But Whedon’s greatest love story doesn’t stop there. He takes it down another layer, to the metaphor that fuels the series and raises the romances of Buffy to the level of myth: Buffy as the Slayer is unconditionally, inextricably, erotically tied to Death.
Angel’s transformation into a vampire after their first kiss in the first season is the only incident in the series in which sexual arousal is directly linked to becoming the monster, but it ties into the long tradition of oral eroticism that the vampire story has represented since Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Buffy screams when confronted with the truth, but it’s a truth that she needs to face. She can’t remain an innocent and save the world, too, just as she can’t remain sexually innocent and become a mature woman. That metaphor is reinforced when she makes love with Angel for the first time and wakes up with Angelus, a move that at first glance seems only to symbolize “all men are beasts,” but comes to mean that all lovers are dangerous when Buffy proves to be just as lethal as Angelus. When Buffy refuses to destroy Angelus, she protects death; when she sacrifices Angel to save the world, she sacrifices love.
The power of this metaphor also explains Buffy’s failed relationship with Riley. Yes, their love is conditional, but what really undercuts their relationship is a much deeper failing: Riley is the wrong metaphor. As the corn-fed farm boy, Riley represents the Beautiful American, light and peace and wholesomeness, and Buffy wants to connect to him because she wants to be Good’s Girlfriend. But the relationship feels wrong: Riley wears a milk mustache while Buffy’s hands drip blood. His appreciation of her as the Slayer seems to stem from the fact that she’s really athletic and great at covert ops, just like one of the guys. He never seems to understand what Angel and Spike know instinctively, that Buffy has a heart of darkness. As Buffy comes to understand this herself, the series darkens but it also deepens, becoming much richer as each season adds more layers to the metaphor, so that in the last three seasons Whedon connects directly with this paradox at the core of Buffy, the complexity that made the series so irresistible from the beginning: Our savior is a murderess, and she’s infatuated with Death.
The clearest embodiment of that is her relationship with Spike. Everything in their interactions reeks of sex and death, from the moment in “Fool for Love” (5-7) when Spike tells her that he’s waiting for her to get tired of the struggle and come to him to be taken. He looms over her, phallic pool cue in hand, whispering in her ear that all he needs to get her is “One. Good. Day,” and becomes the symbol that eroticizes Buffy’s dark side. This makes it all the more perplexing that the Mutant Enemy writers see their relationship as one-sided and harmful. In what was evidently one of the great botched metaphors in the history of storytelling, Buffy and Spike consummate their relationship and demolish a derelict mansion in their throes. Houses are a common symbol for people in stories (think of Roderick Usher’s mansion in “The Fall of the House of Usher” or Emily’s decaying home in Faulkner’s Rose for Emily), and this one seems to clearly represent Buffy’s once rich but now derelict past life. She has died in one life and been resurrected into a new one, but she’s clinging to the past, living in the decaying shell of her former existence, an old life that must be rejected before she can live fully in the new world. When she embraces Spike, she embraces the dark side of her destiny, an adult rejection of the simplistic good/evil universe of her childhood, freeing herself to move into the future and defeat the worst enemy of all, the First Evil. Their consummation takes them to their deepest levels, both symbolically and literally as they fall into the basement, and leaves Buffy standing in a shaft of light in the morning, reborn. As metaphoric scenes go, it’s one of the most powerful in the history of the series.
Except that’s evidently not what the writers had in mind, since they insisted in interviews that the wreck symbolized the relationship as a bad choice. If Spike and Buffy wreck her cheery little bungalow home, that’s bad. If they dismantle a church, that’s bad. If they demolish a deserted, derelict mansion, that’s urban renewal. The continued insistence throughout season six that this relationship is wrong, unhealthy, symbolic of something evil and immoral is not only inexplicable but annoying, which is probably why so many viewers are unhappy with the direction the series takes in the sixth season: they were reading a different metaphor than the writers intended.
But in the seventh season, Whedon brings the story back to its roots by taking it down one more metaphoric layer, to the beginning of his myth. In “Get It Done” (7-15), Buffy travels back to the beginning of the slayers and discovers that the first Slayer was created when a council of men chained a helpless girl to be raped by a demon in order to imbue her with supernatural powers that would protect them. The concept of the Slayer has always been a violation of free will, from the very first episode in which Buffy is forced back to her role as Slayer against her wishes to the last season populated by bewildered and frightened Potentials who would rather just go home. In “Get It Done” (7-15), the image of a chained Buffy penetrated both orally and vaginally by the creeping black vapor of the demon, symbolizes this violation at the center of the myth, the rape of free will that every Slayer represents. As defined by the council, the creation of the Slayer was a violent sexual sacrifice to death, a sacrifice that is destined to be repeated in every generation.
But the myth of Buffy the Vampire Slayer has never been the myth of the Slayer; it’s the myth of Buffy Summers, the Slayer who is different. Instead of obeying and dying like her predecessors, season after season, she has rejected the male power hierarchies that have tried to control her. She defies Giles in the first season and makes him treat her as a partner in decision making. She fires the council in season three, and when they come back for season five, she defeats them and forces them to work for her. In season seven, she goes back to the beginning and defies the original council, resetting the power structure at the heart of myth and taking back her story, and refusing the rape and its sexual-submission-as-power ploy, saying “You think I came all this way to get knocked up by some demon dust?” (“Get It Done,” 7-15). She is the Slayer who is different, the lover who embraces death on her own terms, the blonde who goes into the alley and comes back with patriarchy’s head, and she does it not as a virginal, powerless Joan of Arc (even if she wistfully christens herself “Joan” in “Tabula Rasa,” 6-8), but as a fiercely sexual, passionate woman who knows exactly what she’s doing when she opens her arms to darkness.
In a world where any attempt to find connection results in pain and death, love is an act of unbelievable courage. That Buffy the Vampire Slayer explores that dangerous act in so many forms on so many levels through so many characters is the most compelling aspect of the series. But first among equals, it is Buffy in her passion and in her blazing, defiant sexuality that most defines the myth. Buffy, the great feminist icon as warrior, lover, and finally mature woman. She’s our Ishtar who aced the SATs, our Morrigan with a snarky sense of humor, our Kali with a better fashion sense, and the complexity of her myth, the depth of her metaphor, and the truth of her love stories makes her a great romantic heroine and Buffy the Vampire Slayer one of the great romances of our time.
Jenny Crusie began writing fiction in 1991 as part of her doctoral dissertation research at Ohio State. When the fiction turned out to be vastly more interesting than the research, she switched to the MFA program. She sold her first book in 1992 and followed that with fourteen more novels including five for St. Martin’s Press that have earned her New York Times and USA Today best-seller status. She thinks Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the best thing that ever happened to television, and Joss Whedon is God.
Marguerite Krause
THE MEANING
OF BUFFY
Marguerite Krause reveals the meaning of Buffy and along the way discusses Buffy’s relationship with her mom, possible romance between Buffy and Giles (yuck), Cordelia’s self-love, and other fascinating topics.
ANYONE WHO HAS WATCHED more than a few episodes of Buffy the Vam
pire Slayer quickly figures out that this television program isn’t really about a gorgeous young woman who kills blood-sucking monsters. Sure, most of the episodes contain pivotal scenes of vampire staking or demon decapitation—but they’re not what the show is about. In fact, at its core, Buffy isn’t even about any of the obvious metaphors that the whole mythology (heroic champion of the innocent battling monsters) might suggest, such as high school as a living hell, or the eternal battle of Good and Evil.
From the very first episode of the series to the final story, on the most consistent, fundamental level, Buffy has been about relationships—how to create them, and how to sustain them once you have them. Not just any relationship, either, but the kind that is strong enough and deep enough to provide answers to life’s ultimate questions (why am I here? where am I headed? what does it all mean?).
The opening scenes of “Welcome to the Hellmouth” (1-1) establish dramatic themes and plot patterns that reverberate throughout the rest of the series. When Buffy Summers arrives in Sunnydale, the last thing she’s thinking about is vampire slaying. Buffy has one and only one subject uppermost in her mind: her relationships with the people around her.
The first example we’re shown is the mother-daughter relationship. Although we clearly see their affection for one another, there’s a lot of strain between Buffy and her mother Joyce because of Buffy’s past behavior and because of the fact that she must keep secret a critical area of her life—her activities as the Slayer. Her need to resort to secrets and deceptions underlies another of the recurring themes of the show: the isolation of the individual.
Once the basic parameters of the Buffy-Joyce interaction are established, “Welcome to the Hellmouth” (1-1) moves on to show Buffy exploring another kind of relationship: friendship with her peers. Much of this first episode is devoted to Buffy’s efforts to determine her place in the social structure of Sunnydale High. Who will be her friends and allies, who will be her enemies, and how can she tell the difference?
The creation and development of relationships is not restricted to the first episode of Buffy, or the first few episodes, or the first season. In every episode, no matter what else is happening in that specific story, relationship issues are never far from the surface.
This quest for meaningful relationships lies at the core of the phenomenon that is Buffy. With that as the heart and soul of this remarkable television series, is there one relationship that stands out from all the rest? One exemplary pairing of characters that represents the ideal to which all the others aspire? One couple who embodies the answer to the question of the meaning of life in the Buffy universe?
Let’s examine the likely suspects.
We’ve already touched on the mother-daughter relationship. Buffy and Joyce interact in mostly healthy, supportive ways, but in the vast majority of episodes, Buffy has to deceive her mom about crucially important events in her life. This forms an insurmountable barrier between them, made up of lack of communication, mistrust, and outright lies. Given the circumstances, they have a remarkable relationship, but it remains fundamentally flawed. Even after Joyce eventually learns that her daughter is endowed with supernatural powers and involved in a never-ending battle to protect the world from Evil, the tension between them never completely goes away. Joyce and Buffy each yearn to protect the other from danger and unhappiness, and this clash of priorities cannot be resolved. Their fears and doubts put them at odds with one another for the rest of Joyce’s life. Buffy loves her mom, but she—and therefore we, the audience—can’t find complete comfort or a fundamental meaning of existence within the context of that relationship.
What about the father-daughter relationship? Buffy seems to feel affection for her father, but he’s completely disconnected from her daily life. For all practical purposes, as far as the series is concerned, they don’t have a relationship. Instead, Buffy has Giles. At the beginning, Buffy fights the whole idea of being part of a Slayer-Watcher team, but strong bonds of mutual reliance, trust, and affection soon begin to grow between them. Buffy learns that even when other aspects of her life are a shambles, she can rely on Giles. He is her moral compass, a rock of certainty, a dependable touchstone in the often confusing and conflicting labyrinth of dreams and responsibilities, wishful thinking and harsh reality that Buffy has to negotiate week after week.
From one perspective—that of the Watchers’ Council—there is no question whatsoever that the entire meaning of Buffy’s existence is defined by and fulfilled in her partnership with Giles. After all, she is the Slayer, and nothing can be more important than her ongoing quest to successfully save the world from destruction. By that argument, the next most important person in the world has to be her Watcher. First, he is the brains to her brawn, providing the factual information and strategic advice she needs in order to win her battles. Second, he possesses a degree of maturity and wisdom that enable him to guide Buffy when the ethics of a situation are unclear and facts alone aren’t enough to determine the best course of action. Third, Giles provides essential emotional support, reassuring Buffy when she has doubts, encouraging her to face her fears and triumph over despair.
Yet, in spite of all these logical reasons that Buffy’s relationship with Giles should be the philosophical center and emotional heart and soul of the show, it never pretended to hold that position. As mentor, advisor, and friend, Giles played an important role in many of the stories. But the true meaning of Buffy cannot be found in the Slayer-Watcher relationship.
There is no doubt that Buffy and Giles feel deep affection for one another, but the instances in which they openly express or share emotional closeness are fleeting. Giles is a father figure, but only a figure, not the real thing, which automatically puts him at a disadvantage in his interactions with Buffy. Because he isn’t really Buffy’s father, they cannot achieve and maintain the depth of intimacy that is the ideal in family relationships. Because he is not one of her peers, they can’t share the emotional closeness that is possible in a relationship of equals.
Could Giles and Buffy become equals? After all, over the course of the series, Buffy has turned eighteen and met all the criteria that normally identify a fully mature, independent adult—going to college, running a household (after Joyce’s death), becoming part of the staff at Sunnydale High. Some fans love imagining that a mature, romantic relationship could develop between Buffy and Giles (or has already happened, hidden in subtext and “between the lines” of the aired episodes). For most people, though, the possibility is too awkward to contemplate for long. Too many episodes, especially in the first three seasons of the show, emphasized the high-school environment and the recurring theme of Buffy’s childhood innocence in conflict with the demands of her responsibilities as Slayer. To put Giles, with his status as parental stand-in and undeniable authority figure, in a romantic relationship with Buffy smacks uncomfortably of incest.
Whether you find such speculations intriguing, disturbing, or incomprehensible, they’re also outside the scope of the present discussion. Exploring all the “might have beens” in the series opens up far too many variables. If we stay strictly within the boundaries of events and character interactions presented in the episodes as broadcast, it’s clear that Giles and Buffy interacted sometimes as father and daughter, sometimes as mentor and student; no matter their precise roles, their attempts at mutual understanding were often awkward and imperfect.
The shining example of a healthy, successful relationship in the Buffy universe has to be sought elsewhere.
Throughout the series, Buffy’s strongest relationships are with her peers. Most are fellow students, including Willow, Xander, Cordelia, Oz, Tara, and Riley. Other characters are not literally Buffy’s peers—they aren’t exactly her age or facing the same social circumstances—but still have to be considered peers in a broader sense. These include her sister, Dawn; her true love, Angel; troubled Faith; sometime-demon Anya; and, in later seasons, the unbelievably confused and confusing Spike.
One word can sum up Buffy’s relationships with each of these people and, just as important, their relationships with one another and Giles: complex. Early in the series, Buffy loved Angel, Xander loved Buffy, Willow loved Xander, and Cordelia loved . . . well, Cordelia. Everybody hated Spike, except for Dru, who loved him—that is, until she was distracted by Angelus, and eventually demonstrated that she was too self-involved to really love anyone. The farther the series progressed, the more complicated and contradictory the relationships among all of the characters became. The ever-changing nature of these relationships makes for utterly fascinating storytelling, but far from satisfying lives for the characters themselves. Whatever they think they know about the person standing next to them one week may be irrelevant, or dead wrong, the next. The ignorant, cruel, completely self-absorbed Cordelia of the early episodes evolves into a helpful member of the Scooby gang and, eventually, Xander’s affectionate girlfriend. Angel changes, quite literally, from romantic hero to despicable monster and back again. Even a despised enemy like Spike becomes a valued ally under the right circumstances and by the climax of the series finale, “Chosen (7-22),” a true champion. Early in the seventh season, relationships among Buffy and her friends are so thoroughly convoluted that Nancy in “Beneath You” (7-2) is justified in asking, “Is there anyone here who hasn’t slept together?”
Sometimes an unlikely, transient relationship is played for comic effect, as when Joyce and Giles succumb to their inner teens in “Band Candy” (3-6). In “Tabula Rasa” (6-8), the idea of Giles and Spike as father and son was absurd and perfect at the same time, but other of the humorously scrambled relationships in that story had a poignant undertone, such as Xander assuming he belonged with lifelong friend Willow, or Anya and Giles struggling to understand the nature of their connection. An interesting aspect of this episode is which of the real relationships made themselves felt despite the power of Willow’s spell of forgetfulness. Note that Buffy and Dawn quickly realized they were sisters, Spike made an emotional connection with Buffy, and Tara and Willow were inexorably drawn together.
Seven Seasons of Buffy: Science Fiction and Fantasy Authors Discuss Their Favorite Television Show (Smart Pop series) Page 13
