Doom is such a marvelous word. While not exactly onomatopoeic, it almost sounds like the emotions the word is meant to evoke.
Destruction. Apocalypse. Judgment Day.
The resonance of doom's vowel -- especially if drawn out and intoned deeply a la James Earl Jones -- echoes the way the notion of doom makes us feel.
Nervous.
It's no wonder apocalyptic themes are so popular in contemporary film, including what's set to be the mega-movie of the year when it opens in theaters across the nation Thursday: "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull."
While I've not been privy yet to the latest Jones movie (which I await with bated, popcorn-scented breath), as I understand it, the plot turns, in part, on the myth of 13 ancient crystal skulls -- either of Mayan, Atlantis-ian or outer-space-alien origins -- that have mystical powers, including the ability to stave off the end of the world. (As I understand it, Mayan lore claims that, if the 13 skulls are lined up, they will save the world from "tipping over" or "falling off its axis.")
The Mayans, of course, used something known as the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar to keep track of time. Popular interpretation of the Long Count, particularly among contemporary New Age enthusiasts, holds that the Mayan calendar runs out on or about Dec. 21, 2012, when the world (or civilization) as we know it will cease to be.
Creepy artifact + ancient calendar + impending doom = box-office gold. Or at least that seems to be the prevailing wisdom.
Even better than mere Mayan legend, the latest Jones film bares a striking resemblance to the story of a real-life Indiana Jones character, British adventurer Frederick Mitchell-Hedges, who claimed to have discovered one of the mythic crystal skulls.
Mitchell-Hedges called his "The Skull of Doom," and said he came across the quartz crystal skull in 1924 on an expedition to find signs of Atlantis in what is now Belize. He claimed his skull was more than 3,600 years old. Other crystal skulls turned up elsewhere, including oddities in collections at the Smithsonian Institution and the British Museum. But they are widely believed to be frauds dating to the late-19th century and not to the Mayan civilization 1,000 years ago, or before.
Still, there are those who persist in endowing said skulls with divine powers, such as the Lacandon people -- isolated, modern-day Mayans who live in the jungles of the Chiapas state of Mexico near Guatemala -- who worship the crystal objects as powerful totems.
"We always find an artifact that is real, the people believe in, that archaeologists have looked for or already found and that has a supernatural aspect to it," the filmmaker George Lucas told reporters in Cannes over the weekend, where "Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" had its world premiere.
What is it about apocalyptic doom that so fascinates us, at least in our choice of cinematic escapism?
"There's a sort of titillation that we all have with the end of the world," says Richard Landes, a history professor and head of the Center for Millennial Studies at Boston University. "That appeals to two different kinds of people, both of whom modernity produces in large abundance, and that is people who are bored and people who are anxious."
"The whole point about modernity is that we take destiny into our own hands. . . . We are Promethean. We shape ourselves, we shape our lives and as a result, we also have anxiety about that. Look at global warming. It's a perfect example of a kind of man-made apocalypse."
Stories, whether on the big screen or in our theology, that revolve around playing beat-the-clock with oblivion allow us to project ourselves into a different reality.
"Unless we are extraordinarily highly evolved moral creatures, most of what prevents us from behaving badly is future consequences," Landes says. "But if you believe that the world is about to end, then the normal cycle of consequences no longer apply. So people who believe the world's about to come to an end very often act in a highly uninhibited fashion."
In a suspense-driven story arc, impending apocalypse is the ultimate trump card. "Every time you have a sequel you have to up the ante, so apocalypse is built into any kind of sequel because the danger has to get bigger and bigger until it's earth-shattering," he said.
Or Earth-tipping, in the case of the Indiana Jones and/or Mayan scenario.
When staring the end of the world in the eyes, things become pretty clear. There are good guys and bad guys battling it out in a single grand narrative.
"There is no tepid in apocalyptic scenarios. That's ideal for movies, and novels," Landes says. "You can't overdue it. After a while they're like truffles; you can only eat so many. But your appetite renews quickly."
Bon appetit, movie buffs.