Review
Books
Culture
Friendship
6 min read

Why do we ignore the power of friendship

Elizabeth Day’s Friendaholic: Confessions of a Friendship Addict.
A large group of friends sit at a crowded table and share a meal together.
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash.

Elizabeth Day is a journalist, a novelist, a podcast host, a broadcaster, and a friendaholic. This isn’t a term that she uses lightly, she’s not merely delighting in some quaint wordplay here. Rather, Elizabeth has identified within herself a chronic compulsion, a psychological need, a habitual seeking out, and an emotional reliance on friendship (or, at least, what she perceived friendship to be – more on that later…) 

Therefore, when she labels herself a friendship addict, she does so with every ounce of seriousness. She also describes the symptoms of her addiction with impressive levels of introspection.  

‘I would get a buzz from a moment of exchange; a hit of pure friendship adrenaline. In that moment, I would feel worthwhile and liked and accepted. I wanted more of it. Then I needed more of it. Then it became something that I relied on for my own self-worth. I must be OK, the reasoning went, I’ve got so many friends.’  

These intimate confessions lead Elizabeth to begin the epilogue of her book with a familiar, albeit reconfigured, turn of phrase: ‘My name is Elizabeth Day’ she writes, ‘and I’m a recovering friendaholic.’  

The quality of our social life, whether it be too large or too small, has a significant impact on our mental, emotional and physical health. 

Elizabeth pre-empts any criticism of what could be perceived as a ‘woe-is-me’ memoir by meeting those who may be reaching for their ‘metaphorical tiny violins’ head on. This book unashamedly takes the impact of friendship, or a lack thereof, very seriously. And so should we. Afterall, social injuries are proven to be very real and loneliness a serious determinant of health. On the opposite end of the same scale, ‘social burnouts’, which often lead to social anxiety, are becoming an epidemic, while an increasing number of mental health issues are being accredited to the profound impact of ‘toxic’ friendships. In short, it is becoming common knowledge among researchers that the quality of our social life, whether it be too large or too small, has a significant impact on our mental, emotional and physical health.  

And yet, despite this - we have barely any language with which to adequately address or inspect the topic of a ‘social life’. It seems that generation after generation, we have failed to take the art of friendship seriously. 

‘Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value.’ 

C.S. Lewis

Considering the psychology, this seems non-sensical. Why would this be?  

It could be a symptom of individualism; the emphasis that our Western society places on individual success, personal goal setting and the virtue of independence. Maybe it has more to do with our inclination toward all things productive, and, to (partly) quote C.S Lewis, ‘friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value’. The other explanation could be our pre-occupation with romantic relationships, and the habit we have of idolising them over and above all other social attachments. In her book, Notes on Love, Lauren Windle powerfully reflects on this, she writes  

‘maybe it’s time to stop looking for a partner who is also my ‘best friend’ and start appreciating my best friends. Maybe it’s time to stop feeling bereft of true love and realise that I already experience it. Every day.’   

Whatever the reason(s) may be, we have neglected to take seriously the science of the social life, and the results of such an oversight are encapsulated in Elizabeth Day’s self-diagnosed ‘friendship addiction’, and the book that has documented it.

Elizabeth places her personal life on the altar in this book, she sacrifices the privacy of her emotional life. 

Elizabeth talks us through her most formative of friendships - the long-standing and the fleeting, the nourishing and the draining, the durable and the fragile – this book is an ode to them all. She introduces us to her ghosts of friendship past and present (although, once they read of their appearance in this strikingly honest book, I do worry that a couple of her friends may slip from the latter into the former category), and does so in a way that makes you, as the reader, instinctively close the book for a moment and indulge the continual urge to reflect on the mosaic of people who have entered and exited your own life.  

Elizabeth places her personal life on the altar in this book, she sacrifices the privacy of her emotional life for the purpose of speaking with powerful candour. She tells the intimate stories of how her addiction came to be, and how she has sought to feed her need for a thriving social life at her own expense. Elizabeth has offered herself up as a case-study of what inevitably happens when we don’t have the tools, the maps, or even the language with which to engage with the subject of friendship. As it turns out, friendship – the real kind – was not what she was addicted to, nor was it what she was accumulating. Rather, it was approval. It was the self-worth that she drew from the affirmation of others. If we, as a society, ensured that we were more socially-literate, perhaps Elizabeth could have identified the difference much sooner. Perhaps we all could.    

As well as telling her own stories, Elizabeth weaves together insights from psychology, philosophy, history, and the experiences of others in differing contexts. This ensures that as many people as possible are able to find themselves in the pages of this book. And, as a result, I found Friendaholic to be the book that I didn’t know I had been missing.  

It’s funny. It’s emotive. It’s generous. It’s honest. And it’s refreshingly serious about friendship. I recommend it heartily.  

 

Nobody is totally immune to cultural individualism, the idol of productivity, nor the heroizing of romantic love. 

There’s just one thing that felt missing, one insight that I instinctively began to fill any gaps with. I found myself willing Elizabeth to take a biblical route (totally unfairly, I should add, as she doesn’t identify as a Christian, nor does she claim this to be a book of any religious inclination).  

I wanted her to explore the Bible, because in it, she would find an abundance of evidence for almost every point she felt compelled to make. Friendship soaks the pages of the Christian Bible.  

Friendaholic quotes Jesus in its very first chapter, making reference to his declaration that ‘greater love has no one than this, that someone lay his life down for his friends’, but then never picks this astonishing claim, nor the history-altering man that it came from, up again (once again- this is no criticism, if it were, it would be a mightily unfair one). The platonic love that Elizabeth takes so seriously, and that our culture doesn’t take nearly seriously enough, is claimed to be the ‘greater’ love by Jesus, who subsequently kick-started a movement which was defined by this kind of love. Friendship was weaved into the earliest expressions of what we now call Christianity/the church. Jesus’ words were, and still are, lived out with astonishing impact.   

This is not to say that Christians always perceive or do friendship perfectly. On the contrary, nobody is totally immune to cultural individualism, the idol of productivity, nor the heroizing of romantic love. Indeed, the afore mentioned quote by Lauren Windle has been taken from a book where she tells the story of ‘being single in a marriage obsessed church’.  

It’s for this reason that I so enjoyed Elizabeth’s offering. Friendaholic felt like a literary dusting brush, brushing aside generations worth of dirt from a long-neglected jewel; the jewel being real, true, and deep friendship. The kind of friendship that is as integral to our health as food and shelter, the kind that was included in the original blueprint for human flourishing, the kind that is both dramatically underrated, and yet greater than all other human loves.  

You can take it from an ancient book, or Elizabeth Day’s brand new one – as it turns out, they will tell you the exact same thing.  

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Review
Culture
Film & TV
9 min read

Deadpool and Wolverine admit there’s only one story worth telling

Here's why a knowing take on post-modernity's void strikes a chord.

James Lawrence

James is Canon Missioner at Blackburn Cathedral. He researches technology and theology at Oxford University.

Two superheroes, deadpool and Wolverine, stand and crouch respectively, in a desert like place.
'A desert of criticism and a wasteland of cynicism.'
Disney.

Can Marvel Jesus save a dying cinematic universe? That's the key question for the latest film from Marvel Studios and, it would seem at least from the box office, that the answer is: yes!  

Deadpool & Wolverine, the snarky buddy comedy odd-ball team-up between Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman, made over $590 million in its first week. That’s the sixth biggest opening of all time. 

What follows is not a traditional review, you can find plenty of those online already. Instead, I want us to consider Deadpool & Wolverine as a cultural artefact that displays some of the key themes of our society. The stories that we tell, including the films that Hollywood produces, can act as a mirror to our culture, giving us an opportunity to see trends that we might have otherwise missed.  

As a mirror to this cultural moment, I want to suggest that Deadpool & Wolverine presents us with a cynical and nihilistic take on the end of an era in which all the protagonists can do is barrage the audience with an endless stream of jokes and quips. 

The third instalment of the Deadpool trilogy is the first to be set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) since Disney acquired the rights to 20th Century Fox for $71.3 billion. Until now all the X-men movies, the Wolverine movies, the prequels and the Deadpool movies have been produced by 20th Century Fox. But it’s the start of a new chapter for the X-men franchise.  

The Disney executives hope for a new lease of life for the MCU, which has been struggling to find its way ever since the epic conclusion to Avengers: End Game. Of course, ordinarily, this sort of corporate back and forth would be irrelevant when thinking about the themes of a movie, but, in this case, the business backdrop is effectively a major plot-point of the film. 

A significant portion of the dialogue is spent discussing the acquisition of the X-men franchise by Disney. Deadpool talks about what Kevin Feige (president of Marvel Studios) will and won’t allow in his films. A major action set-piece takes place next to a ruin of the 20th Century Fox logo. Deadpool jokes with Wolverine that he is joined the MCU when they are in a bit of a slump, and, when Deadpool is asked to save the universe, he takes this to mean that he should save the entire MCU franchise describing himself as ‘Marvel Jesus’. The movie knows that this film is the product of a business deal, and it wants its audience to know that too. 

So, this film takes place at the end of an era and to highlight this throughout the film, a series of high-profile cameos are made by actors and characters from the last 24 years (no spoilers here). They are brought into the movie so that they might be given a final send off. A heroic on camera action hero death, one last valiant fight before the curtain falls. In a sense, Deadpool & Wolverine is a eulogy to the comic film industry, an era has passed away, we live only in the ruins of a once great edifice and all we can do is joke around and reminisce about the good old days

Deadpool’s is a dark humour, laughing death in the face, traipsing around the trash heap at the end of time incessantly spouting one-liners. 

The scepticism Deadpool and Wolverine exhibits about the movie industry, correlates neatly with a post-modern disposition to be suspicious about the role of power. Deadpool knows, and points out to his audience, that it is only the vested interests of corporate power that allow this film to take place, and he revels with delight when these corporations seem to be failing. He is under no illusions that the studios are benign entities who merely hope to make worthwhile art - Deadpool is a cynic, the jester, who takes great satisfaction in declaring that the emperor has no clothes.  

Coupled with this is the constant breaking of the fourth wall. This is one of Deadpool’s foundational characteristics, he has been breaking the fourth wall since his earliest appearance in the comics and the previous two films. Deadpool uses this ability to deconstruct and point out some of the quirks of the superhero genre. For example, in the first film when a villain jumps into the scene from a great height, Deadpool says to the audience: “Superhero landing. She's gonna do a superhero landing… You know, that's really hard on your knees.” (This joke is repeated in Deadpool & Wolverine). 

The deconstructionist tone contrasts sharply with Marvel’s previous movies, particularly the grand narrative which spanned 22 films and culminated in Avengers: Endgame- an unashamed mythic narrative about the defeat of evil and the triumph of good over bad. Yes, there were jokes and subversive elements in the MCU before Deadpool, but in the main the characters like Captain America are sincere and the movie takes them and their motivations seriously. Deadpool in contrast delights in deconstructing the narrative: Marvel’s grand narrative is over, Fox’s cinematic universe is over, and it is unclear if they will be able to successfully tell another epic mythic story. 

All of this, I imagine, sounds quite dystopian and that is not just how the film feels but also serves as the set piece for the middle section of the story. The misadventure of Deadpool & Wolverine lands both characters in “the void at the end of time” a place described as a Mad Max set, a barren desert where only the strongest survive by dominating the weak. In this hellish environment, Deadpool is completely unphased, he continues to make joke after joke, despite multiple characters in the movie telling him to ‘shut up’, and he displays zero remorse when his joking around results in other characters being killed. The humour of this film is the final element which makes it feel very post-modern and nihilistic. Deadpool and Wolverine are left in a hellscape and all they can do is fight with one another and make non-stop sarcastic quips. Deadpool’s is a dark humour, laughing death in the face, traipsing around the trash heap at the end of time incessantly spouting one-liners. 

Paul Ricoeur, the French Christian and philosopher describes in his work two instincts in modernity: a ‘willingness to listen’ and a ‘willingness to suspect.’ The willingness to suspect is best exemplified by the three ‘masters of suspicion’, Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche and Sigmund Freud. Following these masters of suspicion, modernity has learnt to be critical and to criticise texts, narratives, motives and power. Ricoeur thinks that we need both instincts, we need to be able to listen and we should be able to suspect, but, he cautions post-modern society that it is possible to find yourself in a desert of criticism in which there is nothing symbolic, nothing sacred, nothing but power and will. I have never seen a better depiction of the ‘desert of criticism’ put to film than Deadpool’s void at the end of time. 

Perhaps the film is doing this because this is, in fact, the only story worth telling.

All of this was bubbling around in the back of my head when the film came to its final climax. It is my experience of the finale that made me want to write this review of the film. After almost two hours of post-modern nihilism, in the denouement, our two protagonists are faced with the classic superhero choice to sacrifice themselves so that they can save their universe from imminent destruction. And, of course, like good superheroes, they go willingly into danger and give up their lives for the sake of their friends. 

I had such a strange set of emotions as I watched this part of the story unfold. 

Firstly, I thought “Oh, right, this is the moment when the hero sacrifices himself- that is obviously what comes next.” I have been conditioned by decades of superhero films to expect this sequence of events at the end of the movie. But secondly, I found myself thinking. “This is so out of place with the rest of the film, this is pure sentimental heroics, we’ve just had two hours of cynicism and fourth wall breaking and the climax of the whole thing is a traditional superhero ending?!” And then, lastly, I found myself wonderful, ‘Perhaps the film is doing this because this is, in fact, the only story worth telling- that everything up to this point has only been playing at cynicism because, at a fundamental level, the filmmakers realise that cynicism and scepticism aren’t enough to make a compelling story.” 

Western society feels as if it has lost its narrative. It is as if, just like the MCU, our best story is behind us, and we are flailing to find a new story. 

Deadpool & Wolverine is a strikingly resonant film, it has struck a chord with contemporary culture. The film offers us a mirror to the contemporary society in which we live and I think we must look deeply into the mirror if we are going to accurately diagnose the ills of our current cultural moment.  

Many people today feel like they are living in a desert at the end of time, devoid of meaningful symbolism and sustenance for the soul. The hollowing out of meaning in post-modern Western culture has resulted in a tinderbox which is ready to combust at a moment's notice. “Over the last month we have seen riots breakout across England caused by an incident in Southport that sent sparks flying.”. Relatedly, contemporary Western society feels as if it has lost its narrative. It is as if, just like the MCU, our best story is behind us, and we are flailing to find a new story. Look at the average Netflix viewing figures to discover that many of us only enjoy watching re-runs of our favourite TV shows from 10 years ago. 

The cynicism and scepticism of Deadpool & Wolverine resonates with many people in the contemporary West, and the film offers two ways of reacting to the pain of our cultural moment.  

For most of the film Deadpool saunters through this nihilistic hellscape spouting a barrage of gags, sex-jokes and sarcastic quips- that is the first option, to laugh in the face of meaninglessness. But for the climax of the movie, it’s as if the writers knew that they couldn’t maintain the ruse. When the characters of Deadpool and Wolverine make the choice to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others they choose to live for something bigger than themselves. They admit in their actions that they aren’t the nihilists they were pretending to be, and the film acknowledges that in the final analysis there is nothing ultimately satisfying, nothing ultimately sustaining, in that way of being in the world. 

Or, to put it another way, the only way that Deadpool could become ‘Marvel Jesus’ is by following in the footsteps of actual Jesus: by sacrificing his life for those whom he loved and by discovering that true life, resurrection life, is always and only ever found on the far side of death. 

Paul Ricoeur writes that ‘beyond the desert of criticism, we wish to be called again’, called to a second, or post-critical naïveté. Naivete is a deliberately provocative term to use, no one wants to be considered naïve (even postcritically naïve!), so perhaps you might prefer to think of it as synonymous with restored or as experiencing a recollection of meaning. I think many people in the West today are waking up to the challenge of living in a desert of criticism and a wasteland of cynicism. The capacity to criticise is an important skill, but it has run rampant and left out society with a void of meaning in which nothing is sacred, nothing is enchanted. 

Deadpool & Wolverine speaks of a culture desperately in need of a new story, a narrative within which meaning can be found. The film paints in vivid imagery the result of a society that has lost its narrative. And, in the end, Deadpool and Wolverine seems to admit that there is only one story worth telling: self-sacrificial death and resurrection. 

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