the twentieth-century controversial thinker Julius Evola, Krause provides a trenchant critique of this fantasy via the last Roman: St. Augustine of Hippo. Drawing from Peter Brown, Krause notes that St. Augustine was the first major thinker to break firmly with the “myth of Rome.” At first, this break may seem odd and ironic, for St. Augustine, as the Church father chronicles in his Confessions, was famously steeped in Roman literature and culture. However, as he matured, Augustine realized the limits of earthly glory. Yet, as Krause brilliantly notes, Augustine’s personal rejection of glory is paired with a rejection of the earthly glory of Rome. At least one of the catalysts for Rome’s success was the desire to dominate. This desire to dominate ultimately led to Rome’s downfall. This is a very sobering point for many on the New Right who embrace figures like Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, and Napoleon Bonaparte. While these men were unquestionably great (in a natural sense), their lives all ended in tragedy as they continued to strive for more and more power and glory.
In addition to literary classics and political and theological musings, the third element of Paul Krause’s Muses of a Fire is film criticism. In a host of classic films such as 2001: A Space Odyssey and Star Wars, as well as popcorn flicks like Armageddon, Krause explores the theme of the triumph of love. In particular, in the fourth chapter, “Hal Unplugged—Fear, Terror, and Salvation in Science Fiction,” Krause reads Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey, as a fundamentally loveless film. The film chronicles a Nietzschean and Darwinian struggle for existence through the hostile climates of prehistoric earth and a futuristic outer space. Each figure in the film, from the man-ape Moon Watcher to the astronaut David Bowman, must prove his fitness for survival by battling against competitors. In “Hal Unplugged,” Krause contrasts 2001 with Christopher Nolan’s 2014 Interstellar. While not the technical equal of 2001, Interstellar presents a much more hopeful vision in which love triumphs over Darwinian selfishness. In Interstellar, it is Matthew McConaughey’s Coop who saves the world, not through a callous eugenics, but through the love shared between his daughter, Murph, and him. This does not preclude strength and boldness on Coop and Murph’s part, but it is love that ultimately triumphs, not selfish will-to-power.
Trump 2.0 is upon us, and, within a matter of months, the national politics of the United States has radically shifted in a muscular and aggressive rightward direction. The left is terrified. Many on the right are ecstatic to see (at least moderately) pro-life and patriotic America-first policies come to the center stage. At the same time, some have argued that the bravado and bullishness of the Trump administration are facilitating a toxic national culture that lacks humility and compassion. As Paul Krause notes in Muses of a Fire, the best of Western literature and Western civilization is rooted in strength and a sober realism. However, this foundation is further girded with kindness and a sincere and authentic love that will triumph over any evil.
Jesse Russell has written for publications such as Catholic World Report, The Claremont Review of Books Digital, and Front Porch Republic.
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