Upon viewing the film with friends of mine, some of whom barely knew anything about Napoleon aside maybe from Waterloo, I can say that the film leaves huge question marks to the average audience not only about the historical accuracy and connection of the events but also as to why Napoleon is revered as a heroic figure.

Indeed, all what my friends and I had just witnessed was a false portrayal of Napoleon as a capricious emotional figure akin to a teenager in a man’s body who has an uncontrolled lust for his wife and will do anything for her. This is a stark departure from the charismatic and visionary leader who inspired his great armies from the valleys of Italy to the pyramids of Egypt and on to Moscow.

One would say that Ridley Scott’s British historical bias fueled by British propaganda of the time would be one of the reasons why this movie does not do justice to Napoleon.

However, this film not only infuriates pro-Bonapartist audiences and historians. But even those who take a more critical view towards Napoleon were left angered about the injustice that the movie does to everything related to the Napoleonic era of European history. One could say a lot about Napoleon’s highly flawed Grand Strategy, his fatal mistakes relating to Spain and Russia, leading a vanity campaign after his return from Elba.

Even self-procalimed ‘Napoleon-philes‘ could hardly argue against the fact that France was significantly weaker after Napoleon’s final exile to St Helena compared to the start of the Napoleonic Wars. Nevertheless, instead of the film building up on the narrative of Napoleon as a tyrant who seeks to destroy his internal enemies and wants to rule continental Europe all by himself, a narrative which could satisfy both sides of the coin since it would necessitate a character in the name of Napoleon being imaginative, displaying tactical brilliance, charismatic.

In our case, we can’t even comprehend, let alone understand, why the French soldiers would follow this figure to battle. Why would they overthrow the Republic and crown him as Emperor?

A good example of this pitiful portrayal is the scene where, upon his return from Elba and facing former soldiers and Marshal Ney (of whom the film never mentions), Napoleon seems to be begging for mercy so that he can just go and live peacefully.  This was the last chance for the movie to explain and present a tiny bit of the charisma and vision of Napoleon. Instead, based on the narrative of the movie, Napoleon only seeks to escape Elba to meet Josephine again because he is infuriated by the rumors of her contact with the Russian Tsar.

It is outrageous because there is no possible way that the people producing the film did not know that Napoleon was well informed of the death of his former wife before his famous escape from the tiny island. A similarly outrageous but obviously intentional untruth is made earlier in the movie just for the sake of reinforcing the leading narrative of Napoleon as a total fool towards Josephine when he abandons his troops in Egypt because he is shocked by the newspaper headlines about her unfaithfulness.

Another aspect of which the film fails miserably is the chaotic battle scenes. First, there is a final assault on the Fort of Toulon, where Napoleon’s tactical genius in using artillery as his main weapon is ignored, which makes him stand apart from other military leaders during the Napoleonic Wars. Nevertheless, if we don’t wish to be overly harsh, the Siege of Toulon is probably decent (at best), mostly because it is the only battle sequence where there is any sort of tension building up.

However, the average audience member who may not have read any of the history of the Napoleonic Wars will have no clue as to Napoleon’s military genius. This is because the movie portrays Napoleon’s only contribution as a single charge with a group of soldiers. From here, the movie makes a huge leap, completely ignoring the campaign in Italy, which is where the young Corsican truly proves his extraordinary leadership and tactical abilities by saving the French Republic while completely defeating his opponents (such as with the Battle of Marengo) and forcing them to sign, humiliating peace treaties.

Incredibly, as Joachin Pheonix’ Napoleon says ‘Italy fell without a fight‘ and any person with the most remote idea about the period must have been left shocked by the ignorance and hubris towards history by that line.

From there, we can go to the horrific portrayal of the Battle of Austerlitz, Napoleon’s most celebrated victory and his greatest masterpiece are to be praised and mesmerized even until our times. Nothing does a greater injustice to Napoleon as a general and leader of the Grand Army than reducing this battle to the utter chaos of two huge mobs of soldiers clashing needlessly close to a frozen lake. There is nothing to take away from this battle. There are no tactics, no sense of the true scale of warfare, and no sense of the actual battlefield of Austerlitz with the famous Pratzen Heights. Napoleon just sets an absurd mousetrap that a 5-year-old could come up with, and the whole enemy army just charges all at once. The French Emperor then weaves some orders to his whole army, which then executes them in seconds. Joachin Phoenix’ Napoleon will later in the film call his soldiers ‘Heroes of Austerlitz,’ but the audience is left to wonder why that is.

The battle of Borodino is also briefly shown with Napoleon charging with cavalry against the Russian line infantry, something so ridiculous (given that Napoleon was trained in real life as an artillery officer) that I will not even bother to comment upon it.

The final battle of Waterloo again fails miserably in showing the true scale of the fight, any basic tactics are nonexistent, there is no mention of Hougomont or La Haye Sainte, and outrageously no mention of the final heroic and epic attack of Napoleon’s crème de la crème veteran unit, the Old Guard. There is no epic duel with the imposing Elite French Grenadiers and their impressive uniforms against Wellington’s last remaining troops, who put a heroic last stand that ultimately culminates with Prussia’s arrival in the blowing defeat of Napoleon.

Instead, Ridley Scott shows his utmost apathy towards historical accuracy again when the final clash of the Napoleonic wars ends up being another huge blob of troops clashing mindlessly against each other. You can easily realize that the director is not motivated by any sympathies towards the British side either since Wellington is also portrayed as another cartoonish, unserious character.

We then go to the film’s failed attempt to encapsulate the era’s politics and diplomacy. Napoleon abandons his troops in Egypt not because his campaign has gone south after the British have destroyed his navy but as a reaction to the alleged infidelity of Josephine. No mention of the popularity of Bonaparte and how French politicians trembled at his sight, and almost no mention of his discoveries and intellectual curiosities in Egypt relating to the times of Alexander and the Pharaohs. Instead, we get an awkward scene between Napoleon and a mummy just to make him look ridiculous.

The naval battle of Trafalgar is also completely omitted and never mentioned in any conversation, even though it’s one of the main reasons why Napoleon would focus solely on continental Europe from that moment on.

Even during the peace talks at Tilsit, the French Emperor is portrayed as weak and desperate when he begs Tsar Alexander for a prospective wife. This is taken to another level of historical ignorance when later it is Talleyrand the one begging Metternich for a union between Austrian Archduchess Marie Louise and Napoleon, with Metternich laughing about it, even though in reality, Metternich was the one proposing the union between the Emperor Francis and Napoleon to secure favorable terms and an alliance for Austria.

Of course, all these historical ‘nuances’ are completely omitted along with the widely known affair that Napoleon had with Polish noblewoman Marie Waleska, just so that this pathetic narrative of Josephine conquering the man that conquered Europe can stand on some ground to the average audience.

The final nail in the coffin in this regard comes after the disastrous Russian campaign. Napoleon unexpectedly abdicates like he was a random employee at a corporate job in which he has messed up and wants to avoid being fired. In reality, Napoleon fought viciously for two more years against most of Europe in ferocious battles like Dresden and Leipzig (the multitudinary Battle of the Nations), and his final moment of true strategic genius was in the Six Days Campaign in 1814 before abdicating after the surrender of Paris.

The writing was already on the wall when one tried to sum up almost 20 years of history in a two-and-a-half-hour film. However, this does not by any means excuse the complete character assassination of Napoleon, and there is no coherent character development or logic behind Napoleon’s motives to conquer Europe. Indeed, the series ‘Napoleon’ (2002) is close to this film in the sense that it focuses more on the life of Napoleon and his reflections while in exile in St. Helena rather than on his battles.

While not without its major flaws (being considered slightly above average), it still offers some memorable moments, such as Napoleon’s charge at the bridge of Lodi, the battle of Austerlitz, and his return from Elba, all of which make Napoleon appear a truly inspiring and a Great Man figure.

Every character in Ridley Scott’s film has a farcical and absurd element in him, including Josephine, though she is the actual star of the show.  One must suffer through some intentionally awkward sex scenes to make Napoleon look like an incel (slang for ‘involuntary celibate’), and Joachin Phoenix delivers in playing a depressed, monotonous character who seems incapable of greatness or symbolic immortality.

He fails to engage the audience emotionally. The narrative that the movie tries to build is dissapointing, and runs conterfactually against actual historical facts. What the director produced was a Napoleon & Josephine historical fiction, drama-romance film in which he completely emasculates Napoleon and strips him of the qualities and talents that led him to greatness.

History buffs are outraged by this movie, considering the fact that, in our age, historical movies are a gateway into the field of history.  They inspire some to delve into epic historical figures who are the movers and makers of nations and civilizations and alter the trajectory of history. Historical films are modern-day substitutes for epics like the Iliad or the Odyssey, which are foundations for the spirit of adventure, pride, heroism, and brotherhood.

With nothing else to add, Ridley Scott’s Napoleon is such a lackluster movie that it will hopefully be forgotten very soon and will not impact the great legacy of the actual, historical Napoleon Bonaparte.

The post How Accurate is Ridley Scott’s Portrayal of Napoleon? appeared first on The Miskatonian.

Every time you make yourself a cup of coffee, maybe while standing nearly lifeless (or half dead) in front of that coffee pot on a particularly dismal Monday morning, it is not difficult to take it for granted that the coffee is there. It’s so obviously there, so how could it be otherwise? But in its thereness, the metaphysical question of being applies. Being is. But how come? However, maybe that coffee is not so very obvious after all. All effects obscure their causes, although, yes, sometimes causes obscure their effects. The truth is, we get used to things, and when we do, it gets easier to take them for granted without gratitude.

I don’t need to tell you, but I will anyway, that coffee is a popular drink. Every year, nearly two and a half billion cups of coffee are consumed worldwide, and at least half of those are by my brother-in-law. But this wasn’t always the case, especially before my brother-in-law turned five. If history had worked out a little differently, maybe we’d all be obsessed with something else entirely, like, say, mint tea. At one point in history, coffee was thought of as a “bitter invention of Satan.” It was shunned in the West because no one wants to end up demonically possessed by a beverage.

Legend has it that coffee was discovered around the year 850 A. D. by a poetically inclined Ethiopian goat herder named Kaldi. Kaldi saw that his goats would all gravitate towards a kind of cherry tree and that, after eating its berries, the goats would be noticeably more energetic. Kaldi tried the cherries himself, and he felt just heck-gosh-darn-it marvelous. Poetry flowed out of him, and his eyes widened to a world of wonders in a new way. He began waxing Heideggerian about how man is not the lord of being, but the shepherd of being, and that was long before Heidegger showed up to confuse philosophy undergraduates.

Kaldi brought the cherries to an Islamic monastery where its devout dwellers experimented until the first form of coffee came into existence. As you would expect, when such a miracle is discovered, it spreads quickly. Not everyone was a fan, but, in general, coffee began to trend. When the West caught a whiff of the stuff, this ambivalent stance towards it continued. A mix of fascination and terror. The criticism seemed to outweigh praise until Pope Clement the 8th tried coffee and said these great words: “This Satan’s drink is so delicious that it would be a pity to let the infidels have exclusive use of it.”

Well, thank Clement for that. But all of this brings me to the horrible realization I had today that my coffee had cooled down while I was reflecting on the history of coffee. I realized as that cold coffee touched my lips and as I shuddered at the brutality of that experience that we are often so busy getting caught in the vortex of the twenty-four-hour news cycle or the details of the history of some or other beverage that we forget that just by contemplating coffee long enough, we might end up proving the existence of God and better understanding something of modern politics. It’s easier to do so, in fact, when you notice how your coffee changes. So, let’s contemplate change for a moment, shall we? We’ll get to the theology and politics of it in a moment.

Everything changes, you know. Things that are once were not, and will one day not be again. You and I are included in this, I’m afraid. And change can happen in different ways. Filling my cup: a quantitative change. Spilling my coffee: a location change. Coffee cooling down: qualitative change. Digesting the coffee: substantial change to the coffee and, although debatable, to me. Change would occur even if we lived in a simulation, and for that reason, it would need to be explained.

If I were drinking my coffee with Aristotle or St. Thomas, they would remind me that change involves the actualization of a potential. It involves making real what could be real. Coffee has the potential to get cold. I can heat it up again, too, but I’m too busy writing this thing to do that. All created beings are a mixture of actuality and potentiality, and these facets of being interact with each other. They interactualise. For a potential to be made real, something that possesses a certain actualizing power has to impart that actuality to what doesn’t have it, as when the room’s temperature cools the coffee down. Everything needs a real changer for change to happen.

Now, to make this very straightforward fact more interesting, let’s think of an isolated moment in the life of some coffee. The coffee is on my desk, next to me. It is approximately three feet off the ground because of the desk. The desk is approximately three meters from the ground because my house is on the first floor of a block of flats, and the block of flats is supported by a foundation, which is supported by the ground, under which is the turbulence and tormenting heat of lava, and so on. I’m thinking vertically here about the fact that the coffee is where it is in space and not just in time because it is dependent on other things, which are dependent on other things, which are dependent on yet other things. And so on. The coffee has no power on its own to be where it is. The coffee can only be where it is because it depends on the desk, and the desk can only be where it is because it depends on the floor.

I mention this more vertical way of thinking, from cup to table to floor to building to foundation to ground, and so on, because I don’t want you to make the mistake of thinking that we require something like an initial starting point, like a big bang, for all of this to exist as it does. Aristotle, for instance, believed in the Carl-Saganancity of a universe that always ways and will always be, as if time itself is not a creature, although I think it is.

An atemporal or vertical way of thinking about coffee helps us consider how various actualities depend on other actualities, which depend on other actualities in turn. Change cannot happen apart from this atemporal dependence. Moreover, each thing, which depends on other things at any given moment, clearly is not self-sustaining and self-supporting and so requires something else, which in turn is not self-sustaining or self-supporting. This is true at the microscopic and subatomic levels, too, as we dive into the coffee, its water and caffeine, molecules and atoms and quarks and gluons, and so on.

The obvious contingency of the thing—the fact that it is not self-supporting—doesn’t disappear but becomes increasingly glaringly apparent the more you look at things. Not only does nothing fully account for itself, but nothing self-actualizes itself, including the subjects of Maslowian psychology. All potentials are actualized by things that are not the thing itself, even quite apart from some historical-temporal explanation. The potential of my coffee cup to be there, feet off the ground, is actualized, for instance, by the table it is on.

Now think, as much as you are able to, about everything. Think about the sum total of everything that exists. Metaphysically, we are asking about all of that, all of us included. If I am walking in a forest and I happen to come across a giant cup of coffee floating inexplicably in the middle of a beautiful clearing without apparent reason or support, I would be likely to ask the question of how it got there. Well, while that is no doubt disturbingly inexplicable, it is no less strange that there is anything at all here rather than nothing. It would be weird for a giant, unsupported coffee cup to be in the middle of a clearing in the forest, but it is far weirder that there is a giant, unsupported universe right in the middle of—well, in the middle of what exactly?

Here we are, and here everything is, and when you really think about it, rather than just taking it for granted, you discover that it is rather strange that anything exists at all, especially since everything in the system of the entire universe is clearly not a self-supporting thing. And it isn’t good enough to merely state the fact of everything’s self-evident presence, as scientistic atheists do, because the description in itself is not an explanation. If someone dies drinking poisoned coffee, as someone does in Keigo Higashino’s thoroughly enjoyable novel Salvation of a Saint, merely describing the crime scene is not sufficient to solve the question of who poisoned the victim and why. In other words, answering any question at one level is hard to answer on the required levels for the answer to be sufficient.

Nothing we know of in the universe is self-supporting, so why would the universe itself be self-supporting? It will also not do to constantly point to causes of change that are themselves open to change because then you have to simply point to another cause for change, which is itself also changing and changeable because, in that case, we are dealing not just with infinite regress but with the silly idea that just because you add yet another level to your hierarchy of being that you have in fact solved the problem—because you really haven’t. All you have done is defer it. This is why mechanical explanations don’t ultimately destroy mystery. Just because you know how a machine works doesn’t mean you have properly understood the mystical presence of the machine itself.

My point is this. We’re not just interested in what changes our coffee from warm to cold coffee. We are interested in why coffee exists in this very moment, as isolated from all other moments. We’re also not just asking about the chemical composition of coffee because that doesn’t answer the question; it merely rephrases it. We’re not thinking about history because that’s just another way to defer the question of being. We are asking the metaphysical question: Why is there coffee instead of nothing?

What actualizes the potential of the sum total of everything in the coffee as well as everything that is the universe? We’re interested in what actualizes the universe itself (and the coffee): what actualizes anything’s potential to be, given that everything is so obviously loaded with potential? We don’t really need to ask about the whole universe at all and how it came to be, of course. We need only ask about any simple, everyday thing, like a cup of coffee. Its thereness is astonishing, isn’t it?

To avoid infinite regress, we can now posit that there must be an Unactualised Actualiser, or what Aristotle calls the Unmoved Mover. We need something that is so actual that it does not have any potential at all. As soon as something has a potential, after all, it would require something else to actualize that potential, and that would merely put us on the cosmic infinite regress path all over again. Thus, the Unactualised Actualiser would have to be absolutely unchangeable. It would need to have no parts because if it had parts, it would be dependent upon those parts for its existence, and we’d end up with yet more regress. It must be so real that it does not require anything else to explain its own reality.

If we’re taking the natural order of things as seriously as I’m trying to, then this is the only logical explanation available to any of us regarding why there is something rather than nothing, at least insofar as change is our main consideration. If you decide to contest this logic, your own logic would need to be on the basis of a more logical possibility.

We can, of course, simply settle for the fact that everything just is. We, at least most of us, can believe our senses and accept that they are not lying to us. But if we want an explanation and if we trust the basic inferential logic of how things depend on other things and that the sum total of all dependent things must require something singular and independent upon which everything can rest, it is not just possible but necessary to trust that an Unmoved Mover is the only possible answer. It is a logical necessity.

There are myriad ways to fine-tune the above argument, which is really the shortest version of it I could give without risking boring you. But I have another reason for bringing this up. And that reason is political. Because politics always rests on some or other metaphysics. This metaphysical division of being into actuality, the technical name being act, and potentiality, the technical name being potency, suggests a fantastic array of powers of actualization and potentiality.

Even in our most basic understanding of the world, we know that there are harmonious and inharmonious ways that act and potency can interact. Here’s a harmonious interactualisation: I drink the coffee, which ignites a little spark in me, and I move on to enjoy my day. Here’s an inharmonious version of this: I drink several cups of coffee in a row, and soon enough, I feel insanely anxious, become restless, get a headache, get dizzy, and my heart rate goes nuts. The political dimension of this simple interaction with coffee would be that my interactions with others, as now affected by my interaction with coffee, could be better or worse, depending on the proportion between actuality and potentiality in this specific interaction. Harmony, which is what we should be aiming for and which the ancients described in terms of the life of virtue, involves difficulties in our interactions, too, such as the difficulty of getting out of bed and making coffee. Why does it not make itself? Ah, yes, I’ve already implied an explanation for that.

Well, politics is much more complicated than this, of course. But you get the idea. It’s a matter not just of what interacts but also of a certain proportion between the things that interact. In some places and times, there has been harmony. As suggested in the Genesis story in the bible, harmony is achievable in terms of how certain aspects of creation allow for and limit each other. In her marvelous book, The Need for Roots, Simone Weil uses this principle to discuss certain needs for the soul, noting that “needs are arranged in antithetical pairs and have to combine together to form a balance. Man requires food but also an interval between his meals; he requires warmth and coolness, rest, and exercise. Likewise, in the case of the soul’s needs.” She notes our soul needs a political order that balances liberty and responsibility, equality and hierarchism, honor and punishment, truth and freedom of opinion, security, and risk, as well as private property and collective property.

Arguably, there are reasonable ways to consider all such things. But, in our time, something glaringly bothersome makes even reasonable consideration close to impossible.

It’s worth noting that there are also things that have a certain kind of existence that are completely imaginary. Let’s imagine, say, coffee that tastes exactly like tea. I can throw these antithetical ideas together quite easily to create a pure logical possibility. This is not a real potential, of course, because it is not grounded in the nature of real things. It is fiction, which, even to be a fiction, must exist somewhere—that is, in my mind—even if it isn’t truly realizable. If my coffee really tasted like tea, it would actually be tea and not coffee. Just because it is thinkable does not mean it is actualisable.

Technically, then, we are dealing here with something that has so little actuality that it is nearly completely all potentiality. If a person were to believe that one can really actualize something that has no being, he would essentially be equating himself with the ultimate actuality. He would quite literally be thinking of himself as equal to God, who is not a mere logical potential but a logical necessity. While I grant that you may not accept the existence of God on the basis of anything like what I have said, even so, the vast majority of people would agree, given the degrees of actualizing power readily and even obviously perceptible in the world, that to assume the ability to call a new nature into existence by what amounts to sheer will is a rather astonishing sort of hubris.

But it is this very hubris that is at the heart of the entire liberal political project.  To look at our current political moment both metaphysically and historically, we start to see that alarmingly far back, even before Sartre inverted essence and existence, the modern project was already obsessively concerned with falsification. The idea that we can only determine what is true after antagonizing being, which is what modern science does, is already to place actuality at the service of potentiality. But this idea leaked into everything, including theology, philosophy, and culture.

Way back, the conception of personhood in the heads of nominalists, even before Descartes, was already tending to think of logical possibility—meaning a pure object of thought without any material being—as superior in a way to potency proper. The conception of personhood at play was one of pure thought imaginatively but not actually cut off from reality. It was a blank slate before Locke and Rousseau. It was, in short, a fiction. Its reality was rooted not in being and its natural division of act and potency but in the mind, which can easily invert that division without even noticing that it is an inversion.

Politics, for a long time now, has been de-ontologized. It’s why it’s so easy to get caught up in political discussions that have almost nothing to do with actual political concerns; that is, with what it means to live well in the world, given that we interact with and intellectualize each other, and given that we even have the potential to denigrate each other if we cannot perceive harmonious interactions wisely. Theoretical relations are now more commonly entertained than real relations.

Sure, you could look at this lengthy meditation and accuse me of doing the same. But, part of why I have traversed the whole universe, from my coffee cup to God to the realm of the political, is because I ultimately have a very simple point to make. The political has to be, in the richest sense, universal. But the truly universal is not a false universal absolutely ripped from context. It is intimate as well. It pertains to various actualities and how they play off each other and give of themselves to each other. It pertains to the lives we really live. And the truth is that where the so-called political yanks us away from concrete particulars, it is no longer really political. It destroys the tensions between those antithetical pairs that Weil mentions without even considering what they mean, we cannot figure out what it means to live together, and we cannot possibly encounter wholeness. Right now, what is being sacrificed for the sake of so many fictions, the absolute fiction of money included, is everything from families to nations to harmonious geopolitical solutions, all in the name of reconceptualizing the world as a realm of pure artificiality.

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Aristotle says that the politeia as a thing not only refers to the ruling part or body (the politeuma) that actually held ruler or control over the given political community but also the very way of life and overall political culture that shapes that given political community. The polis—which was the form of the political community at the time of the Ancient Greeks—was understood to be an aggregation of the various households (oikoi) who shared the same space or territory and in doing so generally shared a common life together as a single community. Thus given the household (oikos) itself was an aggregation of different relationships that are found living within it (i.e., the husband-wife, parent-child, sibling-sibling, and master-slave/servant relationships). The nature of the polis needs to be understood as an aggregation of discrete parts whose only real unity arises out of their common shared life together in that shared space. And the political is the inter-arrangement, structure, or order of which part of the polis rules (that is to say has authority and control) over the whole community and thus to rule for the benefit of the whole community and not merely themselves or their friends and family.

Aristotle at first suggests that the politeia could be understood to be defined by two characteristics—(1) the number of rulers and (2) the justice of the ruler’s rule. As to the characteristic of the number of rulers (1), he presents us with a very common-sense division between the one, the few, or the many. As to the characteristic of the justice of the ruler’s rule (2), it is divided between the rulers ruling for the benefit or utility or good of themselves or for the sake of the whole community. Here Aristotle does not insist as Plato had that justice would require that rulers rule only for the sake of the ruled, but that that they ought to rule for the sake and benefit of the whole community and not some particular part. And if the rulers ruled for their own interest at the sake of the others in the community such rule would resemble in character despotic rule or mastery—which is understood to be rule over slaves/servants where the rule is for the sake of the rulers and not the ruled.

Out of the juxtaposition of these two categories, Aristotle presents the first typology of politeias:

What is interesting in this first typology of politeia is the name given for the politeia of the rule of the many for the common advantage is the same word for the thing he is trying to classify—politeia.  Thus, Aristotle uses the same word to signify one particular type or variety that he uses to label the whole class of things he is trying to describe.  It would be like if he had given a list of species or one of the specie was called specie. 

Aristotle in doing this had many commentators and translators perplexed about what to do with this politeia called politeia.  And using politeia to refer to a specific variety of politeia was rather unique to Aristotle, as neither Thucydides, Hesiod, Xenophon, or Plato did this.  Plato speaks of the timocracy, the rule of the warriors or honor lovers—Aristotle is wholly about such a regime in his Politics.  And because of this most translators and commentators opt to call this particular form of politeia a polity or something like a constitutional rule or a republic (but that would be problematic as the Latin for politeia is res publica).

            Yet right after Aristotle presented this six-fold typology in his Politics, he immediately challenges the validity of this just presented typology by making the claim that what truly defines the nature of an oligarchy is not the fact that its rulers are few but that they are the rich, the wealthy.  He argues that even if the ruling rich or wealthy were many (and the largest and most numerous part—even the majority) and not few its rule would remain oligarchic rather than democratic.   And this is as true about the rule of the poor or the vulgar (the demos)—that if the few poor or vulgar ruled over a political community its rule would be democratic in character.   Thus, the number of rulers seems to be accidental to the character of the given politeia.  What is more important and more critical is what exactly is the group that is ruling—who are they? Are they the wealthy/rich or the poor?  Aristotle suggests that what defines and distinguishes one politeia from another is the claim made by each group on who should rule and why. Thus, each politeia advances a specific claim about the justice and justification of its rule over the political community.  

            At Politics 3.10 Aristotle allows each form of politeia to put forward their individual claim (or justification) to rule.  In this particular presentation, Aristotle only does not let two of the six types of politeia present their claim as the other four are allowed to—one is tyranny and the other the politeia called politeia.   Whereas the claim of tyranny is obvious—might makes right—the claim of the politeia named politeia is not.  And given the very strangeness in its very name—one would expect some clarification would be given—but in Book 3 of the Politics, none is given.  So, at the end we have five claims—four explicitly presented in the text, one only implied and they are the following:

In Politics the claim of justice makes by each politeia seems to be what truly defines it.  Yet where we turn to Politics we not only return to the original six-fold typology of politeia of Politics but we once again see Aristotle drop it with the claim that a politeia with a much more complex one that not only has politeia varying across types but there is also variation within each type as well.  Thus, Aristotle suggests that there is a high degree of variation within a specific form of politeia than there is variance among them. 

            Yet what is shocking in Aristotle’s treatment of politeia in Book 4 is that he focuses more clearly on the politieas of democracy and oligarchy.  He says he has already discussed kingship and aristocracy already and argues that what remains is to discuss what has yet to be discussed from the original six forms of politeia—oligarchy, democracy, politeia called politeia, and tyranny, but what happens is somewhat different than promised. Instead, he spends the first three chapters going once again over what the politeia is and what is it composed of, and then he fleshes out the various parts of multitudes (the many) and notables (the few) that exist within and forms most political communities only then and there to give an account of the variations within the democratic politeia.

            After the account of the variations of the democratic politeia, the next chapter he then presents the variations of the oligarchic politeia.  One would expect for him to now turn to the next politeia—either tyranny or the politeia called politeia—but he does not, rather he represented both the account of the variations of democratic politeias and then oligarchic politeias.  Only after this representation of the variations of democratic (which slightly differs from the earlier account) and oligarchic politeias he then gives a blurred account of both aristocracy (which he said he had already discussed) and the politeia called politeia—which unlike the account of the varieties of democratic and oligarchic politeias does not offer clear cut variations for each he seems to all too often blur them both with either oligarchy or democracy.  These two chapters are some of the most confusing and difficult to read and understand in Aristotle’s Politics and remain an endless source of controversy over what exactly he is trying to argue here remains with us till today.

            It is in this more complex form of the politeia that we just mentioned above that Aristotle clearly distinguishes his teaching from that of Plato and Xenophon, as well as Thucydides and Herodotus. In fact, later writers like Plutarch and Polybius—Greeks who are writing and living at the time after Rome has conquered Greece and ruled over it—speak of the politeia as more akin to Plato than to Aristotle, especially Aristotle’s account of Politics book 4, 5, and 6.  The fact that so little is mentioned of Aristotle’s account about politeia among the Roman and early Christian authors it is commonly believed that these authors either did not bother to read or even have access to Aristotle’s Politics.

            Aristotle’s account of the politeia also fundamentally differs from that of Plato’s and Polybius’s accounts by his underscoring that change of politeia will occur between politeia but also within variations as well.  Both Plato and Polybius have a narrow understanding of politeia and thus present change or politeia as of a cyclical path.  In fact, their use of this cyclical change from one form of politeia to the next, in a particular path from kingship to aristocracy, to timocracy (which for Plato is the rule by the warriors), to oligarchy, to democracy, to tyranny.  This circular motion of the cycle of politeia change is one of the reasons such change of a politeia would be called a revolution.  Hence the power of this cyclical vision of political change.  But Aristotle’s account of this change of one type of politeia was radically at odds with his teacher Plato.  Aristotle held that that change could not only occur from one type to another as well as within type from one variation to other but also that there was no one clear set pattern or cycle that political change of politeia would take.  Aristotle would argue that yes some changes were more likely and others less likely but others changes were possible.  He also argues that the cycle did not necessarily repeat in the way Plato presented it.

When we look at what Aristotle shows us about the way political change can emerge and occur from one form of politeia to another, either a change within or among types, we see that he offers a model of political change that is not only as dynamic as many contemporary models of political systems/regimes, but we also find in today’s social scientific study of politics, what we call political science.  Yet Aristotle’s treatment of politeia differs from most if not all contemporary models found in today’s political science because his approach allows both strong quantitative and qualitative characteristics (not requiring the sacrificing of one for the other that is common in most contemporary approaches) that also are highly empirical in character yet offering great prescriptive richness that much empirical political typically lacks.

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