Exploring Tropes: Gondor Calls For Aid

Meet Mary Anne.

She's up against a series of insurmountable obstacles that she knows she can't possibly overcome all on her own. She's in desperate need of assistance, and with no other options available to her she sends out a distress signal, hoping against hope that it'll be answered.

Of course, there's every chance her allies may not show up. It might have been a while since she's seen them. They might have no real incentive to come. They might be completely unprepared, or out of reach, or too afraid.

But then, just when things are at their worst; when all seems lost – the call is answered. Help arrives. The day is saved.

Gondor Calls For Aid is named for (obviously) the famous scene in The Lord of the Rings when the besieged Gondor reaches out to Rohan for reinforcements.

What's so great about this trope? Oh come on, you don't need me to spell it out. There's something deeply moving about a plea for assistance that's answered. It's a trope that inevitably features people who are willing to put their lives on the line (or at least their time and energy) in the name of altruism, compassion and the greater good.

And as a storytelling device, there's really no end to the suspense you can milk out of it. "Gondor" can be anything from a country to an individual, and the assistance that's required anything from financial aid to military support. Heck, it could involve a girl getting ready for prom, the hairdresser calling in sick, and said girl ringing up all her friends for help in styling her hair. Not particularly epic, but still heart-warming.

But there is room for plenty of interesting variations in the use of Gondor Calls For Aid, and below are six of the most illustrative examples. (Which also happen to be six of my favourite examples. What an amazing coincidence!)

1. The Beacons of Minas Tirith from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

Well, obviously. It's the trope-namer. But I do need to specify that I'll be discussing how it plays out in Peter Jackson's film rather than Tolkien's trilogy. As ill-advised as some elements of the films were, occasionally Jackson managed to expand, explore or illuminate aspects of the novels in ways that elevated the source material. One such instance was using the beacons of Minas Tirith to fashion a stirring sequence that combined New Zealand's landscape with Howard Shore's wonderful score and trilogy's overarching theme of unity and camaraderie.

The beacons barely register in the book itself, summed up in a single page:

Gandalf cried aloud to his horse. "On Shadowfax! We must hasten. Time is short. See! The beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid. War is kindled. See, there is the fire on Amon Din, and flame on Eilenach; and there they go speeding west: Nardol, Erelas, Min-Rimmon, Calenhad, and the Halifirien on the borders of Rohan."

Pippin became drowsy again and paid little attention to Gandalf telling him of the customs of Gondor, and how the Lord of the City had beacons built on the tops of outlying hills along both borders of the great range, and maintained at these points where fresh horses were always in readiness to bear his errand-riders to Rohan in the North, or to Belfalas in the South.

The call for aid has gone out long before Gandalf and Pippin even reach Gondor, but the film cleverly choses to reconfigure events in order to make Gandalf and Pippin responsible for the lighting of the first beacon.

Here's the setup: Gandalf and Pippin have arrived in the city of Minas Tirith, only to find that its army is underprepared and horribly outnumbered by the forces amassing on its borders. They need reinforcements, and quickly, but the Stewart of the King, Lord Denethor, is proving himself to be extremely stubborn. Wracked with grief over the death of his son Boromir, he sees no point in mustering the Rohirrim.

I'm not fond of the film's depiction of Denethor, changing him from a fallible and desperate man to a straight-up villain (or near enough), but he does serve to throw a wrench in Gandalf's plans, leading to the old wizard sending Pippin up the nearest watch-tower in order to light the first beacon. From there, the audience sees the chain reaction that follows...  

Why does it work so well? A lot of Jackson's controversial creative decisions had pay-off that more or less justified the liberties taken with Tolkien's work. In the case of Denethor, his obstinacy provides the impetus for Pippin to light the beacons, as well as a contrast to Theoden, giving the audience a chance to see the leadership qualities on both ends of the beacons.

Likewise, Theoden’s initial unwillingness to aid Gondor, citing its lack of support in assisting Rohan, culminates in the moment where Aragorn rushes into the hall, crying: “Gondor calls for aid!” and Theoden replies: “And Rohan will answer.” You gotta admit, that’s a great moment.

But between Pippen’s actions and Theoden’s response are the beacons themselves. This sequence was a perfect blend of score, scenery and emotional resonance. It's strange to talk about mountains and beacons as having "emotional resonance", and yet it's there: in the way the fires light up one after the other, in the implication that all the men along the way were still holding vigil at their posts, in the beauty of the land that’s being fought for, and the knowledge that each beacon is part of a greater whole.

It was like Middle Earth itself was being roused and reaching out for the tools it needed to save itself – a great line of light that stretched from one stronghold to another, and a glorious visual metaphor of the relationship between Gondor and Rohan.

It's the trope-namer for a reason.

2. Buffy rallying the Class of '99 in Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Ah, season three. The most perfect season of television that has ever existed. I'm not kidding. Even shows that have only thirteen episodes per season can be relied upon to contain a few duds, but season three of Buffy had twenty-two consecutive gems. Each episode stood strongly on its own, yet each added a bit more detail to the overarching plot, all culminating in one of the most satisfying season finales in the show's history.

If any other show has managed to beat (or even meet) that record, it's one that I haven't watched.

Here's the setup: The Mayor has been preparing for the Ascension; a ceremony that will see him transformed into the demon Olvikan. Gradually Buffy and the Scooby Gang have pieced together enough information to know what to expect, but they're still woefully unprepared for the battle ahead. After all, there's only five of them (give or take a few) and Olvikan is a pure-blooded demon that will feast on the graduating students with a power and strength the world hasn't seen in centuries.

Because, oh yeah, the Mayor is making the commencement speech. Graduation and Ascension will be one and the same. The demon is unstoppable. There's no one Buffy can turn to. She doesn't have an army.

Or does she...?

The solution is right in front of her. The Class of '99 will be her army, and Buffy sends out her call for aid by having Xander and Willow approach various students and bring them up to speed on what's going to happen. There are appearances from long-time recurring characters such as Harmony, Jonathan, Larry and Percy, and come Graduation Day the entire class watches in horror (but not surprise) as the Mayor morphs into a giant snake-like demon right before them.

Then Buffy yells "NOW!" and the class whip off their graduation robes to reveal that each and every one of them is armed to the teeth. And the battle begins...

Why does it work so well? Back in those Halcyon Days of the nineties before I had overdosed on TV tropes, the sight of Sunnydale High's student body arming themselves to fight a giant demon left me genuinely flabbergasted.

Despite the significant amount of foreshadowing that's put into the lead-up to battle, it's the unexpected nature of this particular Gondor Calls For Aid that makes it so memorable – because all things considered, it really does break the rules of the genre.

It is a truth universally accepted that any community situated on top of a supernatural magnet must be populated by residents with blinkers on their eyes. But across the course of season three, there were a number of hints that suggested perhaps Sunnydale's residents were not as wilfully blind as the genre has led us to believe. Most obviously, Buffy's peers award her with a "Class Protector" award at the Senior Prom in recognition of her heroic deeds. It's a heart-warming moment – and it's also foreshadowing.

Evil exists where people refuse to look; it festers when we ignore it. In this case the Mayor believed he had an edge on the student body because they didn't know (or care) about the demonic underground in Sunnydale. But Buffy calls for aid in the very last place you'd expect it, and the genius of this particular use of the trope is that the Class of '99 don't just throw off their robes at the Graduation Ceremony, they throw off their blinkers as well, and in doing so become a bigger threat than the Mayor ever thought they could be.

3. The Twilight Bark from 101 Dalmatians

101 Dalmatians is not a film you would immediately expect to make use of the Gondor Calls For Aid trope – after all, there are no wars, no armies, no dark lords. But it does thanks to one of my absolute favourite concepts to exist in any story, ever: the Twilight Bark.

In watching the film for the first time in years, I was struck by just how unusually it's structured. The first thirteen minutes are devoted to a meetcute between Roger and Anita, the owners of Dalmatians Pongo and Perdita. Twenty-seven minutes pass before Cruella's infamous silhouette appears at the doorway, thirty before the puppies are stolen, and forty-five by the time the rescue mission gets underway. It's at this point that the trope is kicked into high-gear, and it's the story's finest element.

Here's the setup: Pongo and Perdita are heartbroken when their litter of fifteen puppies is dog-napped, and they soon realize that their "pets" Roger and Anita are helpless in ensuring their safe return. Pongo decides to take matters into his own hands paws by utilizing "The Twilight Bark" in an attempt to find news of their missing puppies.

Although Perdita initially dismisses it as a "gossip chain", Pongo's frantic barking during his evening walk eventually reaches Danny the Great Dane at Hampstead ... who barks his message to the dogs of London ... which eventually reaches Towser the bloodhound in the countryside ... who passes it on to the sheepdog Colonel in an old farmhouse that's adjacent to Hell Hall, where the terrible Cruella de Vil is keeping the stolen puppies (and plenty more) locked away.

Thanks to this unique mode of communication, Pongo's distress signal reaches the animals that have not only noticed strange behaviour in Hell Hall, but who are in the best position to offer immediate aid to the endangered puppies. More than that, once Pongo and Perdita are reunited with their puppies, the chain of dogs connected to the Twilight Bark continues to keep open the lines of communication so that the family is given the help they need on their journey home.

Why does it work so well? Well, for a lot of reasons really. First of all, the Twilight Bark is just a really cool idea. We've all heard dogs barking or howling to each other in the evening, and clearly Dodie Smith (the original book author) not only wondered to herself: "what are they saying to each other?" but also expanded the idea into the question: "how could such a method of communication be employed in a story?"

It's always fun when fiction can offer a different perspective on the mundane, and as someone who is regularly irritated by the barking of dogs in my neighbourhood, it occasionally helps to assume they're sending important messages to each other.

Secondly, the conceit allows for the plot to leave protagonists Pongo and Perdita and expand all over London and into the countryside. The audience is put into the exciting position of being witness to the entire chain of communication, which includes a few cameos from Lady and the Tramp, several of the dogs that featured in the film's opening sequence, and a variety of other animals that get in on the act – horses and cats, cows and geese.

Some characters have only small – even tiny – roles to play in the rescue effort. Take Towser and Lucy for example:

They have only two scenes, and they never even interact with the Pongo family at any point, yet they're still an essential component in passing intelligence back and forth. Later the Collie and the Labrador (who aren't even given names!) offer shelter and a ride home respectively, before slipping from the action.

Think back to that scene in which the beacons of Minas Tirith are lit all along the mountain range. Each one is essential to success, yet we never learn anything about the men and women who are stationed at each isolated location. Yet 101 Dalmatians makes a point of humanizing (in a manner of speaking) many of the disparate animals that contribute to the rescue effort. The centrality of the trope allows for a host of colourful characters to pass in and out of the film, offering support and help where they're able, all giving the film a surprisingly epic scope.

The final reason why the Twilight Bark is so successful is that it plays out almost as a military operation, with the barking treated as an underground network of intelligence. As the Great Dane says: "if you need help, contact the barking chain, they'll be standing by". The participants are like radio operators, and the military connotations are certainly helped by the inclusion of characters called Captain, Sergeant Tibbs and the Colonel.

101 Dalmatians demonstrates how use of the Gondor Calls For Aid trope doesn't necessarily have to be either a minor element or a climactic finish – in can form the very crux of your story. In this case it allows for a wide range of characters to partake in heroic moments, whether it be Sergeant Tibbs the cat temporarily taking over from Pongo as protagonist when he helps the puppies escape, or the motherly cows that offer the hungry puppies milk from their udders when they stop to sleep in a barn. It illuminates the team effort that was involved in the rescue, and it provides a unique position for the audience to inhabit – after all, they are the only ones who can appreciate the full scope of the Twilight Bark.

And of course, it captures the heart-warming nature of any Gondor Calls For Aid example. Two bereaved parents put out a cry for help, and enough dogs care enough to pass on the message and offer help in their time of need – including ones that they never even meet.

4. The Clapping Scene from Peter Pan

You know what's fun? Audience participation! The best part of any Peter Pan production is the moment Peter turns to the audience and asks for their help in saving Tinkerbell's life. Gondor calls for aid and YOU are the one that has to provide it. All you have to do is believe in fairies and clap!

The story of Peter Pan has quite a complicated history. He first emerged in J.M. Barrie's The Little White Bird (1902), a book for adults that combines dark social satire with childlike whimsy and fantasy. The character next appeared in the stage play Peter Pan, Or The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up (1904), where he follows the familiar storyline of whisking the Darling children away to Neverland and fighting Captain Hook to the death.

Realizing the story's popularity, publishers took the relevant chapters from The White Bird and released them under the title Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens (1906), before Barrie himself finally adapted the play into novel form in 1911 – originally published as Peter and Wendy, but now simply known as Peter Pan.

The variety of adaptations makes the original story (if there ever was such a thing) difficult to pin down. In 1924 Paramount Pictures released a silent film version, Disney put his own spin on the material in 1953, and a Broadway musical (later filmed) made its debut in 1960. The latest filmic version is 2003's Peter Pan, which might well be the closest we'll get to a faithful adaptation of Barrie's novel, though they couldn't resist adding a more overt love story between Peter and Wendy.  

Of course, the strange thing about this particular use of trope is how arbitrary is it. According to the story, fairies can be brought back to life with the power of belief, but the mechanics of the call itself goes unexplained (Neverland is the realm of childhood dreams, so presumably Peter has the ability to psychically communicate with those dreaming of it?) and on consideration the act of clapping is rather random. Is it meant to signal belief, to let Tinkerbell hear the demonstration, or does it have some life-regenerating power of its own?

We don't know; we're not meant to know. Given the story's roots as a theatre production, one suspects it was simply the easiest form of audience participation that Barrie could come up with. After all, if a play is any good, the audience is going to be applauding anyway.

But all subsequent adaptations of the story have had to grapple with this most famous of all scenes: Peter begging for help in saving Tinkerbell's life. How do you break the fourth wall in a movie or a book?

Here's the setup: Captain Hook has found Peter's hideaway and crept into the underground cavern where he discovers his nemesis sleeping soundly. Though he's too large to approach and finish him off with hook or sword, he finds he has enough room to reach out and pour poison into the medicine beside Peter's bed.

He leaves, but Tinkerbell overhears his muttering as he leaves through the forest and hurries to warn Peter. Disbelieving her, Peter raises the draught to his lips, only for Tink to throw herself between them and drink it herself.

It sounds dramatic and heart-rending, though Barrie has at least a little of his tongue in his cheek when he records what follows (and keep in mind that this was written after the stage play): "[Peter's] head almost filled the fourth wall of [Tink's] little room as he knelt near her in distress" and when he puts out the distress call: "Tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate." The whole thing is over and done with in two pages:

"If you believe," he shouted. "Clap your hands; don’t let Tink die!"

Many clapped. Some didn't. A few little beasts hissed.

The clapping stopped suddenly, as if countless mothers had rushed to the nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink was saved. First her voice grew strong; then she popped out of bed; then she was flashing through the room more merry and impudent than ever. She never thought of thanking those who believed, but she would have liked to get at the ones who had hissed.

And that's it! The most memorable part of the stage play over and done with.

The television recording of the Broadway musical (which simply filmed the entire stage production) has Mary Martin peer straight into the camera to beseech the audience, whereas Disney avoids the issue entirely by replacing the poison with a bomb and restoring Tinkerbell to life through Peter's declarations of love.

But the 2003 film comes up with an ingenious solution to the problem, one that invites the audience to join in without addressing them directly, and which ends up being the most powerful sequence of the entire film. Building on the presumption that Neverland is a dream-world whose borders touch the minds of those in slumber, this version also establishes that its climate exists in synchronization with Peter's moods. When he's happy, the sun is shining. When he's absent, it begins to snow. When he's ecstatic, the aurora borealis appears in the sky. 

What's more, the film actually makes the effort to explicitly "weaponize" a person's belief (or disbelief) in fairies. When Hook wants to dispose of a fairy guide who has been commissioned to take Wendy and her brothers back to London, he simply sneaks up behind it and whispers: "there's no such thing as fairies." The fairy instantly drops down dead.

It's this carefully depicted web of cause-and-effect that gives Barrie's whimsy just the right amount of logic-based justification it needs to prevent the ensuing scene from being completely random. And so when Tinkerbell drinks the poison to save his life, Neverland is overcome with thunderstorms in the wake of Peter's grief. He crouches over her body in tears, but instead of imploring the audience to clap, he looks skyward and begins to chant instead.

Know what, I'll just let you watch the scene:

Admit it, you're whispering "I do believe in fairies" under your breath right now.

Why does it work so well? Turning to a live audience to partake in a real-time Gondor Calls For Aid is a great idea, though it poses a challenge when the time comes to translate it to page and screen. A variety of storytelling techniques are needed to convey it across three different mediums, and it's the creativity involved that puts it on this list.

In the 2003 film it all comes together beautifully, all the more so because it could have fallen misfired so terribly. That Wendy picks up on Peter's distress, that the pirates are infected by the power of the Lost Boys' chanting, that the call stretches to the sleeping inhabitants of London – the film-makers nailed an exceptionally difficult concept and the child actors poured their hearts into it, making something that could have been hideously Narmful into something truly magical.

5. Bedfall Falls rescues George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life

Ask anyone what It's a Wonderful Life is about and they'll say: "a guardian angel shows a desperate man what the world would be like if he'd never existed in order to demonstrate his true importance." Then they'd give you a strange look, as it's the most famous formula for a Christmas story of all time (well, maybe second to three ghosts turning up one Christmas Eve to tell an old miser how much he sucks).

And they'd be right in their summation – but only about the film's final twenty minutes. For one hour and forty minutes, the story has nothing whatsoever to do with the disturbing "alternate reality" that makes George Bailey regret his suicide attempt. Rewatching the movie for the sake of this entry, I was struck by how detailed and rich director Frank Capra's portrayal of George Bailey's life really is. There are dozens of beautiful shots that silently depict his trials:

As well as a few strange ones:

And so many lovely little details that are really only noticeable if you're paying close attention: that Mr Potter forces his guests to sit in a much smaller chair so he can glower at them, that Mary is constantly touching her stomach in the scene directly preceding her pregnancy announcement, and the banister knob in the Bailey household that continually pops off whenever George leans on it.

There are some dated elements (the only character of colour is the maid; Mary's dire fate in the alt!world is to be an unmarried librarian, and because of regulation codes, most of the kissing can best be described as "passionate face-smushing") and some leaps of logic (for some reason George's absence in the alt!world not only has an impact on his nearest and dearest, but also the state of the weather) but there's a reason it's considered such a beloved Christmas classic, and that hinges on the resolution: one of the most heart-warming uses of Gondor Calls For Aid ever.

Here's the setup: George Bailey is a young man with big dreams. He's going to study at university, travel the world, become a famous architect, and make something of himself. And yet every time a golden opportunity presents itself, he refuses it. His university education, his around-the-world cruise, even his Bermuda honeymoon – he gives it all up for the greater good.

The film takes its sweet time in depicting George's entire life: his childhood, youth, marriage, career and fatherhood, and by the time the famous "intervention" takes place, he's looking back over his life in a state of deep despair. His absent-minded uncle has misplaced eight thousand dollars of the Building and Loan's cash funds and now they both face bankruptcy and jail. In desperation, George goes to miserly banker Mr Potter for a loan, only to be mocked thoroughly in a diatribe that culminates in: "you're worth more dead than alive."

Believing that everyone would be better off without him, George contemplates throwing himself off a bridge, but having been brought back to his senses by his angel's involvement, returns home to discover that every man and woman he's ever helped over the years have emptied their pockets to collectively replace the missing money.

Why does it work so well? It can be a risk devoting so much time to setup. The longer it lasts the bigger the pay-off has to be. But when it's done correctly, when the pay-off justifies the lengthy setup – then it can be magnificent. By the time Clarence the guardian angel takes a direct hand in setting George's life back on course, we know this man inside and outside – his hopes and dreams, his frustrations and fears, his strength and kindness.

And as it happens, there are actually two examples of Gondor Calls For Aid here. Technically George himself is this film's Gondor, and it's his prayers (and the prayers of all the good people of Bedford Falls) that get the attention of none other than Saint Joseph and God Himself. Calling for aid doesn't get much loftier than that.

But the other example is a lovely variation on the trope, considering it's Mary Bailey who calls for aid on her husband's behalf, rendering the final few minutes of the film as surprising to him as it is for us. And consider what's at stake here: not the freedom of a city or the fate of the universe, but simply the life of one good man.

It's proof that this trope doesn’t have to be rooted in an "epic" scenario to be effective. It's the act of generosity and sacrifice and good will that makes it so powerful, not the setting or circumstances.

6. Activating the Phone Tree in Practical Magic

This movie is terrible, and I love it dearly. My affection for it is based entirely on nostalgia (every girl who lived through the nineties went through a witch phase) which grows as every year passes.

Like I said, it's not good by any means (though I recommend the book by Alice Hoffman), largely because it's an uncomfortable blend of romantic-comedy and supernatural thriller with an obnoxiously chipper soundtrack. It doesn't know what it wants to be, and most of the time you're sitting there shouting "pick a damn tone already!"

But it has a low-key Gondor Calls For Aid that's worth including here.

Here's the setup: The Owens women have been persecuted in their small Massachusetts town for generations on suspicion of being a family of witches. This includes Sally and Gillian Owen, bullied as children and ostracized as adults for their unusual family legacy.

Gillian eventually takes off, but years later calls her sister for help in escaping her abusive boyfriend Jimmy Angelov. The sisters end up spiking his drink and accidentally overdosing him on belladonna in a bid to escape, leaving them with a dead body on their hands. After an ill-fated attempt to raise him from the dead, they end up burying him in the backyard – which only results in a restless and malevolent spirit haunting the property.

Gillian is eventually possessed by him (just go with it) and the Owens family realize that they need a full coven of twelve women to exorcise him. As such, Sally Owens reaches out to the entire neighbourhood by activating what's known as "the phone tree". This is a parents' hotline in which one mother is chosen by her peers to be at the top of the pecking order when it comes to raising the alarm for snow days or other important announcements. She calls the second woman on the list, who then calls the third, and so on and so forth until everyone is informed.

Why does it work so well? Okay, let's be honest. There's very little about this sequence that makes a lot of sense. After several centuries of fearing, hating and gossiping about the Owens women, it takes only a phone call and a confession of witchcraft for a dozen or so women to turn up at the house and cheerfully partake in a magical exorcism. And the strangest thing is how twee it all feels, given that they're all trying to purge an evil spirit from a terrified woman.

But the reason why I'm including it on this list is because that in a movie filled with magic and ghosts, the use of this trope is entirely mundane. Gondor Calling For Aid is a woman ringing people on the phone. There's no barking, no beacons, no psychic screaming into the void. It's just not that big a deal. Gondor Calls For Aid doesn't have to be, and Sally could have just as easily rang all these women separately.

Thing is, it's also nicely and unexpectedly foreshadowed. Earlier in the film we're introduced to the concept of the phone tree, which is really just an excuse for a popularity contest over the ranking order. It's treated as a pretty deal, so naturally Gillian crashes the meeting and magically ensures that Sally ends up on the top of the list – a trick that pays off by the film's conclusion. What initially feels like a throwaway gag is actually a Chekhov's Gun waiting to be fired.

***

So there we have it; six of the best examples of Gondor Calls For Aid, each one comprised of three distinct components: a desperate need for help, the act/means of requesting that help, and the eventual arrival of assistance.

I think what's important to stress is that though the trope name naturally calls up images of warfare, it can often have quite modest trappings. Though the stakes should be quite high (all but one of the above examples has someone's life at risk, and even the one that doesn’t involves the possibility of a man going to jail for a significant amount of time) the nature of the aid that's required and the way in which that aid is requested needn't be too epic in scope.

The Lord of the Rings required a line of beacons across a mountain range, whereas Practical Magic utilized a simple phone tree. 101 Dalmatians had a line-up of dogs barking messages to and fro, whilst It's a Wonderful Life had Mary Bailey set out and spur the neighbourhood into action.  Peter Pan simply breaks through the fourth wall and addresses the audience directly. It's in this space, in the actual act of calling for help that you can let your creativity run wild.

There's also the placement of this trope within any given story. In The Lord of the Rings it is a plot-point, designed to get certain characters where they need to go. In 101 Dalmatians it's a device that allows the plot to actually happen, by providing information and aid to its protagonists. In Buffy the Vampire the trope comes as a surprise – although there are hints, the full nature of Buffy's call isn't revealed until the climax; that goes the same for It's a Wonderful Life. And in Practical Magic and Peter Pan, despite their vast differences, each one's use of the trope is encompassed in a single scene, something to be smiled at or applauded, but which arguably could be left out of the finished product with no real impact made on the storyline (though would you ever want to leave the clapping scene out?) Gondor Calls For Aid is an incredibly flexible trope, especially in regards to its pertinence to the plot.

But if you really want to utilize this trope to maximum effect, you have to be careful how you frame it. The situation has to be dire. The call for help should be a last resort. The possibility of assistance has to be in doubt. There needs to be some degree of suspense over whether or not things will pan out.

And – though this is just my opinion – the eventual arrival of reinforcements shouldn't be based on fulfilling a deal or in getting something in return, but be the result of common human decency. That's what lifts this trope from the firing of a simple Chekhov's Gunman to a bona-fide Crowning Moment of Awesome.

Exploring Tropes: Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Meet Biff.

He’s worried about an upcoming flight on a commercial airline, so decides to consult the local fortune-teller to get some idea of what to expect. She gazes into his palm and intones: “there will be a terrible accident....”

Beside himself with anxiety, Biff certainly isn’t paying much attention to the road when he drives to the airport the following day. In fact, he’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice the large truck coming straight toward him at the intersection. Boom.

Bye Biff. If only you hadn’t gone to see that fortune teller, you would have landed safely in Florida.

Is there anything more infuriatingly satisfying or satisfyingly infuriating as a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy? I mean, these things seem specially designed to make you tear your hair out in frustration while simultaneously forcing you to marvel at the devastating irrevocability of the universe. It’s a one-on-one grudge match in which free will meets destiny and both self-destruct in each other’s faces.

These things pop up everywhere, and for a species that so often extols the virtues of free will, free choice, free parking and the somewhat ill-defined concept of freedom in every other department of our lives, we can’t seem to escape our storytelling fixation of dooming characters all to the all-powerful workings of fate.

For when this trope is in play, it’s not enough that our protagonist is bound by fate, oh no, she makes herself into the very instrument of the fate she is trying to avoid. By actively trying to avoid her destiny, she instigates the events that will force it to unfold. The more she struggles against it, the more inescapable the net becomes.

It would appear Fate and Irony are old drinking buddies, and when a Prophecy joins them at the bar, they band together to troll anyone who overhears them.

Closely aligned to You Can’t Fight Fate and Because Destiny Says So, a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy has two crucial components: firstly, that someone is actively trying to prevent a prophecy (usually a pretty dire one) from happening, and secondly that the actions they take end up creating the very circumstances they were hoping to avoid.

Yeah, it’s a bitch – but the only other option is to simply do nothing.

In a real life scenario that tactic might just work... but you can’t get away with it in fiction. On a Doylist level, it would result in a very short and boring book. On a Watsonian level, characters involved in trying to avert a prophecy are either too paranoid to realize the trap they’re walking into, or Genre Savvy enough to take sensible steps to counteract the inevitable sequence of events, think that they’ve managed to outwit fate, and then blunder straight into the prophesied situation anyway, usually thanks to totally unforeseen forces outside their control.

Damn, looking at it written out like that really makes me wonder why this trope is so prolific. Where’s the appeal in the assertion that we are all helpless pawns when up against the power of fate? In which our ability to shape events based on our own personal choices is an illusion designed by be shattered by story’s end?

Maybe that’s not the point. A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy is often used to explore a character’s reaction to it. Is it with paranoia, defiance, nihilism or something else entirely? How would you be changed by foreknowledge of some terrible event in your future? Would you accept it, or would you fight it (knowing that the fighting might well force you directly into it?)

So let’s look at some examples of this trope in action and see if we can find the answer. As ever, these are the most illustrative examples of the trope, chosen so that we can see how a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy can be used in a variety of different ways in fiction.

1. Oogway’s Prophecy in Kung Fu Panda

This is a good one to start with, for this Self-Fulfilling Prophecy is used as a relatively minor plot device. The characterization that it initiates is not based in reacting to the prophecy itself, but rather in the lead-up and consequences of it being fulfilled. In fact, you could remove it from the story completely and there would be no significant change in the characters, plot or themes.

Like I said, it’s just a plot device.

Here’s the setup: Years ago the vicious and dangerous Tai Lung was imprisoned after laying waste to the valley. Now the wise and sage-like Oogway has come to the Jade Palace to bring Master Shifu some grave news. Oogway has had a vision that Tai Lung will escape his incarceration.

Horrified, Shifu calls for a messenger bird and sends him to Chorh-Gom Prison with orders to crack down on security. The messenger – Zeng – arrives, only for the prison warden to be so insulted by Shifu’s orders that he insists on a tour to demonstrate just how secure Tai Lung is. Within the massive stone complex Tai Lung is held captive by weights and heights, drawbridges and elevators, chains and a shell-like casement that paralyzes everything but his tail.

Escape is impossible – but then one stray feather floats from Zeng’s wing, landing in reach of Tai Lung’s tail. It’s all he needs to open up the casement that holds him, starting a chain reaction that culminates in his freedom (I’m understating it; this sequence is awesome).

If Shifu hadn’t heard the prophecy, he would have never sent Zeng to investigate; if Zeng had never been sent to investigate, Tai Lung would have never broken free.

Why does it work so well? Because it’s so simple, so understated. Shifu never even realizes that he was the one to ensure the prophecy’s fulfilment, and it’s not mentioned again for the rest of the film. You may have even missed it the first time around, though Oogway quietly lampshades the trope by saying: “one often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it.”

Judging from the gleam in his eye, Oogway knew exactly what he was doing when he shared his vision (if there even was a vision), accurately predicting that even though Tai Lung would escape, it would ultimately lead to the rise of the Dragon Warrior and Shifu finding inner peace.

It’s a great example of how you can use a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy to push along a plot without relying on it as the central component of the entire story. And when you think about it – that’s rare. Self-Fulfilling Prophecies are usually character-defining devices, standing front and centre of any given story; a definitive experience in any character’s life. Though this one certainly had ramifications, it could have just as easily been omitted (say, if Tai Lung had escaped entirely on his own) but serves as a neat little manoeuvre to get the ball rolling.

2. Rumplestiltskin’s Prophecy in Once Upon a Time

Of all the innovations that Once Upon a Time originally had, Rumplestiltskin was one of its best. His backstory was rich, his relationship with his son poignant, and his Machiavellian manipulations one of the show’s highpoints.

On a show that features a lot of flashbacks, there’s plenty of wriggle-room in which to explore and expand a character’s backstory. Occasionally the writers go too often to the well, making family trees far too convoluted to be feasible, but midway through season two, they decided to showcase Rumplestiltskin’s fateful decision to desert the army and return home to his wife and newborn son.

Up until this episode, we knew several things about Rumple’s experiences in the Ogre Wars: that he was enlisted, that he dropped out, and that he was branded a coward for it. This episode does nothing to alter those basic facts – what it does do is change the entire context of them.

Here’s the set-up: Rumplestiltskin is excited about joining the army and fighting in the Ogre Wars, seeing it as a way of escaping the shadow of his father’s cowardly reputation.

But once stationed on the front Rumplestiltskin is ordered to guard a caged prisoner: a little girl with her lids sewn up and a pair of eyeballs in her palms. Calling herself a seer, she proves her credentials by accurately summing up Rumplestiltskin’s backstory: “the son of a coward, raised by spinsters, scared of ending up just like his father,” before telling him that his wife Milah is with child.

She’ll say no more until she gets a drink of water, and when Rumplestiltskin complies she tells him: “your actions on the battlefield will leave [your son] fatherless.”

She throws in a Prophecy Twist for good measure, telling him that the army will ride cows into battle. When Rumplestiltskin realizes that this is a euphemism for the saddles on the newly-arrived horses, he’s convinced that he’ll die in battle the following day. He takes a mallet and smashes his own foot, returning home to a furious wife and newborn son Baelfire.

But as the audience already knows, this decision costs him dearly. Branded a coward by the community, he loses his wife and reputation, turns to dark magic, terrorizes his son, and starts a domino effect that leads directly to Baelfire getting swept through a portal into another world – and thus growing up fatherless.

Why does it work so well? It’s a classic, inserted neatly into an established backstory that enriches it without contradicting anything that’s gone before. Rumplestiltskin’s story is probably the most interesting in the show, comprised of one long series of manipulations and betrayals from various beings that are beyond Rumplestiltskin’s control. He never actively goes looking for trouble, it’s the Shadow and the Seer and the Dark One that find him, leaving him to react (badly) to their influence.

So the tragedy of Rumplestiltksin’s life is that he’s just as often the victim of other people’s machinations as his own bad choices, though when he once more crosses paths with the Seer he’s given a rather disturbing response to his claim that he never had a chance of knowing how things would have turned out. She tells him that: “knowing would not have made a difference; you still would have been powerless to escape your fate.”

That right there is one of the most troubling components of this trope: for who’s to say that even if the subject of a prophecy doesn’t respond to it, it won’t come true anyway? If Oogway hadn’t told Shifu about Tai Lung’s imminent escape, would he have escaped anyway? And if Rumplestiltskin had ignored the Seer and marched into battle, would he have died in battle and left his son without a father regardless?

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

And unlike Oogway (though much like most other oracles) the Seer is an enigma. What exactly was her motive in reaching out to Rumplestiltskin? Was it simply for a drink of water? Did she want to rile him enough so that in the future he would kill her and take away her burden? Or did she just like messing with people?

The disadvantage of using a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy as a plot device is that quite often the contributor of the prophecy ends up being a Flat Character; the mouthpiece for the important plot point and nothing more.  And when you realize that nothing in these stories would ever happen if not for the oracles sharing their prophecies (often to unwitting listeners) the question arises as to WHY these individuals chose to disclose them.

That’s a question that can also be asked of our next example.

3. The Crystal Cave’s Prophecy in Merlin

Yes reader, I returned to Merlin in order to complete this list, though I’m still trying to get this show out of my system.  There was a time when it could convey some frustratingly good material (which only made the eventual lack of effort all the more painful) and the episode The Crystal Cave provides a damn near perfect model of a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy.

The mysterious oracle, the reluctant participant, the growing paranoia, the tightening of the noose, the misunderstood resolution, the examination of free will versus destiny – it’s all present and accounted for. It even has a little mini-self-fulfilling prophecy just to introduce the concept, and is altogether so well-put together that it’s nearly impossible to grasp that this was the same show that had two whole episodes centre on a troll that ate shit.

Here’s the set-up: Merlin and Arthur are on the run from bandits when they stumble into the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Arthur is gravely injured and looks near death when a mysterious man calling himself Taliesin appears and uses magic to heal him. With Arthur still unconscious, Taliesin urges Merlin to enter a nearby cave.

Against his instincts, Merlin begins to examine the myriad of crystals that cover the walls, seeing within them plenty of strange images, most of which involve Morgana (who by this point is an enemy of Camelot living within its walls). In order, they are Morgana calming a skittish horse, Morgana drawing a jewelled dagger, Morgana in a red cloak walking down a hallway, a finger dripping with red blood, Merlin crying out with fire burning behind him, and finally Morgana stabbing Uther in his sleep with the dagger.

After tearing his eyes away from the images, Merlin collapses in what seems to be terror and pain, demanding to know what has just happened. But Taliesin has vanished.

Like most targets of dire prophecy, Merlin reacts with paranoia and fear. He believes that the images he saw in the crystals are imminent, and that it’s his task to stop Uther’s death from occurring. Any reassurance from Gaius is quickly obliterated after he hears that Arthur plans to give Morgana a dagger for her birthday, followed by the sight of Morgana struggling with her horse in the courtyard.

Yet there is a brief reprieve once he sees the dagger that Arthur has picked out for Morgana: it’s plain and small, nothing at all like the jewelled one in the vision. Merlin is so relieved that he makes an off-hand comment about how women like jewellery – which of course, inspires Arthur to switch the dagger for a more ornate one.

It’s a perfect mini-example of a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy.

By this time Merlin is in a panic, so much so that he doesn’t realize the implications of being directly responsible for at least one of the visions coming true. He ends up camping outside Morgana’s room in order to monitor her throughout the night.

Meanwhile, Morgana receives a message from Morgause, requesting that they meet in the forest. Slipping the dagger into her belt, Morgana leaves her bedroom in the middle of the night, leaving Merlin to naturally assume that she’s on her way to assassinate Uther. But by using his magic to slam a door in her face, he accidentally disrupts a heavy candelabrum that pushes her down a stairwell. She ends up cracking her head open on the stone floor.

Merlin has averted her attempted assassination (or so he thinks) but is guilt ridden over her impending death. Having wanted only to prevent something much worse from happening, he chooses to heal her. Unfortunately, this does not occur until after Uther confesses something on her deathbed: that she’s his biological daughter.

Restored to health and realizing that Uther will never acknowledge her as his own child, Morgana now has the perfect motive to kill him in his sleep. Morgause sneaks into the castle to hear the news, rejoicing that her sister now has a legitimate claim to the throne and killing a guard as she escapes the castle.

As Gaius and Merlin tend to the man’s body, Merlin gets a glimpse of his hand – it’s the same image from his vision, though it’s not blood that drips from his fingers, but wine. He rushes to Morgana’s room, fulfilling the final images of himself wreathed in flames (Morgana tips over a candle) and Morgana marching to Uther’s room (furious at Uther’s rejection of her), but at the last second Merlin manages to avert the assassination. Morgana raises the dagger, but Uther waking up in shock is actually the result of Merlin breaking the window.

Now he’s left with the sobering truth: that he was the one who brought about this destiny, and that Morgana now knows Uther is her father – endangering Arthur, the only one who stands between her and the throne.

Why it works so well: Arthurian legend is full of misleading prophecies and Merlin has already featured several episodes that play with the characterization and tropes apparent here. It’s very in character for Merlin to respond in this way to a prophecy, for when given the choice, he can never NOT act on something (he similarly finds himself unable to simply let Mordred die). Likewise, Morgana’s impetuousness and self-righteousness is very well established by this point.

More than that, the show itself has (up until this point) been remarkably consistent when it comes to portraying the fulfilment of portentous dreams and visions. Every glimpse of the future that anyone has experienced comes to pass, though not necessarily in the way they expect it. The Crystal Cave therefore comes across as a primer’s guide to Self-Fulfilling Prophecies, with all bases and outcomes accorded for, and complete with that little mini-prophecy over the dagger that serves as a neat bit of foreshadowing for the final act.

The self-fulfilling aspect of the prophecy is clear enough, but what we’re left with is the lingering question of what exactly Taliesin and the Crystal Cave were hoping to achieve by having Merlin look into the crystals in the first place. Presumably they wanted Morgana to learn the truth about her parentage (or else why lead Merlin into the cave?) but why exactly was it so important to them that Merlin kick-start this train of events?

Like Rumplestiltskin’s seer, their motives remain a mystery.

In hindsight, it’s easy to see that the crystals were (in Gaius’s words) “treacherous”. The visions they depicted were deceptive in regards to the stages in which they took place, as the first set (Morgana with the horse, the dagger and walking down the hallway) took place some time before the second ones (the bloodied hand, Morgana holding the dagger above her head, Uther waking up in shock). Even the fact that the guard’s hand was covered in wine instead of blood demonstrates how untrustworthy the Crystal Cave is.

Unfortunately, the show never offers up any other insight on either Taliesin or the Cave. Though Taliesin says that “perhaps there was a reason you were brought here at this moment in time,” we’re left to conclude that the reason must have been to kick-start a domino effect that eventually ends with Arthur’s death.

It’s a case of somebody having a prophecy flung at them without their permission by an oracle with obscure motivation, leaving them to struggle with damage control afterwards – a direct inversion of the next example.

4. Demona’s Prophecy in Gargoyles

Gargoyles was wasted on children, it really was. Having watched it growing up in the nineties, the experience of coming back to it as an adult was like being slapped in the face – if being slapped in the face was a pleasant experience. The foreshadowing, the literary allusions, the themes of prejudice and tolerance, freaking Demona!! Seriously, all this was for kids? Man, they get the best stuff.

The show contained a number of Self-Fulfilling Prophecies, but what sets them apart from the others on this list is that many of them were brought about by the element of time travel, with the characters themselves inadvertently setting a course toward their own destinies (as opposed to the intrusion of an oracle).

When it came to the show’s utilization of time travel, creator Greg Weisman veered more toward R.T. Davies’s Stable Time Loops than Stephen Moffat’s Timey Wimey Ball, though such things were pulled off with infinitely more care. Such was the case in the episode Vows, and for the sake of simplicity, I’ll tell it in chronological order (whereas the episode starts in the present-day before moving backwards in time).

Here’s the setup: A clan of gargoyles live uneasily alongside humans at Castle Wyvern. Though their leader Goliath maintains a steady truce, his partner Demona (as she will eventually become known) is starting to bristle at the intolerance and fear her people are subjected to.

And then one night she’s visited by her future self, wielding an instrument known as the Phoenix Gate (allowing its bearer to transport backwards and forwards through time) and claiming that she has grave news. Her future self takes Demona to a point in time after her clan has been destroyed; each gargoyle smashed to rubble while they slept. This, her future self warns her, is what awaits the clan if she continues to trust humankind.

It’s a warning – a prophecy – that damns her. Though intervention from Future!Goliath sets time back on its rightful course, a fatal seed of doubt has been planted in Demona’s mind.

It’s only a matter of time before she orchestrates a Viking raid on the castle, one in which she and a human cohort sabotage the castle’s defences, instruct the Vikings to attack during the day (when the gargoyles are in their stone sleep) and plan to claim the castle for their own once the humans have gone. By this point Demona is sick to death of the treatment the gargoyles endure at the hands of humans, but after watching Vows it’s also easy to infer that she’s haunted by her future self’s premonition.

And of course, her plan goes terribly wrong. Though Demona planned for all the gargoyles to be absent from the castle on the day of the attack (chasing a fake trail left by the Vikings), Goliath opts to take only his mentor, leaving the rest of the clan vulnerable. And though her human ally promises to protect them while they sleep, the entire clan is pulverised by the Vikings’ weapons, their leader not willing to risk their anger come nightfall.

Demona only escapes by taking refuge on the beach the night before, sparing her from the inevitable massacre that follows.

Meanwhile, once Goliath and Demona return to the future, they realize that nothing has changed. Demona’s life still took its tragic curse precisely because she decided to go back in time – and in fact, this is the very reason she did so in the first place, mocking Goliath with her assertion that manipulating her younger self into becoming who she is now was her plan all along.

Why it works so well: Granted, this example could have just as easily been defined as a Stable Time Loop as a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy. But I wanted to put it here because it is quite literally self-fulfilling. Demona spurred her younger self into taking drastic action against the humans, deliberately neglecting to tell her younger self the specifics of how and why the massacre came about.

That a person could be the instrument of their own tragedy, to play the part of the oracle that delivers the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy to their younger self, to blame humans for their woes and let their younger self use that misdirected rage to warp her own sense of right and wrong until she becomes the very person that she once feared and hated– that’s Shakespearean in its tragic grandeur, and Demona hasn’t even met Macbeth yet.

Of course, things still might have happened this way even without Future!Demona’s interference (as anyone would naturally assume before watching Vows), but this added time-travel adventure certainly fleshes out her motivation and tragedy to an even deeper extent. I guarantee you’ll never forget that heart-rending moment when the younger Demona tells her future self: “I do not wish to be you!”

And I haven’t even touched on some of the other wonderful elements strewn throughout this episode: how Demona learns how to use the Phoenix Gate (she watches her future self do it and memorizes her words), how David Xanatos becomes a millionaire (he hijacks Demona’s plans and ends up sending a priceless coin to his future self from the past) and how Hudson manages to help Goliath in both the past and the future (his behaviour is subtle, but the second time around it’s clear that his contemporary self knew all along what would happen if Goliath attended Xanatos’s wedding).

It’s incredible that all this was packed into under thirty minutes. Like I said, wasted on kids.

5. The Oracle’s Prophecy from The Matrix

Here’s a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy that’s short and sweet, which as an added bonus, is lamp-shaded by the participants.

Here’s the setup: Machines have taken over the world and enslaved all of mankind. Not that they know it – from infancy to death 99% of the world’s population live out their existence inside what’s known as The Matrix, a computer programme that makes everyone inside it believe they’re going about normal lives when in actuality their bodies are being used as batteries to fuel the machines. Yeah, it sucks.

But years ago one individual managed to break free of the Matrix’s control and start waking up others from their machine-induced slumber. After he died, the Oracle foretold that one day he would return, and that it would herald the end of the Matrix once and for all. Clearly a lot is riding on this prophecy, and Morpheus – the man prophesied to find the One – is certain that he’s found him.

Neo, the potential Chosen One, is taken to see the Oracle in order to have his future read. She is described as a guide, someone who “knows enough”, and when we finally see her she appears both mysterious and mundane at the same time: a grandmotherly figure baking cookies. Yet her omniscient is proved when she kicks a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy into gear.

“Don’t worry about the vase,” she says, a comment that makes Neo look around in confusion and upset a vase sitting on a small table next to him. It hits the floor and shattered instantly. “I said don’t worry about,” she continues. “What’s really going to bake your noodle later is: would you have still broken it if I hadn’t said anything?”

There you have it: a perfect Self-Fulfilling Prophecy in less than sixty seconds, with the added bonus of the Oracle actually lamp-shading how fatalistic it all seems.

Why Does It Work So Well? It’s cute, it’s funny and it’s quick, but this particular Self-Fulfilling Prophecy is also important in regards to the larger context of the film. It serves as a way for the Oracle to prove her credentials when it comes to manipulating cause and effect, and so set Neo up for what she has to tell him. On giving him a fake examination (and guiding him through the beats of their ensuing conversation) she informs him that he’s not the One, and that an Either-Or Prophecy is before him: he can save his own life, or he can save Morpheus’s.

By the end of the film we learn that Neo is the One, and that the Oracle was deliberately deceiving him as part of ploy to make him unlock his full potential – something that could only be done by having him chose to save Morpheus’s life.

In short: she lies. I mentioned earlier that Oracles are inherently mysterious, and that much of the time there’s no real understanding of their agenda or the reasons behind why they decide to share their fateful prophecies. But here is an Oracle with a personality and a plan, someone who knows how to use her omniscient knowledge to make others do exactly what she wants.

It’s a mingling of immutable destiny and free will that we seldom see when this trope is in play; one in which the giver of the prophecy is just as important as its subject.

Is Neo the One because of her words, or despite them? Would he have taken his chosen course of action regardless of her prophecy, or did he do it solely because of it? Is the Oracle banking on the certainty of fate or the decency of human beings to act in a particular way? What was stronger in this scenario, destiny or free will? And would Neo have still broken that vase if she had kept her mouth shut? 

This example had to be on the list not only because it opens up so many fantastic questions, but because there’s just as much emphasis on the Oracle as a character. I’ve banished the sequels from my memory, but as a standalone movie The Matrix provides a wonderful example of an oracle that manages to be more than just a plot device.

6. Oedipus’s Prophecy in Oedipus Rex

Well, it’s only fitting to end with something from Greek mythology, for it’s from here that the trope originates. Lovers of tragedy and irony, the Greek playwrights and storytellers strived to tear at your heartstrings, and as an added bonus, weren’t afraid to throw in incest, patricide and self-mutilation.

Is there a more tragic Greek hero than Oedipus? Theseus brought it on himself, Achilles was a jerk, Bellerophon should have known better, and Jason was always a bit of an idiot – but Oedipus? If ever a fictional character was kicked in the nuts by a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy it was this guy. He’s probably the first figure who comes to mind when you hear the term, for everything in his life is defined by a terrible prophecy spoken over him while he was a child.

(Or perhaps you just recognise the name from the time Buffy, Willow and Xander performed the Sophocles play back in high school).

Here’s the set up: In the city of Thebes a child is born to King Laius and Queen Jocasta, only for a terrible prophecy to be spoken over the infant boy: that one day he will grow up to kill his father and marry his mother. In a desperate attempt to avert this prophecy, Laius has the boy’s ankles pierced and tethered together (to prevent him from crawling away) and gives him to a servant to leave on Mount Kithairon.

There he is found by a shepherd and passed from one to the next until he’s given to King Polybus and Queen Merope of Corinth, who raise the child as their own, naming him Oedipus, which means “swollen foot”.

He grows up happily enough, until the day a drunken man at a feast accuses him of being a bastard. Though his parents deny it, Oedipus seeks out answers from the Oracle of Delphi, who shares with him the prophecy that one day he will kill his father and marry his mother.  Determined not to return home, Oedipus continues toward Thebes.

At a three-pronged crossroad, Oedipus gets into an altercation with a man riding a chariot over who has the right of way. Losing his temper, Oedipus kills the man, totally unaware that it is King Laius of Thebes – his own father.

He continues on to Thebes, currently plagued by a terrible sphinx that asks a riddle of all travellers and kills them if they cannot answer it correctly: “What walks on four feet in the morning, two in the afternoon and three at night?" Oedipus is the first person to realize the answer is: “a man.” Having defeated the sphinx, he continues on to the city where it’s been decreed that any man who can rid the city of the sphinx will become King of Thebes and marry its recently widowed Queen Jocasta. This Oedipus does, and the prophecy is (unknowingly) fulfilled.

It’s not until many years – and many children – later that the truth is revealed, leading to Jocasta hanging herself and Oedipus blinding himself and leaving the kingdom to enter self-imposed exile.

Why does it work so well? It’s hard to imagine anyone going to see this story performed for fun, as it’s such a sad and sordid tale. And yet Sophocles’s Oedipus the King is hugely popular, both today and back when it was first written (in fact, it won second prize in the City Dionysia at its original performance!) It’s now considered one of the finest Greek tragedies of all time, capturing all the themes that we’ve come to expect from this particular subgenre and delivering a deeply cathartic experience.

As far as adaptations go, I’d definitely recommend the 1968 version. It was filmed in Greece and stars Christopher Plummer as Oedipus, Lilli Palmer as Jocasta, and Orson Welles as Tiresias. Structured almost as a mystery, in which Oedipus seeks to uncover the truth behind the death of the previous king and the current plague that’s threatening the city, you can feel the dread beginning to mount as the players inch closer to the truth.

The drawing out of the revelation and the delaying of the inevitable is excruciating, as is Oedipus’s mounting despair and desperate need to know the truth: “Oh Zeus, what plaything will you make of me?” Some of the line deliveries are spine-chilling, such as Tiresias intoning: “you and your most dearly beloved are wrapped together in hideous sin,” and “no man alive shall see his life so ground away.”

Even better, Oedipus’s temper is continually demonstrated during the investigation as he lashes out at his brother-in-law and various witnesses, though there’s a heart-breaking tenderness to his interactions with Jocasta (who has a long braid thrown over her shoulder/around her neck to foreshadow her eventual hanging).

It’s these flashes of rage that exemplify the central theme of any given story that includes a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy – that of free will versus fate. In this story it is Oedipus’s own fatal flaw that contributes to his tragic downfall, even as outside forces beyond his control force him into the doom that defines his life.

Which is more responsible for what happens to Oedipus? After all, Oedipus chooses not to return to Corinth after hearing the oracle, just as he chooses to head toward Thebes, to kill Laius, to marry and to take Jocasta as his bride. But all these choices were brought about by the terrible prophecy that drives him on. Was any of it avoidable, or was it simply meant to be?

The moment of final realization is heart-stopping and Lilli Palmer’s Jocasta in particular reacts to the truth with what is perhaps the finest bit of acting I’ve ever seen. Meanwhile, Christopher Plummer’s Oedipus stands there, learning from a shepherd that he was meant to die as a baby in order to prevent his terrible life from ever happening, able to do nothing but let it all sink in...

*shiver*

It’s for moments like these that the concept of Self-Fulfilling Prophecies was invented.

***

So there you have it; six of my favourite Self-Fulfilling Prophecies.

But what is it that makes them so tantalizing? Why do writers keep adding that wicked twist to the way characters react to predictions? As the trope been around since Ancient Greece (at least) it obviously has a great deal of power and sustainability.

Some might say it’s a treatise on the irrevocability of fate. Even when you know what’s going to happen to you, you still can’t stop it from happening to you (and in fact, you’ll be the one who actually makes it happen). You’re free to act as you wish, but your foreknowledge ensures that you’ll end up doing exactly what fate decreed. 

So the moral seems to be that even when you think you gain knowledge, you’ll still lack the understanding in which to deal with it. When you include a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy into your story, you’re consciously or unconsciously making a statement about the futility of free will and the entrapment of fate.

But I also think that the trope relates to that other great Greek theme: hubris. To desire foreknowledge, to go in search of foreknowledge, and then to be destroyed by that foreknowledge seems to suggest that some things just aren’t meant to be known – at least not ahead of schedule. It is our fear of the future that leads us straight into what we dread most.

Of course, we’ve seen that there can be plenty of variations on the different components of a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy. If you’re thinking about adding one to your own fiction, then consider the following elements:

1. The subject.

There is a huge difference between a character who goes in search of foreknowledge and one who has a prophecy sprung upon them. If you’re going to use a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy in order to examine the difference between free will and predestination, then consider how your protagonist goes about learning the prophecy in the first place, and the nature of the choices they make in their attempt to avoid it. Are they are Merlin or a Demona, a Rumplestiltskin or an Oedipus?

Your protagonist should raise the question that always lingers around Self-Fulfilling Prophecies – that even if the receivers of these prophecies HADN’T decided to act against them in a futile attempt to outwit them – who’s to say that they wouldn’t have come true anyway? What is it about their personalities (Oedipus's temper, Rumplestiltskin's cowardice, Merlin's inability to do nothing) that makes them victims of foreknowledge?

2. The agents of fate. 

That’s a term I’ve just made up to describe all those soothsayers, oracles, prophets, seers and augurs who get the ball rolling in regards to plot. In all cases, the prophecy itself is the trigger, whether it be Oedipus screwing his mother or Tai Lung escaping from prison or Neo knocking over that vase. If the assorted seers had just kept quiet, then disaster would have been completely avoided. So why do they have to go and open their big mouths?

The answer on a Doylist level: plot – duh. But on a Watsonian level? Is there ever an in-story explanation behind these oracular characters sharing their fatal knowledge? Oogway of Kung Fu Panda and the Oracle of The Matrix add weight to the theory that all such prophets are fully omniscient instigators of whatever predictions they spout. But the likes of Merlin’s Taliesin and Once Upon a Time’s Seer are a different story, with their agendas kept totally shrouded.

When depicting an oracle, ask yourself: What is their motivation? How much do they really understand regarding the prophecies they speak? About what the protagonists will do with that information? Where is their knowledge even coming from? Are they sharing these particular prophecies because they know what will happen or because they want to make it happen? Are they benevolent, malevolent or totally neutral?

These are highly mysterious beings, and you could end up with a pretty fascinating character if you examined them in more detail.

3. Fall out

So you’ve chucked a prophecy into your story –what happens next? Are you going to come down on the side of fate or free will? Ask around and people will embrace the idea that they are in control of everything they do in life. Yet in our fiction, whenever the concept of prophecy or destiny turn up, things will always fall in favour of fate.

So in crafting your own Self-Fulfilling Prophecy, it’s important to keep in mind that their appeal lies in our powerlessness to beat them. By their very definition a prophecy HAS to happen, or else it’s just meaningless words. And as strange as it sounds, there is a sense of security in knowing that something, however horrible, is bound to happen. In life, there is only one fate accorded to every one of us: we will die one day. Perhaps that inevitability is the source of all our interest in prophecies and destiny.

So what have we learned here?

The moral of the stories mentioned on my list seems to be to leave the future where it belongs. Stop demanding answers. The choices we make now, with the information we have, is the wisest way to shape the future.  Self-Fulfilling Prophesies are just a trap.

Indeed.

And hey, if you’re ever the subject of a prophecy, there’s always the chance you’ll end up fulfilling it yourself. My advice? Follow your conscience, stick to common sense and try to get on with your life. Because you don’t want to end up like the people on this list. Most of them at least. Neo did okay.