Spoilers for Avatar: The Last Airbender.
When Avatar: The Last Airbender arrived on Netflix last month, we saw a new generation of fans raise it to the very top spot on the streaming service’s most watched list. That’s good. We need it now, perhaps more than ever. Wearing the seemingly innocuous disguise of a casual Saturday morning cartoon, the show, which aired for three seasons between 2005 and 2008, remains one of the few TV series in history ever to receive a Peabody Award, given only to the most exceptional programs ever put to television. It’s well-deserved, and if you’re not sure why, then I’d say you have something to watch as soon as you can make the time. I’m a firm believer that while entertainment often exists purely to entertain us (the clue is in the name), we also need it to challenge us both emotionally and intellectually, and to force us to consider what we can learn from fiction. Avatar offers that challenge in a way that few shows ever have, and indeed ever will.
Set in a fantasy world where some humans have the power to bend the four elements: water, earth, fire and air, Avatar depicts the journey of Aang, the eponymous last airbender who reawakens after a hundred years to find the world torn apart by war. The ruthless Fire Nation and its firebenders have declared their supremacy and have embarked on a campaign to conquer and rule the rest of the world. As the Avatar, the only person with the ability to bend all four elements, Aang must master the four bending arts and restore balance to the world. Although clearly made in America, it takes inspiration from numerous other non-Western cultures, from Japan and China to Thailand and the Inuit peoples; cultures for whom representation in Western television has been sorely lacking both before and after the arrival of this show on Nickelodeon. Blended into the traditional cartoon style is some anime flair that transforms this into a living world; a perfect backdrop for a show that broke new ground for animation, and for television as a whole. It’s a world that’s every inch as rich and well-defined as George RR Martin’s Westeros and Tolkien’s Middle Earth.
None of this is to say that non-minorities can’t watch this show, or that they won’t be able to enjoy it. They have, they will and they should, and the value of understanding other cultures is just one of the many complex themes the show strives to convey. Throughout, its characters strive to master their bending abilities under the guidance of wise masters who describe the rigid nationalistic approach to training as an obstacle on the path to true wisdom and mastery. It’s no coincidence that the greatest benders in the show are those who have chosen to learn what they can from other cultures, and incorporate it into their own styles of fighting. There’s a lot of conflict to go round in the world of Avatar, but the show distinguishes itself by examining how war and persecution affect their victims, whose struggle for vengeance can prolong a vicious cycle of violence, but also how it affects those who perpetrate these vicious acts. In one of the show’s greatest moments Aang’s friend, the master waterbender Katara, pursues and confronts the firebender who murdered her mother, but finds herself unable to end the man’s life, although we are assured that he may very well deserve it. In the aftermath, she ponders her actions, questioning whether letting the man live was a sign of weakness or a sign of strength. When Aang says he’s proud of her for choosing forgiveness rather than revenge, her reply “I didn’t.” makes that moment all the more powerful.
Katara’s behaviour, and Aang’s reaction in that seminal episode, shows us the potency of the characterisation that won this show its Peabody. Aang, raised by the Air Nomads, a group of pacifistic monks whose culture emulates the core of Eastern spirituality and Buddhist philosophy, struggles when he sees the aftermath of the Fire Nation’s genocide of his people. Think of how many shows you’ve seen in which characters are forced to confront such a thing. Genocide and wholesale cultural destruction are appalling, but for most of us, they’re nebulous and distant things we only read about on bad news days. By showing us Aang at the moment he’s confronted with the enormity of such a loss, Avatar provides us with a vital understanding, a mental scaffold around which mature, adult themes can be discussed and understood by children, the original target audience of this show. Eastern spirituality and its concepts of peace and balance are infused in this show’s identity, with its narratives of interconnectedness and fate. It speaks out, on more than one occasion, about free will and about the concept of choosing your own path and destiny.
Zuko, the banished prince of the Fire Nation embodies those themes more than any other character. Initially an antagonist hunting the Avatar to bring him back to his father and regain his honour, he undergoes great internal strife before changing sides and joining Aang and his friends in their quest to defeat his father. Characters that show true growth in TV are rare, and characters that undergo a comprehensive journey of loss and redemption like Zuko’s are even rarer. Through his struggle, Zuko is the former oppressor who sides with the oppressed to right the wrongs committed by those of his bloodline and heritage. In times like these, it’s worth remembering the role the oppressor must have in ending oppression. Guiding him through his journey is his uncle Iroh, his life-loving uncle who always has plenty of hard-earned wisdom and a cup of tea to share. Confronting Zuko, he tells him “it’s time to look inward and start asking himself the bigger questions: who are you, and what do you want?” in a moment that highlights Iroh’s own past suffering and the wisdom he gained from it, and an appeal that applies to the audience as much as it does to his nephew. The words “leaves from the vine” ought to bring a tear to any fan who’s ever watched the series, and for good reason. All its characters have complex personalities and backstories, and intricate, complicated relationships with one another, whether they stand centre stage for every episode, or appear in the wings.
The space in the limelight is extended to women, minorities and the disabled; groups who frequently find themselves marginalised in our world, and in the world of Avatar as well. When Aang first learns to waterbend, he finds the culture of the Northern Water Tribe forbids Katara from learning to fight: a duty left to the men of the tribe. But Katara’s determination to learn leads her to challenge the staunch traditionalist assigned to teach Aang, and she’s just one of the many examples of well-written female characters who are far more than tropes or stereotypes. The women of Avatar fulfil a wide variety of roles, from warriors like Suki, who easily defeats Katara’s brother Sokka and quickly makes him see how misplaced his misogyny really is, to tragic villains like Zuko’s sister Azula, a sadistic, malevolent and highly skilled firebender whose mental instability makes her a force to be reckoned with. In the second season, the Gaang (as the fans refer to Aang’s band of adventurers), are joined by Toph, a young blind girl who also happens to be the greatest earthbender in the world. She escapes a sheltered, privileged life as the only daughter of a wealthy family to join Aang and his friends on the road, and quickly proves that she is far more capable than others expect. Far too few shows have disabled characters with both agency and complexity, but Avatar is one of them.
The subtle progressivism, incredibly well-written characters and phenomenal writing are part of what makes this show so great, but there’s more to it than its discussion of complex themes that most shows, animated or not, don’t touch. It’s also a beautifully animated work of art, with lush music, hugely energetic action sequences and a unique, inspired aesthetic. There’s a lot of humour and light-heartedness that balance out the show’s more serious themes and messages, but never undercuts them. The end result is a remarkably well-rounded television series with complex themes and even more complex characters who lift it far above the ranks of typical animation, and above typical television of any kind. That’s what the Peabody was for, by the way: “multi-dimensional characters, unusually complicated personal relationships for a cartoon serial, and a healthy respect for the consequences of warfare.” Check it out, check out its successor series Legend of Korra (which broke new, different ground with social commentary) and experience a show that’s probably one of the best TV shows ever made.
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