Large, gruesome, brutal and gluttonous: Donald Trump is the archetypal ogre. So how did he manage to stomp back for a second term?
The animated film Shrek opens with the eponymous hero wiping his bottom on a book. Shrek then emerges from the toilet and we follow his swamp-savvy morning routine. He bathes his huge and oddly luminous body in mud. He brushes his teeth with slime. He kills fish for his supper with his flatulence. So far so good.
But Shrek’s life is about to be interrupted. Lord Farquaad, the punctilious local potentate, is rounding up various misfits and banishing them to Shrek’s swamp. The film has Shrek put up “keep out” signs; he dreams of building a wall; and he frightens anyone who comes into his swamp with fierce-but-fake-but-fierce shows of aggression. But it’s no good. Shrek soon feels himself overwhelmed by “squatters” (as he calls them) and is furious.
He duly sets off for Duloc, the city where Farquaad lives and where, by way of contrast, everything is unnaturally immaculate, idealised and perfect. Here he is greeted at the “Information Booth” by animatronic characters singing the Duloc Welcome Song: “Welcome to Duloc, such a perfect town / Here we have some rules, let us lay them down …”
Shrek is an ogre, of course. He does not like rules. He doesn’t like welcome booths that are the opposite of welcoming. Most of all, he doesn’t like fake characters singing annoying songs to him about how they are going to lay down the law.
Ogres are one of the most ancient archetypes in human narrative and they have been with us since we first started telling stories. In Japan, they are known as oni. In tales such as Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, ogres (or ghuls) are depicted as monstrous beings with a penchant for devouring humans. In The Epic of Gilgamesh there is a character called Humbaba – a giant guardian of the cedar forest. And, of course, there are ogres at the centre of the two foundational epics in western literature: the Cyclops, Polyphemus, in Homer’s Odyssey; and Grendel, who terrorises the mead-hall of Hereot, in Beowulf. As Seamus Heaney’s evocative translation has it: “Grendel was the name of this grim demon / haunting the marches, marauding round the heath / and the desolate fens.” Haunting the swamps in other words. And – yes – coming into town to get even in a bigly way.
And “bigly” is an ogre’s word if ever there was one, conjuring largeness, exaggeration, impact, something overwhelming; but also “bigly” is a dig at language itself and its pretensions to precision. You don’t have to be a writer to see the patterns. The ogres of folklore are always against written law. They are banished, exiled, cannibalistic creatures that inhabit a single realm outside “normal” society – the island (Polyphemus) and the swamp (Grendel). They are large and fearsome. They are gluttonous, violent and selfish. They consume without restraint and hoard wealth. They live for gratification. They are brutish and yet full of a lethal cunning and instinct. They are driven by a need to dominate or destroy anything they perceive as a threat. They lack empathy. They act solely out of self-interest. They are untamed beings of cruelty and desire and appetite. They are grotesques.
They are everywhere present in our stories because, of course, they are part of our struggle to understand ourselves. They represent the recurring preoccupations and apprehensions of the human psyche. They symbolise avidity and voraciousness. They are avatars for all the dangers lurking outside the safety of human society’s agreed norms and rituals.
Not just lurking outside, therefore, but lurking inside … lurking inside the human mind. Most of the time, we repress these traits in order to get along, and yet they persist – as drives and urges, as conscious and subconscious fears. In other words, ogres are not just monsters in tales but archetypal representations of the elemental aspects of our being. Indeed, if we step for a moment across one of the many footbridges between story and psychology, then we can see that ogres represent … the primal; also known as the id.
The id is the inner life we all of us share. The circuit board on which all of our various operating systems run – be they our politics, religions, tribes, nationalities. In the id, we find the collection of feelings and instincts that lie at the very core of the human being. Here lurks desire, lust and greed, avarice. Here seethes anger and aggression. Here is rage, raw, uncontrolled. Here, too, is jealousy. Here is the compulsion for vengeance. Here are the survival instincts: fear and anxiety. Here is euphoria, ecstasy, frustration, anguish. Here is the urge to act without reflection. This is the world of impulse, appetite and desire.
This is also the world of Trump…
