Tag Archives: faith

Perfectly Cromulent Analysis: Bart Sells His Soul

Just before the month ends, here’s July’s analysis of The Simpsons‘ brilliant, multifaceted artistry. (All previous entries can be viewed here.) Perhaps The Simpsons‘ most dazzling feat was its ability to emanate such crusty cynicism while retaining a core of profound sincerity. And I’m not referring to the saccharine sincerity of sitcom “very special episodes,” either; I’m talking about moments that disclosed what the show’s writers really believed in. They were moments of vulnerability suggesting that the Simpsons weren’t just cartoonish punching bags, but real people with real beliefs, desires, and fears. “Bart Sells His Soul,” which hails from the beginning of the seventh season (and with it, the Oakley/Weinstein era), is 20 full minutes suffused with this same vulnerability. It’s about a young boy’s spiritual self-discovery through “suffering and thought and prayer,” as Lisa puts it. Even for a show as adventurous and groundbreaking as The Simpsons, that’s pretty heavy stuff.

The show, however, acquits itself impressively with an unflinching gaze into the essence of Bart. Yes, Bart: he of the chalkboard gags, the skateboard, and the mouthy t-shirt slogans, the envy of every kid alive in the 1990s. But, of course, beneath the too-cool-for-school posturing, Bart has always been just another 10-year-old, and “Bart Sells His Soul” even-handedly interrogates the disparity between image and reality. The episode opens with a brazen prank as Bart hands First Church of Springfield parishioners the lyrics to a “hymn” entitled “In the Garden of Eden” – really Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” a 17-minute relic of psychedelic rock. The disarming audacity with which he deceives the congregation epitomizes, as the French would say, the “Bartesque.” He tricks the churchgoers into eating his shorts, and then tells them not to have a cow, man.

Reverend Timothy Lovejoy, however, does nothing but have a cow. He’s Springfield’s envoy of tradition-bound organized religion and therefore a major figure of patriarchal authority. He’s also, in keeping with the show’s anti-authoritarian satirical outlook, ridiculously incompetent. From the outset, he’s gullible and out of touch. “Wait a minute,” he opines to himself, an eyebrow raised, “this sounds like rock and/or roll!” After his flock has been humiliated and exhausted, he takes the church’s youngsters aside and feeds them a Mad Libs-style script of fire and brimstone so as to force a confession.1 But Bart repeats the lines right back with an air of blasé disinterest. To Bart, Lovejoy’s threats of eternal damnation are just as impotent as Principal Skinner’s threats of detention, and it’s both because he’s an untamable rebel, à la Brando in The Wild One, and because these patriarchs are so neurotic and hypocritical.

As voiced by Harry Shearer, Lovejoy is a model of Middle American self-righteousness. His every sentence has the same pompous intonations, rendered ineffectual by his slight lisp, and his face is usually furrowed in the same disapproving frown. He mechanically advocates an impersonal brand of Christianity; it’s not hard to see why Bart dismisses his sermons and, with them, the adult world’s belief in the soul. Bart, a veteran trickster, is too sharp to be so easily duped.2 Milhouse, however, is just sheepish enough to give in, and Bart is outraged when he lets faith trump friendship. The two of them have an argument that brings questions of personal identity down to a 10-year-old’s level – to hell with the mind/body divide; what if you die while in a submarine? Incensed at his friend’s willingness to swallow adult lies, Bart exclaims, “Listen: you don’t have a soul, I don’t have a soul, there’s no such thing as a soul!” And to demonstrate his prioritization of money, a pragmatic, real-world concern, over religious dogma, which he regards as nothing but a collection of fairy tales,3 Bart strikes the titular bargain.

The first challenge to Bart’s cynical materialism comes from his sagacious sister. Unlike Lovejoy, Lisa doesn’t have any hypocritical motivations to espouse the concept of the soul, and unlike Milhouse, she doesn’t confront him with a mess of folk beliefs and fear-driven superstitions. Instead, she has her faith in the soul’s symbolic value, which is deeply rooted in her sense of self rather than any specific belief system. Bart and Lisa’s conversation in the driveway is really the kernel of the episode’s deepest philosophical exploration: here are two children in the America of the ’90s, where all traditional authorities (government, businesses, media, schools, churches)4 have been thoroughly discredited. So what do they put their faith in, and how do they define themselves as human beings? Whereas Lisa has her own simple, functional theory of the self,5 Bart has pranks and cold hard cash – his is a reactive ethos, as he prefers to beat society within its own system rather than formulate one of his own. He comes to regret his hubris, however, after the rest of the episode delivers a concussive wallop of spiritual horror.

Ashley told me that she once thought “Bart Sells His Soul” was a Treehouse of Horror episode, and it’s understandable given the events that round off the first act. Santa’s Little Helper and Snowball II growl and hiss at Bart, respectively, with no apparent motivation; the Kwik-E-Mart’s automatic door admits the pious Rod and Tod Flanders, but not him; and he can’t even fog up glass with his breath. It all plays out very ambiguously, with only the subtle, subjective implication that these are the consequences of selling one’s soul. Its primary effect isn’t outright fear, but more a feeling of unsettledness. As Bart grumbles when his face smacks against the door, “This is getting weird.” The final, unsettling straw is when Bart loses his ability to enjoy Itchy and Scratchy. Lisa quotes Pablo Neruda: “Laughter is the language of the soul.” I love Lisa’s role in this episode: she’s at once the precocious, argumentative little sister and the voice of reason, sincerely worried about her brother’s well-being.

She tests Bart’s capacity for laughter by making Homer trip and get his head caught in the stairs. While Bart would normally be the one causing such mischief, he’s now incapable of enjoying it, and Lisa concludes, “I think you really did lose your soul.” As before, in Lisa’s reckoning it doesn’t matter if the soul is “physically real,” or if Bart’s sense of humor is merely a psychological (and therefore not “real”) casualty of his exchange. The point is that Bart’s mistake, in giving up a part of himself, has left him unable to properly interact with the outside world. He returns to Milhouse, who’s undergoing no such tribulation but is instead carrying on with his childhood; unsympathetic to Bart’s angst, he offers to sell the soul back only at a wildly inflated price. Facing a potentially permanent existential quandary, Bart can now see beyond the petty, childish dealings that were once his métier.

In a scene that’s at once touching and disturbing, Marge detects something “off” about Bart’s hug. She considers the usual diagnoses for a troubled 10-year-old – “it’s not fear of nuclear war… it’s not swim test anxiety…” – but when Bart suggests a missing soul, she blindly dismisses it: “Aw, honey, you’re not a monster.” These dead-on mother/son interactions are some of those vulnerable moments I was speaking of: Marge does her best to assuage her son’s very palpable fears, but inadvertently exacerbates the situation. Here, The Simpsons is speaking to a very critical youth/adult disconnect. It’s not the jaded mistrust that characterizes Bart’s relationship with Lovejoy or Skinner; it’s a painful breakdown within the core of the family. And it has none of the mawkish sentiment that abounds in some of the weaker family-centric episodes. It’s just a moment of very real emotion and very dark humor, as Bart’s mother implicitly but unintentionally calls him a soulless monster and turns out the light.

Then we get one of the series’ great dream sequences, complete with pink, Seussian landscapes, green skies, and eerily sweet music. All the other children are playing with their souls, as represented by phantasmal blue outlines of themselves; they jump into rowboats and head toward an Oz-like emerald city on the horizon. Bart, however, is left alone – so here, the loss of a soul becomes the loss of a friend, and Bart is condemned to be left behind. This dream really crystallizes the episode’s child’s-eye-view of the soul. It’s not about what adult authorities think the soul is; it’s what Bart learns for himself, through his anguish. His long nightmare lends him insight into the soul’s true meaning: it’s about identity, belonging, humor, companionship. As the third act confirms, “Bart Sells His Soul” is really about how Bart earns his soul.

Like “Homer’s Enemy,” this episode has a much, much lighter subplot to complement the main story’s existential heft. In it, Moe converts his once-dank tavern into a tacky family restaurant. The two storylines intersect when Homer takes the family to Uncle Moe’s Family Feedbag. Lisa says a spiteful grace in which she emphasizes the word soul, prompting Bart to run off into the night, and he enters the final stage of his grueling spiritual odyssey. There’s little real analysis to be done on the Moe subplot; suffice it to say that it’s a much more expected sitcom story, and its easy jokes definitely alleviate some of the episode’s overall bleakness. As it approaches its climax, it gets very bleak: Bart faces one terrifying anomaly after another as he descends into Springfield’s desolate urban depths,6 from an exterminator clad in a Vader-like suit to a cackling street cleaner. Finally, he runs into Ralph Wiggum and begs desperately for Ralph’s soul. It’s so bizarre, albeit strangely plausible, that it’s easy to miss the frighteningly real portrayal of a babbling schizophrenic in the same scene.

Bart’s attempt to track down Milhouse proves pointless, however, as Milhouse has already resold Bart’s soul so as to purchase the most ephemeral, meaningless toys of all – ALF pogs. Bart visits the buyer, Comic Book Guy, who reports that an unnamed party bought it, and that they “were most interested in having possession of little boy’s soul.” Here, the languages of preteen consumerism and spiritual self-identification are oddly but seamlessly mixed. Rather than being just the product of obsolete superstitions, Bart learns that the soul is surprisingly relevant even in a world where the al-ighty ollar7 is the end goal of all transactions. Finally, he resorts to a long, earnest prayer: “I just want it back. Please? I hope you can hear this…” and with that, Lisa gives him back his soul. Note that I don’t say “gives him back his sheet of paper.” By this point, that paper has been so imbued with meaning that, as far as the viewer’s concerned, it is his soul. The episode ends with Bart dreaming again – but this time, he has his soul as a rowing companion, and they ram Martin’s boat. Bart has fought and prayed, and now he has his self back, prankish and rebellious as ever.

“Bart Sells His Soul” is both a child’s fable of loss and retrieval and a mature rumination on postmodern spiritual bankruptcy. With Bart, we see adult hypocrisies as ripe for skewering, but we also endure an episode’s worth of self-inflicted suffering, culminating in a newfound humility, and a gratitude for one’s own identity. It’s cathartic without being melodramatic, instead attaining its considerable emotional pull in the traditional Simpsons way: through nonstop jokes, which are sometimes brutal and dark, but still spot-on. The episode is also a tour de force for Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart, who shows impressive range and accuracy in capturing the scope and detail of a 10-year-old’s worldview. “Bart Sells His Soul” is unequaled in the rest of the series for its fearlessness in stripping away the façade and revealing to us who Bart truly is, soul and all. And that ain’t not bad.

So, what do you think of this episode? And which one should I tackle next? Leave any suggestions in the comment box below.

1 I especially liked the “murderers and single mothers” line as a jab at Lovejoy’s outdated but indignant worldview.

2 Unless, of course, the religious authorities lower themselves to his level, as with the Li’l Bastard Brainwashing Kit in “The Joy of Sect.”

3 They’re lies and fairy tales, however, with very pragmatic, real-world rewards, as the episode bitingly demonstrates when Milhouse asks, “What would [religions] have to gain?” and we cut to Lovejoy dumping collection baskets into a coin-sorting machine.

4 Read: Quimby, Burns, Brockman, Skinner, and Lovejoy.

5 This presages her conversion to Buddhism, but her beliefs are stated so much more elegantly (and less stridently) here than they would be “She of Little Faith” and subsequent episodes.

6 The episode’s writer, Greg Daniels, says that Bart’s nocturnal trials were partially inspired by Martin Scorsese’s After Hours, and it shows, including just a touch of the same manically black comedy.

7 See “Team Homer.” I couldn’t resist.

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Pondering faith & spirituality

Last night, trying hard to get to sleep in the midst of watching Sergei Eisenstein’s October, I started having a lot of interesting thoughts. I bolted out of bed, sat at my computer for a few minutes, and typed a few of them up (and then briefly edited them just now):

“I do believe in God.

An omnipotent, omniscient God who loves me. I don’t believe in a petty, more or less human God who gets pissed off and kills people or sends them to eternal torture for minor infractions. I believe in God and his son, Jesus. I believe his nature is confusing to us, and that we’re not capable of fully understanding it. I don’t believe that he wrote and inspired the translation of every single word in the King James Bible, and one thing I believe absolutely for certain is that the God I believe in would never toss out eternal punishment for something so simple and natural – and which causes such a basic pleasure – as questioning, learning, and thinking about every aspect of life, including his nature and what is right or moral.

And questioning whether the vision of God insisted upon by fundamentalists could ever lead to a universe that contained any happiness at all. If the God I’m supposed to believe in is spiteful, insecure, quick to violence, and cares about a select group of people while forsaking the rest, well, then, fuck that. That’s no God I will ever be willing to believe in. Why believe in an all-powerful being who’s never given you any proof of his existence, who requires your faith to believe in him, and yet who wants to cause endless, inescapable pain, to you even, at the drop of a hat or the slightest sign of weakness – if that’s the God there is, we were screwed from the beginning, the universe is inherently horrible, and heaven and hell are pretty much indistinguishable.

I wonder if it doesn’t seem more likely that there is no God. But I think even if it that’s the case, he’s still worth believing in. Especially if he’s good, loving, wants only the best for all of His creations, and is willing to give us a chance if we’re willing to try to be good people and leave his earth a little better than we found it, if we can. But the unforgiving, absolutist, sadistic, and generally hateful God that fundamentalists believe in? If he’s the only choice, I give in any day to the nagging feeling that an afterlife in paradise is just too implausible given the world we’ve seen so far. I believe in God, but only if he’s the one who cares about us, wants only the best for us, and loves us deeply. I don’t see why it would be worthwhile otherwise.”

I was raised in a Christian family and educated in a Catholic school, but my relationship with religion has been an odd one. There are some questions where I just can’t find satisfactory answers: for example, if the sins you commit can cause your damnation, why aren’t they more clearly enumerated and in greater detail, so that we know God’s word on every possible action? Also, if you have to believe in Jesus or you go to hell, well, what about the billions of people throughout human history who were, because of their time period or environment, never exposed to Jesus? Are they all fucked over by default? These are quandaries I’ve never had sufficiently explained. But, going along with what I wrote above, I think another big question is this: there are many, many mutually exclusive conceptions of what God is and wants, so why should I automatically go with what the fundamentalist Christian or Jehovah’s Witness or Mormon evangelist is yelling at me from across the street? (This really happened when I was standing in line for a concert at 1st Avenue; he was screaming, but the traffic drowned him out.) I could believe anything, so why should I specifically side with the minority belief that tells me everything I enjoy is sinful and I’m going to hell, unless I devote every last moment of my life to prayer, or unless I give lots of cash to this megachurch, or unless I pass this letter on within 24 hours, or etc., etc.? I think religion is a powerful thing that can give a lot of help and guidance in life. But I just don’t see why endless amounts of good, selfless, and hard-working non-Christians should be condemned to hellfire forever just because they weren’t lucky enough to be born to Christian parents, whether good or not. That seems like the worst kind of ethnocentrism. (And has led to brutal ethnocentrism, too – the Crusades, the conquest of the New World?)

I have long enjoyed this thought experiment: what if the way the world works is that everyone, when they die, goes wherever they feel they should go, whether heaven, hell, the ground, being reincarnated, or anywhere else? It may not make much sense – and it may suggest some kind of eternal segregation of mankind, which would be sad – but it’s just a thought. Or maybe we all, every one of us, join together for one eternity-long carnival like the end of 8 1/2. Or maybe, speaking of faith-related film, we should just watch more Ingmar Bergman movies. The Seventh Seal, Virgin Spring, Winter Light, The Silence – these are some deeply religious movies that probe into questions of God and man, of heaven and hell. And as David Thomson reminded me the other day, while 1950s Hollywood was making bombastic biblical epics like The Robe and Ben-Hur, full of showmanship and swords & sandals, anything but actual faith – Robert Bresson was off in France making quiet little films that are deeply spiritual in style and substance (he’s been called “the patron saint of cinema”) like Diary of a Country Priest (1951), about a poor and sickly young priest who’s rejected by his own new congregation. I haven’t examined Bresson closely enough. I know vaguely, at least, a couple things: obviously, his movies aren’t nearly well-known enough outside of people already well-versed in film. I didn’t learn his name until after I started college. And then, that his movies generally concern a protagonist who suffers, endures, is tortured by the whims of fate, and eventually, for the most part, dies. His films are entirely unconventional, very low-key, and he even made an entire movie about an abused donkey (Au hasard Balthazar [1966]) that never once stoops into the realm of exploited sentiment in which virtually every other movie about animals dwells. So as I tend to do, I suggest turning to films like those of Bergman and Bresson for some measure of spiritual guidance. Movies can perform many functions, and one of those is giving insight into how the world works, physically and spiritually, and how we can come to terms with that.

So to bring this all together: I am extremely open-minded and, in my case, therefore easily confused, about religion and everything else. But after all is said and done, I really do believe that there’s someone, something out there who loves every one of us and will use, in some way, his infinite wisdom and power to help us along. I’m not saying the world doesn’t suck. It does, and then some. And sure, there very easily might not be a God. But so sue me, after all these years, I still think it helps me to believe.

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