Celibacy Is(n't) Power

One curious element of the recently released Last Airbender that I chose not to comment on in my review was the film's notion of celibacy. Lead character Aang is not allowed to "have a family," because of his duties as the Avatar. Not only is this stipulation not at all present in the original series, but what sense does it make for Aang to not be allowed a wife and child in his future? Naturally the movie is too busy squeezing a revered series into two hours of concentrated agony to justify this concept- not even with the traditional yet incredibly weak Spiderman argument ("If my enemies found you," "I can't be there for you," etc)- but this concept of a hero taking a vow of celibacy, sacrificing his happiness for the good of the many, has become something of a sci-fi/fantasy trope.

First, allow me to clarify: this article is not about Twilight in anyway. That phenomenon receives more discussion than it ever deserved as is and its various crimes against art, morality, and feminism are well known. What I would like to call into question is the notion of (typically religious) celibacy as a plot device in film, which is actually quite different from the thematic elements of Meyer's "Glitter-pire" epic. What Bella Swan's suitors preserve for her in their refusal to "bite" her is her (metaphorical) virginity. Celibacy is more than that; to be celibate is not only to renounce sex, but to renounce marriage- hence a French word for bachelor is "celibataire." Essentially, what this means for Airbender and other films that employ this trope is that the hero is not allowed to pursue his love interest because he'd be endangering her and/or distracting himself from his duties, (I cannot bring to mind any case in which a female lead has been stupid enough to make such a sacrifice) meaning that said love interest will tempt/persuade him and they will break the rules and get together anyway with absolutely no consequence- at least none that a competent character couldn't have found a way to deal with.

If you're merely skimming this article and didn't pick up on it, this little story telling device is something akin to the snake that eats its own tail. As soon as it's introduced, even the slowest audience member knows exactly how it will be resolved, meaning that it instantly fails at its only purpose: superficially building tension. Tension is an essential element to story telling, there's no denying that, and a romantic subplot will go stale and bland without it, but in romances, tension shouldn't come from the same sort of place it would in an action film's main plot: outside forces. In Airbender, and the series it was originally based on, the central point of tension comes from the Fire Nation invading its neighbors and whether or not Aang will be able to master all 4 elements and stop them; the tension comes from the hero and/or what he is trying to protect being effected by an outside force. A romance works differently; whether or not two people will get together can hinge upon circumstances, but in a movie where the audience knows the two will eventually get together and is more interested in the how (mainstream blockbusters work this way and I for one think it's fine) such a situation will more or less answer both the why and the how. They live in different countries? One of them will make sacrifices and move. They come from warring families? They'll elope (though chances of success are limited in this scenario). One of them has vowed celibacy? He'll break it.

This is why most truly great romances are about the conflict that comes not from a traditional outside force, but from a force between them as characters. In the original series, Aang and his love interest Katara do not get together immediately because Aang seems immature to Katara, he's afraid to reveal his feelings, he says some really dumb things to her out of said nerves, and so on. No need for some superficial plot device, the conflict comes from the characters as a result of their nature; they are naturally attracted to each other, yet elements of their personalities call into question whether they are truly meant to be together. Could this have been achieved in the film? Certainly, if Aang had been his immature, inexperienced, lovable self and Katara had more character than a sobbing postage stamp.
And so we see why this concept of celibacy is so popular. It's not the desire to make our movie heroes into saintly monks; it's to make our scripts easier to write, to eliminate the need for believable complex characters and replace it with tiresome tropes that can be easily inserted into various stories, whether it's a good idea or not. Instead of Han Solo taking responsibility in spite of his roguish nature and princess Leia looking past his veil selfishness to see a great leader, one need only write two lines:

He can't get married. She'll convince him.

When are they going to understand that it won't convince us?