Fearless: The Savior Archetype in Peter Weir’s Masterpiece
By Steve Wagner
“You’ll be safe. Don’t you read the papers? Everybody with me lives.”
— Max Klein, (Jeff Bridges) in Fearless
In this time of pandemic, as we witness the mounting deaths of fellow citizens and experience the painful loss of close family and friends, many of us may be contemplating our own mortality in a way more acute than our heretofore fast and filled-to-the-brim lives have allowed the psychic space. I would guess this is not a frame of mind welcomed by most; we seem to be “happiest” when we are too busy, distracted, or entertained (and often, the more mindlessly, the better) to truly reflect on the inevitable journey that awaits us all. For many, the near-constant worries about finances, responsibilities, and regrets that dominate our thoughts are—for all the pain and uncertainty they bring—still preferable to pondering our inherent impermanence.
Because death is such an endlessly perplexing fact of life, it is an unavoidable subject in all the arts. And yet, while countless films revel in showing us death in every conceivable visceral form, and some even manage to intelligently weave its mystery and consequence into their central plots and character arcs, very few are sufficiently thoughtful to explore the topic of fear of death, and fewer still have the confidence to defer to the personal instincts of each viewer, to not offer a message, not provide a personal prescription, not attempt to frame a collective response.
For me, the most affecting of this smallest sliver of film genres is 1993’s aptly titled Fearless, a movie remarkably neglected in most discussions of great modern-era films. Adapted by Rafael Yglesias from his own novel of the same name, it represents a creative zenith not just for its star, Jeff Bridges, but also its director, Peter Weir, who from his startling mid-70s Australian films (Picnic at Hanging Rock, The Last Wave) through subsequent decades of helming major Hollywood features (Witness, Dead Poet’s Society, The Truman Show, Master and Commander) has shown a singular ability to craft commercial successes with thought-provoking spiritual underpinnings. Weir’s approach has offered actors such as Harrison Ford, Robin Williams, and Jim Carrey roles that transcend their usual fare and are distinguished by critical acclaim and awards nominations. As for Bridges, he has been one of our most genuine, instinctive and, yes, fearless actors for now over fifty years, bringing to life a dizzying array of characters it is impossible to imagine anyone else playing. Given this most challenging of roles and his high profile, broad popularity, and decades-long esteemed career, it is both ironic and lamentable that his bravest and most transcendent performance—in what is also arguably his best film—slipped beneath the pop culture radar and, while quietly critically revered, remains generally undiscovered by the greater public.
The story of a man who survives a plane crash and overcomes his fear of death, Fearless unflinchingly explores difficult existential concerns while avoiding nearly all the trappings of contemporary commercial films. Here, we find no real villains, no real violence, a bare minimum of plot, and no overt attempt to influence the viewer’s understanding of the film’s core meaning. And yet, Fearless maintains a palpable tension throughout, a rising temperature stoked by way of its unique storytelling structure and a conflicted hero who upends the perspectives of the other characters (and the viewer) through his dedication to unfiltered truth and a willingness to sacrifice himself in the service of saving others. If this character sounds familiar, it’s because it is—Max Klein is, in the context of this story, a Christ figure. Spoiler alert: this is ultimately a source of discord for Max, as most of the characters in this film aren’t particularly enamored with this savior in their midst or his enlightenment that he insists is real.
We first meet Max after the crash, as he leads a group of survivors through a cornfield. We then follow him through his post-crash narrative, in which he appears to be grappling with a mix of severe psychosis and exhilarating freedom from fear, both of which alienate those closest to him. As we accompany Max on his journey forward, a series of flashbacks take us through his harrowing experience as the plane is plummeting, his death seemingly certain. But something happens as he faces his fate: he rises above his fear of death, and this brings him the clarity of mind to comfort other passengers gripped by fear, and even to save many of them from their would-be tragic ends.
In addition to the two plots unfolding in tandem—his experience during the crash, and his road to recovery following it—Max is also of two personalities throughout the film: enlightened and traumatized. (Bridges somehow balances both emotional states at once, effortlessly darting back and forth between the two, often in the same scene or even the same shot.) However, none of the other characters in the film are comfortable with either of these two Maxes. His wife, Laura (Isabella Rossellini) is confused and threatened by Max’s aloofness towards her, his closeness with fellow survivor Carla Rodrigo (Rosie Perez), and his newfound predilection for unabridged honesty. At one point, she admits to psychiatrist Bill Pearlman (John Turturro), “I hate that crazy truth-telling…like a robot.” Max’s son, Jonah (Spencer Voorman), idolizes his father’s heroics, diligently compiling a scrap book of news stories chronicling Max’s bravery on the flight, but is shaken by his dad’s new persona, as when Max screams, “When you die, you don’t get another life!” while the boy is playing video games with a friend. Both Dr. Pearlman and attorney Steven Brillstein (Tom Hulce), who see Max as patient and client, respectively, do their best to aid him, but Max remains unreachable and petulant. Each of the primary characters recognize that Max is no longer himself, and are powerless to help, much less understand him as he grows increasingly distant and unpredictable.
Beyond the narrative brilliance of placing this story in the sky as well as on the ground (one plot taking place on Earth, and one in the heavens), the film communicates a powerful and thought-provoking metaphor: The crash of the plane represents the collision of the metaphysical and the physical, the human struggle to resolve mind with body or spiritual with material realms. This dichotomy lies at the heart of Max’s internal struggle, illuminating through implication our collective and individual striving to understand and balance these elements in ourselves. This is a deep-focus lens through which to view Max’s psychology and evolution, as the film remains remarkably detached throughout, making no direct statement or even inference to its central paradox, and placing no judgment on Max or any of its characters as they wrestle with its implications.
From my first viewing, Fearless proved to be auspicious and meaningful, and it serves as a marker for several crucial turns in my life and career. First, it takes place mostly in San Francisco, to which I had just moved in the summer of 1993, after what can only be described as a disastrous six months in Los Angeles. After six years of touring as a singer and guitarist, my rock band had broken up, leaving me with few career possibilities. Hard to believe but playing guitar and shaking one’s hips on stage for years is not viewed as an impressive job history brimming with viable skills in the modern economy. I moved to California with a girlfriend whose parents lived in San Clemente, and they offered us a place to stay for a few weeks while I found work and a place to live, but soon after I accomplished those goals, she dumped me and moved back to Kansas City. Then, I injured my back, and after missing several weeks of work when I couldn’t walk, I was relieved of my job. I was running out of options, and it was only through the generosity of an old friend living in the Bay Area—who offered me a place to land and regroup—that I was able to avoid selling my few belongings and taking a bus back to my parents’ home in St. Louis with my head tucked beneath my tail. To be both concise and honest, when I arrived in San Francisco, I was scared shitless.
As luck would have it, I soon met my future television co-host and producer Dennis Willis, and we decided during our first conversation to create a television show that movie wonks like us would value, one that expanded the Siskel & Ebert review format by adding industry commentary, entertainment news, and filmmaker/actor interviews. Fearless was the first film Dennis and I watched together, and he recalls that we stayed for a second viewing in the theater. We both loved the film and raved about it when Reel Life debuted in October 1993, the same month that the movie premiered in San Francisco. It felt to me something of a portent that Fearless, which helped me face and overcome the fear I had been gripped with, not only took place in my new city, but that it was a feature review in our inaugural episode. More synchronicity: my interview with Peter Weir five years later (for The Truman Show) was the last one I conducted for the show.
It was also relevant to me that Jeff Bridges plays Max Klein. To touch on this quickly and without attachment—I kinda-sorta-maybe, in the perfect light and from a comfortable distance, look a bit like Jeff—at least that is what I’ve been told by a number of people, including some folks that know him well. Now, keep in mind that I have also been told I look like Dan Aykroyd, from some that know him well. Basically, I am the same height and weight, have similar hair and coloring, and have often had my hair in the same style as whatever Jeff was sporting in a current film (for instance, I had a ponytail when The Fabulous Baker Boys came out, when I was also making a living as a professional musician). I don’t want to make any more out of this than necessary, just that he is a natural “type” for me on the screen, and he also has a knack for making movies that suggest, to some degree, what I am experiencing at the time. And none have been as profound, reflective, and inspirational for me as Fearless.
There is another layer to Fearless that resonates with me personally, and one I believe is key to understanding the film’s unique perspective and power: Max Klein is an atheist. Note, Max is not simply a non-believer, he is a non-believer who doesn’t find some measure of religious belief at the story’s conclusion, a bold stance in Hollywood films that explore such territory.
Refreshingly, Fearless does not judge its protagonist’s humanism—indeed, it reveals and honors his philosophy, but without advocating it, which would have also diluted the film’s universality. Still, for a “mainstream” film to position an atheist as a savior is, in a word, rare, and in two words, about time.
My agnosticism is not the point of this essay; however, I feel passionately that skeptical positions are every bit as deserving of a voice in the greater conversation (certainly when it comes to the questions Fearless raises), as the pervasive expressions of countless religious notions routinely drown out what we might call non-supernatural viewpoints. The fact is, most religious beliefs (even the most radical or far-fetched ones, though I can’t imagine how that distinction could be drawn) remain generally unchallenged in our popular culture and mainstream cinema. It is time for cogent humanistic worldviews to be welcomed, and honestly considered, in the marketplace of ideas. Not just because everyone deserves a voice, but also because it is clear we all fall somewhere on a spectrum stretching from non-believer to believer, and even the most fervent of believers or non-believers must admit that their views have never been or ever will be invariable. To quote Hunter S. Thompson (The Proud Highway, 1997), “Every man is the sum total of his reactions to experience. As your experiences differ and multiply, you become a different man, and hence your perspective changes. This goes on and on. Every reaction is a learning process, every significant experience alters your perspective.”
I’ve come to accept that my views of the world will always be in flux, and I am grateful for that; I want to remain open to new information, perspective, experience, and understanding for the duration of my life. I’ve also made peace with the knowledge there will be countless questions I will never answer—that I doubt humans will ever answer fully. And consider, even if we “believe” in a god or savior, we “disbelieve” in most or all the other gods on the menu. I would argue that no two beliefs, even for people worshipping the same god, are completely aligned; each conception is unique to each person, a reason I suspect we have so many different faiths and belief systems in the first place. Even within the confines of each religion, we see constantly and endlessly morphing and evolving variants, sects, theologies, and even (eventually?) warring factions.
In the end, we can never fully know or understand the thoughts and beliefs of others, and to assume that we can seems to me not just folly, but also a missed opportunity to view the phenomenon of belief itself with the detachment that can bring greater understanding, empathy, and insight into our shared humanity. For these reasons, I have spent years studying religion, with special focus on the saviors that provide perhaps our most essential archetypal mirrors and inspirations. Whether or not one believes in the efficacy or even historicity of these characters, they remain our most reliable narrative protagonists, and consciousness-expanding treasure maps to the idealistic pearls of our perfected selves. If our sacred texts have become dusty and yellowed by time and increasingly impenetrable to modern minds, we are still drawn en masse to Christ-like heroes and their stories of redemption and transcendence like ancient moths to ever-flickering mythic flames.
As a child, the story of Jesus evoked mystery, provided structure, sparked inspiration, and brought comfort. As a teen and young adult, it became increasingly revelatory for me as a writer and artist to learn that this narrative template was used to such great effect in the classic literature I was hungrily devouring in high school and college. One after the next, the novels I was reading offered striking examples: Sydney Carton selflessly taking Charles Darnay’s place at the guillotine at the close of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities; the “passion play” of Joe Christmas (Christmas!) through his arrest, imprisonment, death, and castration in Faulkner’s Light in August; Jim Casy’s sacrifice in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, where he first goes to jail in Tom Joad’s stead, and then, after organizing a workers’ union, is “denied” support “three times” by Joad before being attacked by strikebreakers, and uttering, as he lay dying: “You don’t know what you’re a-doin’”—echoing Jesus’s words on the cross, “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.”
Christ characters are so ubiquitous in cinema that we often don’t notice even when they are right before our eyes. Interestingly, the ones that are often the most moving—for me at least—are not the “faithful” retellings of the classical story—The Last Temptation of Christ, The Passion of the Christ, etc. The transformational and salvific elements inherent in the savior archetype are, for me, more poignant and affecting in the versions set in modern contexts, even if they contain generous amounts of fantasy and science fiction. Heroes such as Superman, ET, and the Terminator in T2 come from another realm—such as outer-space or the future—with the purpose of saving a person, community, or even the entire human race, often giving their lives to the cause (in the case of ET, he even dies and returns to life before ultimately ascending back into the heavens). Other films set their stories in the milieu of our everyday reality, with saviors that resemble the common man far more than they do the mythic gods.
Some classic examples: Cool Hand Luke (1967), where Luke Jackson (Paul Newman)—note the evangelist surname—is incarcerated, attracts disciples (the other prisoners), speaks truth to power, and has a conversation with God ala the Garden of Gethsemane before being killed by authorities in a church; The Omega Man (1971), where Col. Robert Neville (Charlton Heston), the last non-infected person of a global pandemic, creates a serum from his own blood to heal and save humanity, before being murdered by an infected horde, a spear piercing his side; Hair (1979), where the hippy Berger (Treat Williams) takes the place of his friend Claude (John Savage) in the army, is deployed to Viet Nam and killed, in effect sacrificing himself so that love can bloom between Claude and Sheila (Beverly D’Angelo); and, perhaps most presciently in terms of the present discussion, Starman (1984), where the titular alien (Jeff Bridges) comes to Earth, takes on a human form, heals the heart of the widowed Jenny (Karen Allen), impregnates her with a child that will be both of her late husband and also the Starman (and who he foretells will grow up to be a teacher), before being taken back up into the cosmos.
That Max Klein is a savior in Fearless, and one closely aligned with the character of Jesus Christ, is clear in the first breakthrough he experiences—overcoming his fear of death, surviving his own death, and guiding others to life after the crash, leading them down the tunnel (plane cabin) and into the light. His mythic persona is accented throughout by the film’s pervasive biblical symbolism: Max standing naked in front of a mirror, a visible wound in his side; Max’s wife massaging his feet as he rests; Max reverently baptizing his own face with water; the “forbidden fruit” and the name tag of “Faith” on the waitress who serves the allergic Max the strawberries; Max’s nickname of “The Good Samaritan” in the media for his selfless acts during the crash; his refusal to lie and insistence on speaking truth, no matter how difficult for others to hear; the blinding light that flashes directly into his eyes each time he experiences a “revelation”; and, most significantly, his willingness to sacrifice himself to bring Carla back to “life.”
Like Max, Carla is a survivor, but one who suffered the death of her two-year-old son in the crash. Max is taken to meet with her by Dr. Pearlman, in the hope that he can help her heal from the devastating loss. Carla is a traditional Roman Catholic, her room adorned with crucifixes, angels, and images of saints, but when Max first visits her there, she is bereft of faith, blaming herself for her baby’s death, perhaps questioning God’s inaction and lack of intervention as she strove to hold her child when the plane impacted. Max finds connection with her when he describes losing his own father at the age of 13. Rather than try to console Carla by mirroring her beliefs, he chooses honesty: “I didn’t know why God killed my daddy…so, I decided there was no God.” Later, when Max takes her to Grace Cathedral to pray, he expounds further: “People don’t so much believe in God, it’s that they choose not to believe in nothing.” At one point, Carla asks him, “So, what are you telling me? That God doesn’t exist but there’s you?”
As Carla’s existential pain and grief compounds, Max tries a number of approaches to reach her—humor, friendship, gentle philosophy, expressions of love, an offer to escape with her and begin again—but nothing can penetrate her profound guilt and loss of faith…until he realizes exactly what faith she has really lost. Buckling her into the backseat of his car, Max places a toolbox in her lap and tells her to imagine that it is her child, and to hold on with all her power. He then jumps behind the wheel and steers the car directly towards a cement wall. As the car increases speed, he commands her, “Pray to God to give you the strength to save your baby!” As you might guess, God does not provide the strength—when the car smashes into the wall, the toolbox flies from her arms and through the windshield. This example brings the grieving mother back to the world of the living, and her recovery begins. Max has indeed “saved” Carla, not by repairing her faith in God, but by restoring her trust in herself.
But Max remains unhealed. Though a transformation occurs early in his timeline—an acceptance of death while on the plane—when back on the ground, in the presence of his loved ones, Max’s fractured state reminds us that enlightenment of the mind does not bring complete freedom from the harsh reality of life, nor produce all the answers to the sole meaning of life. Another realization is required for Max, one that incorporates a reverence and gratitude for the one true miracle we all experience, no matter our beliefs: consciousness itself. Max’s second awakening (second coming?) is literal—after eating the strawberry that nearly kills him, he is brought back through love and human connection—the breath of life from his wife. His final exclamation, "I’m alive!” is cathartic and gratifying, bringing a perfect conclusion to the movie while also implying that to be merely alive is gift and blessing enough. In this light, the film’s truth, and ultimately its universality, would be greatly lessened if Max’s final words were, instead, “I believe!”
To be clear, without the fact of death, most religions as we know them would likely not exist. We have countless social endeavors that create community and human interconnectedness; we have thoughtful tracts from centuries of philosophers and poets that offer moral insight and ethical guidance; we have psychological and meditation practices, both ancient and modern, that can bring calm self-awareness and, yes, spiritual growth. The essential distinction and anticipated efficacy of religious belief hinges on its unique address of the fact of death—the hope and promise of transcending this world through doctrinal faith. Without the existential angst that death provokes, and the sense of urgency it stirs, the trappings of our religions—temples and churches, texts and hymns, tapestries and sculptures, sermons and recitals—would simply be explorations of philosophy, creative expressions imbued with mythic tropes. In other words, art.
Unlike religion, art isn’t in the business of offering a supernatural bargain to deal with the fact of death, and yet, as an expression of our archetypal unconscious, it is naturally concerned with this most vexing subject. In its function of illuminating ourselves back to ourselves, art frequently effects solace and understanding through messianic characters and narratives that bring us perspective, acceptance, and hope, but without the demand that one jettison reason and a shared purpose with all humanity (not just those of similar “faiths”). Art accomplishes this effectively and vividly through heroic saviors that mirror us in the now, that offer insight and inspiration by example, that show us how to best function in a life that is unavoidably finite. Sometimes, they even suggest that the true meaning of life is not that we will live beyond our death, but rather, the absolute importance of living our lives fully and lovingly despite our fates, embracing the lives we are experiencing right now, in this moment, together.
For me, the voice of Jesus will always be that of Deep Purple’s lead singer Ian Gillan, who sang the part in the original recording of Jesus Christ Superstar. Hey, I was ten years old when that record came out; it blew me away then and affects me deeply still. But the face of Jesus will always be that of Max Klein comforting the other passengers on the plane in Fearless, a face that embodies the love and empathy and acceptance that I believe is possible in this life, whatever this life may, or may not, ultimately bring. A face that looks curiously like my own, at my most enlightened, a state of grace I have yet to achieve but have faith is still worth striving for.
Isn’t that the reason for Jesus in the first place?