Red Riding Hood (2011): The Heroine’s Journey Into the Forest – Athena Bellas

Figure 1: Red Riding Hood as powerful hunter, armed with a weapon in Catherine Hardwicke’s Red Riding Hood

In the closing scenes of Catherine Hardwicke’s recent teen film Red Riding Hood (2011), heroine Valerie, armed with a dagger, journeys into the forest to hunt and kill the big bad wolf. After slaying the beast in a bloody battle, Valerie does not return home to be chastised by the traditional well-known moral of the tale: ‘do not stray from the path’.[1] No such moral exists at the end of this particular ‘Red Riding Hood’ retelling. Instead, Valerie rejects her family home and takes up residence in the forest with another wolf, her lover Peter, and the film closes on the blissful contentment of their (paranormal) romance. This article charts how, in this contemporary teen film, the trope of the female adolescent’s voyage into the forest represents an empowering entry into personal freedom, power, and self-definition. At the same time, the film displays the contemporary teen media landscape’s obsession with fairy tale and paranormal romance, with its emphasis on the pleasures of heterosexual romance between the desiring heroine and her ‘dark lover.’ The journey into the forest in contemporary teen films and television is significant to chart, because it is through the journey into this space, and the magical transformations that she undergoes there, that provides the heroine with a unique opportunity to shift into a position of power and liberty.

Hardwicke’s Red Riding Hood emerges in a current teen screen media landscape obsessed with this aspect of the fairy tale and the paranormal romance. Interestingly, many of these texts, including blockbuster films like Twilight (Catherine Hardwicke 2008), The Hunger Games (Gary Ross 2012), and Snow White and the Huntsman (Rupert Sanders 2012), as well as television series like The Vampire Diaries (Julie Plec and Kevin Williamson 2009-) and The Secret Circle (Andrew Miller 2011-2012), situate their heroine’s journey centrally within a forest space. As she journeys into the forest, the heroine undergoes an often supernatural transformation into a beast or beast-like creature such as a werewolf or vampire. During this metamorphosis, the heroine develops physical strength and prowess, bravery and fearlessness. The journey into the forest is the catalyst for the heroine’s beastly transformation, and her evolution into an empowered position in the world. In these teen screen texts, the enchanted forest space has become an imaginative horizon on which to explore and celebrate female mobility, agency and even aggression.

But at the same time, the heroines of these texts also encounter and fall in love with a magical male creature in the forest – werewolves, vampires, warlocks, and ghosts are particularly popular. In television series The Vampire Diaries, for example, heroine Elena becomes a vampire and as she discovers her extraordinary physical strength and her lust for blood, she also enjoys a romantic relationship with vampire boyfriend Stefan (as well as potential lover Damon). Similarly, in Hardwicke’s film previous to Red Riding Hood, the wildly successful teen blockbuster Twilight (2008), grounds the paranormal romance between vampire Edward Cullen and human Bella Swan in the lush geography of the woods.

In this way, these texts enact postfeminist rewritings of the fairy tale – retaining a focus on the pleasures of romance but also incorporating new elements like the female-as-hunter and the celebration of her agency, aggression and power. The representation of strength, freedom and mobility, coupled with an emphasis on the heterosexual romantic union, is particularly inflected by the postfeminist sensibility that surrounds much of contemporary teen screen media today. The postfeminist signifies a ‘move away from easy categorisations and binaries, including the dualistic patterns of (male) power and (female) oppression on which much feminist thought and politics are built.’[2] Rather than representing the heroine’s empowerment and agency in conflict with the romance narrative of the ‘dangerous lover’, the postfeminist text often unites these elements, allowing both to exist in a non-binaristic way, and not having to give up one element for the other.[3] In Red Riding Hood, for example, the story emphasises the importance and power of independent female mobility through the figure of Valerie as a powerful lone hunter journeying into the forest to slay the beast. But at the same time, it also emphasises the theme of escape through romance with the prioritisation of the heterosexual relationship. So this postfeminist fairy tale film wants, and has it, both ways; it navigates both paths through the fairy tale forest at the same time. On the one hand, it champions Valerie as an independent hunter but on the other hand it also promotes an image of fulfilment through love and a heterosexual romantic coupling. This film promotes an image of mobility across spaces but also across identities, for Valerie is both violent hunter and romantic lover in the forest. She is not locked into either identity, but rather is able to occupy both.

Fairy tale scholar Cristina Bacchilega writes that in contemporary retellings of the ‘Red Riding Hood’ tale, ‘straying from the path is necessary’.[4] Red Riding Hood constructs this necessary straying across the filmic landscape to celebrate the errant journey of heroine Valerie. Rebelling against the strictures of her daily life, Valerie escapes into the forest and is rewarded with knowledge, agency, power and the fulfilment of her desire. The film utilises the geography of the fairy tale forest to tell a story of female mobility and agency. Hardwicke’s film rewrites and revalues Red Riding Hood’s wayward journey in the forest – straying from the path is represented as not only necessary, but also positive, satisfying, and empowering for the heroine. This journey leads her to traverse broad new horizons of independence and transformation.

Figure 2: Snow White battles against fearsome creatures in ‘The Dark Forest’ in Snow White and the Huntsman. Like many heroines of contemporary fairy tale teen films, this Snow White discovers strength, power and bravery within herself in the forest space.

The moral of the tale, ‘don’t stray from the path’ dissipates in many contemporary revisions in favour of errant travel, and indeed, it is nowhere to be seen in Hardwicke’s retelling of the tale. No longer a didactic emblem[5], the path through the forest is presented as a positive opportunity for the heroine’s independent travel, which allows for a rebellion against the strictures imposed upon her as well as a transformation into a mobile, empowered position in the world.

Red Riding Hood: Pursuing An Errant Path

In both the Perrault and Grimm versions of ‘Red Riding Hood’, the heroines’ straying from the path has negative consequences – in the former she is killed, and in the latter she is devoured and only narrowly escapes death when the huntsman rescues her from the belly of the beast. Bacchilega reads these gruesome endings as punishments for heroines who have acted up and disobeyed orders[6], writing that ‘[t]he girl has learned her lesson: obey your mother and don’t give in to errant desires’.[7] In her extensive study of the evolution of the ‘Red Riding Hood’ tale in popular culture, Red Riding Hood Uncloaked (2002), Catherine Orenstein similarly points out that these endings functioned as ‘warnings’ for young girls to not disobey authority.[8] The admonishing warning ‘do not stray from the path,’ coupled with the heroine’s death at the end of the story highlight the negativity in which this forest voyage has been shrouded. However, in postfeminist cinematic retellings like Hardwicke’s, the heroine is not punished for her errant travel into the forest; her journey is not represented as a shocking transgression that must be corrected. Rather, the journey comes to represent the heroine’s agency and empowerment and the film celebrates this by allowing her to defeat the wolf, and rewarding her with the pleasures of an alternative path outside of her everyday life.

Marilyn C. Wesley points out that often ‘women’s travel serves as a trope of female agency.’[9] To undertake a journey, beyond the limits of what is familiar and set, is to expand into spaces of ‘alternative possibility.’[10] Contemporary retellings of the ‘Red Riding Hood’ tale, including those seen in the teen film genre, have revised the tale to tell stories of female mobility and agency. In contemporary teen films like Red Riding Hood, Ginger Snaps (John Fawcett 2000), Ella Enchanted (Tommy O’Haver 2004) and Snow White and the Huntsman the fairy tale forest is invoked as the grounds for female travel where ‘alternative possibilities’ of identity, experience and desire can come into play. In these films, the heroine journeys from the limiting boundaries of her home and into the forest where she not only finds escape from these limits, but also undergoes empowering and powerful personal transformations.

The wide-open spaces of the forest in these teen films are liminal zones for adolescent transformations. Anthropologist Victor Turner writes that the liminal, the ambiguous territory of ‘betwixt-and-between’, provides a ‘time of enchantment when anything might, even should, happen.’[11] This ‘time of enchantment’ provides room for play, experimentation with multiple identities, and purposefully breaking rules.[12] Adrian Martin has applied Turner’s observation of liminality to teen cinema. He writes that ‘teen stories are about…the liminal experience: that intense, suspended moment between yesterday and tomorrow, between childhood and adulthood, between being a nobody and being a somebody, when everything is in question, and anything is possible.’[13] Catherine Driscoll similarly remarks that this is a utopian space for teen film, providing a ‘fantasy of freedom.’[14] This utopian sense of expanded possibilities and freedom in the teen fairy tale film is particularly embodied in the space of the forest, where magical transformations can occur (for example, Ginger’s transformation into a wolf in Ginger Snaps), magical powers can be accessed (for example, the teen witches who perform spells in the forest in The Craft [Andrew Fleming 1996] and in The Secret Circle) and encounters with paranormal or magical creatures take place.

This encounter with the magical and the supernatural in the fairy tale forest announces this space as one of potential to go beyond the structures and strictures of daily life, displaying the fairy tale’s ability to provide ‘open spaces for dreaming alternatives…announcing what might be.[15] What is particularly interesting about these contemporary cinematic rewritings of ‘Red Riding Hood’ is how the heroines’ straying from the path is positively valued, and her encounter with the wolf or other magical being is empowering rather than victimising. Indeed, as Catherine Orenstein notes, the heroine is now often reclaimed ‘from the belly of the beast and put in the place, and even in the fur, of the wolf.’[16] Orenstein goes on to assert that this contemporary shift in the dynamics of the tale ‘has turned out to be one of the most fertile and surprisingly recurrent themes [in contemporary fairy tale revisions]: the power of the wolf’s pelt to transform the heroine.’[17] These teen films mobilise ‘witch and werewolf identities to symbolise forbidden emotions such as power, lust, and rage.’[18] Sue Short notes ‘what is remarkable about The Craft and Ginger Snaps’, and indeed, I would add Red Riding Hood, is that ‘the female outsiders willingly embrace these castigated images [of wolf and witch] as an alternative to existing norms, adopting them as a measure of dissatisfaction and refusal.’[19] This subversion of expectation and movement into another territory altogether is what precipitates change and transformation, magic and enchantment, pleasure and power, for Valerie in Red Riding Hood.

The scenes set in the town are shot in often claustrophobic close-ups, and lit low-key to shroud figures in darkness. These tightly framed, darkened shots of the town, along with multiple scenes set in prison cells and tiny attics create a lack of space and freedom to move. Valerie is literally cramped in in the town, her movements and gestures restricted and made small by a lack of space. Set in vaguely medieval times – though the date is never specified – Valerie lives in a culture ruled by the severe strictures dictated by fathers and lawmen. She has been betrothed to a man she does not desire to marry, and has no choice in the matter. She is forbidden from speaking her mind, making plans for her own life, or even venturing out of the town and into the forest. Fred Botting writes that in the female Gothic, the heroine must often flee her home and enter the forest in order to escape from a ‘cruel and tyrannical familial order’.[20] Into the forest she goes, where her ‘desire wanders, off course, flying to “wild zones” where femininity encounters the possibility of becoming something other: the ruins and forests that are uncharted places of darkness and danger are also loci free from the restraints of law.’[21] However, Botting also points out that the heroine’s journey is often circumvented at the end of the novel when she is brought out of the forest, and she is re-domesticated.[22]

However, in Red Riding Hood, no such re-domestication occurs. Valerie violates all of these bans and decides to travel a forbidden path into the forest as a permanent escape, as a refusal of these expectations. She does not return home but rather permanently situates herself on the forbidden path. Traveling this forbidden path is a subversive move for Red Riding Hood. Her resistance to the limitations imposed upon her begins when she sets out on her journey into the woods, unsatisfied by the terms that limit her life set by her parents. The further into the forest that Valerie travels, the more expansive and panoramic her views and paths become. In contrast to the cramped, suffocated spatiality of the town, in the wide-open space of the forest, her strides are long, fluid, and assured. She shakes off these restrictions and is released into wide-ranging spaces open to errant traversals and multiple unbounded routes.

It is here that she finds a measure of freedom that she does not want to relinquish. In Red Riding Hood, the forest expands beyond the limits of the town Valerie lives in. When Valerie enters the forest, going beyond the barriers of the town, she is able to express anger, power, and desire – emotions ordinarily considered taboo for young women to express.[23] Mapping herself into this geography through errant travel, Valerie expresses anger and violence, and claims her power when she kills the wolf.

She declares in her voice-over narration that ‘I could no longer live there [in the town]. I felt more freedom in the shadows of the forest. To live apart carries its own dangers, but of those I am less afraid.’ While Valerie does not literally become a wolf as in other recent teen films like Ginger Snaps, she does nevertheless adopt a wolf-like identity. Valerie not only discovers that she has the potential to become a wolf – she is descended from ancestors who were wolves and thus has wolf blood coursing through her veins – and one bite from another wolf would activate her own becoming-wolf process. While this is not a process she chooses to undergo, she does decide to reside in the ‘shadows of the forest’ with the wolves whose language she is able to speak as a result of her lupine lineage, and she chooses this outside space as her residence. But rather than being punished with death, as in Perrault’s and the Grimm’s popular versions of the tale, Hardwicke’s Red Riding Hood is actually rewarded. Having undertaken this subversive secret journey away from the familiar strictures of daily life, Valerie attains a space of her own and a lover of her choosing.

Figure 2: Snow White battles against fearsome creatures in ‘The Dark Forest’ in Snow White and the Huntsman. Like many heroines of contemporary fairy tale teen films, this Snow White discovers strength, power and bravery within herself in the forest space.

Deborah Lutz observes that this decision to reside on the outside with a ‘dangerous lover’ constitutes an overwhelmingly dominant trajectory for contemporary romances.[24] Recent teen-girl films inflect their fairy tale forests with this overtone of romance, particularly of the Gothic variety, and Red Riding Hood, along with other popular films like Snow White and the Huntsman and Twilight, displays this inflection. Landscape unleashes romantic pleasures as the heroines of teen cinema navigate the tender geographies of the forest. The liminal movement from civilisation to forest is announced as an amorous, tender passage. Mapping herself into this geography, the heroine permanently situates herself on the edge, refusing to return to the orderly and the civilised. This decision to permanently occupy this outside-space registers dissatisfaction with what the civilised has to offer. Turning to the wilderness, the girl finds that it unfolds as the fabric of her desire. Remarkably, this is not a fleeting interval to be pursued before returning to the regimented world; it constitutes a real escape from it.

In these films, the girl’s passage through the wilderness is driven by a quest for knowledge. Valerie undertakes a journey into the forest in order to discover who the wolf is. Bound up with this knowledge quest is Valerie’s path towards romantic love with her gentle wolf-lover Peter.[25] Escape through love is, as Deborah Lutz points out, the dominant trope of many contemporary romances,[26] and films like Red Riding Hood follow suit. Escaping the regimented world by entering the fairy-tale forest with a beast-lover, a romantic map of tender exploration unfolds before the heroine. Some contemporary teen films like Red Riding Hood and Twilight, as well as popular teen television series like The Vampire Diaries celebrate the male wolf or beast as a romantic, gentle figure who brings out the latent wildness of the heroine. The teen girl journeys into the forest to hunt down and encounter magical creatures like vampires and werewolves; she then chooses them as lovers. Her desire is at the forefront of the rite-of-passage journey, and it becomes the very texture of the fairy-tale forest space.

Indeed, Marina Warner comments that postmodern rewritings of the fairy tale are overwhelmingly dominated by the idea that ‘Beauty stands in need of the Beast’ and that ‘He no longer stands outside her, the threat of male sexuality in bodily form…but he holds up a mirror to the force of nature within her, which she is invited to accept and allow to grow.’[27] In these rewritings, the beast is not a deadly, dreaded danger to the innocent heroine; rather, his gentle beastliness is attractive to the heroine and she pursues him as a romantic partner. Cristina Bacchilega comments that this romantic reconfiguration of the physical dynamic between wolf and girl is particularly potent: ‘By acting out her [sexual] desires the girl offers herself as flesh, not meat. The “carnivorous” nature of their encounter is transformed’ into a tender embrace.[28] This transit has become a mode of transformation, both for the hero and heroine. In this postfeminist retelling of ‘Red Riding Hood’, the heroine journeys into the forest and is transformed: she is given the space to act out violence and anger, but also desire and romance. In undertaking this journey, Valerie’s agency is activated and her desire mobilised.

The Fairy Tale’s Mobile Map: Errant Views, Expansive Vistas

In Red Riding Hood, the heroine’s physical mobility and liberty is echoed by the camera as it moves across the filmic landscape, and as the viewer’s eyes also move across this screened space, the mobility of the film’s cartography is revealed. It is significant that the teen viewer is so strongly aligned with the heroine’s mobility in this way, for this mode of filmic travel acts as an invitation to explore imaginative horizons and locations in which female liberty and agency is prioritised. This invitation to errant visual travel aligns the viewer with the active, empowered heroine and her mobile perspective.

The film’s and viewer’s movements across this landscape can be considered via Giuliana Bruno’s ‘moving theory of site.’ As the camera navigates its way through cinematic space, it becomes ‘a vehicle of travel.’ When ‘the movie camera becomes a moving camera’ it can literally become ‘a means of transport’ for the viewer.[29] Bruno is particularly discussing the mobile camera in urban spaces and scenes, but her moving theory of site is useful in this instance of fairy tale forest geography too. From the very beginning of Red Riding Hood, during the opening credits, the forest is announced as a map designed for errant travel, motion, and wide-ranging journeying. This opening scene provides the viewer with a moving map of the fairy tale forest space that will be navigated throughout the rest of the film: we are given an elaborately extensive visual itinerary of rushing rivers, jagged precipices, emerald green thrushes of trees, and soft snow-covered expanses. Each point on the map is lingered on and recorded in turn, creating a detailed itinerary of the fairy tale forest’s landmarks. In this way, the viewer is presented with a cinematic map of this space right from the outset of the film, situating attention in this geography and creating a map that we are invited to traverse throughout the rest of the film.

Figure 4: Venturing far from the limits of the town, Valerie finds beautifully expansive landscapes to traverse and vistas to behold

In panoramic aerial views, the camera pans and glides across these expansive locations throughout the film. This continuous, fluid, gliding motion of the camera across this topography highlights the mobility of this map. The viewer offered many multiple views of different points on the map to visually discover: rivers and rocks, trees and sky, snow and mountains. In being offered so many multiple places and vistas to visually contemplate, the viewer is invited to move their attention from location to location, perspective to perspective, across sweeping panoramas, encouraging us to encounter this map through transitory motion. As the viewer visually explores these vistas, the camera is always in motion, panning and moving across this geography to create a moving map of the fairy tale forest. This motion of the camera across the forest allows the viewer to explore and visually roam about this filmic map, visiting many points on its itinerary and exploring them from many angles, distances and perspectives.

This wide-ranging, roaming camera across open spaces presents an invitation for wandering, exploring, voyaging on an unbound map, echoing Valerie’s own freewheeling traversal of this open space. Viewers are invited to travel across this dynamic panorama of the forest in a similar way to Valerie, and it becomes a visually traversable geography. Aligned with Valerie’s point of view in this way allows the teen viewer to explore and consider the heroine’s unique position of liberty, mobility and agency. Conley asserts that the landscape in film ‘propels narrative but also, dividing our attention, prompts reverie and causes our eyes to look both inward, at our own geographies, and outward, to rove about the frame and to engage, however we wish, the space of the film.’[30] The wide shots of landscape, and the constantly moving camera across these stunning vistas, promotes a viewing of the film that is mobile. Conley writes that this mobility of vision can be thought of as ‘applied distraction’ and ‘free attention’, ‘being errant but available to fix upon and discern different mental and physical sites.’[31] The mobility of vision across this cinematic geography of the fairy tale forest can be considered an inherently errant process: it invites vision to roam across moving panoramas freely, and to explore the map in an unruly way. This errant roaming provides an invitation for the viewer to explore expansive imaginative horizons on which female mobility and agency are prioritised.

The forest emerges as a geography through which to explore female power and liberty in this film. As the heroine journeys into this space, as she travels deeper into the forest, her supernatural powers are gradually revealed to her and then exercised and enjoyed. The errant journey into the forest signifies a journey into power and freedom for the heroine undergoing a beastly becoming or a beast-like becoming. This geography provides an itinerary of the heroine’s transformations, and the viewer is invited to travel that itinerary of her evolution.

Figure 5: Aerial views of the forest geography in Red Riding Hood provide the viewer with a mobile map of the enchanted forest space during the opening credits

The cartographic encounter with the fairy tale forest, both for the heroine and the viewer, is an unruly one in Hardwicke’s Red Riding Hood. For Red Riding Hood, this unruliness is expressed through the forest journey. She ventures into the forest as a measure of her dissatisfaction with what everyday life has to offer, and refusing the terms it sets, she escapes into the wild. In the forest, she is able to access and express anger, violence and desire – actions and emotions ordinarily deemed taboo for the young girl to express. But rather than being punished for expressing these taboo emotions, and violating the restrictions that forbid her going into the forest, Hardwicke’s fairy tale rewards its heroine with a romantic union. Choosing a wolf as a romantic partner, and deciding to live in the wolf-inhabited woods, Valerie finds herself in a wide-open space that she can navigate as she pleases. Hardwicke’s cinematographic representation of the forest invites the viewer, too, to navigate this space in a similarly errant fashion. The viewer is presented with a map of expansive vistas and panoramas with a mobile camera, a detailed, sprawling, moving geography of the enchanted fairy tale forest. Given such mobile, extensive views, the audience is given the opportunity to visually explore and roam about this map, enacting an errant visual voyage across the image which allows for an imaginative exploration of a space defined by female mobility, agency, and liberty. The film celebrates such unruly travel, as not only a necessary act for Valerie to undertake to discover and kill the big bad wolf; it is also represented as a pleasurable journey, for she finds an independent space to inhabit and chooses the wolf lover that she wants. She has strayed from the path, and having found both agency and romance on the fringe of the forest, this Red Riding Hood stakes her claim on it as her own.

 

References

Bacchilega, Cristina, Postmodern Fairy Tales: Gender and Narrative Strategies, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997

Botting, Fred, ‘The Flight of the Heroine’. Postfeminist Gothic: Critical Interventions in Contemporary Culture. Eds. Genz, Stephanie and Brabon, Benjamin A, Hampshire and New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2007

Bruno, Giuliana, Atlas of Emotion: Journeys in Art, Architecture and Film. New York: Verso, 2002

Conley, Tom, Cartographic Cinema. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2007

Driscoll, Catherine, Teen Film: A Critical Introduction. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2011

Genz, Stephanie, Postfemininities in Popular Culture, UK: Palgrave MacMillan, 2009

Lutz, Deborah, The Dangerous Lover: Gothic Villains, Byronism, and the Nineteenth-Century Seduction Narrative, Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2006

Lutz, Deborah, ‘The Haunted Space of the Mind: The Revival of the Gothic Romance in the Twenty-First Century’. Empowerment Versus Oppression: Twenty-First Century Views of Popular Romance Novels. Ed. Goade, Sally, Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007

Martin, Adrian, Phantasms: The Dreams and Desires at the Heart of our Popular Culture. Victoria: McPhee Gribble, 1994

Orenstein, Catherine, Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale. New York: Basic Books, 2002

Short, Sue, Misfit Sisters: Screen Horror as Female Rites of Passage. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2006

Sweeney, Kathleen, Maiden USA: Girl Icons Come of Age. New York: Peter Lang, 2008

Turner, Victor, Process, Performance and Pilgrimage: A Study in Comparative Symbology. New Delhi: Concept Publishing, 1979

Warner, Marina, From the Beast to the Blonde: On Fairy Tales and their Tellers. London: Vintage, 1994

Wesley, Marilyn C, Secret Journeys: The Trope of Women’s Travel in American Literature, New York: State University of New York Press, 1999

 

Filmography

The Craft. Dir. Andrew Fleming. 1996

Ella Enchanted. Dir. Tommy O’Haver. 2004

Ginger Snaps. Dir. John Fawcett. 2000

The Hunger Games. Dir. Gary Ross. 2012

Red Riding Hood. Dir. Catherine Hardwicke. 2011

The Secret Circle. Exec Producer Andrew Miller. 2011-2012

Snow White and the Huntsman. Dir. Rupert Sanders. 2012

Twilight. Dir. Catherine Hardwicke. 2008

The Vampire Diaries. Exec. Producers Julie Plec and Kevin Williamson. 2009-

 

Notes


[1] Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, ‘Little Red Cap’. The Great fairy tale tradition: from Straparola and Basile to the Brothers Grimm: texts, criticism. Ed. and Trans. Jack Zipes (New York: W. W. Norton 2001), 747

[2] Stephanie Genz, Postfemininities in Popular Culture (UK: Palgrave MacMillan 2009) 24

[3] Deborah Lutz, The Dangerous Lover: Gothic Villains, Byronism, and the Nineteenth-Century Seduction Narrative (Columbus: Ohio State University Press 2006) 12. And Deborah Lutz, ‘The Haunted Space of the Mind: The Revival of the Gothic Romance in the Twenty-First Century’. Empowerment Versus Oppression: Twenty-First Century Views of Popular Romance Novels. Ed. Goade, Sally, (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing 2007) 90-91

[4] Cristina Bacchilega, Postmodern Fairy Tales: Gender and Narrative Strategies, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 1997) 68

[5] Catherine Orenstein comments on this didacticism of the Grimms’ version of ‘Red Riding Hood’ when she writes that ‘the Grimms’ overarching aim – the clarify their lessons, teach morality to children, and promote their German middle-class values for the new Victorian family: discipline, piety, primacy of the father in the household and, above all, obedience’ in Catherine Orenstein Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale (New York: Basic Books 2002) 55

[6] Cristina Bacchilega, Postmodern Fairy Tales: Gender and Narrative Strategies, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 1997) 69

[7] ibid 58

[8] Catherine Orenstein Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale (New York: Basic Books 2002) 55

[9] Marilyn C Wesley Secret Journeys: The Trope of Women’s Travel in American Literature, (New York: State University of New York Press 1999) xvii

[10] ibid, xv

[11] Victor Turner, Process, Performance and Pilgrimage: A Study in Comparative Symbology. (New Delhi: Concept Publishing 1979) 94 original emphasis

[12] ibid, 38

[13] Adrian Martin, Phantasms: The Dreams and Desires at the Heart of our Popular Culture. (Victoria: McPhee Gribble 1994) 68

[14] Catherine Driscoll, Teen Film: A Critical Introduction. (Oxford and New York: Berg 2011)

112

[15] Marina Warner, From the Beast to the Blonde: On Fairy Tales and their Tellers (London: Vintage 1994) xvi emphasis added

[16] Catherine Orenstein Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale (New York: Basic Books 2002) 153

[17] ibid,163

[18] Sue Short, Misfit Sisters: Screen Horror as Female Rites of Passage (New York: Palgrave MacMillan 2006) 36-37

[19] ibid, 105

[20] Fred Botting, ‘The Flight of the Heroine’. Postfeminist Gothic: Critical Interventions in Contemporary Culture. Eds. Genz, Stephanie and Brabon, Benjamin A, (Hampshire and New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2007) 175

[21] ibid

[22] ibid

[23] See: Kathleen Sweeney, Maiden USA: Girl Icons Come of Age (New York: Peter Lang 2008) 131-137; and Sue Short, Misfit Sisters: Screen Horror as Female Rites of Passage (New York: Palgrave MacMillan 2006) 35-37

[24] Deborah Lutz, The Dangerous Lover: Gothic Villains, Byronism, and the Nineteenth-Century Seduction Narrative (Columbus: Ohio State University Press 2006) 5

[25] See also Ella Enchanted (Tommy O’Haver 2004), where Ella journeys through the forest to find out about the curse of obedience bestowed on her at birth. This quest for understanding the curse leads to her undoing it and finally becoming autonomous. As in Red Riding Hood, there is a simultaneous romantic rite of passage alongside the knowledge quest, as Ella meets a prince in the forest, has adventures with him, and falls in love.

[26] Deborah Lutz, The Dangerous Lover: Gothic Villains, Byronism, and the Nineteenth-Century Seduction Narrative (Columbus: Ohio State University Press 2006) 87

[27] Marina Warner, From the Beast to the Blonde: On Fairy Tales and their Tellers (London: Vintage 1994) 307

[28] Cristina Bacchilega, Postmodern Fairy Tales: Gender and Narrative Strategies, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 1997) 63-4

[29] Giuliana Bruno, Atlas of Emotion: Journeys in Art, Architecture and Film (New York: Verso 2002), 15, 135 and 24

[30] Tom Conley, Cartographic Cinema (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press 2007) 1

[31] ibid 18

In the Eye of the Beholder: Bishounen as Fantasy and Reality – Christy Gibbs

Abstract: Since the international popularisation of anime and manga, the bishounen has been one of Japan’s best recognised archetypal figures. But where did this stereotypical look come from, and is it a purely fictional representation? This paper examines the bishounen not just as he appears on the page or screen, but also how he appears in the international fashion and music scenes, as well as the way in which he influences, and is influenced by, Western versions of himself.

Figure 1: The manga Princess Princess (Mikiyo Tsuda, 2006-7)

In the aesthetically distinct universe of Japanese animation, cultural constructs of gender and sexuality can be complex and challenging to navigate. However, perhaps no archetypal anime figure is as curious to the non-Japanese viewer as much as the bishounen. Best known for his physical attributes – a slender and willowy body shape, artfully arranged hair, narrow and angular features, and often pale, delicate-looking skin – the bishounen is, as the literal translation informs us, a beautiful young man, or ‘pretty boy’. His gender is often ambiguous, his sexual orientation even more so; even for those who watch anime or read manga on a regular basis, it can be difficult to discern whether his relationships with other characters lean towards romance or are merely affectionately platonic.

To those unfamiliar with a wider scope of Japanese popular culture, it is only within this fictive context that the bishounen would appear to exist. From an Anglo-American perspective particularly, it is difficult to take a cartoon character seriously, much less one that wears flamboyant clothing, makes over-the-top arm gestures, and who strikes seemingly casual poses with one hand placed on hip. Cross-dressing is also a common theme for the bishounen-centric manga or anime, for any number of reasons – most of them more on the ridiculous or humorous side, as in the likes of Princess Princess (in which an elite boarding school who elects students to take on the role of Princess in order to in order to break up the monotony of living in an all-male environment) and Gravitation (involving a male pop star who dons a sailor uniform in a ludicrous attempt to appeal to his aloof boyfriend), are nothing if not intentionally absurd. Anime such as Hourou Musuko (Wandering Son), which depict male cross-dressing in relation to any realistic statement of self-identity, are relatively rare.

Moreover, if those same characters were to appear in just about any mainstream American film or cartoon, most would associate their various mannerisms with gay, or at least extremely camp, stereotypes. Western mainstream media is used to viewing stereotypically effeminate male characters through a homosexual lens, and this is certainly sometimes the case in anime, even when a title is not a yaoi or boys love one.[i] Given that Japan is a country where one’s sexual practices are generally understood to be a personal and therefore private matter, it would be perfectly logical to assume that the bishounen is a figure with little, if any, basis in reality.

In fact, such an assumption, however rational, would be a false one. The genre of boys love aside chances of an anime bishounen actually being gay are fairly slim. Anglo-American sexual and cultural limitations would seem to be ‘more threatened by depiction of intense same-sex friendships than does Japanese culture’, commentator Patrick Drazen notes. ‘The reason is that American pop culture often limits its options to “sex” and “not sex.” Japanese culture makes room for a much wider range of relationships’ (Drazen, 2003, p. 103).

Perhaps a more accurate way of approaching the bishounen is to look not at what messages he is (or is not) attempting to convey in terms of sexual orientation within the narrative, but rather to discuss what type of role he fulfils as far as the audience is concerned. In doing so, it appears evident that the bishounen’s job is not to make any sort of explicit statement about his sexuality, but rather to exist as a specific form of eye candy for his largely female demographic; a physical representation of one of the Japanese woman’s ideals of the perfect guy. The bishounen is by his very nature androgynous, and therefore an iconic symbol that has the potential to encompass the strength of traditional masculinity, as well as the grace and beauty of the stereotypically feminine. Regardless of whether anime bishounen are based on real historic figures (Hakuouki Shinsengumi Kitan), re-imaginings of Western stories (Romeo x Juliet), or entirely original characters (The Vision of Escaflowne), they are all therefore given the same intense beautifying treatment.

In contrast, the conventional image of what constitutes an attractive male in much of the West has often been muscular and assertively powerful, evoking perceptions of physical dominance, authority and control, while the attribute of ‘prettiness’ is considered a feminine trait – the opposite of being masculine or ‘manly’. In Japan, however, being pretty does not necessarily mean sacrificing masculinity, and more recently, the West has also seen a growth in this new image of what constitutes male attractiveness. It could be argued that this new masculinity has been influenced since the mid-1990s by the increasing availability of popular and mainstream anime titles such as Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball Z, Pokemon, One Piece, Naruto, and Bleach.

In order to explore how modern conceptions of the bishounen character arose, it is first necessary to pinpoint when and how he came into being within the mainstream culture of his birthplace. The term itself is first found in the Meiji period (1868-1912), where it was used to describe especially beautiful pre-adolescent boys, who were often involved in homosexual relationships (Pflugfelder,  1999, pp. 221–234). Although the word was not in usage prior to this, we might also be reminded of the popularity of Japanese theatre over the previous two centuries, where gender reversal was commonplace.

After women were banned from the kabuki theatre stage in the mid-1600s due primarily to problems arising from prostitution, physically effeminate male performers took on the role of women in their place (Bullough, 1993, p. 242).[ii] Such actors often maintained their dress outside the theatre, compelled to experience first-hand the everyday life, customs, and etiquette of the women they played, many from early childhood. At its height of popularity, some kabuki actors became so sought-after that they became leaders of women’s fashion. While the actors who played women’s roles emulated the manners and dress of high-born ladies, the audience, largely made up of peasants and townspeople, created a space in which performers could potentially become trendsetters in bearing and clothing (Scott, 1999, p. 39).

The temptation to view men who cross-dressed as a part of their art outside the theatre as homosexual is a natural one for many in the West today, and that many of these performers were indeed engaging in male/male relationships is probable. However, Anglo-American culture lacks a common understanding of when and why labels of sexuality are applied in Japanese culture. Whilst alternative sexual practices in Japan today, including those with long historical traditions such as homosexuality, cross-dressing, and transvestism are not widely publicly accepted, there has consistently been a large gap between how one is expected to behave in the outside world, and how that same person may act while taking on the role of entertainer. In a country where standing out from the crowd in any way is usually thought of as socially undesirable, anything that occurs within a framework of fiction – from kabuki and opera to anime and mainstream television – is not considered to be an accurate reflection of either an individual or society as a whole. Consequently, a transvestite who appears in a film is seen as a performer rather than a demonstration of an individual’s real expression of sexuality, and a drag queen depicted on a show lives only in the land of television – a world from which most Japanese feel detached (Buckley, 2002, p. 94).

For example, whilst the televised portrayal of a character named Hard Gay, as played by comedian Masaki Sumitani, depicted a man dressed in a black PVC fetish outfit who ran around the streets of Japan performing acts of charity for unsuspecting bystanders, the show gained national attention and popularity, and was deemed suitable to air on a Saturday evening variety show. Of course, Hard Gay is an overt homosexual parody (in reality neither gay nor a fetishist), and not a bishounen by any stretch of the imagination; his television persona serves to illustrate the ambiguity between screen and reality. In contrast, Japanese stage and film actor Saotome Taichi is a modern example of a figure that embodies the bishounen aesthetic, yet is not spurned or ridiculed for how he dresses, speaks, or behaves during his performances. Well known for playing both beautiful young men and women, Saotome was trained from a young age in the field of female impersonation. An official fan club was established in 2006, and tickets to his kimono dance performance at the Taishokan theatre the following year sold out within a day.

Figure 2: Japanese stage and film actor Saotome Taichi

Nonetheless, the real-life depiction of the bishounen dates back much further than popular Japanese theatre, and can be traced to the tenth century where the Imperial Court of Heian-kyo (now the city of Kyoto) held sway. The Heian Court was the centre of aesthetic sensibilities of all varieties: Japanese music, poetry, calligraphy, and clothing fashions all found their deepest roots here, where aristocrats were obsessed with the pursuit of beauty. It was not simply that cultivating beauty meant a person was sophisticated or fashionable – it also implied a sense of morality. George Sansom, a pre-modern Japan historian, writes: ‘The most striking feature of the aristocratic society of the Heian capital was its aesthetic quality … even in its emptiest follies, it was moved by considerations of refinement and governed by a rule of taste’ (Sansom, 1958, p. 178).

Standards of aristocratic male beauty here were in many ways similar to those for female beauty. Both sexes whitened their skin with rice powder, blackened their teeth using a liquid made up of acetic acid and dissolved iron, and prized a rounded, plump figure in order to physically display the leisure and riches that the peasantry – those with leaner figures from less food intake and darker skin from labouring outdoors – could not afford to obtain. It was fashionable for men to have a thin moustache or tuft of beard at the chin, but large quantities of facial hair were considered especially unattractive (Topics in Japanese Cultural History).

Naturally, Heian beauty is interpreted in a more contemporary, bishounen-esque framework as far as anime and manga are concerned: The Tale of Genji, originally written by Murasaki Shikibu during the Heian period, has had several adaptations, the most recent of which was an 11-episode anime series in 2009. While most of the characters have the creamy white skin of the Heian-period principles of beauty, there is physically little else to tie the anime and Heian ideals of attractiveness together. Genji, with his slender silhouette and narrow features, has nothing that sets him visually apart from any other bishounen that might be seen in any other mainstream anime production, historically-themed or otherwise.

While the bishounen ideal may have been cemented in the Heian era, a quick survey of Japanese popular culture today, even disregarding the anime and manga industries, reveals that far from being a storytale figure, the bishounen also exists as a true world representation. Host club workers, although a far cry from what has been depicted in the extremely popular Ouran High School Host Club anime series, are perhaps the most obvious example to draw from, with many of these young men looking almost like a parody of anime bishounen caricatures. Similar to their hostess club counterparts, where male customers pay for the attentive company of beautiful young ladies, host clubs employ men who are paid to converse, pour drinks, light cigarettes, entertain by means of fun stage performances, and generally flirt with their female clientele. Upon a first visit to a host club, the customer is presented with a menu of each host on offer for her to decide which host she like to meet first. Once she has chosen the host she most prefers, she designates him her named host, with the employee then receiving a percentage of all future sales generated by that particular customer. Most clubs operate on a permanent nomination system, and a host cannot be changed once they have been nominated excepting under special circumstances. Regular payment is determined by a host’s commission on drink sales, and for this reason, the environment can be highly competitive, with tens of thousands of dollars sometimes offered to the host who can achieve the highest sales (pripix).

The typical host look, made up of an appropriately dishevelled dark suit and collared shirt, bleached hair, and expensive silver jewellery, is paired with a stage name often taken from a favourite film, manga, or historical figure that may describe their persona. The overall effect is usually one of an anime bishounen made flesh and blood. The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief (Jake Clennell, 2006), a documentary-film interviewing several hosts and their customers in a popular club in Osaka, paints a very pragmatic picture of the host club industry – one which survives by seducing customers without having to depend on the more overt sexual appeal of strip clubs or brothels. ‘For girls, we are products’, states one such worker. ‘If she wants a humble, cool guy, I can be like that. If she wants a funny guy, I can be like that too.’ ‘Let’s say I do fuck her. That girl will probably never come back’, another points out. ‘At that point, there won’t be anything else I can give her … Knowing how to give them satisfaction without sex – that’s the point.’ While hosts can and sometimes do have sex with their clients, this is clearly not the purpose of this institution’s existence.

Tajima Yoko, a professor of women’s studies at Hosei University in Tokyo, explains the host club phenomenon by the conventional Japanese male and his lack of true listening to the everyday concerns of his partner. ‘Men, married or not, in our culture do not listen to their female partners’ problems carefully … They only tell women what they want them to hear. Men don’t consider women equal partners’ (New York Times). Although there is no official count of the number of individual clubs, the host club industry employed an estimated twenty thousand men in total as of 2005 (Japan – Facts and Details). Some of the larger and more commercial clubs, such as New Ai (New Love) in Shinjuku, Tokyo, employ approximately eighty workers whose sole job it is to fulfil the emotional needs of the women who frequent the club, in part by existing as beautiful objects of fantasy (New York Times).

Such a concept is alien to most of the rest of the world, suggesting that outside of Japan, the majority of countries do not have the numbers of the right type of customer – that is, one willing to spend several hundred or thousand dollars per visit purely to be kept company by a score of pretty men – to support such an industry. While the idea of paying for sex is universally understood, the thought of paying an equal amount or more for the pleasure of someone’s company is simply baffling to many people. In turn, although some host workers are foreigners, host clubs are generally not known about, or else poorly understood, by overseas visitors, and very few customers are non-Japanese. As with the Japanese sex industry, there is a very distinct preference for both the customer and the host to be Japanese, and it is not uncommon for many bars and clubs to have signs outside saying “No foreigners admitted.”

Tellingly, a great deal of the reactions by foreigners to the business of host clubs has tended to be negative. ‘Even if they had equivalent in the UK I don’t think I’d go’, reads one response to an online article. ‘British guys (sorry to say this) don’t really seem to maintain their looks or interest in a womans [sic] needs for long enough.’ ‘I don’t find them attractive in any way, and I don’t want to pay for the “companionship”’, states another (UK Fashion, Lifestyle & Beauty Blog). Keywords commonly associated with host fashion outside of Japan include “tacky”, “fake”, “creepy”, and “sleazy”.

However, in other entertainment industries, the cultural crossover in terms of what women find attractive in a male is more evident. The music business is one such industry, and in Japan, the most extreme form of the bishounen can be found here. Visual kei – literally visual style – is a uniquely Japanese aesthetic music movement inspired by Western glam metal bands such as Kiss and Twisted Sister (High Music XRD). What these bands inspired in visual kei was, as the name of the movement implies, the importance of appearance as an essential part of the musical style, sometimes even above the music itself in terms of importance.

Bands including The Gazette, Versailles, and Alice Nine are today known less for their music and more for their eye-catching make-up and wardrobe in some circles. The visual kei look is ethereally dark, glamorously androgynous, and elaborately punk, often all at once. Many artists are particularly effeminate in appearance, and it is not uncommon for some to pose explicitly as females, wearing dresses reminiscent of Regency, Rococo, and Victorian fashion. Their ‘maleness’ as we might understand it comes across strongly in their vocals, which are usually anything but gender ambiguous.

Figure 3: Visual kei band Versailles

First emerging in the late 1980s, the visual kei movement was pioneered by acts such as X Japan, Buck-Tick, and D’erlanger. By the mid-1990s, a boost in popularity throughout Japan meant that the most notable of these bands were achieving high commercial success, with the likes of X Japan, Luna Sea, Glay, and Malice Mizer receiving large amounts of media attention. This last group became especially famous for their live performances, which featured lavish historical costumes and stage sets. Mana, co-founder of Malice Mizer, would go on to create his own clothing label, Moi-même-Moitié, in 1999, coining the terms “Elegant Gothic Lolita” and “Elegant Gothic Aristocrat” (Steele and Park, 2008, p. 54). He is regularly featured modelling his own designs in the quarterly Gothic & Lolita Bible, the top publication of the Lolita fashion scene, yet retains his mysterious persona by rarely speaking in public. In most interviews past and present, Mana is known for whispering his answers into the ear of a band member or confidante, using Yes/No cards, or expressing himself in mime.

Gackt, who abruptly left Malice Mizer at the height of the band’s success in 1999, began pursuing a career as an actor and solo artist, and is currently one of Japan’s best known pop idols. Since his time apart from Malice Mizer, Gackt has been making regular alterations to his style: his hair has morphed from straight, long, and jet-black to blonde and spiky in the blink of an eye, and he has experimented with nearly every shade of red and brown in between. His naturally brown eyes frequently change colour thanks to habitual use of green or blue contact lenses. Yet whether he plays a gang leader (Moon Child), samurai warrior (Bunraku), or feudal warlord (Fūrin Kazan), the main trademarks of Gackt’s appearance has remained the same – pale, slender, and virtually ageless.

It is therefore no surprise that Gackt has styled himself on, and even provided a model for many bishounen of the manga, anime, and video game industries. Characters from The Rose of Versailles, Rurouni Kenshin, and Final Fantasy VII, among other titles, have all been incorporated into his look at one stage or another, to Gackt’s rising popularity. Sentiments like those referenced by anthropologist Laura Miller in Beauty Up towards stars such as Gackt (‘He has a body so beautiful it’s like an art object … I’m filled with fantasies of the excitement that would happen if we were in bed’) are far from unusual among fans (Miller, 2006, p. 156). Strictly speaking, the cut-off age for bishounen-hood is eighteen, at which point one becomes a biseinen instead – a beautiful man, usually described as more handsome than pretty. Now in his forties, Gackt, still flaunting the cool delicacy of his features, is living proof that age is not necessarily a barrier to adhering to the bishounen style.

Neither are Gackt’s charms restricted to a female fanbase. In 2010, Gackt announced that his live performance at Club Citta in Kawasaki, Kanagawa, would be for men only, reportedly in an attempt to reverse the recent trend among Japanese males of shunning traditional male stereotypes to get in touch with their feminine side, and instead celebrate ‘the way of the man’ (Japan Today: Japan News and Discussion). Over one thousand men attended the sold-out show, while sixty women listened from the lobby and countless others from outside, cheering the men on as they entered (Ningin).

Other Japanese musical stars have found their fame through group collaboration. While the boy band fad in the West has died down somewhat since the 1990s, pop boy bands in Japan are among the most successful of all genres of Japanese music. J-pop found its way into major mainstream success during the same decade, gaining a commercial peak with individual female artists such as Hamasaki Ayumi and Utada Hikaru as well as with idol units (popular singing and dancing groups), many of them all-male. In particular, the talent agency Johnny & Associates, which exists exclusively to train and promote male idol groups, produced several extremely high-profile groups during this period such as SMAP, Tokio, and Arashi. American boy bands such as The Backstreet Boys and ‘N Sync likewise debuted in the 1990s, only to peak and then either disband or sharply decline in popularity in the first years of the new millennium. In comparison, Japanese boy bands continued to grow in number and reputation, with huge acts like EXILE, NEWS, KAT-TUN, and Hey! Say! JUMP joining the idol unit craze.

Like the Western boy bands of the 1990s, aesthetic appeal continues to be a significant factor in the popularity and marketing of these all-boy Japanese groups, and it is easy to see the similarities between The Backstreets Boys and Hey! Say! JUMP, Westlife and KAT-TUN, or ‘N Sync and Arashi not only in terms of sound, but also in general style. Posters, album covers, and promotional photos depict these bands casually standing or lounging about dressed all in white, for example, as they gaze coolly at the camera. Other images show the band members in jeans and black leather jackets, long coats with scarves draped nonchalantly about their necks, or with the slightly ruffled suit-and-tie look.

Figure 4: Boy bands N Sync and Arashi

However, looking past some of these blinding similarities, there are also some significant differences. For instance, it is difficult to find members of any of these household-name Japanese boy bands with facial hair, while there usually seems to be at least one, and sometimes two or three Western boy band members sporting a well-groomed beard or goatee. The same contrast can be seen with regards to boy band members with piercings or tattoos; the resident ‘bad boy’ of the group is usually evident in a Western boy band, while that figure is conspicuous only by his absence in the Japanese version. Hair tends to be a little longer in Japanese male idol groups, with a particular emphasis on eye-covering fringes and painstakingly placed wisps, whereas only one or two boy band members out of any given group in America might be known for their longer locks.

Overall, Japan’s male groups are typically gentle in appearance, perhaps a little more friendly and accessible. Whilst not precisely androgynous, they are a less extreme version of the bishounen of the visual kei scene. Where The Backstreet Boys and ‘N Sync took pains to keep from appearing too pretty by balancing out the more delicate-looking members of the group with a couple of tougher, more traditionally masculine individuals (and presumably thereby avoiding any gay slurs), the members of KAT-TUN and Hey! Say! JUMP make their living off being beautiful.

Furthermore, groups like this earn their idol status not only by singing, but also by acting in television dramas, appearing on variety shows, hosting charity events, and endorsing products such as Coca-Cola, KDDI Corporation mobile phones, Wii video games, and the Japan Tourism Agency. They are a constant, inescapable presence in nearly all aspects of Japanese daily life, and they take pains to form an image based on their individual talents or personality traits as being a part of a cohesive unit. Predictably, their female fans are both numerous and extremely passionate. In 2010, a Tokyo-based freelance journalist wrote:

Then there is Arashi who celebrate each other’s birthdays and vacation together. It seems incredible that Arashi is popular worldwide for simply being good buddies but this kind of interaction is so rarely seen in celebrities. In Japan, the interaction is rehearsed and simulated. Overseas, variety shows specialize in people openly feuding. With these types of entertainment, it is no wonder that the good-natured humor of Arashi, along with their sappy sweet pop songs, is healing the world’ (The Asahi Shimbun Digital).

The young men of Arashi may be a little too conventional to indulge in cosplay or model their looks after specific anime characters, but their style cannot help but be at least indirectly influenced by the bishounen aesthetic. Very few anime bishounen have any trace of facial hair, and as has been previously discussed, these types of characters are well-known for their slender frames, unblemished skin, glossy hair that falls just so over the eyes, and a coolly tantalizing aura. The similarities are not hard to overlook.

It is apparent that there has been some crossover of the appeal of the bishounen in today’s Western entertainment industries with newer boy bands such as British group One Direction, although the most notable increase with regards to the popularity of pretty boys has been seen in the film industry thanks to the widespread popularity of franchises like Twilight. Although most non-Japanese teenage girls may not know the meaning of the word bishounen or have any understanding of what anime or manga is, the traditional sex appeal of the rough, tough, rugby-player style body currently competes against the slim, milky-white skinned young male as so obviously embodied in the character of Edward Cullen.

The film versions of the Twilight novels chose to amplify the tension already seen in book format, where two young men compete for one girl’s romantic interests and the heroine constantly bounces between the two, who are physically complete opposites. Edward is exceptionally slim, pale to the point of being sickly-looking, and has an aura of cold intensity about him even after becoming romantically involved with Bella. The very name Edward, which roughly translates to ‘wealthy guard’, conjures images of English nobility and old world romanticism. Conversely, Jacob Black is of Native American descent, and has dark hair and eyes and russet skin. A tribal tattoo on his right arm completes the slightly roguish look. Although he is originally described as tall and lanky in the first book, the films portray him as relatively muscular; a fact that is only accentuated by his usual style of clothing – or lack thereof. Where Edward is cool, Jacob is passionate and adventurous, and where Edward turns into a sparkly, ostensibly prettier version of himself, Jacob quite literally transforms into a wild animal.

As was no doubt the intention, the competition between Edward and Jacob transcended the screen and became embedded in popular culture. Did main protagonist Bella – and by extension, the audience – lust after the beautiful, sharp-edged Edward, or did she prefer the brawny, more earthy charms of Jacob? Did fans desire pretty, or lust over handsome? Posters, shirts, and an array of other types of merchandise proudly display an allegiance of either Team Jacob or Team Edward, and have been snapped up by teens and tweens in their thousands.

Ultimately, however, it was Team Pretty who won the race, winning not only the girl but also, in overwhelming numbers, the most fans. In a poll carried out in 2008 by Novel Novice Twilight, a website dedicated to exploring the relationship between the Twilight series and its fans, Team Edward won by nearly double the score, earning over five thousand votes (Twilight Novel Novice). In 2009, Robert Pattinson was chased into traffic on a New York City street by a mob of frenzied fans, and the following year, People magazine listed Pattinson in their “World’s Most Beautiful” issue because of his ‘pale, otherworldly complexion’ (New York Daily News, People).

Unsurprisingly, the amount of anime bishounen who also fit the unearthly beautiful vampire mould are numerous: Zero, Kaname, and just about every other male vampire from Vampire Knight, Solomon Goldsmith and Hagi from Blood+, Shido and Cain from Nightwalker: Midnight Detective, and Trinity’s Blood’s Abel and Cain Nightroad, to name just a few. This is not to suggest that Stephanie Meyer was directly influenced by anime or the figure of the Japanese bishounen, but rather that due to the current influence of anime in international popular culture, non-Japanese audiences are becoming more receptive to the pretty boy as one ideal of male beauty.

Figure 5: Trunks from popular male-orientated anime Dragonball Z

However, although the sheer popularity of characters such as Edward Cullen would appear to indicate that the West is becoming more open to pretty young men being an acceptable form of heterosexual attractiveness, it also illustrates that we are far from being able to think of prettiness as a form of real masculinity. The hate that has been directed towards Patterson/Edward Cullen suggests that traditional notions of masculinity have not been eclipsed, and there is a substantial reaction against bishounen-type characters in the West despite the undoubted popularity of the figure amongst teenage girls. While we usually insist on polarising prettiness and masculinity, in Japan this does not seem to be an issue. Japanese studies Professor Kenneth G. Henshall points out that ‘deliberately enhanced “effeminate”, flower-like, graceful beauty has rarely been considered the antithesis of manliness in Japan, either by women or men themselves’ (Henshall, 1999, p. 4). Mainstream notions in Anglo-American society that correlate being pretty and being homosexual are gradually changing, yet slurs such as “pretty boy”, “queen”, and “fairy” are still commonly applied to men who are perceived as being too feminine in appearance, or who are especially fastidious about their physical presentation – regardless of whether this has any kind of connection to sexual orientation. In contrast, Miller has written, ‘I do not see current male beauty practices [in Japan] as a type of “feminization” of men … but rather as a shift to beautification as a component of masculinity’ (Miller, 2006, p. 126).

Given that manga, while rising in awareness and popularity in America and elsewhere, is nowhere near approaching the types of sales figures in Japan, this should not come as a surprise. Manga makes up nearly forty percent of total book sales in Japan, and to a large extent is responsible for normalising the bishounen aesthetic (Craig, 2000, p. 110). The bishounen has been a central figure for much of manga and anime’s modern history and is not limited to genre or demographic, even appearing in titles aimed at a primarily male audience such as Trunks from Dragonball Z, Sesshomaru from InuYasha, and Sasuke and Itachi from Naruto, as well as the conventional female-orientated fare. However, the influence of the young female consumer in Japan cannot be underestimated, and much of the entertainment industry caters to her tastes and desires. Whilst the stories depicted in anime and manga may not be a direct reflection of Japanese society, the prevalence of the bishounen has undeniably gone a long way in giving society the okay to emulate the look without being frowned upon or ridiculed for it.

Perceptions are gradually shifting in the West as well, and in many cases it appears that pretty is becoming the new brand of sexy for men. However, without the same sort of normalisation that Japan enjoys, it is doubtful whether the gap between male beauty and stereotypes of weakness and femininity will be bridged to the same extent in the near future. The bishounen outside of Asia is beginning to gain some currency, but ‘safe’ Western notions of duality – masculine and feminine, heterosexual and homosexual – may be too ingrained to ever be disregarded completely.

Notes


i Both yaoi and boys love are popular terms used to describe fictional media (usually referring specifically to anime and manga), that focuses on homoerotic male relationships. The genre is largely created by and for a heterosexual female audience, and is distinguishable from what is commonly known as gei comi, bara, or mens love, which caters to a gay male audience and tends to be created primarily by homosexual male artists.

ii Eventually, still finding similar problems, all male actors became required by the authorities to shave their hair in the style of mature men so that they would be less attractive to their audience.

 

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Twilight Novel Novice. Team Edward VS Team Jacob. http://twilightnovelnovice.com/specials/contests-projects/novelnoviceprojects/team-edward-v-team-jacob/ (accessed 26 March 2012).

UK Fashion, Lifestyle & Beauty Blog. A look into Host Clubs. http://blooomzy.blogspot.com/2010/04/look-into-host-clubs.html (accessed 26 March 2012).

Bio:

Christy Gibbs is a graduate from the University of Waikato in New Zealand, and has recently completed her doctoral thesis whose topic explores representations of sexuality in contemporary Japanese animation. She is currently working in rural Japan as an Assistant Language Teacher and is also a regular columnist for Forces of Geek, a blog focusing on a variety of pop and geek culture worldwide.

 

The Single Female Intruder – David Surman

Abstract: This essay examines a contemporary cultural icon that operates across distinct media boundaries, as a kind of transmedia archetype. Of interest is the visuality of what I call the ‘single female intruder’, which emerges as the intersection of a variety of low cultural forms, and has its origins in the Japanese visual and literary culture of the nineteenth century. What are the characteristics of the single female intruder? She wears closely fitted clothing, which describe the shape of her body, though she is tall, willowy and androgynous. She comes equipped with a variety of powerful weapons and technologies, that she keeps secreted away on her person, and combines this armoury with expert knowledge of a variety of relevant disciplines. She is always proficient in martial arts, though her willingness to fight is measured against the dramas of her past, tempering the speed of her sword-hand. Her movement is characterised by an impossible elegance, and she seems preternaturally adapted to exploit any space that she comes to occupy. The technologies she deploys are an extension of the physical body, and never encumber her.

Figure 1: Vanessa Z. Schneider in the videogame P.N.03 (2003)

Introduction

Within the generic realities of film, animation, games and comic books, there are many varied female archetypes. Indeed, the representation of women in the media inevitably segues into the active discussion of typologies. The distribution of such types fall within the predefined boundaries of high and low, popular and peripheral, men’s and women’s culture. The effect and ideology of certain types has been actively debated in the humanities, and in particular in feminist criticism. Tanya Krzywinska has outlined the way in which cultural analyses of action heroines has orientated toward the critique of such icons as role models, within the frame of identity politics (Krzywinska, 2005, p. 3). In her critique of action heroines within videogames, she suggests that the critique of representation is limited insofar as it fails to describe the dimensions of play and control that underpin the videogame experience.

This essay examines a contemporary cultural icon that operates across distinct media boundaries, as a kind of transmedia archetype. Of interest is the visuality of what I call the ‘single female intruder’, which emerges as the intersection of a variety of low cultural forms, and has its origins in the Japanese visual and literary culture of the nineteenth century. With the ‘recentering’ of globalised media from its traditional North American power-base toward new Asian counterparts (that has come as a consequence of sustained growth in Japan’s media and cultural industries), such icons have been disseminated to receptive western audiences. The characteristics of the single female intruder are defined as a consequence of the media that converge to form the transmedia space of contemporary popular culture. Their positioning as low cultural forms unifies the constituent fields that converge in the figure of the ‘single female intruder’.

What are the characteristics of the single female intruder? She wears closely fitted clothing, which describe the shape of her body, though she is tall, willowy and androgynous. She comes equipped with a variety of powerful weapons and technologies, that she keeps secreted away on her person, and combines this armoury with expert knowledge of a variety of relevant disciplines. These will usually include computer programming, reconnaissance, research and investigation. She is always proficient in martial arts, though her willingness to fight is measured against the dramas of her past, tempering the speed of her sword-hand. Her movement is characterised by an impossible elegance, and she seems preternaturally adapted to exploit any space that she comes to occupy. The technologies she deploys are an extension of the physical body, and never encumber her.

She is an amalgam of high trash clichés and narrative conceits; often orphaned, wracked by bereavement, seeking vengeance, driven by the urgency of an incurable illness. Such melodramatic tropes are buried beneath the sobriety and perfection of grey-white skin, expressionless and captivating. She is two people in one body; the face of an angel, the heart of a demon; but never duplicitous, her expressions of emotion are sincere and forthright, often taking place in secluded confessionals away from the song of carnage. She is never the homemaker, though the riddle of such happiness might emerge in moments of reprieve. She is a nomad, constantly on the move, often moving out of the frying pan and into the fire. She is more a heroine of generic reality than everyday life, a celebration of the seductive tropes of contemporary fiction and the intermingling of technology, imagination and desire.

The single female intruder is so ubiquitous in contemporary popular culture that an examination of her sophisticated rhetoric is necessary. In the course of this article, I want to show how such an internationalised, post-modern archetype, which seemingly operates outside of any clearly defined cultural boundaries, has origins in pre-modern Japanese culture. I shall argue that the history of this archetype can be seen as metonymic of the changing post-war relationship between American hegemony and the rise of Japanese popular culture as a new global centre. The proliferation of this archetype follows a very particular path, and its movement can be traced from aesthetic reforms in Japanese antiquity, subsequently retrieved in the 1970s by filmmakers and mangaka eager to revisit the culture of the Edo period. Hiroki Azuma has described how this internal appropriation of Edo period aesthetic and cultural values comes as a consequence of the cultural anxieties arising as a response to wartime defeat and American occupation. He writes,

Their preference toward the association between the 80s postmodern society and the premodern Edo can be easily explained once you recognize the abovementioned process of “domestication” of the postwar American culture. In the mid 80s, many Japanese were fascinated with their economical success and tried to erase or forget their traumatic memory of the defeat in World War Two. The re-evaluation of Edo culture is socially required in such an atmosphere (Azuma, 2001, np).

As I will explain, the tropes of ‘rikyu grey aesthetics’ and ‘the poison woman’ are retrieved and then celebrated within the generic reality of Japanese popular culture from the 1970s onwards. The ambiguous, seductive and controversial qualities of this historical figure consequently circulate within the growing international fandom for Japanese popular culture. From there, contemporary influences imbibe this peculiarly Japanese anti-heroine with a new agency, to embody principles of control and beauty in an age of technological anonymity and information terrorism. Influences that immediately spring to mind include videogames, action cinema, exploitation cinema, science fiction literature, in particular cyberpunk, fetish clothing and the goth, techno and electronic music scenes. Contemporary single female intruders reveal the traces of their Japanese antecedents in their sober demeanour, snow-white skin and mobile technologies. Like the massively successful franchises Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh! The single female intruder is an ambassador for an alternative set of generic parameters in popular culture that assert the Japanese aesthetic, and is resolved in the interaction of multiple cultural centres.

In the first section of this paper, I will explore the Japanese antecedents to the single female intruder, with an emphasis on the relationship between simultaneous reforms in attitude to both colour and femininity. From there, I examine how Japanese film and literature of the mid-to-late twentieth century transformed this figure into a modern heroine first through exploitation, and then science fiction. I then want to examine briefly the transformation of this figure in the science fiction film and literature of 1980s America and Europe. The representations and descriptions generated by the likes of Ridley Scott and William Gibson play a central role in Japan’s imagining of itself and its iconography. To conclude, I examine how digital culture and convergence have effected the transformation of the single female intruder, and how her sophisticated rhetoric has been transformed to speak to our contemporary environment.

Poison Woman Dressed in Rikyu Grey

Figure 2: Hishikawa Moronobu “A Standing Woman”, c.1690.

The prehistory of the single female intruder archetype is much more culturally specific than it might first seem, since such characters nowadays enjoy an international audience. The archetype emerges from the changes in the construction of cultural attitudes to beauty and femininity around the time of the Meiji reformation of Japan. Single female intruders are invariably rebels, whether they are escaping societal reforms, in the case of Trinity in The Matrix trilogy (1999; 2003; 2003) or the eponymous Aeon Flux (2005), complex mercenaries like Vanessa Z. Schneider (fig.1) in the videogame P.N.03 (2003), or living technologies driven by existential angst like Major Makoto Kusanagi of Ghost in the Shell (1995).

Christine L. Marran has described the origins of what she has coined the ‘Poison Woman’, in stories made popular during the Meiji reformation (1868–1912) of the nineteenth century. They profile the lives of sensational women who had caused some sort of scandal, more often than not though the murder of her spouse, perhaps guilty of involvement in other high profile vices. She writes,

The long and changing tradition of writing about female criminals began with the rise of the newspaper serial. With such colourful nicknames as Demon Oden, Night Storm Okinu, Viper Omasa, and Lightning Oshin, to name only a few, the first poison women appeared as anti-heroes in Japan’s earliest serialized newspaper stories. These serials were based on the lives and crimes of real women. (Marran, 2007, p. xv)

The media furor around the activities of female criminals far exceeded the number and frequency of their activities, such was the public appetite for this new sensational fiction. Fiction and reality intermingled from the outset. As Marran asks ‘What national obsessions are articulated through this interest in the female convicts?’ (Ibid.). The rise of the poison woman archetype in Meiji period culture coincides with substantial changes in the representation of women in the woodblock prints of ukiyo-e artists. These changes would complicate the rhetoric surrounding such controversial women. In the Genroku era (1688–1704) the artist Hishikawa Moronobu,(1618–1694) was one of the pioneers of the ukiyo-e printmaking craft, and was known for his portraits of women and lifestyle scenes. In his imagery the women are voluptuous and feminine, shown in brightly coloured, voluminous robes (fig.2). In the later An’ei-Tenmei era (1772–1781; 1781–1789) the work of artist Suzuki Harunobu (1724–1770) departs from this archetypal, highly feminised aesthetic, and instead portrays women with long, slender bodies, demure faces and a spiritual intensity (fig.3). Kisho Kurokawa writes that,

This trend is of particular interest because it suggests the progressive denial of the generous voluptuousness that symbolized the prosperity and material abundance of pre-modern Japan up until Genroku. The An’ei/Tenmei aesthetic, on the other hand, was characterised by a nonsensual, eccentric, and non-physical beauty, expressing the spirit of an age of more refined ambiguity and a sophisticated rhetoric. (Kurokawa, 1997, p. 161)

Figure 3: Suzuki Harunobu “Crow and Heron, or Young Lovers Walking Together under an Umbrella in a Snowstorm”, c. 1769

 

This new aesthetic of ambiguity, which pervades Harunobu’s prints, becomes the face of the poison woman. Her crimes and misdemeanours are complicated and intensified by the aesthetic coding of this new feminine rhetoric. Marius B. Jensen writes of these ukiyo-e prints that, ‘The ladies they portray are not full faced, something the carver could not provide, but minimalist sketches; they return our stares unblinking and uninvolved. We admire them but do not relate to them, somewhat the way Saikaku’s readers regarded his characters’ (Jensen, 2002, 180). Earlier trends in popular aesthetics inform the recurrent representation of the poison woman in ukiyo-e printworks and in newspaper stories of the period. In the period preceding the Genroku era, a sudden fashion for the colour grey emerged in Japanese society, as a result of the cultural reforms to the tea ceremony introduced by Sen no Rikyu (1522–1591). Jensen writes, ‘Sen no Rikyu, who served as chief tea master to both Nobunaga and Hideyoshi […] was a figure who combined considerable personal wealth with a cult of simplicity and modesty that he codified in the tea ceremony of his day’ (Jensen, 2002, 117). Part of this revision of the ceremony was the advocation of the colour grey in clothing and décor. Kurokawa confirms the connection between tea ceremony reforms and the emerging taste for minimalism and grey,

Whereas until this time grey had been considered a vile colour conjuring up the image of rats and ashes, upon becoming known as Rikyu grey it was better appreciated. In the mid-Edo era it gained tremendous popularity—along with brown and indigo—as the embodiment of the aesthetic ideal of iki. Iki in this period is a complex concept but may be conveniently described as “richness in sobriety.” As the cult of tea spread beyond the upper classes to be practiced in the homes of ordinary people, so did the taste for grey. (Kurokawa, 1997, p. 160)

In his rehabilitation of Rikyu grey as an aesthetic category in its own right, Kurokawa emphasises the colour’s essential ambiguity, at times sinister, charming and charismatic. He describes how, ‘In contrast to the grey in the West, which is a combination of black and white, Rikyu grey was a combination of four opposing colours: red, blue, yellow and white’ (Kurokawa, 1991, p. 70). And so, the construction of the ‘poison woman’ in Meiji period mass culture intersects with two crucial aesthetic reforms, the adoption of Harunobu’s slender, ambiguous figure in the representation of women, and the rise of the widespread fashion for Rikyu grey, which emerged from reforms to the tea ceremony which emphasised simplicity, austerity and sobriety.

The Blizzard from the Netherworld

Figure 4: Yuki in Lady Snowblood (Shurayukihime, Toshiya Fujita, 1973)

I want to make a leap now to postwar Japan, where the domestic influence of American occupation was having an effect on popular culture. Tensions arising from wartime defeat, aggressive industrialisation and urbanisation and a sense of cultural dissipation motivated media producers to rehabilitate narratives and character archetypes from the Edo period, as a means of cultural recovery and national reflection. The three tropes of the poison woman archetype, Harunobu’s willowy bodies, and the aesthetic sobriety of Rikyu grey are consolidated in Yuki Kashima (fig.4), heroine of the Japanese exploitation film Lady Snowblood (Shurayukihime, Toshiya Fujita, 1973). Fujita’s film, based on the manga by Kazuo Koike, follows the journey of Yuki, played by Meiko Kaji, who seeks bloody vengeance for the rape and murder of her mother and father at the hand of a gang of bandits. She is the quintessential poison woman, and her exploits are publicised in the course of the film by newspaper reporter Ashio Ryuhei. The sophisticated and ambivalent quality of Yuki, and also the actress Meiko Kaji, is captured by Rikke Schubart, who writes,

The star persona of Meiko Kaji is located between the extraordinary powers of a castrating gaze and the existential malaise of a female killer. Kaji’s characters are haunted, if not by the past, but by a sense of not belonging, of being out of place and out of time. In this, they resemble the mythic hero. They are exceptionally beautiful, yet out of reach emotionally. Their weapon skills are at the expense of inner balance. They move faster than any opponent but lose track of life. (Schubert, 2007, p. 119)

The cult appeal of Asian exploitation heroines such as Yuki had the effect of reenergizing the antiquated archetype of the poison woman, along with the sensibility of Rikyu and the aesthetics of Harunobu. Poison women exist in every age, but the sword wielding she- demon of the Edo period had a romantic appeal all of its own. The unsettling and arresting beauty of her skin, and the ghostly perfection of Yuki’s ‘whitewashed-wall weave’ kabe shijira kimono, dominate the mise-en-scène. Suddenly, she breaks her repose to flip into action and attack; fountains of blood arc across the frame, her kimono drips wet, marking her as victorious in auspicious red and white.

Lady Snowblood marks the overlap between the icon of poison woman and what I call the ‘single female intruder’. Concealed within her umbrella, her secret sword is idiosyncratic, and operates within a sophisticated rhetoric that emphasises not only martial power, but also skills in deception, persuasion and elegance. The attraction of the character arises from repeated emphases on sharp contrasts, and this is continuous with the expanded principle of Rikyu offered by Kurokawa. Her subordinate shuffle is broken by sudden and supernatural agility; her sword strikes are unwavering, and land with the spirit of hissho (absolute victory). The vacillation between opposites characterise the single female intruder; she has brutality and elegance, bloodlust and sobriety, movement and stillness in equal measure. Kurokawa connects this principle to the baroque, he writes, ‘In his book on the baroque, Eugenio D’ors states that when conflicting intentions are bound together in a single motion, the resulting style is by definition baroque’ (Kurokawa, 1997, p. 170). Later he adds that, ‘The “baroque” essence to which I refer is represented by the mutual resistance and harmony of weight and drift, stillness and movement, straight and curves lines’ (p. 175).

American Idols

Post-war industrialisation and the rise of commodity culture have placed technology at the centre of the Japanese popular imagination. At the same time as filmmakers like Fujita withdrew into the images of Edo Japan to draw sustenance, others, like manga and anime artist Osamu Tezuka, were thinking forward into imaginary futures, populated by the dream of robot, cyborg and alien life. The ‘single female intruder’ is the recombination of these two sensibilities, at once strongly reminiscent of her Edo counterparts, and also situated within film or gameworlds that are nonetheless ostensibly works of science fiction. She emerges as a coherent iconic figure in the 1980s. The transformation of the poison woman in to the single female intruder takes place in the figure of Molly Millions in William Gibson’s short story Johnny Mnemonic (1981), and in the character of Pris in Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1982). Gibson’s lifelong obsession with Japanese culture is evident throughout his literature to date, and traces of the influences of the multifaceted concept of the poison woman are evident. Taken for granted, moreover, is the place of Rikyu grey, both literally as a colour sense, and as a philosophy of ambiguity and contrasts, and the idealism of Harunobu’s slender courtesans. The entrance of Molly Millions echoes that of Yuki in Lady Snowblood. The same emphasis on concealed technology, and a lethal capability, shroud the character in a mist of ambiguity and tightly wound sexuality.

‘Hey,’ said a low voice, feminine, from somewhere behind my right shoulder, ‘you cowboys sure aren’t having too lively a time.’

‘Pack it, bitch,’ Lewis said, his tanned face very still.

Ralfi looked blank.

‘Lighten up. You want to buy some good free base?’

She pulled up a chair and quickly sat before either of them could stop her. She was barely inside my fixed field of vision, a thin girl with mirrored glasses, her dark hair cut in a rough shag. She wore black leather, open over a T-shirt slashed diagonally with stripes of red and black.

‘Eight thou a gram weight.’

Lewis snorted his exasperation and tried to slap her out of the chair. Somehow he didn’t quite connect, and her hand came up and seemed to brush his wrist as it passed. Bright blood sprayed the table. He was clutching his wrist white-knuckle tight, blood trickling from between his fingers.

But hadn’t her hand been empty? (Gibson, 1981, p. 18)

The description of Molly emphasises her stature and costume, and the scene is characterised by an anxious stillness, which breaks into sudden action. Like Yuki’s hidden sword, Molly’s ‘weapons’ aren’t disclosed, but their effect enjoys a glorious description, again reminiscent of the exploitation film aesthetic of bloody carnage found in Lady Snowblood. Later, the secrets of Molly’s fatal frame are laid bare:

‘Chiba. Yeah. See, Molly’s been Chiba, too.’ And she showed me her hands, fingers slightly spread. Her fingers were slender, tapered, very white against the polished burgundy nails. Ten blades snicked straight out from their recesses beneath her nails, each one a narrow, double-edged scalpel in pale blue steel. (p. 21)

Molly’s finger blades are like Yuki’s concealed sword, in that they form a highly personalised accessory crucial to their survival in a world that is largely hostile to them. Through them their bodies become ‘trick machines’ designed to entrap, confuse, and terrorise their opponents. The complex rhetoric of hidden capability runs through the single female intruder, and is most apparent in the gynoid half-machine characters that have appeared since Molly first took to the streets of Chiba.

Transnational Assassins

Figure 5: Beatrix in Kill Bill (Quentin Tarantino, 2003)

Within the generic reality of convergent media culture, the tropes of the single female intruder have folded in on themselves, and, while the poison woman was penned in direct relation to the changes in society, the single female intruder of recent film and game texts is not so motivated to comment on changes in culture. She operates, like Beatrix in Tarantino’s Kill Bill films, within the “movie-world”, that is, within the circular distribution of generic styles, codes and conventions.

While the single female intruder certainly develops, in contemporary digital culture, the aesthetic, form and rhetoric of the femme fatale and other types of female killer (see Schubert, 2007), my interest lies with the long history that underpins her making, and the politics of globalisation she traverses. Her seductive deadly methods evoke fear outside of the textual worlds she inhabits, since she, like the ninja kids of Naruto, is an iconic player in the global media game, and is metonymic of the massive changes taking place in the landscape of media power. Koichi Iwabuchi writes that,

Japan’s hitherto odourless cultural presence in the world has become more recognizably ”Japanese” as computer games and animation from Japan have grabbed large shares of overseas markets. Japan’s success in exporting cultural products that are unmistakably perceived as “Japanese” have evoked a sense of yearning and threat overseas, including fear of cultural invasion (Iwabuchi, 2004, p. 59).

The single female intruder has emerged as the most prominent action heroine type in recent years, with films released that seek to comment on our technologically driven, information culture. Her independent agency, computer expertise and athletic finesse position the single female intruder as a dominant fantasy of control for our time. Connecting body politics, privacy issues, technology and gender relations in the actions of this subtly orientalized superhero, contemporary media producers have created a figure as pertinent to our time as the muscle-bound action hero was to the 1980s. While the ‘high trash’ of summer blockbusters, videogames and exploitation films might suggest that the single female intruder is nothing more and techno-fetish and titillation, I hope to have shown, through an emphasis on her origins in Japanese aesthetics, that such characters are playing an instrumental role in the reorganisation of gendered heroism within transmedial representation.

 

Games

Bullet Witch (Cavia, Inc./Atari, AQ Interactive, 2007)

Final Fantasy 12 (SquareEnix, 2006)

Ghost in the Shell (Exact/THQ, 1998)

Gun Valkyrie (Smilebit/BigBen Interactive, 2002)

Ico (Team Ico/SCE, 2002)

Oni (Bungie Studios/Rockstar Games, 2001)

P.N.03 [Product Number Three] (Capcom Production Studio 4/Capcom, 2003)

Panzer Dragoon Orta (Smilebit/Sega, 2003)

Panzer Dragoon Saga (Team Andromeda/Sega, 1998)

Perfect Dark (Rare/Rare, 2000)

Perfect Dark Zero (Rare/Rare, 2005)

Rez (United Game Artists/Sega, 2001)

Space Channel 5 (United Game Artists/Sega, 2000)

Space Channel 5: Part 2 (United Game Artists/Sega, 2003)

Tenchu: Fatal Shadows [Tenchu: Kurenai] (K2 LLC/Sega, 2005)

Tomb Raider (Core Design/EIDOS, 1996)

Films and Anime

Aeon Flux (Karyn Kusama, 2005)

Aeon Flux [Animated Series] (Peter Chung, 1995)

Bladerunner (Ridley Scott, 1982)

Ghost in the Shell (Mamoru Oshii, 1995)

Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence (Mamoru Oshii, 2004)

Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex (Kenji Kamiyama, 2002-2003)

Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex 2nd Gig (Kenji Kamiyama, 2004-2005)

Shurayukihime [Lady Snowblood: Blizzard from the Netherworld] (Toshiya Fujita, 1973)

Shurayukihime: Urami Renga [Lady Snowblood 2: Love Song of Vengeance] (Toshiya Fujita, 1974)

Sympathy for Lady Vengance [Chinjeolhan Geumjassi] (Chan-wook Park, 2005)

The Matrix (The Wachowski Brothers, 1999)

The Matrix: Reloaded (The Wachowski Brothers, 2003)

The Matrix: Revolutions (The Wachowski Brothers, 2003)

Manga

Kurata, H. Yamada, S. (2000 – present) Read or Die. Tokyo: Shueisha.

Shirow, M. (1989 – 1991) Ghost in the Shell. Tokyo: Kodansha.

References

Azuma, H. (2001). Superflat Japanese modernity, Retrieved [August, 01, 2007] from<http://www.hirokiazuma.com/en/texts/superflat_en1.html>

Gibson, W. (1981) Burning Chrome. London: Voyager.

Iwabuchi, K. (2002). Recentring globalisation: Popular culture and Japanese transnationalism. London: Duke University Press.

Iwabuchi, K. (2004). How Japanese is Pokémon?. In J. Tobin (Ed.), Pikachu’s global adventure: The rise and fall of Pokemon. London: Duke University Press. pp. 53-79.

Jensen, M. B. (2000) The Making of Modern Japan. London: Harvard.

Krzywinska, T. (2005) ‘Demon Girl Power: Regimes of Form and Force in videogames Primal and Buffy the Vampire Slayer’, New Femininities Seminar Series, London, 9th

December.

Kurokawa, K. (1991) Intercultural Architecture: The Philosophy of Symbiosis. Aia Press.

Kurokawa, K. (1997) Each One A Hero: The Philosophy of Symbiosis. London: Kodansha International.

Schubart, R. (2007) Super Bitches and Action Babes. London: MacFarland & Company, Inc.

 

Bio:

David Surman is an artist and designer, based in Melbourne, Australia after migrating from the UK. Over the past 10 years he has worked in many different creative environments, and he is currently creative director and co-founder of Pachinko Pictures, an award-winning boutique design studio based in Melbourne. David has also pursued a career as a scholar and teacher, which has given him many more opportunities and challenges. He developed a pioneering degree programme in games design at Newport School of Art (University of Wales), which focused on the principles and processes of art and design for games; and was Lecturer in Multimedia Design at Swinburne University of Technology. David is currently completing a PhD in videogame aesthetics at Brunel University, and holds a Masters in Film and Television from Warwick University and a Bachelors in Animation from the Newport School of Art, Media and Design.

Creating Godzilla’s media tourism: Comparing fan and local government practices – Craig Norris

Abstract

Fan pilgrimages to media locations have been variously described as fads or underground activities. More recently there has been a trend to consider cult media tourism as increasingly incorporated into official tourism branding and promotion strategies. This article details how fans and industry ‘play’ with popular culture to experiment with their surroundings in new and novel ways. This phenomenon is observed through two cases: first, Saitama City’s attempt to appear in a Godzilla movie as documented in the BBC series Japanorama; and second, the experience of western Godzilla fans travelling to Japan. By discussing the similar ‘fan tools’ which are used by different stakeholders this article will show how locations can be reimagined into popular culture portals serving a variety of agendas.

Figure 1: Godzilla destroys Tokyo in Godzilla (Ishirō Honda, 1954)

Introduction
In 2002 the BBC series Japanorama hosted by popular British entertainer Jonathan Ross ran an episode on Godzilla and the Japanese city of Saitama’s attempts to be destroyed in the next Godzilla film. As Ross explains, ‘Japanese cities crave the publicity that comes with a visit from Godzilla, and Saitama with its brand new city centre is a perfect setting for some Godzillian demolition’. Following a replay of Godzilla destroying various cities in Japan we are introduced to Saitama’s town planner Tetsuo Takahashi who tells us that he has arrived at a unique way to pitch Saitama to the Toho Company. To make Saitama stand out from the other cities vying for Toho’s attention Takahashi has written a script for a new Godzilla movie that shows how spectacular Godzilla’s destruction of Saitama could be. Sadly Takahashi explains his concern that ‘we haven’t heard back from the Toho Company’. The episode then centres around helping Saitama appear in a Godzilla movie. We are shown Takahashi touring the city with various Saitama civil servants and two actors who played Godzilla in the films. A variety of strategies are discussed to help Saitama’s destruction by Godzilla and the audience is left feeling optimistic about Saitama’s chances to appear in the next Godzilla movie.

This Japanorama episode poses both conventional and unconventional ideas about media tourism. We are told that local governments want the publicity that appearing in a Godzilla film brings. Possibly based on the assumption that connecting Saitama to Godzilla will give them an audience or particular relevancy they otherwise would not have. We can imagine potential economic rewards from tourism or some positive cultural capital through being associated with a popular entertainment icon like Godzilla. Yet there is very little information about the business and branding of media tourism. We don’t see a Toho spokesperson discuss the decisions that go into choosing locations, or council plans to erect Godzilla statues and design tourist information. Instead the episode concentrates on the fun practices and processes of participating in Takahashi’s Godzilla vision. A movie script is written, a Godzilla toy is used to destroy a scale model of Saitama, buildings are discussed in terms of how exactly Godzilla would stomp on them and tear them apart, and people act out their fantasies of being Godzilla by destroying small cardboard models of Saitama’s cityscape.

The audience is left knowing less about the business and marketing of media tourism and more about the fun of being a Godzilla fan and media tourist. The town planner’s script is a type of fan fiction, the Godzilla performances are typical of the alternative identities fan’s adopt through cosplay⁠1, and the use of scale models draws on the simulations and games fans create. The assistance Japanorama offers Saitama’s Godzilla bid seems to be based on the creative forms and collaborative problem-solving of fan-culture. For Saitama the hope is that these fan-type practices are the best way to show how and why Godzilla would destroy Saitama and, more importantly, why Toho should use this location.

The use of appropriation, game-play, mash-ups, and Godzilla performances in Japanorama is an example of the increasing appropriation of what were once marginalised activities of hard-core fans into moments of professional discourse and mainstream entertainment (Green and Jenkins 2009). Normally a town planner wouldn’t write a Godzilla movie script or use a plastic Godzilla toy to explain why his city is interesting and important. But here these approaches are used to solve problems and experiment with how to reimagine a city. What we may be seeing is a variation on converging the practices of production and consumption similar to ‘prosumers’ (Toffler 1980) or ‘produsers’ (Bruns 2008) where the consumer increasingly acts as a creator, distributor or curator of information and resources. In this case Saitama City is producing the very Godzilla story they hope will position them as a city to be used by Toho.

Alternatively the moves Saitama is making towards fan practice may be related to what Jenkins (2007a) refers to as the phenomenon of astroturfing where media industries create fake grassroot campaigns to appeal to particular consumers. While Saitama’s effort to convince fans and Toho of its Godzilla credentials through using fan-like practices is similar to astroturfing, nevertheless it is not attempting to hide its involvement. A stronger parallel may be with the phenomenon of ‘affective economics’ (Jenkins 2006a) which describes the industry enthusiasm to secure the loyal viewers of a cult property. It is based on the hope that over the long term a small cult audience will yield bigger profits than a numerically larger, but less engaged, general audience. In a similar way, the enthusiasm shown in the Japanorama clip to create a Godzilla cult geography in Saitama suggests that there are efforts being made by local councils to tap in to the loyal viewers of cult media to rejuvenate visits to a city. At the same time, however, the lack of any interest from Toho in Saitama’s Godzilla pitch since the broadcast of this episode in 2002 suggests that it has struggled to build a relationship or feedback loop between Toho or Godzilla fans. In this context, Saitama’s efforts to get some ‘Godzillian destruction’ may be a reminder of the challenges that face non-industry players who want to be more directly involved in media production or utilise media properties for their own ends. However, as I will show, appearing in the media through Japanorama may still secure a foothold in Godzilla’s cult geography for Saitama.

Additionally, this has to be understood within Japanorama’s agenda as a television show with a need to tell a particular ‘weird and wonderful Japan’ story to their audience. The show has been edited to best meet these commercial and creative agendas and there is a gentle ‘laughing at’ the town planner’s over-enthusiasm for the destruction and pleasure Godzilla would find in terrorising citizens of Saitama. While this does limit the power Saitama has to control the representation of their Godzilla bid, it does give them an audience and a profile they otherwise would not have. As I will show in this article, this profile is built on the types of fan skills that can be brought into problem-solving (Brabham 2008) and experimenting with notions of place (Longhurst, Bagnall, and Savage 2007; Brooker 2007; Couldry 2007; McBride and Bird 2007).

As I will argue in this article, embracing fan practice can solve some of the challenges found in transforming a city into a pop-culture tourism phenomenon. Rather than Saitama council positioning itself around more conventional top-down strategies to convince fans and the Toho Company, they position themselves as creating a cult-geography by using the bottom-up practices of fans. To explain this we need to look beyond the divide of an active fan community or exploitative industry agenda. The fact that this is a town planner appropriating fan practice reveals a more complex hybrid media ecology at work (Benkler 2006; Jenkins 2006a; Jenkins and Deuze 2008). As my explanation will show there are various stake-holders (fans, government and industry) involved in constructing this cult geography. To explore the interdependent and conflicting factors that facilitate this I will compare Japanorama’s framing of Saitama’s Godzilla bid to the experiences of Western Godzilla fans who have travelled to Japan.

By comparing Japanorama’s portrayal of media tourism practices with the way fans speak of their own Godzilla-tourism this article will connect cult geographies to the discussion around the emergence of a ‘networked information economy’ (Benkler 2006). In Benkler’s consideration of the stakeholders within new media networks, for example, he emphasises the ongoing struggles around competing purposes for the same media space. He suggests that as well as bringing people together networks are also spaces where various complimentary and conflicting agendas such as profit, persuasion, enlightenment and entertainment are played out for ‘benefits to reputation’ (Benkler 2006, 43). Green and Jenkins (2008) refer to Benkler’s argument as defining the emergence of a hybrid media ecology where commercial, amateur, nonprofit, governmental, and educational media producers interact in ever more complex ways, often deploying the same media channels towards very different ends. Within Godzilla’s hybrid media ecology this article will focus on the relationship between two of these stakeholders – local government and fans – and their shared strategies but diverging purposes for creating a Godzilla cult geography.

Before analysing the practices of fans and industry, I wish to briefly outline how the data for this study of Godzilla fandom was collected. The focus of the fan data was the Toho Kingdom community (www.tohokingdom.com), a large website ‘committed to covering all aspects of the film company Toho Eiga [Film]’ and is not affiliated with the Toho Company. With over 500 members, total posts over 90,000 and total topics over 3,000 it provides one of the largest and most extensive portals into Toho films in English. Godzilla, as one of the most famous Toho properties, features extensively throughout the site with various topic focusing exclusively on the significance and continued relevance of Godzilla. I posted a link to a survey on this forum targeting Godzilla fans who had travelled to Japan. The link directed them to a short survey of ten questions which addressed the role Godzilla played in their travels around Japan. In total I received 51 responses. The data was collected during a period of three months in 2010.

From media tourism to cult geography

To return to the earlier quote by Japanorama’s host, ‘Japanese cities crave the publicity that comes with a visit from Godzilla.’ This comment reveals just how much the act of visiting media-locations has become commonplace, and it is now routine for tourists to plan their trips around an interest in popular culture. Fans can visit specific places made famous for them through popular culture and perform typical tourist acts such as photographing themselves in front of these recognisable landmarks or icons, buying merchandise and so on.

While we may be familiar with media tourism clearly the Japanorama clip shows that the practices occurring here go far beyond the mere recognition of a media location. As Hills’ (2002) argues, participating in a cult geography involves more elaborate fan practices.  In Fan Cultures Hills (2002) further refines cult geography as the ‘diegetic and pro-filmic spaces (and ‘real’ spaces associated with cult icons) which cult fans take as the basis for material touristic practices’ (144). This process of fans visiting locations and sites based on their interest in their favourite pop culture text redefines that location’s meaning around their fan interest. The main aim of this article is to show how various fan practices facilitate the production of a Godzilla cult geography.

Previous research in media tourism has discussed the tours and pilgrimages to the locations that were used in popular culture such as the X-Files (Hills 2002), Dracula (Reijnders 2011), Blade Runner (Brooker 2005), Inspector Morse (Reijnders 2009), The Sopranos (Couldry 2007), Sex in the City (McCabe and Akass 2004), and The Lord of the Rings (Tzanelli 2004). While this work has addressed various aspects of the tourist and industry experience of media place, I wish to combine existing fan theory approaches within this field, in particular Hills’ (2002) concept of ‘cult geography,’ with Gee’s (2007a) ‘affinity space’ approach from participatory culture and education studies. Drawing on fan theory and participatory culture research in this way will shed new light on the impact spatial imagination has on the meaning of place and text.

Through these approaches I will show how local government and fan alike use particular fan practices to transform locations into cult geographies. Focusing on the Japanorama episode and TohoKingdom.com fan community, I will map three practices used to create a Godzilla cult geography. Firstly, improvising a cult geography through play. Secondly, generating authenticity through fan practice. And thirdly, combining narrative, place and travel in an ‘affinity space’ (Gee 2007a). These practices will show the interdependent and interrelated production and consumption processes at the core of these practices. It will also show how popular culture can be used to participate in foreign spaces with a powerful sense of purpose.

Creating a cult geography

In discussing Godzilla’s cult geography both Japanorama’s Saitama town planner and the TohoKingdom.com fans emphasise a sense of ‘play’. Recent research into new media literacies (Jenkins et al. 2006; Knobel and Lankshear 2007) has approached the idea of play as a core skill that needs to be further understood. This research has linked play to the serious work youth do addressing issues such as ethics, judgement and identity while playing video games (Gee 2007c), participating in social networks (Lyman et al. 2009) or using google search and wikipedia (Jenkins 2007b). A key value of this play is that it encourages people to engage deeply and fully with complex material and issues (Gee 2007c). This use of play to attain deeper learning was evident in both Takahashi’s performance on Japanorama and the stories Godzilla fans related in their survey responses. Takahashi hopes to create a space for a deeper engagement with Saitama through Godzilla and, as I will show later, fans use various types of play to experiment with their surroundings to solve problems, improvise identities, or understand real world events and histories. However the particular characteristics of how this play is configured and becomes established differs between these two cases.

Figure 2: Jonathan Ross, host of the BBC series ‘Japanorama’

To return briefly to the Japanorama episode, while fan practices are emphasised, playing is also configured as a business undertaking. Takahashi has a responsibility to find a way to make Saitama popular and relevant, this is aligned with a belief in the Godzilla brand association to generate interest around specific locations. Again this is framed as a key motivation of Saitama’s hoped for media tourism, and was emphasised throughout the Japanorama episode by the frequent use of clips showing Godzilla’s destruction of specific landmarks and cities. Takahashi’s positive belief in his ability to use Godzilla to change the public’s perception of Saitama’s brand new city centre is reinforced through three fan practices: appropriation, performance and simulation.

Consider, for example, the attention given to Takahashi’s Godzilla movie script:

So far Godzilla has destroyed most of the famous architecture in Japan. Saitama New Urban Centre is the only place he hasn’t destroyed. We sent our proposal to Toho, Godzilla’s film production company. Apparently a lot of cities are doing the same thing. But what we did was send them an original script to give them a more precise idea – and they found this an unusual approach.

Here we see the value of appropriation through the emphasis given to it as the ‘unusual approach’ Saitama has taken to show that it can be transformed into Godzilla’s cult geography.  Writing the movie script will show Toho that they understand Godzilla and can contribute to the Godzilla community and brand. This approach is underpinned by a belief in the positives of what good fan play is. In particular, the advantages of meaningfully remixing media content (Black 2005; Thomas 2007; Jenkins 2006b). Writing about fan fiction, Jenkins et al (2006) identifies important skills being developed by these writers such as demonstrating knowledge and creativity through ‘an appreciation of the emerging structure’ and ‘potential meanings’ (32) of the original text. The hope for Saitama is that their movie script expresses knowledge of the Godzilla universe and convincingly links their city with the ‘emerging structure’ and ‘potential meanings’ of the films in a creative way. But more than telling a good story it needs to persuade Toho to film there. Fan fiction here becomes one of the council strategies to make their bid stand out and transform Saitama from just another city into a cult geography inhabited by Godzilla.

In addition to appropriation, Saitama’s bid is also explained through the common fan practice of performing Godzilla’s destruction through simulation. YouTube is full of clips where Godzilla fans film themselves smashing poorly constructed cardboard models and cityscapes. In Japanorama Takahashi demonstrates how Godzilla would destroy Saitama by using a plastic toy Godzilla leg on a stick to enact Godzilla’s destructive trail across a large-scale model of the city:

With this stick here I will show you how Godzilla will destroy Saitama City Centre. Godzilla appears from the south and destroys each building. He appears with the Godzilla theme song [Takahashi hums the tune]. Then he finds a new building he turns around and hits the building. The people run around screaming everywhere [Takahashi imitates the sound of people screaming]. He torches two building [Takahashi lets out a roar]. Godzilla loves train stations, he destroys the whole station and the people there are in a big panic. There is a bullet train by his side and he picks up each coach and throws them everywhere. And that is my idea of Godzilla demolishing Saitama New Urban City.

By positioning himself as the knowledgeable Godzilla expert describing Godzilla’s destruction on a detailed map Takahashi performs one of the core practices of cult geography – adopting the identity of key characters and expressing the theme of the series. Hills’ (2002) analysis of X-Files tourists and Couldry’s (2007) analysis of The Sopranos tour highlight the moments where tourist practices and problem-solving reinforce the broader themes in the series, such as The X-Files’ hiddenness or The Sopranos’ tension between the private and public. For Hills (2002),

the manner of this quest [to find the filming locations] replays the ‘hiddenness’ of The X-Files own tropes and secrets: ‘signs’ and ‘informants’ leak out of the text, as if it provided a guide for the cult fans’ creative transposition. This transposition is one of the key aspects of ‘cult geography’ (148)

A similar ‘creative transposition’ can be seen in the Japanorama clip. Takahashi, through his simulations of a Godzilla attack, evokes some of the motifs of military and scientific advisors in the Godzilla series. The films often feature sequences where military advisors and scientists crowd around a map plotting Godzilla’s trail of destruction and interpreting its actions. Alternatively this performance of planning and controlling the movements of Godzilla may also emulate the villain masterminding Godzilla’s assault on a city. Although the importance of adopting the alternative identities and tropes from popular culture have been previously examined, my concern here is how these performances also function as an authenticating strategy for those working in local government or industry.

Figure 3: Japanorama talks with Saitama New Urban Center director Tetsuo Takahashi who shows how Godzilla can smash his new urban development on a model of the city.

Figure 4: The close up is Godzilla’s foot destroying the model train station.

Authenticity

The goal for Saitama is to make their new city centre an authentic location on a tour of Godzilla’s destruction of Japan. While they can’t guarantee a Toho Godzilla film featuring Saitama they can imagine it. They can play, perform and construct models as if the city had been destroyed in a Godzilla film. They can rely upon the generic aspects of the city which already fit the canon of Godzilla’s favourite things to smash (train stations, skyscrapers and new buildings). And tell a story of Saitama within the narrative of Godzilla arriving, destroying buildings, terrorising the population and leaving. In a way the broadcast of these practices on Japanorama already bestows a type of pseudo-authenticity onto Saitama as a Godzilla cult geography. Even without an official Toho film endorsing Saitama it has been filmed and promoted as offering a virtual experience of mapping and co-ordinating Godzilla’s destruction. What is produced is an unofficial tour conducted by Saitama’s town planner, produced by the Japanorama TV program and circulated through broadcast and online media.

Like a fan’s creative transposition when they photograph themselves reenacting scenes in front of landmarks (Hills 2002, 149) Japanorama’s mediation of Saitama’s Godzilla cult geography generates a type of authenticity through the meaning the ‘fan’ acts give to a location. The process of turning a train-station, a skyscraper and other structures of Saitama’s cityscape into the raw materials of a Godzilla film gives them a new symbolic meaning. This is not just a train-station, this is the train-station Godzilla destroys, or the location where people fled from Godzilla. As Hills’ (2002) argues, the fan’s ability to make these locations meaningful through this creative transposition:

allows for a radically different object-relationship in terms of immediacy, embodiment and somatic sensation which can all operate to reinforce cult ‘authenticity’ and its more-or-Iess explicitly sacralised difference. The audience-text relationship is shifted towards the monumentality and groundedness of physical locations (149)

Takahashi’s goal is to transform Saitama from just another big city in Japan into the ‘radically different object-relationship’ of a cult geography. The movie script, re-enactment of Godzilla’s destruction, and walking-tour of Saitama hope to give an authenticity to Saitama’s Godzilla cult geography. Having these performances filmed and circulated through the Japanorama program pushes Saitama into the realms of becoming a media place  – one in which the Japanorama program and Godzilla have shaped our perceptions of it.

However, such positioning towards cult authenticity do not go unchallenged. While Takahashi is defined around his confidence and status, this is undercut somewhat by his own performance during the episode. He hums a different tune to the iconic Godzilla soundtrack during his re-enactment of Godzilla’s destruction, and later is corrected by the Godzilla actors on how Godzilla would destroy large buildings. Raising the question of if Takahashi is really a fan or only interested in Godzilla for the profile it might bring Saitama.

Such questioning of Takahashi’s Godzilla knowledge challenges the hoped-for alliances between Saitama and both Toho and the fan audience. While Takahashi can generate local portals into Godzilla’s cult geography, does he really share a passion for Godzilla films, and is his vision shared by others in Saitama council? These ambiguities between production and consumption are significant. As authors such as Green and Jenkins (2009) point out, while companies are re-evaluating the opportunities offered by fan participation there remains ‘potential conflicts since fan and corporate interests are never perfectly aligned’ (219). Scholars in tourism studies have also been aware of the complexity and ambiguity of authenticity ‘particularly in the context of mediated representations and externally managed tourist experiences’ (Karpovich 2010, 12). For example, media tourism to sites featured in the film Braveheart with its origins in Scotland yet filming in Ireland raises as many questions about heritage and popular culture as the tours appear to celebrate (Aitchison, Macleod, and Shaw 2000). To explore this complexity further this article will now discuss how Godzilla fans define their cult geography practices around both authentic and improvised moments.

Improvising Godzilla’s space

During the Japanorama episode the use of fan practice establishes a clear vision of what it is to inhabit the cult geography of Godzilla’s Japan. In contrast to the slickly produced Japanorama performances, more personal and improvised notions of cult geography are evident in the survey results from the Toho Kingdom community. For these fans travelling to Japan as a Godzilla fan is connected to being a tourist. While this engagement reflects the typical practices of tourism – such as leisure, travel, and souvenir collecting – it is also connected to the motifs and narrative of Godzilla. They are tourists travelling around Japan but they are also adopting Godzilla fan identities to improvise, discover and experiment with their surroundings. In some cases, the fans’ creative transpositions are used to establish their active involvement and participation in the landscape around them.

Godzilla locations

That Saitama could be framed so strongly as a tourist location through the Godzilla text can be understood by considering how Japan’s landscapes – rural, industrial and urban – can become portals into a Godzilla space. To understand the complex relationship between text, fan practice and place I will focus on two ways that fans use creative transposition to move between the Godzilla text and the real geography around them: first, the use of significant and banal locations as portals into the text; and second, the process of using Godzilla’s destruction trope to frame historical events and places.

The locations which Godzilla fans use as portals into the fantasy space of Godzilla includes typical monuments which evoke recognition and awe. Godzilla has destroyed the Diet Building (the seat of Japanese political power) and other important historical structures such as the Osaka Castle, and significant architectural and cultural landmarks such as Ginza’s Wako department store and clock-tower.  These are locations within the Godzilla space which are privileged because of their political, historical and cultural significance  as well as the dramatic action surrounding their destruction in the films. These monuments feature prominently in the advertising for many Godzilla films and  appear in many fans’ recollections of travelling to Japan. As the comment below attests:

My first morning in Japan, travelling south from Tokyo station on shinkansen [bullet train], I was looking at bright, shiny modern skyscrapers and suddenly the Diet building’s cold grey concrete, came into view for a second or two. It was a dreamlike, cinematic moment, making me think Godzilla might come into view next.

As well as the monuments one would expect to evoke media tourism portals Godzilla’s cult geography extends to more banal, everyday locations such as train stations, power lines, oil refineries, hills and even the view out to the ocean. These portals reveal not just how acts of cult geography turn something banal into something spectacular, but also how the fans foreground their role as choreographer of these cult geographies. For example, in the following comment we see how being a Godzilla fan changes a typical tourist act – travelling from one city to another – into the process of generating a Godzilla space.

I think that I had two moments that could be considered Godzilla moments. The first Godzilla moment I had was when I was in the JR Rail going to Fukuoka from Osaka. While taking in the scenery, I noticed the high voltage electrical lines that are shown in many Godzilla films. In my mind I started to play Godzilla‘s theme by Akira Ifukube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vE-JwmDrTNI).

A banal aspect of tourism – looking out the window of a train and noticing the landscape – is here presented as evoking the landscape of a Godzilla film. Again, what is interesting is how banal the portal can be — in this case the many power lines that cover Japan. In contrast to reducing these structures to straight-forward explanations of power supply or barely noticing them beyond their global familiarity, here the Godzilla fan becomes cult geographer by turning these power lines into the power lines often used to battle Godzilla. The ‘Godzilla moment’ is further established by recalling the Godzilla theme music from the composer Akira Ifukuba onto this view of the landscape. Acts that remind us of Takahashi’s similar use of music in his re-enactment of Godzilla’s destruction of Saitama in Japanorama.

The use of Godzilla’s narrative and motifs as scaffolding over the Japanese landscape gives the location a new relevance and excitement. It also casts the cult geographer as an active participant in making this geography. In this way the cult geographer sees themselves as improvising an exciting and stimulating environment far removed from the actual banality of these locations.

A further remixing can be seen in the sampling of discourses combining personal travel diary, fan knowledge, and the language of cinematography in many of the responses. For example, in a later comment the same fan positions themselves as less of a tourist and more a film-director:

As I continued to Fukuoka, I saw a refinery and immediately my thoughts went to naming monsters that have destroyed refineries in Godzilla movies. Finally on the JR Rail I noticed two things that I saw in the 1993 Godzilla vs. SpaceGodzilla. They were the Fukuoka Tower and how the color of the ocean from the sea of Japan is really a pink color as the sun sets. My other Godzilla moment was when I was on the island of Kikai-Shima. The island itself is nowhere near Tokyo, but I could not help to think of the first image of Godzilla shown on the big screen. Like in the movie there was a hill on the island that I was walking up and my mind had a flash back to the movie. I kind of chuckled and said to myself, wouldn’t it be something if I felt the ground shake and look up to see Godzilla himself roaring.

Figure 5: The poster for GODZILLA VS. SPACEGODZILLA (Kensho Yamashita, 1993) showing the Fukuoka Tower in the middle of the battle.

The Godzilla space exists here in parallel with these locations. The fan improvises a Godzilla geography through specific ‘concrete’ triggers in the environment around them. From monuments (the Diet Building), recognisable architecture (the Fukuoka Tower), banal industrial locations and structures (refineries and power-lines), cityscapes (skyscrapers) and geographical formations (a hill). The combination of witnessing monumental locations, large natural formations, and imposing man-made structures while choreographing their destruction by giant monsters generates the portal into the narrative and practices of the Godzilla text.

Cult geography as an affinity space

Recent research into the impact of new media and online networks on learning provides a useful comparison. In his study, Gee argues that the strength of a learning environment can be best measured in terms of its ‘affinity space’ (Gee 2007b) rather than focusing on the people who inhabit a space and their ‘communities of practice’ (Lave 1996). Gee defines an affinity space as the organisation of an area around a shared purpose and the processes which support or inhibit participation, collaboration and the circulation of expertise and knowledge. His research reveals that spaces are organised around generators (things which give the space content) and platforms (things which give users access to content). For Gee what matters is more than just identifying these two processes, the significance of an affinity space lies in measuring the relative strength of the feedback loop between portals and generators. As Gee (2007a) argues, ‘we want to know whether content organization and interactional organization reflexively shape each other in strong or weak ways, not just whether they do or not’ (96).

While Gee focuses on learning and education, affinity space does offer an insight into some of the key features of a cult geography – particularly in terms of understanding how the meaning of a place can be reordered around its connection to popular culture like Godzilla. To return briefly to Japanorama, at one level the episode builds an affinity space by trying to generate as many Godzilla portals as possible with the aim of influencing Toho’s next Godzilla film. While Saitama is making an aggressive effort to directly contribute to official Godzilla content, affinity spaces also underpin many of the more modest acts of informal learning and sharing performed by the Godzilla fans I surveyed.

As the Godzilla fans travelling to Japan show, experiencing Godzilla’s cult geography is part of a larger social and place based participation. They draw upon various resources that offer support for achieving a successful pilgrimage. Survey respondents mention various websites and travel publications devoted to Godzilla fans travelling to Japan. In addition to online forums like Toho Kingdom, examples included the fan-produced The Monster Movie Fan’s Guide to Japan (Vaquer 2009), tours to Japan organsied by fan clubs such as G-Fan, and the Japanese wikipedia site for Gojira. Through these sites fans have planned their trips to Japan, offered advice to others, and shared information and knowledge. It is exactly this type of participation and engagement that Takahashi and the Saitama council hope to foster for their city through Godzilla.

Experiencing Godzilla’s cult geography not only draws upon these online and published resources, but also the motifs and fictional narrative of the films and the generic and monumental resources of one’s surroundings. When the fan visits the Diet Buildings or sees an oil refinery or power line and transposes a Godzilla narrative over it they draw upon these portals to also generate a Godzilla experience of their own. In the process of transforming a power line into a Godzilla space we can see that there are particular ‘raw ingredients’ which help generate this new, remixed content. Two of these have already been discussed: the use of banal and monumental locations, and adopting alternative identities. Both show that the Godzilla fan travelling in Japan is more than an awed witness they are the choreographer of virtual mass destruction by giant monsters menacing Tokyo.

A third portal which Godzilla fans use to access Godzilla space are the real stories of destruction which have befallen places and buildings featured in the films. Here Godzilla fans present themselves as navigating grand but tragic portals of Japan through Godzilla’s destruction. These creative transpositions include terrifyingly real catastrophes both within Japan and overseas, as the following comment reveals:

I’ve been to NY (assuming you include the 1998 American Godzilla movie in the study). I feel all the locations are important, because it shows that no place is safe or off limits, especially to catastrophe or a rogue force of nature.

The allusion here to the 9/11 terrorist attacks locates Godzilla’s meaning squarely in its indiscriminate destruction of monuments and places where ‘no place is safe or off limits’. This theme suggests one of the core meanings of Godzilla. As Tsutsui (2004) points out, Ishiro Honda, who directed the first Godzilla movie in 1954,  approached ‘Godzilla as a means of “making radiation visible,” of giving tangible form to unspoken fears of the Bomb, nuclear testing, and environmental degradation’ (33). Within the survey results members of the Toho Kingdom community repeated Honda’s reading of Godzilla as a cautionary tale of ‘unspoken fears’. For example, one respondent echoed this as the reason Godzilla destroys cities: ‘Godzilla destroyed these buildings because he is furious at mankind’s use of atomic weapons. He is an instrument of nature’s wrath and will continuously destroy Tokyo’.

Fans draw upon Godzilla as a ‘tangible form to unspoken fears’ as they interpret and construct a parallel story of real-world destruction through their travel to Godzilla locations. The convergence of places and their destruction, both fictional and real, asserts the fan’s engagement with some of the feelings of fear and vulnerability that lie in the intersection between the text and their surroundings. For example, the convergence of history, narrative and place is seen in the recent fan-produced travel guide, The monster movie fan’s guide to Japan (Vaquer 2009). In the following entry for Ginza and Hibiya Park we see the shift from specific locations in Tokyo’s Ginza area to the Godzilla narrative and then to the destruction visited upon these locations during WWII.

Ginza is Tokyo’s upscale shopping district. It first appeared in Godzilla (1954) as a detailed minature. The craftsmen at Toho faithfully recreated Ginza well enough to give viewers an idea on how the district looked in 1954. During Godzilla’s nighttime rampage in Tokyo, the clock atop the Wako Department store at Ginza Crossing gonged the hour and thus annoyed the giant beast. Godzilla then proceeded to tear down the clock and the department store along with it. He also torches the Matsuzakaya Department Store, one of Tokyo’s priciest retailers. Across the street from the Wako Building, is the Mitsukoshi department store. The Mitsukoshi was one of the first Western-style department stores in Japan. It sustained heavy bomb damage in World War II, but has been rebuilt and is still a thriving department store. (Vaquer 2009, 28) In this example Godzilla’s presence in Tokyo is a destructive force: it commits ‘nighttime rampage’ on Tokyo, ‘tear(s) down the clock’ and ‘torches the Matsuzakaya department store’.  For Vaquer, the destruction of Ginza by Godzilla replicates the wartime destruction of Ginza by Allied bombers.

Like the process of ‘narrative leakage’ described by Hills (2002), one of the key practices in the cult geography is the move from the fictional narrative space to one’s surroundings through the process of meaningfully remixing both.

Conclusion

The analysis presented in this article has explored the strategies used by fans, local government and media to transform the environment around them. The focus on Saitama’s Godzilla bid and TohoKindom.com’s fans has revealed a number of similar strategies used to remix Godzilla into one’s surroundings. These strategies could be broadly labeled as ‘fan practices’ including appropriation, performance and simulation. These practices also impart an authenticity onto these locations through meaningfully reordering them as spaces of Godzilla affiliation. In many of these examples Godzilla was also used as scaffolding for other purposes – such as drawing more attention to Saitama, or reflecting on the real historical destruction of those locations.

Differences between Japanorama and TohoKingdom also empahasise the conflicting purposes that exist between the stakeholders within this hybrid media ecology. On one hand Saitama is hoping to exploit a potential synergy between their new city centre and Godzilla’s destruction of significant landmarks. Whereas for Godzilla fans they seek to improvise a Godzilla experiences when and where they want to. Convergence cultures, as Jenkins (2006a) has argued, change the way media are circulated and engaged with and have  meant we need to move beyond power relations based on a weak or strong audience/producer divide.

Issues of power still remain, but need to be addressed from multiple perspectives and sympathetic to alternative norms. For example, while Saitama and Japanorama use fan practices, fans are absent from the episode. We are only provided with the opinions of professionals. In a way this keeps the actual labour fans have done to re-circulate, comment on, and contribute to popular culture like Godzilla largely invisible. While there remain important concerns around the diverging agendas of various stakeholders, the fan practice ‘tool kit’ outlined here is evidence of the forms of participation which are being learned and appropriated between stakeholders. By valuing the types of practices of fans and trying to appear loyal to the spirit and enjoyment of Godzilla, Saitama may still appeal to the hard-core Godzilla fan audience. Even without the direct involvement of the Toho company Saitama may yet become a cult geography.

 

Notes

1 A Japanese term that has been adopted by fans globally to refer to dressing up as a character from popular culture.

 

Japanorama episode reference

Japanorama. Horror. Season 1, Episode 6. British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), Hotsauce TV, 1 June 2002.

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Bio:

Craig Norris is a lecturer in Journalism, Media and Communications in the School of English, Journalism & European Languages at the University of Tasmania, Australia. His research in media studies focuses on popular culture, audiences and fandom. He has published articles in the area of global media and the dissemination of Japanese popular-culture (particularly anime, manga, video games and cosplay). His current research explores the relationship between media and place through global media tourism and fan pilgrimages to media locations. Norris teaches courses on youth media, media flows and spaces, as well as honours level seminars in media theory and methods.

Blockbusters for the YouTube Generation: A new product of convergence culture – Kristy Hess and Lisa Waller

Abstract: While scholars have paid much attention to YouTube in a Web 2.0 environment, the YouTube blockbuster is yet to be discussed as part of this convergence culture. It differs from transmedia storytelling in that no single company owns or controls the characters or concepts. Once users have elevated videos with rich narrative qualities to the heights of fame within YouTube and other virtual social networks, they are taken from the YouTube archive by global commercial media and given new exchange values in traditional media forms such as books, films, television shows and ancillary products, using fragmented classical narrative techniques to do so. This paper traces the history of the blockbuster as a way of large commercial media adapting to social and technological change after World War II, to its refinements in the 1970s to cater for younger audiences and changes in the media landscape, to its most recent incarnation in YouTube. We argue that the economic and cultural values of the blockbuster are being transformed and refigured by the new form it has begun to take within convergence culture.

Introduction

Susan Boyle is a dowdy, middle-aged Scottish singer with bushy eyebrows and frizzy dark hair. She was the “fairytale for the YouTube generation” (Wooley, 2010) in 2009 and now has one of the world’s fastest selling debut albums of all time. The story began when Boyle surprised audiences with her faultless rendition of Les Miserables’ “I dreamed a dream” on the hit reality television show Britain’s Got Talent. The Washington Post later reported that the judges and audience were “waiting for her to squawk like a duck” (McManus, 2009). Within hours of her performance, a snippet of footage was uploaded to YouTube by a computer user and shared among millions of people throughout the world. Another piece of footage, uploaded by the producers of the television show, has received almost 100 million hits. Boyle is now one of the world’s most recognizable faces, with guest television appearances, stories in newspapers and magazines, books and record deals. Ironically, the 48-year-old songstress had never heard of YouTube before her performance. She told one interviewer: “I hadn’t even seen a computer…Google what’s that? Is that some kind of gargle?” (Wooley, 2010).

This paper argues the Susan Boyle phenomenon is an example of an emerging media form – the YouTube blockbuster. Just like its cinematic forerunner, this is an example of large commercial media adapting to social and technological change. The two forms retain much in common and we will highlight the work of Marco Cucco (2009) to outline these similarities. Importantly, however, we aim to show how the two models differ within a convergence culture.  The traditional blockbuster model developed by Hollywood in the 1960s and `70s depends upon corporate media investing significant economic capital to produce and market a product with an expectation it will appeal to mass audiences and generate huge profits. Its production has always been controlled by single media conglomerates which make the final decisions on plot and character development as well as licensing agreements for ancillary products. Elana Shafrin (2004) argues that in recent times cinematic blockbusters have been “infused with new modes of authorship, production, marketing and consumption” (Shafrin, 2004, p.261). She uses case studies of Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings and George Lucas’ Star Wars franchises to discuss how a growing number of “active” or “participatory” fans (Jenkins, 1992) exhibit a sense of ownership that includes an investment in the creative development of these productions. Shafrin shows how internet clubs and websites have provided venues for fans to establish connections to Jackson and Spielberg and their evolving franchises through social gossip, artistic production and political activism.

The YouTube blockbuster is different because its character and plot development is not determined by a single media conglomerate, nor are the licensing agreements for its associated merchandise. It begins with huge interest within participatory media culture before the corporate media make any significant investment and it is dependent on both “bottom up” participatory culture as well as “top down” corporate media (Jenkins, 2006, p.242) to drive its production. Media scholars including Tiziana Terranova (2000), Andrew Ross (2009), Robert Gehl (2009) Banks & Humphreys (2008) and Banks & Deuze (2009) offer different perspectives in the debates surrounding co-creative labor and free labor, who controls content and information flows, who benefits and who profits. There is not space to work through these arguments here. YouTube does, however, provide an example of these complex, yet interdependent co-creative relationships as it thrives on its ability to function as both a business and cultural resource. YouTube has its own brand channel, provides transparent advertising platforms and offers advertising placements in frames on the site, but with its catchcry “Broadcast Yourself”™, it also provides a global stage for creative expression and is celebrated for its participatory culture. It allows everyone with an internet browser to produce, share, find and watch videos stored in its vast digital archive. It is the free, participatory culture of YouTube that is so attractive to “top down” corporate media. It offers a symbiosis with new media, as well as opportunities to build on YouTube success with a range of narratives and products. The YouTube blockbuster is unique within convergence culture as it has progressed from transmedia storytelling, the term used by Henry Jenkins (2006) to describe the ways in which the movie blockbuster production process changes when multimedia platforms are used to tell and sell a story. This paper also argues that a common feature of both old and new blockbusters is the use of narrative, even though it may be constructed in different ways. While classical Hollywood theorists claim narrative has been lost in the industrialisation of film culture, we will argue it is what helps bind new and old media in the production of the YouTube blockbuster.

Blockbuster production: A brief history

The term “blockbuster” is a synonym for something big and is commonly used to describe any cultural product that is a hugely popular commercial success, from art exhibitions to novels. However, it is most closely associated with film where the term was originally coined to describe a big budget production with mass popular appeal.

Cucco (2009) traces the blockbuster’s evolution in Hollywood to the 1940s and ‘50s when the industry was in a state of a crisis brought about by the large-scale, post-war demographic shift towards the new suburbs where there were very few cinemas. The baby boom reduced cinematographic consumption, and the birth of new media competition, especially television (Cucco, 2009, p 217), left movie houses struggling to attract audiences.

In the Studio Era of the 1950s and ‘60s Hollywood enjoyed some successes with films including Ben-Hur, Lawrence of Arabia and The Sound of Music, but it was in the 1970s that it appeared to have found a concrete solution to its crisis with the release of films such as The GodFather (1972), Jaws (1975) and Star Wars (1976). These were big budget films that recorded phenomenal takings at the box office – Jaws alone grossed $470.6 million in its initial release worldwide and cost $7 million to produce (Box Office Mojo, 2010). No three films had ever made so much money more quickly (Bordwell, 2006). They heralded the birth of the Hollywood blockbuster and provided a successful business model for media conglomerates to create big and expensive productions that could appeal to mass audiences and generate massive profits. According to film historian Thomas Schatz (2002), the emergence of the blockbuster signified what the New Hollywood was all about, that is “the studio’s eventual coming-to-terms with an increasingly fragmented entertainment industry – with its demographics and target audiences, its diversified multimedia conglomerates, its global markets and new delivery systems” (2002, p. 185). The rise of the blockbuster was met with strong criticism that such films signified the death of classical narrative and that Hollywood was relying on spectacle and special effects alone to tell and sell a story. Filmmaker Jean Douchet claimed post-classical cinema had given up on narrative and the image was “designed to violently impress by constantly inflating their spectacular qualities” (Buckland, 1999, p 178).  Schatz says film became:  “…so fast-paced and resolutely plot driven that character depth and development are scarcely on the narrative agenda and this emphasis on plot over character marks a significant departure from classical Hollywood” (Schatz, 2002, p. 194). Justin Wyatt (1994, p. 18) argues the cinematic blockbuster can be summarised on one sentence or image, usually called a logline, to make it easier to market. He gives examples from the 1980s including Flashdance (1983) and American Gigolo (1980), which were designed around the public’s taste and market research, and required a simplification of narrative in favor of the image as major appeal.

Most recently, Cucco (2009) has outlined three distinctive features of the cinematic blockbuster which we argue apply to the YouTube blockbuster as well. They include a high economic investment using both technology and human resources; a promise of a “spectacular” or something that is “must see”; and an ability to supplement the earnings from its audiovisual receipts with receipts from merchandising (Cucco, 2009, pp. 219-222). We will consider how each of these features applies to the YouTube blockbuster in this paper, beginning with the third feature – merchandising potential. This is best understood by considering how the blockbuster and ancillary products first came to co-exist.  Instead of competing with television, the blockbuster of the 1970s embraced it as a tool for massive advertising. The release of Jaws, for example, was preceded by a large-scale television promotional campaign to entice audiences. Gomery (1998) says the huge success of Jaws proved saturation advertising was the strategy that would redefine Hollywood (Gomery, 1998, p. 51). The print campaign featured a poster depicting a huge shark rising from the water towards an unsuspecting swimmer, while the radio and television ads exploited the well-known Jaws theme music (Schatz, 2002, p. 191). Bordwell (2006) argues that by the early 1980s, merchandising was added to extend the lifespan of the story beyond the cinema, so tie-ins with fast-food chains, automobile companies and lines of toys and apparel could keep selling the movie.

Scripts that lent themselves to mass marketing had a better chance of being acquired and screenwriters were encouraged to incorporate special effects. Unlike studio era productions, the megapicture could lead a robust afterlife on a soundtrack album, on cable channels and on video cassette. (Bordwell 2006, p.3)

The blockbuster strategy flourished within a new media environment where conglomerates controlled how and when a story could be produced and promoted across a range of mediums from television to the internet. Jenkins (2006) calls this “transmedia storytelling”. He uses the example of the 1999 Hollywood blockbuster The Matrix, which gives audiences pieces of the story and narrative through films, books and video games. Jenkins argues that within this idea:

Each medium does what it does best so that a story might be introduced in a film, expanded through television, novels and comics and its world might be explored and experienced through game play…such a multilayered approach to storytelling will enable a more complex, more sophisticated, more rewarding mode of narrative to emerge within the constraints of commercial entertainment (Jenkins, 2006, p. 105).

Although the story is told across mediums, Jenkins argues that transmedia storytelling still depends on a central media company selling the rights to unaffiliated third parties to manufacture products while licensing limits what can be done with the characters or concepts to protect the original property. The production of most ancillary media is achieved by a combination of labor but ultimately the licensor has “the power”, for example the production of “tie-in novels” (Clarke 2009) depends on freelance and supervisory labor but the licensor has ultimate control over timeframes, characters and narratives. This marks the most fundamental difference in the evolution of the YouTube blockbuster because no single company owns or controls the characters or concepts.

 Beyond transmedia storytelling

Cucco (2009) outlines the use of high economic investment using both technology and human resources as a feature of the blockbuster. To understand how this relates to the YouTube blockbuster, we must acknowledge the identities and forms of agency that underpin the success of products of convergence culture such as YouTube. While there is not space here to look closely at this debate, scholars have tended to focus their discussions on the political economy of media production or classical development versus dependency theories (Jenkins, 2006; Banks & Deuze, 2009; Gehl, 2009). There was always a clear division between the role of the producer and consumer in the traditional market-driven cinema model, but that division has blurred since the “people formerly known as the audience” began creating content, uploading photos and videos and sharing information online. Croteau (2006) suggests “mega media products, along with other forms of traditional media, will increasingly be competing for attention with a constantly changing population of literally millions of media producers” (Croteau, 2006, p. 343). The YouTube blockbuster highlights this interdependency. As van Dijck (2009) observes; “YouTube’s role as an internet trader in the options market for fame is unthinkable without a merger between old and new media” (van Dijck, 2009, p. 53).

The production of the YouTube blockbuster depends on a variety of human resources, motives and objectives. They include those responsible for hosting YouTube, the people who upload content online and those who view and pass on links to popular footage via email, blogs, websites, telephone and word of mouth. Global commercial media are also involved, and their role includes extending the life of YouTube footage beyond the online archive by creating new plot developments and ancillary products of their own.

In her research to assess the future of Web 2.0  social networking sites, Kylie Jarrett (2008, p. 132) highlights that it is the appeal of, and control provided by community structures rather than corporate intervention which is fundamental to the success of sites such as YouTube.  Burgess and Green (2009) describe a continnum of cultural participation in YouTube where:

…content is circulated and used without much regard to its source, it is valued and engaged with in specific ways according to its genre and its uses within the website as well as its relevance to the everyday lives of other users, rather than according to whether or not it was uploaded by a Hollywood studio, a web TV company or an amateur video blogger (Burgess & Green, 2009, p. 57).

YouTube is owned by Google, yet Google does not charge licensing fees to those who wish to upload content or enforce subscription fees on anyone who wishes to view material on the site. This allows for large-scale site traffic, providing people have internet access and can invest in the necessary equipment for video editing and uploading. It is YouTube’s role as a cultural resource that underpins the success of the YouTube blockbuster. The relatively free, participatory nature of YouTube is what attracts the interest of global media companies seeking to create their own exchange values from popular content. Often the original creator of material is not acknowledged in the archive and if copyright restrictions are unclear, anyone can take advantage of this ambiguity and control the way the content is developed outside of the archive.

This shows that the YouTube blockbuster has moved beyond Jenkins’ (2006) transmedia storytelling, which depends on a central media company driving production. It does, however, reinforce Cucco’s idea that the success of the blockbuster depends on its ability to generate merchandizing and ancillary products. Without this ability, there would be no large-scale investment in popular YouTube footage from global media.  This investment can range from deploying resources such as journalists to report on the phenomena for commercial media, to book deals, movie rights or merchandizing.

The ‘Singing Spinster’ spectacle

Boyle’s appearance on Britain’s Got Talent was first recorded and uploaded by computer users. There was no initial large-scale investment apart from the costs associated with the production of the reality talent show, but this hardly compares with the massive budgets afforded to create Hollywood blockbusters. The YouTube users who uploaded footage had made some minor investment with basic computer equipment and internet access to upload content onto what is considered a cultural resource. But there were no special effects or spectacle deployed on YouTube, in fact the footage of Boyle is grainy and poor quality and lasts for less than four minutes. Once footage was uploaded, news within the YouTube community spread like a virus. Boyle became a spectacle through viral videos, word of mouth and email. The first international news reports came after the YouTube footage had received millions of hits. Newspapers across the world were reporting less than 24 hours after her television appearance of her global success on YouTube with international headlines such as “Scottish spinster a world media sensation” (no author (a), 2009, p. 16) and “Unlikely singer is YouTube sensation” (Lyall, 2009, p. 1).

Large-scale economic investment in the Boyle phenomena was made after the footage was a massive hit in YouTube and corporate media saw value in its production outside of the archive. In the case of traditional media, it provided a chance to “gobble up its most promising prospects” for its own financial gain (Croteau, 2006). Until now corporate media has always had to take a gamble that their large-scale investment in blockbusters will pay off with audiences. They have had to rely on previously successful formulas and market research (Wyatt, 1994). In the case of YouTube phenomena, television stations and talk shows such as Oprah, newspapers across the globe from the Washington Post to The Australian, magazines and book publishers all sought a slice of Boyle only after the footage had been endorsed in YouTube on a grand scale. There were media reports in May 2009 that Catherine Zeta-Jones had asked about the film rights to the singer’s life story and that Oscar-winning film director James Cameron wanted to direct the film (no author (b), 2009, p. 54) Fremantle Media, the producer of Britain’s Got Talent which discovered Boyle, found even it was scrambling to maximise potential from the phenomena and it was only after millions of hits had been received that it negotiated to set up a YouTube channel and sell advertising around official Boyle clips.  The Sunday Times of London reported in April 2009 that more than £1 million in potential advertising income had been lost because no deal was in place before Boyle’s ‘I dreamed a dream’ was viewed more than 75 million times.

No single media conglomerate could control the way the Boyle footage was used outside of YouTube. Whereas J.K. Rowling can control the licensing agreements that govern how her creation Harry Potter is portrayed in merchandizing products, sequels and plot development, both internet users and global media can take the story surrounding a piece of YouTube footage in almost any direction they choose.

YouTube says in its corporate website that every minute a mind boggling 13 hours of video is uploaded and attracts millions of users and viewers. To understand why Boyle has become a YouTube blockbuster we must identify the qualities that make her ‘I dreamed a dream’ stand out from the millions of other video clips in the YouTube archive. The Boyle footage has attracted 300 million hits worldwide and its rich inter-textual narrative appears to differentiate it from other highly popular videos such as “Where the Hell is Matt”, which is not well known to traditional media audiences but has attracted more than 25 million hits and appeared on YouTube’s list of most popular clips. We argue that strong narrative qualities can elevate certain YouTube footage to blockbuster status. International audiences can identify with the story and the corporate media can use the narrative to extend the footage’s appeal beyond the YouTube archive.

Cucco emphasises that a common feature of the blockbuster is the need for a spectacle or something that is “must see”. The spectacle of the YouTube blockbuster is not the footage itself, but the hype created around the footage. We argue this is achieved through narrative techniques, which critics say has crumbled under the industrial weight of the blockbuster.

There are several noteworthy scholars who argue that contemporary Hollywood blockbusters still have narrative structure intact, regardless of quality. Kristin Thompson (1993) examined dozens of post 1960s films such as Jaws, Alien (1979) and GroundHog Day and found dense plot developments, rather than incoherent and fragmented ones. Schauer (2007) further argues that transmedia storytelling has the potential to improve upon the standard film narrative rather than fragment it to the point where it becomes obsolete. He argues that his study of Star Wars: Attack of the Clones was an important example of transmedia storytelling as ancillary products were part of director George Lucas’s marketing strategy from the beginning, but that the film still displayed strong connections to narrative.

The use of classical narratives within the global media has also been noted by scholars, particularly within the field of media and journalism. Traditional narrative themes are often used in news stories where journalists portray the hero, the villain, the damsel in distress. Bell (1991) calls journalists the professional storytellers of our age: “The fairy story starts: ‘Once upon a time’. The news story begins: ‘Fifteen people were injured today when a bus plunged’.” Stories define actors moving through sequences of events filled with victims, villains and heroes (Woodward, 1997). Propp (1975) is well known in media studies for identifying recurrent patterns, set characters and plot actions in all fairytales. The main characters include villain, donor, the helper, the princess, the dispatcher, the hero and the false hero.  More recently, Booker (2004) has outlined seven basic plots that are structural transformations of ancient tales: overcoming the monster, rags to riches, the quest, voyage and return, rebirth, comedy and tragedy. Carroll (2001) identifies and explores key stories or archetypes at the source of Western culture from the virtuous whore; the troubled hero; salvation by a god; soul-mate love; the mother; the value of work; fate; the origin of evil; and self-sacrifice.

In their research on news reporters’ use of YouTube, Hess and Waller (2009) argue that journalists create disjointed and hybrid narratives to extend the appeal of YouTube footage for their audiences. The way the news media use classical narrative and archetypes to create new exchange values from YouTube deserves attention, especially if we consider narratives in the media as simply a way of selling something (Fulton, 2005).

This paper aims to highlight that a strong connection to classical narrative is emerging as a key feature of the YouTube blockbuster. The story of Susan Boyle bears strong resemblance to those themes identified by Booker such as rags to riches and the classic folk tales Cinderella and Hans Christian Anderson’s The Ugly Duckling. The global media identified these themes and many stories retain some of the narrative structure of these tales with headlines such as “A life lesson on looks turns into the fairy-tale ending” from the Chicago Tribune and The Sunday Times in Singapore headline “Beauty in ‘Ugly Ducking’ Susan Boyle”. This extract from the British Daily Mirror also highlights the way the news media developed a storybook theme:

…The only man (Brian) to have kissed singing sensation Susan Boyle claimed yesterday it would be a privilege for any lucky guy. The Britain’s Got Talent wonder –nicknamed the Hairy Angel – now has millions of fans worldwide but revealed she has never found a man to love or kiss. “I never knew her to have a birthday party because she was busy caring for her mother,” Brian said. Brian also told how Susan, born with learning difficulties, was targeted by louts. He said: “They would call her names, throw snowballs at her door and dare each other to knock and run away”. (Daily Mirror, 2009).

British journalist Nicci Gerrard wrote a comment piece shortly after Susan Boyle was reportedly admitted to a celebrity rehab clinic after suffering an emotional breakdown in June 2009 (Cooper, 2009). In her article, “The Susan Boyle fairytale was just a fairytale” she writes:

Even this small human tragedy can be easily turned by those so adept in the manipulation of individual stories to fit the required narrative. In fact, it makes it even more gripping. You can be pretty sure that soon, brave Susan will be back — just in time for her album and autobiography (released before Christmas) … it’s actually nowhere near enough to have talent; you have to have a story. You have to be on a journey. You have to have suffered (makes you heroic) and you have to be redeemed (gives you that essential happy ending). You have to be able to cry and make others cry.

Conclusion

Only rare YouTube moments are imbued with qualities that not only attract millions of viewers, but have the potential as bankable products for media conglomerates that can ultimately propel them to blockbuster status.  This paper has focused on Susan Boyle, but there are other examples of this new form of blockbuster, such as “Christian the Lion”, which possesses the same kind of rich, universal narrative qualities as the Boyle story. This YouTube blockbuster captures a tale of remarkable love between beast and man in just a couple of minutes of low-quality, grainy 1970s footage in which the lion embraces its former owner. It has spawned best-selling books for children and adults, documentaries and massive international news media coverage and commentary.

The global reach of popular YouTube footage is unprecedented and YouTube phenomena such as the Susan Boyle footage can attract as much, if not more attention from fans and audiences than some of Hollywood’s most famous actors. Martin Conboy (2002) says the popular press survives on its ability to maintain a dialogue with contemporary cultural trends. So it comes as no surprise that YouTube, a new form of popular culture, attracts interest from global commercial media.

The YouTube blockbuster shares some of the features of its cinematic forerunner – most importantly, it has the “must see” quality that Cucco describes. It also attracts massive global audiences, offering opportunities to reap big profits from merchandizing and spin-off media products. But the nature of the hype that traditionally surrounded the blockbuster has been transformed and democratised by new media communities and technology. It is no longer a case of marketeers rolling out slick promotional campaigns designed around public taste and market research to build expectations for months before a blockbuster is released. The circulation of viral emails and links from social network sites alert increasingly large networks of people to the existence of “must see” YouTube footage and they are able to access it instantly. In the process, both the economic and cultural values of the blockbuster are being redefined. It was once under complete corporate control, big budgets and big profits were its hallmarks and slick production, spectacle and special effects were the drawcard. The YouTube blockbuster is first and foremost under YouTube user control, it’s relatively cheap to produce, the nature of the “spectacle” has changed and production values are relatively unimportant. Narrative is in the ascendancy.

The global commercial media is still coming to terms with the latest transformations of the media landscape in which corporate control is slipping. As in the post-war period and again in the 1970s, creative industries must find new ways to profit. The Susan Boyle blockbuster is an important example of the media redefining itself by finding ways to meet the challenges posed by the new cultural forms, delivery systems and diversification Web 2.0 presents. YouTube users make large investments of human capital and small investments in technology at the front end of the YouTube blockbuster, but media spectacle and big profits are still possible for the global commercial media when it takes the guaranteed popularity of a YouTube clip and can spin it into traditional media products such as news, documentaries, books, films and audio recordings.

But the YouTube blockbuster is a fragile entity and models of storytelling in convergence culture are evolving as rapidly as the technology itself. YouTube is both a business and a cultural resource co-created by its users and the larger in scale and demographic reach, “the more that is at stake and the more significant the tensions between labour, play, democracy and profiteering become” (Burgess & Green, 2009, pp. 35-36) Already there have been disputes over claims of copyright infringement with Viacom, and most recently Warner Bros’ battle over music video clips. It is YouTube’s role as a cultural resource that underpins the success of the blockbuster. If corporate interests intervene, for example, through the introduction of subscription fees, then the community framework which supports the blockbuster will surely weaken.

The blockbuster phenomenon highlights the synergies between new and old media in a convergence culture. No one can predict what the next blockbuster will be, nor can they orchestrate it, but what is certain is that unlikely stars will continue to be rocketed into this new media stratosphere such as the “Hairy Angel” Susan Boyle.

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Buckland, W. (1998). A close encounter with Raiders of the Lost Ark: notes on narrative aspects of the new Hollywood blockbuster, in S. Neal & M. Smith. Contemporary Hollywood Cinema. New York: Routledge, 166-177.

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Bios:

Kristy Hess is a Lecturer in Journalism in the School of Communication & Creative Arts at Deakin University. Her current research projects focus on social justice and the regional media; social capital and the media (PhD); parent/student learning partnerships to improve literacy; and developing national curriculum resources as part of the Reporting Diversity project. She has published articles in Asia Pacific Media Educator, Australian Journalism Review, and Asia Pacific Public Relations Journal. Email: kristy.hess@deakin.edu.au

Lisa Waller is a part-time journalism lecturer and a full-time Phd student in the School of Communication and Creative Arts at Deakin University. As a recent graduate of Deakin’s Graduate Certificate of Higher Education and now a member of the GCHE advisory board, she is interested in the education of tertiary educators. She is also interested in curriculum and pedagogy in higher education, especially curriculum renewal and the scholarship of teaching in higher education. She has published articles in Asia Pacific Media Educator, Australian Journalism Review, and Asia Pacific Public Relations Journal.

Don Draper On The Couch: Mad Men and the Stranger to Paradise – Mark Nicholls

“I don’t think I realised it until this moment.  But it must be hard being a man too… Mr. Draper, I don’t know what it is you really believe in but I do know what it feels like to be out of place, to be disconnected, to see the whole world laid out in front of you, the way other people live it.  There is something about you that tells me you know it too.”

As befits the hero of any television series, Don Draper (Jon Hamm) is everything and nothing. Throughout Mad Men we see Don as a child, a war veteran, an ad man, a husband and father, a philanderer and, inevitably for most of us, a fellow traveller in the affairs of the heart at war with society.  He is a gentleman, a friend, a harsh and occasionally cruel boss, sometimes severely restrained, responsible and buttoned-up, sometimes foolish and infantile.  For a serial philanderer he has an intensely loyal and sensitive nature.  Although reputed a creative genius, he is beset with fears, prejudices and a recurring look of bemusement.  He despises psychotherapy and, to a large extent, defies analysis.  Rather than being the subject of psychoanalysis he seems to stand on firmer footing as a hero in a tale brought forward in support of the analytical subjectivity of his audience.  In this way Don Draper is an interesting example of television’s great invention of the character that is almost all things to almost all people [1].

Despite Don’s apparent ability to engage an audience and, indeed, the accolades of Madison Avenue in the early 1960s, he carries with him a disturbing sense of character contradiction.  As a protagonist who suggests himself as almost all things to almost all people, he also prompts us to question whether, despite this, he is really all there.  As I indicate in the scene from the pilot episode quoted above, department store chief Rachel Menken (Maggie Siff) understands Don’s disconnection and his near compulsion towards seeing the world second hand.  Whether it is mediated by one of his outstanding creative pitches, an eight millimetre camera or a series of Kodak slides winding their way around a carousel, it is only via these “fantasies of persuasion”, as Duck Phillips (Mark Moses) calls his work, that the disconnected Don Draper can effect any real measure of engagement.  He confirms as much in a frank discussion with Anna Draper (Melinda Page Hamilton) in San Pedro in the penultimate episode of series two when he says, “ I have been watching my life.  It’s right there. I keep scratching at it, trying to get in.  I can’t.”

One reason for this apparent disconnect is Don’s seemingly immovable, almost Althusserian belief in the constructed nature of the basic things in life.  A sense of happiness, security and the freedom from fear, he tells Lucky Strike management, are what advertising is all about.  Love, he advises Rachel Menkin, does not exist, except as something created by people like him to sell nylons.  Happy families such as his own, and their memories, clearly only exist in Sterling Cooper copy and on Kodak slides.  The past and, indeed, American history itself is nothing. [2]  For Don, who goes to such lengths to stamp it out and to alter his name and place in it, there is only a frontier to be discovered.  There is, of course, no London fog, nor did wartime snipers find their aim through the process of “three on a match”.  There are only products to be sold and life–what we have come to understand as “lifestyle” –to be manufactured in the selling.  This construction not only creates the notion of happiness but, according to Don, it serves the ameliorating purpose required by consumers.  “People want to be told what to do” is Don’s familiar response to questions about the integrity of his profession.  They want to be told that what they are doing is ok, he says.  According to his research department, forty-five precent of the population see the colour blue as blue, not because it is, but because they are told to see it that way and they don’t want to see it any differently.

The things of life as constructed by the advertising industry are compelling, even to Don who is such a good salesman, but they are in no sense real.  In the opening episode of series two Don is advising the creative team on the Mohawk Airlines campaign when he concludes his captivating speech about “adventure” with a highly dismissive “blah, blah, blah.”  I will write below of Don’s ability to be mesmerised by his own pitch, but this is an example of his essential failure to be impressed by the lie of advertising that is, in his mind, the lie of life.  By his own logic, as he cannot believe in the constructs of advertising, he cannot believe in anything.  A key campaign in series one is for the Belle Jolie lipstick account–“a basketful of kisses”–but after a seemingly successful and well-considered pitch the client demurs.  Don’s response is indignant and instructive.  In an impressive piece of rancour he tell the Belle Jolie exec that there is no point going any further because he is a non-believer and does not have Jesus in his heart.  Once the client is brought around to accept the campaign and they are all shaking hands at the end of the meeting, Don confuses and disturbs him, yet again, when he tells him that they will never really know if the campaign was a success or not – “it’s not a science”.  This scene shows Don at his most revealing and tells us a great deal about him.  In an advertising sense he clearly knows the power of Jesus, he can preach the gospel and he may even be a believer in the “old time religion” (“it’s good enough for me”) but he doesn’t believe in God.  He recognises a fellow non-believer in the Belle Jolie exec, because he too does not have Jesus in his heart.  Don’s job is to instil Jesus into the hearts of clients and consumers even if he cannot find Jesus there for himself.  In this way Don joins a long tradition of salesmen, selling everything from snake oil to salvation, that like Jim Casey in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath (1939) lost or never had the calling.[3]

As the essential things of life, for Don, are merely advertising constructs, it is no surprise that he tells Rachel that:“you are born alone and you die alone and this world just drops a bunch of rules on top of you to make you forget those facts, but I never forget.  I am living like there’s no tomorrow because there isn’t one.” As one of the great rule makers of his generation–for advertising constructs are surely the basis of many Cold War rules and prohibitions [4]–Don feels this more keenly than most.  Anna and the spectre of his father confirm his sense of this isolation when the former tells him that this belief is the reason he cannot be happy and the latter tells him that to be a success he cannot continue to believe it.  Whether or not he acknowledges this–and something in the formation of Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce at the end of Season Three suggest he does–Don’s nihilism and his sense of being disconnected are such that we understand that he lives in a universe that is cold, lonely and meaningless.  As he tells the beatnik lover of his mistress Midge (Rosemarie DeWitt), “There is no big lie, there is no system. The Universe is indifferent.”  In series three he reveals a similarly entropic view of the universe when he tells the creative team that “change is neither good nor bad, it simply is.”  In many ways he is like the physicist played by Jack Warden in Woody Allen’s September (1987)–they both know the Universe to be random, violent and meaningless and, in a sense, they both get paid to prove it.  The problem for Don in this knowledge is that, unlike Jack Warden’s physicist who takes refuge in the love of his wife (Elaine Stritch), he has very little to cling to at night.  When he comes to the realisation that Midge is in love with the beatnik, he is sympathetic, impressed and even envious, but if he can muster up enough faith to believe in love at all, he cannot know it for himself.  All he can do is give her the $2500 bonus he had from Bert Cooper (Robert Morse), another random event in his life, tell her to buy a car–a sign, at least, of happiness–and walk out of her life.

Although distrustful and consequently disconnected from his own life, as I have indicated, Don Draper certainly has the talent to engage others, and in this he is not immune from the power of his own performance.  Frequently we see him swallow his own snake oil.  In the Lucky Strike campaign, the Belle Jolie episode, as well as in his boardroom defence of selling “products not advertising”, we see Don momentarily full of feeling and untroubled by his dreadful knowledge of “the whole world laid out in front of [him], the way people live it.”  He is engaged, positive, charming and sincere, seemingly lost and, as I have written, mesmerised along with the rest of us, by the process of unfurling the lie.  The Kodak Carousel pitch, in the final episode of series one is a case in point.  He stands throughout the presentation. This exposes him and opens him up to a far greater extent than we are used, so dominant across the series is the seated or couched image of Don as a controlling and sometimes almost sadistic figure.  His stance is contained, one hand either in his pocket or clasped casually with his other hand that makes frequent restrained but assured gestures.  He is wearing a dark gray flannel pin-stripe suit, much more conservative than his usual light gray and combined with his stance he presents an image of quiet confidence along with a rare note of humility.  We see this in his eyes also, and the way they alternate between the dark knitted brow look and a flash of white as the camera moves in and he talks about the idea of “nostalgia” and “deeper bond with the product.”  When the slide presentation is underway and all eyes are on the images of a family life we have never known for Don flick past, his address becomes more relaxed.

Whatever rehearsal he may have had is clearly obscured and overcome by his present sense of rapture at the life that he has such difficulties trying to enter flashing past him.  David Carbonara’s score of strings, horn, flute, piano and glockenspiel that began with the slide show, is highly resonant of the compositions of Elmer Bernstein (Far From Heaven, 2002) and Thomas Newman (Revolutionary Road, 2008, Little Children, 2006) and it works subtly, like the smoke from Salvatore’s cigarette wafting across the screen, to complement the truth and the simplicity of Don’s performance.  It is all too much for Harry Crane (Rich Sommer), who guilty from a recent small infidelity, has been kicked out of home and must leave the conference room to hide his tears.  It is Don’s consummate performance, however, inspired and technique obscuring, that stuns us and impresses upon us his undoubted but too frequently absent ability to feel something.[5]   He too, it seems has the capacity to kneel down, moves his lips in prayer and believe.[6]

In the “Bye Bye Birdie” episode of series three Don cautions Peggy Olsen (Elisabeth Moss) about the apparent and necessary separation between art and work by saying, “You’re not an artist, you solve problems.  Leave some tools in your tool box.”  Nevertheless in the emotional intensity of his pitch, in his frequent reliance on spur of the moment inspiration and in the, often begrudging, admiration of Roger Sterling (John Slattery), Duck Phillips and the account men, Don is very much like an artist. [7] The decade leading up to the John F. Kennedy assassination in November 1963, represented at the end of series three in Mad Men, was a rich one in the representation of the tortured artist both in Hollywood and elsewhere; consider: A Star is Born (1951), An American in Paris, The Bandwagon, All About Eve and The Bad and the Beautiful (all 1952), Lust for Life (1956) and Two Weeks in Another Town (1962), not to discount Fellini’s 8 1/2 (1963).  From the Cukor, Minnelli, Kelly and Donen musicals of the early 1950s, to the “gotta dance” stage, screen and studio melodramas that span the period, the cinema furnished a great many examples of the artist for whom art is easy but the rest of life is impossible.  Like them, Don Draper shows that it is only in his artwork that he can lose himself, that he can engage with something in life as a first hand and unmediated experience.  The popular myth of the creative genius may allow him a measure of cruelty, insensitivity and generally anti-social behaviour in his struggle with the rest of life, but at the moment of performance he needs no allowances made.  In this way, life is really only viable for Don as the artist in the creative moment.  All the rest is impossible.  Where Don departs from the Minnelli model, however, is in his ultimate distrust of the creative outcome.  Van Gogh (Kirk Douglas), Gerry Mulligan (Gene Kelly) and even Joseph Mankiewicz’s Margo Channing (Bette Davis) may believe in the art they are creating but for Don, however mystified and aroused he may become by his own creation, as an advertising construct, he can never really believe in it.  As in the major part of his life when those around him are enjoying the moment, Don’s belief in the ad man created version life allows him very little room to feel or enjoy anything at all.[8]

Just as Don can be temporarily distracted by his work from, what he sees as, the cold realities of the Universe, he also allows himself an element of delusion over the possibility of escape.  This is directly related to his insatiable philandering and demonstrates another uncharacteristic level of engagement for the generally disconnected Don. In the main, the ease with which Don can float in and out of his extra-marital affairs has much to do with his nihilism and a certain emotional materialism and myopia that it has bred in him.  There is an aspect of his philandering, however, that he associates with the idea of escape and release – as if that were actually possible in the meaningless world he inhabits.

With Midge, Rachel and Anna (perhaps only an honorary mistress) he can frequently be more open and demonstrate his vulnerability in a way that he does not with his wife, Betty (January Jones).  We meet Midge before we ever meet Betty in the pilot and Don goes to her apartment for the first time when he is beset with anxieties about the Lucky Strike campaign and the generational threat posed by Pete Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser).  Almost immediately in his relationship with Rachel he is adamant that she knows and understands him better that anyone.  In Season Two, he acknowledges the problem openly with Anna when he says, “I’ve told you things I’ve never told Betty.  Why does it have to be that way?”  Just as these women seem to allow him the opportunity of “time out” from the codified world of marriage and business, he also associates them with the potential for complete self-removal.  As soon as his identity is placed under threat by Pete in series one, he rushes to Rachel and childishly proposes they run away and start their life over somewhere else.  On the stimulus of the bonus from Bert, Don’s first reaction is to charge over to Midge and suggest they immediately take a plane to Paris.  The California sequence at the end of Season Two, where he meets Joy (Laura Ramsey) and ultimately leaves her for Anna in San Pedro, is largely rendered for Don as a surreal and light-headed departure from the ordinary experience of life, as in a David Lynch film.

The significance of all this time off for Don is not as evidence of the viability of any vision of an alternative life for him as Roger Sterling might see it in the arms of his new young wife, Jane (Peyton List).  Don’s extra-marital liaisons, like his brilliant pitches, show his ability to engage in at least one small aspect of life, however false and unrealistic it may be.  Like his pitches, his affairs are limited and inevitably come to an end as soon as real life intervenes, but they do demonstrate the extent to which he can be passionate (with Rachel), vulnerable (with Midge) and emotionally challenged (with Bobby Barrett (Melinda McGraw)).  Don’s affairs, with the exception of Suzanne (Abigail Spencer) and, to a large extent, Anna, are related to his business and stand as an extension of that small part of life in which he seems to be able to engage.  To the extent that they have anything to do with love, however, we cannot divorce them from Don’s stated and demonstrated views on that subject.  They can be, therefore, no more real or viable for him than the idea of nostalgia that comes with the Kodak Carousel, the thrill of adventure with Mohawk Airlines or the feeling that comes with a new pair of nylons.

Thus far I have argued that Don Draper is disconnected and separated from the act of living his own life.  He believes himself to be in possession of an almost unbearable insight as to the emptiness of the world and the way god-like figures, such as himself, provide the things, rules, emotions and products that people can believe in to fill that emptiness.  Evangelist of the power of such a religion he may be, however, he cannot allow himself to participate or believe in it.  His sense of struggle, dissatisfaction and his growing understanding of his situation induce our sympathy and like Anna, we consider Don to be gripped by the false belief that he is alone.  The question of why he should be so faithless tempts us to follow the paths of psychoanalysis and mine the substantial screen time (which increases into the third series) allotted to Don’s childhood and youth.  But Don himself is so dismissive of psychoanalysis and this is a view not entirely rejected by even the Dionysian Roger Sterling.  Nor is there anything in Don’s childhood, and importantly in his reaction to his past that impresses itself as necessarily traumatic.  Experiences such as Don’s were hardly uncommon in and following the Great Depression.

Psychoanalytically this is dangerous ground but it does lure us away from the trauma-hysteria trajectory when we think about reasons for Don’s nihilism. [9]  Perhaps in this context, as Roger suggests, psychoanalysis is “just this year’s candy pink stove.”  Rather than trawling the past for the source of Don’s “damage”, to use a contemporary expression, Mad Men seems to present the far more disturbing idea that there is nothing wrong with Don at all.  Rather than reading him as a faithless, damaged and traumatised shell-shock victim, what I am suggesting as a fruitful approach to understanding Don is that we should read him as if he is right.  That Don’s disturbed view of the world is not his problem, but the problem of the society in which he lives.

In so many ways Don Draper is represented as highly successful, his own personal and emotional dilemmas not withstanding.  For all the brilliance we actually see in Don’s work, with clients and colleagues he seems to have a reputation far in excess of that demonstrated.  Beyond the awards he wins and the general recognition of his excellence, in each of the first three seasons of the series, it is made clear that Don’s presence at Sterling Cooper is absolutely essential to its existence – hence the on-going attempts to place him under contract and the regular flow of cash bonuses that come his way.  In his life outside business also, Don appears to live in a world seemingly without resistance.  In a guest appearance in the third season of NBC’s 30 Rock (2009), Jon Hamm encounters this resistanceless life yet again in an amusing parody of Don Draper’s world that Liz Lemon (Tina Fey) calls “the bubble”.  Liz explains to Hamm’s character, Dr. Drew Baird, that he lives in the bubble because of his good looks, and this, no doubt, also has something to do with Don’s success.  Yet it is clear, as in so many other aspects of his life, that Don’s experiences and even his vaguely deluded expectations have not only been socially recognised but also rewarded.  It is hardly surprising, therefore, that we should consider Don’s somewhat myopic view of the world as a viable one in the world of Mad Men for it is so thoroughly endorsed.  This we might consider to be even more the case given that the greatest critic of the world he inhabits is, in fact, Don himself.  As Don confirms when he advises Peggy to move on and forget the birth of her baby – “It will shock you how much it never happened” – no one is more disturbed by the apparent incongruity between the highly questionable nature of experience and peoples’ apparent willingness to forget.  Such is Don’s own localised encounter with the idea of American historical amnesia.[10]

A significant mark of both Don’s critique of the world and his recognition of it as meaningless comes from the way he sees his success as completely random.  Not only are his origins, as he says in series two, Moses-like, but his very birth to a dying prostitute is an accident, without planning or logic.  His name and identity, as well as all the threats he faces in protecting that identity, demonstrate the great deal of the luck and happy coincidence he enjoys throughout the show.  The eccentricity and worldly experience of Bert Cooper, as well as a developed sense of emotional detachment, accounts for Bert’s lack of outrage when Pete Campbell breaks the story of Don’s name change.  The explanation for Anna Draper’s acceptance of Don’s story, however, is less apparent.  Whatever he has done for her, however well he has explained his actions, her entire attitude towards him suggests an endorsement that is too good to be true.  And yet, despite the Lynchian Surreality of their sequences together in San Pedro, thus far into the show we have nothing concrete to suggest that this is anything other than Don’s illogical good fortune.  When he is finally forced to reveal his secret to Betty in the third last episode of Season Three, he speaks of his surprise that she ever loved him and wanted to marry him, secret or no secret.  Indeed the very idea of his marriage to Betty defies all reason.  The circumstances of his poverty and the obscurity of his background suggest their union as an highly unlikely match.  Betty’s psychological make up is no less interesting than Don’s, and requires a paper in itself. Beyond the more obscure reasons that led her to marry her man of mystery, however, we have to consider that on one level at least, her  “spoiled main-line brat” view of him as “some football hero who hated his father” played some horrific part in securing her interest.  Don is by no means the first man to wake up one morning and find himself a successful professional, a husband and father and wonder how it all happened. [11]  Like his pitches at work and his entire experience of creative inspiration, however, so much of his beautiful life seems to come out of thin air that we can hardly begrudge his suspicions over it.  If Don believed in God he might well see his life as a miracle.  As an apostate preacher, however, these “miracles” are simply evidence of his vision of a cold, random and meaningless Universe.

Beyond his apparent good fortune and as an American male in the early 1960s, the sense that Don is completely empowered and enabled to live with such freedom further argues the case against any philosophy that challenges his own.  Whatever doubts Betty has about his extra-marital activities, the freedom Don enjoys to “sleep in the city”, to wander off for hours, or even days, is as much a period feature of Mad Men as the featured period décor, the office drinks trays or the introduction of photocopiers.  Office manager Joan Holloway (Christina Hendricks) gives detailed instructions to her fellow workers about ways to keep their male employers happy and these Emily Post-like edicts are similarly featured throughout the series. For all the feistiness of the key women in the series, however, Don’s expectations of women around him are almost entirely met.  Both Rachel and Suzanne present stinging critiques of Don the philanderer but end up sleeping with him and endorsing his personal concerns in a way that is similar to Anna’s.  Rachel’s comment, “it must be hard being a man too. . .” carries with it an element of irony but it also indicates the extent to which the “man’s world” view is perpetuated by the women in his life whom he treats with least regard.  When Don is surprised at home by the unexpected return of Betty he leaves Susan waiting for hours in his car.  Nevertheless, when he finally calls her next day her first concern is for his welfare.  In the penultimate episode of series one, we see Don, in a flash back, unable to leave the train with the body of the original Don Draper.  We know that to do so will expose his entire ruse but his performance of grief is so convincing – if indeed it is a performance – that a fellow passenger, a woman, picks him up, offering to “buy a soldier a drink” and comforting him with words similar to Rachel’s “It must be hard for you! Forget that boy in the box.”[12]

A potent theme of the series is generational struggle and Don is not immune from competitive fears inspired in him by Pete Campbell, Roger Sterling and, indeed, the memory of his dead father.  Nevertheless, just as Don seems to dwell in the frictionless space I have described, he sees many examples of others whose experiences have not been so blessed. He sees his father, the “common man” of the Depression, as totally crushed.  With his material comfort, Roger is not exactly the man in the gray flannel suit, but (like Bert Cooper) as the firm slips from their control, first due to their reliance on Don and then through selling out to Puttnam, Powell and Lowe, the extent to which these old timers come to inhabit the safe, reliable but easily redundant sheltered-workshop identity that threatens the protagonist of The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, Tom Rath, is obvious.[13]   At the other end of the greasy pole, despite the extent to which he challenges Don, especially in series one, Pete is also constantly, and often amusingly frustrated in his awkwardly stated professional ambition. With all Don’s success and good fortune in an indifferent world, he cannot but notice those whose experience of powerlessness has been harsh.  The extent to which he fears and is confronted with the intolerable realities of failure that these men endure has the effect of further emphasising Don’s frictionless experience and his sense of possessing an almost taboo personal status.

In light of its reference to Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) and Jimmy Stewart’s nightmare of falling into the abyss of female desire, the obvious reading of Mad Men’s title sequence indicates similar fears of male decline.  The scenario suggests Don Draper, a shadow of his full self, walking into his office high on top of Madison Avenue only to have the whole business fall down around him and taking him with it to the bottom. [14]  It is not, however, a maddened and desperate figure, like Jimmy Stewart jumping up from his nightmare, that brings this sequence to an end.  Both this shadow man’s fall and the passacaglia of the strings on the music track are resolved into a comfortable image of the dark figure relaxing on a couch, his right arm casually draped along its back, his right hand holding a cigarette.  Accompanied by a mellow base and drum line it is as if the falling man has found his way to a relaxed downtown jazz club with cocktails and comfy seats, rather than finding himself splattered on the sidewalk.  From this perspective we can read the man as not so much falling between the images the late 1950s advertising boom, as floating past them and effortlessly falling on his feet again.  This is very much like Don’s experience.  Whatever signs we see of his anxiety, whatever his personal struggles, Don’s experience tends towards a comfortable resolution. So thoroughly endorsed in his empty universe view and in his power as the great creator of meaning, for Don the non-believer there is very little else for him to be other than God.  Everything and nothing, the beginning and the end of all things, he is intolerant of the past, of unhappiness and particularly psychoanalysis because he knows and is everything.  As God, or at least god-like, nothing comes before him so there can be no past.  He is the source of love (selling “products not advertising”) so there need be no unhappiness. He has no unconscious, no repressed thoughts and he knows all the thoughts of others, so there is no call for psychoanalysis.

The only, but substantial problem for Don is that he has a developing, nagging half-suspicion that there may be something for him beyond loneliness and beyond the world so comfortably created in his image.  As that great television god Truman Burbank experiences it in The Truman Show (1998), strange characters like the Hobo and strange ideas such as Utopia, nostalgia and what he himself calls “a life lived” frequently break in and suggest something else, like “an eternal thought in the mind of God” as Laurence Olivier puts it in the big hit of 1960, Spartacus.  If Don can keep the promise he makes to his son Bobby in Season One that he will never lie to him, the universe cannot simply be a meaningless and empty place simply waiting for the ameliorating fiction of Don’s products and pitches.  Bobby at least, and therefore Don, cannot be alone and therefore his barren philosophy must begin to unravel.  At this point in the show, however, if there is something for Don beyond advertising, it remains an “eternal thought.”  If he has seen it, like the life revealed to him by the Siren figure of Joy, Don has simply and quietly passed it by.  Whether it is created in his image or not, Don Draper remains a lonely god and a stranger to paradise.

Notes

[1] One particular example of this is the television news anchorman/woman.  In her discussion of the objective/subjective discourse of television news, Margaret Morse (1986) highlights the importance of the television anchor as a general subject whose personal sincerity is essential to his (frequently the anchor is male) credibility and the overall success of his endeavour to become a sort of personal paraclete.  Given the rise of the anchorman in the early 1950s and the importance of this figure thereafter, particularly in the person of Walter Cronkite, the comparison between Don Draper as adman and the essential television personage of the news anchorman is pertinent.

[2] See Althusser on history and ideology (150-2).

[3] John Steinbeck won the Nobel Peace Prize for literature in 1962.

[4] Mike Chopra-Gant analysis of a 1946 Studebaker advertisement, which involves a father and son working together with sleeves rolled up, is an example of the way post war advertising sold ideology as well as products (142).  The critique Don’s father makes (from the grave) of his son and his profession, is based around similar notions of masculinity and real work that Chopra-Gant reads in the Studebaker ad.

[5] Benjamin Schwarz reads this scene as an interesting mix of Don’s ability to sell himself and the audience’s desire to see Don as serious (The Atlantic).  In his commentary for the DVD release of the pilot episode Matthew Weiner, however, argues for Don’s honesty in the moment of his business pitch (“Commentary”).

[6] Althusser, “more or less” quoting Pascal (158).

[7] Bruce Handy points out that in his observations about human needs Don has “an artist’s intuition”, but undermines the seriousness of Don’s pitch by suggestion that it is in these moments that Mad Men comes closest to the idea of “shtick” (274).

[8] Matthew Weiner makes this point about Don in his description of the very first scene of the pilot (“Commentary”).

[9] Certainly I do not reject the use of a psychoanalytic reading of Don Draper.  Indeed, my own extensive work on masculinity, melancholia and loss in international cinema after 1940 (see Scorsese’s Men: Melancholia and the Mob. Pluto and Indiana University Press, 2004) suggests a number of useful psychoanalytical approaches to discuss this character and Mad Men in general.

[10] Gary Edgerton aligns Don with George Santayana’s idea that Americans “don’t solve problems, they leave them behind . . .” He also associates this attitude with Don’s tendency to escape at the first sign of trouble (Critical Studies in Television).

[11] In Gary Edgerton’s subtle discussion of the series, Don is aligned with the John F. Kennedy mystique and what critics David Newman and Robert Benton have called “The New Sentimentality” that accompanied the myth of 1960s Washington DC Camelot.  Don’s own style and mystique is essential to this argument and nowhere is it more pertinent than in the comparison of the two men and the trophy wives that helped them sell their messages (Critical Studies in Television).  To my reading, Don is very much a Nixon man.  As he says, “when I see Nixon I see myself.”  The appeal of his persona to the Kennedy style, as Edgerton points out, is, however, undeniable and perhaps all the more poignant for its origins in a Nixonian base.  If Nixon’s tragedy in the 1960s elections (or at least in the first television debate) was that he lacked the Kennedy charm, consider Don’s problem–he may look like a young Kennedy but he feels like Nixon.

[12] Matthew Weiner comments that Rachel is unusual in that she really talks to Don.  He makes this point in relation to the pilot episode and in contrast to Betty.  However, it is certainly true that in general Don has a far greater degree of conversation with his mistresses than with Betty, his wife (“Commentary”).

[13] I disagree with Sergio Angelini when he writes that Don Draper is modelled on Tom Rath in The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit.  Both are veterans but not of the Korean War, as my colleague writes (90).  Tom Rath is 33 in 1953 and served in Europe and the Pacific in World War II.  In this he has more in common with Roger Sterling who also served in World War II.  Certainly all three men share the dual experience of being veterans returning to fight new enemies on Madison Avenue, but, as Matthew Weiner has pointed out, the theme of generational difference is important to Mad Men and this is largely based around a discourse of masculinity in relation to the differences between the two wars (“Commentary”).  Don reflects on the powerlessness of his seniors and, I suggest, aspires to overcome what he sees as the weaknesses and failings of the gray flannel generation.  This may account for some of the vehemence behind the punch he lands on Jimmy Barrett (Patrick Fischler) who calls him “the man in the gray flannel suit”.

[14] This is Matthew Weiner’s view (Handy 282).

 

References

Althusser, Louis. (1977), “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses”, in Lenin  and Philosophy and other essays, Brewster, B. (trans), NLB, London,121-173.

Angelini, Sergio (2009).  “Mad Men – Season 2”, Sight and Sound, Volume 19, Issue 9, p. 90.

Chopra-Gant, Mike (2006). Hollywood Genres and Postwar America: Masculinity,  Family and Nation in Popular Movies and Film Noir. London ; New York : I.B. Tauris.

Edgerton, Gary (2010). “JFK, Don Draper, and the New Sentimentality”, Critical Studies in Television, www.criticalstudiesintelevision.com.

Handy, Bruce (2009). “Don and Betty’s Paradise Lost”, Vanity Fair, September, pp. 268-283, 337-339.

Morse, Margaret (1986). “The Television News Personality and Credibility: Reflections on the News in Transition” in Modleski, T (ed) Studies in Entertainment: Critical Approaches to Mass Culture, Indiana University Press, pp.55-79.

Schwarz, Benjamin (2009). “Mad About Mad Men”, The Atlantic, www.theatlantic.com.

Weiner, Matthew (2008) “Commentary – Episode One”, Mad Men, Season One,  AMC.

Wilson, Sloan (1954/60). The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit, Pan Books Limited, London.

 

Bio:

Mark Nicholls has been teaching at the University of Melbourne since 1993. He is the author of Scorsese’s Men: Melancholia and the Mob (Pluto Press & Indiana University Press, 2004) and recently published chapters and articles on Martin Scorsese (Film Quarterly, Blackwell & Cambridge), Luchino Visconti (Quarterly Review for Film and Video), Shakespeare in film (Journal of Film and Video) and film and the Cold War. Mark is a film journalist and worked for many years on ABC Radio and for The Age newspaper, for which he wrote a weekly film column between 2007 and 2009. Mark has an extensive list of stage credits as a playwright, actor, producer and director. His email address is markdn@unimelb.edu.au.

 

Editorial: Matthew Sini and Angie Knaggs

What does it mean to say a text is within, or representative of, a transitional state? Is such a position even possible given we must always choose a point of fixity from which to proceed in our analysis?
Popular culture, and the media through which it is transmitted, is arguably always in transition. Claims about the death or rebirth of particular forms of art, entertainment or culture are often made during times of technological transition, and are certainly no less audible in the digital age.
Continue reading

From Cult Texts to Authored Languages: Fan Discourse and the Performances of Authorship – Karolina Agata Kazimierczak

‘If the Author is Dead, Who’s Updating Her Website?’, asks provocatively a Harry Potter fan in the title of her article published in an online fanzine (Angua 2006). And in this short sentence she seems to encapsulate the whole tradition of literary criticism, from Barthes’ famous pronouncement of the death of the author (1967), Foucault’s concept of the author-function (1977) and Derrida’s notion of the absence of the subject in writing (1977), to various contemporary interpretations of authorship as collective or dispersed (Bennett 2005), debating over the problematic position of the author and the complex interplay of his/her presence/absence within a text. What she also alludes to in this catchy phrased title is the no less problematic position of the author in the sensibilities and discourse of fandom. Continue reading

Acculturation of the ‘Pure’ Economy: Sci Fi, IT and the National Lampoon – Rock Chugg

We are still living under the banner of medieval technology.
Umberto Eco (1986)
The medieval system, based on graded ranks, of course knew no economic quality.
Lewis Mumford (1961)

Introduction
Science and technology are locked into an unbreakable dualism that differs from traditional binaries, like mind and body, through assumed complementarity rather than a variant relationship. Yet they are far more differentiated than the latter implies or the former conceals. Handed down via a cloistered academic lineage of discovery, paradigm shift and conditions of contestation, the scientific context of industrial development is ironically overlooked in our eternal present of supposed ‘economisation’. I argue in this paper that such neglect results in the fictionalisation (‘sc fi’) of science, enabling change of emphasis to the cultural correlative of technology (‘IT’), while retaining only a diminishing superficial appearance of science. The proof of neoliberal deindustrialisation (‘national lampoon’) is sufficient, before calling on linguistic grounded ‘deconstruction’ to demonstrate ‘essentialism’ of arguments supposedly teetering between foundationalist or metaphysical ‘objectivity’, divorced from historical conditions. Even basic scientific facts have been reinterpreted in terms of technological social construction or cultural readings, according to values ranging from sociological conceptions of ‘methodological individualism’ (see Smelser and Swedberg, 2005 passim) to structuralist ‘anthropomorphism’ (Schutz, 1974).

Fictionalisation of science to a point of assumed everyday technologisation convergence, involves assimilation and incorporation of beliefs and values from one social group to another, in a process of ‘acculturation’. Acculturation is a concept borrowed from anthropology and social psychology to chart the normally one-sided dominance of national host community cultures over minority cultures (Walker and Le, 1999). Although recent success of ‘Cultural Turn’ theories, like Cultural Sociology or Cultural Economy imply a cultural determination of all social levels, politics and economy are still considered of equal though variant importance. Williams’ cultural definition of ‘a whole way of life’ was not absolute. However, recurrent ‘contradictions’ suggest that ‘there is something fundamentally wrong with theories and research on acculturation’ (Rudmin, 2006).[1] While this research claims to find answers in ‘naïve’ phenomenology, postmodernism described the ‘paralogy’ as politicised cultural identity meta-narratives (identity politics or multiculturalism).[2] But if acculturation employs neutral cultural media (technology) between economy and politics, corresponding to the three main social groups (rulers, producers and communicators), alleged contradictions can be decoded into these straightforward distinctions. 

While not wishing to dwell on ‘methodological police’ issues, Bourdieu has shown how less-educated producers are socially excluded from opinion-styled research in sample procedure, question formulation and survey comparison (Bourdieu, 1987/1990; see also Myles, 2008; Hammersley and Atkinson, 1983). ‘Social research methods to uncover the belief systems of ordinary members’ (Smith and West, 2003: 648) in Cultural Sociology, for example, are geared to middleclass populism characteristic of neither producers nor rulers. If, like the Eco and Mumford epigraphs above, technology regresses to medieval hierarchy, the tendency of surveyors to reflect their own ‘dominated dominant’ petit bourgeois intellectual values is merged with a tall-poppy strain of ultra-nationalism in loaded answers ‘very proud to be Australian’ (‘pride’, of course, is the medieval ‘Deadly Sin’). Smith and West inaccurately describe their (vested) interesting 70 per cent result as an ‘identity’ (2003: 648). But identity is a political or police category (‘tradition’ names it the first ‘law of thought’)[3] whereas a national interest is economic. Transcribing neoliberal values of bureaucratic interviewees in Canberra, Pusey seemed aware of these variations in his acclaimed early data on economic rationalism (1991). Yet, predictions that ‘humanities’ educated bureaucrats would differ was disappointed in my own much smaller sample presented here.

Bourdieu found the remedy of ‘scientific critique’ to control the false ‘value-free’ disinterestedness of empirical research in ‘a sociological analysis of the institution’ (Bourdieu, 1987/1990: 174). This he undertook in Homo Academicus (Bourdieu, 1988 – also providing my reference point for publication of respondents’ names due to high public profiles (278) in this research.[4] Unfortunately, his exclusive ‘institutional’ focus repeats a sort of sci fi ideal of the elite personality network pursuing its own heroic ivory tower genius (as do radical histories, like Werskey, 2002). The candid comments excerpted in the following sections, though not a major axis of the argument (from smaller groups than the breakthrough work of Pusey), might confirm unexpected consistency of opinion across otherwise diverse cultural boundaries. After tracing his own institutional history of science, Bourdieu (1973) argued how innovation results from ‘organization’ not technology (Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992). Thus the neutral technology milieu of ‘acculturation’, upheld by historians like McQueen (1983), is a basis for my own thesis on paradigm or field exclusion, ‘purified’ of work organization (economy) and science (reality).  
    
Two cultures (sci fi):
Although Snow held that science and technology separation was ‘untenable’ (1993), his disputed ‘two cultures’ did admit of ‘contradictions’ between scientific knowledge and the cultural ‘field’. Yet Bourdieu thought ‘literature…is on many points more advanced than social science’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992), while an academy-based Sociology of Knowledge still saw scientific and everyday knowledge as ‘extraordinarily similar’ (Meja and Stehr, 1999). Conversely, for Merton (1967) a generalisable ‘science, as distinct from the arts’ (69) of particulars ‘is public, not private’ (72). When I queried beliefs on ‘two cultures’, literary critics like Ross Gibson made their intellectual reference group position on a science/economy assimilation to culture/symbolic capital clear: ‘I am not interested in the distinction [science and culture] basically, because to be interested in that distinction is to validate it in some way. And I am much more interested in just proceeding with totally other terms that describe a history of intellectual endeavour in a society.’ Similarly, post-structuralist philosopher Paul Patton indicated his collective order of enunciation position as a cultural intellectual (surprisingly like Pusey’s bureaucrat, 1991). ‘It is not clear to me…that [the] two cultures distinction [science and culture] is any longer the most appropriate one…The intellectual situation in this country is considerably more complex than that.’ [My italics]  

While a more ‘institutionally’ (laboratory/academic) scientific sample could be expected to communicate answers with shared assumptions (Connell and Wood, 2002), consistent culturalist assimilation of beliefs by ‘arts and humanities’ interviewees was also widespread. When I posed the ‘two cultures’ question to professor emeritus of English studies John McLaren, his acculturocentric response was significant as another apparent exception to Pusey‘s observations about Australian ‘anti-intellectualism’. ‘I think the distinction [science and culture] is a false one…I think the attempt to draw a boundary between science and the humanities has always has been absurd … there is only one culture.’ However, this shared self-interest of cultural individuals does not really contradict their intellectual social position. Even Bourdieu, who criticised the symbolic violence of economic capital subordinated to cultural capital favouring the dominant over the weak (‘art for art’s sake’), occasionally fell victim to his own critique of this ‘distinction’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992). It took non-humanities industrial researcher John Buchanan to distinguish current acculturation trends away from ‘Keynesian demand’ as ‘primarily due to a fairly effective campaign by neoliberals, in the business and especially financial sectors, teamed up with leading economic policy agencies. I think the end result of that kind of policy mobilisation is social fragmentation.’   

1 Sci fi economics: ‘The Ax’

The Luddites were skilled workers who looked backwards to medieval craft traditions and forwards to modern trade unions.
Barry Jones (1983)

Whether criticised as same and ‘other’, ‘complex’, or ‘false’ distinctions (like the responses above), what Bourdieu saw as an ‘idealist’ consensus on the meaning of science and culture today appears to be taken for granted. A hypothesis breaking with this truism and resuming possibility enabled by the new historical contexts of a post-Cold War era might again see the generalisation differently:

1) Culture signifies the ‘customs, conventions, and language’ of a community – the art of communication (Huxley, 1963; Milner, 1991).
2) Science is logical facts ‘generalised’ from natural (‘hard’) and social (‘soft’) productive reality – the economy of knowledge (Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992; Norris, 2007).

Without the conventions of culture we cannot describe our environment, let alone gather knowledge about it. Conversely, culture could not signify without referring to science or knowledge. Thought can be discovered in the simplest action: the two are inter-dependent (Jones, 2000: 512). In the ‘ideal’ tradition of academic institutions exorcised or purified of economic production, science was fictionalised (Kuhn, 1962/1996; Parrinder, 1980)[5] until a ‘renaissance’ of Western knowledge and industry, recycling ‘classical’ or ancient ideas (Hodges, 1971). Apart from Islamic science (Alatas, 2006),[6] an undifferentiated church and state Middle-Ages won no claim to scientific progress. Yet according to Kropotkin, the foundational discoveries of modern science were made in the free medieval cities (1976). Lyotard noted the ancients’ failure to link science to technology (1984), while Veblin saw the surviving separation as ‘industry’ versus ‘conspicuous consumption’ (1899/1980). Mental math or ‘learning of the mind’ for the ancients (Feyerabend, 2002), modern science and technology merged (with Cartesian dualism) via applied mathematics (Grace, 1993). Culture and economy gradually became interwoven in goods and services production during an ‘industrial revolution’ (Tillet, Kempner and Wills, 1978).    

Recent twentieth century stages of this passage include ‘Fordist’ mechanisation, ‘Sonyist’ electronisation and ‘Taylorist’ managerialism (Wark, 1992). Taylorism, pioneered by systems expert Taylor (Tillet, Kempner and Wills, 1978), met with resistances ranging from dissent to confrontation in lately industrialised and urbanised workforces. AKA ‘speed-up’, Taylorism incited industrial strife and defensive legislation in modern economies like Australia or America (Iremonger, 1973; Lash, 1984). But where early mechanical Fordism and later electronic Sonyism objectified scientific change in work organization or content, mid-term managerial Taylorism represented technological change in work control or form. In effect, one economy and one culture, not ‘two cultures’. Industrialisation developed over a history of ‘pre-capitalism’, from primitive, ancient and medieval ‘modes of production’ (Hindess and Hirst, 1975; Veblen, 1899/1980), and earlier phases of labour devalued as fit only for ‘slaves’ or ‘serfs’. As Cultural Sociology suggests, it was never purely a ‘convenient fiction’, even if ‘no economy could consist of a single mode of production’ (Beilhartz, 2002: 177). A capitalist ‘work ethic’ demand and ‘division of labour’ supply resulted, enabling greater professional ‘specialisation’ (Durkheim, 1893/1964).        

Moves toward post-industrial or knowledge economy, intensifying consumption and cutting production, cemented geographic North/South divisions of labour into ‘value added’ First World vertical mental service demand, and ‘cheap’ horizontal manual goods supply seconded to the Third World. A monopoly of access to ‘capital’ intensive markets by professional socialisation or mental upskilled ‘higher education’, was formerly balanced in closed shops of ‘labour’ intensive or manual unskilled ‘collective bargaining’ by trade unions. ‘The formation of trade unions was a historical response to the perceived unfairness of markets for labour’ (Streeck, 2005: 262-3) in order to close the gap between economic allocation (efficiency) and social valuation (exploitation). Recent data indicates that acculturated free trade in ‘specialist professional knowledge’ (Brint, 2001) of Luddism craft-style associations, has displaced the protected sale of ‘tacit knowledge’ objectified or ‘present in person’ (Streeck, 2005: 262) of trade union labour. Yet the social value of Fordist industrial (rather than Sonyist enterprise) union ‘collective action’ persists for ‘restructured’ employee ‘team work’ outcomes, through still reachable benefits of a conflict approach over co-operation with management (Bacon and Blyton, 2006).     

Acculturation mystification of the ‘two-cultures’ has again moved rapidly in post-war times (Stearn, 1968) toward short-term, insecure, nonstandard, employer-employee blurred casualisation, even ‘decriminalisation’ of ‘oldest professions’ sex trafficking, doping and gaming. Socially polarising Western and developing economies increasingly capitulate to the ultimatum of free trade from international NGOs and overkill professionalised resistance. Fragmented economic actors or ‘dividuals’ are undergoing ‘deindustrialisation’ (Bluestone and Harrison, 1983), while work teams and project managers regularly get The Ax, in filmmaker Costa Gavras’ words, under pervasive ‘fixed-term contracts’ (Streeck, 2005). Abstract Empiricist ‘economic knowledge’, (Steiner, 2001) expurgated from Lazersfeldian market research (Frenzen, Hirsch and Zerrillo, 2005) and reinforced in Grand Theory multiculturalism (Gunew, 1992) is the propaganda for neoliberal biopolitical strategies (class, race, sex, age) of institutionalised inequality (for ‘Abstract Empiricism’ and ‘Grand Theory’, see Mills, 1959). Growing wage/salary gaps ensuing from sci fi economics, in value-added inter-linkages of under-producing and over-financed exchange, ‘network’ a technology acculturation revolution of under-protection i.e. ‘un-Australianisation’.

Information technology (IT):

As the major form of bygone 20th century art, an influential Australian advertising industry eighty per cent foreign owned and controlled (Sinclair, 2006) is the costly effect of a digital image revolution, apparently defeated long ago. What has replaced the once mixed economy (‘public and private’, see Williams and Stevenson, 1981) of agriculture and manufactures, now labour-shedding, restructuring, downsizing, relocating, and moving offshore in freetrade, trans-national capital transition since 1985: a simple deregulation and privatisation phase? (Thompson, 1999) For my next respondent, linchpin arts editor Ashley Crawford of pop to futurist media and perhaps provisional ‘information’ convert, the effect of acculturation is complex: 

What we now have post Cold War is a world without geographical borders because of electronic communication. If you could put a date on that, I suppose it was the fall of the Berlin Wall, where the Cold War in effect was over … But the bottom line is the old geographical borders are falling apart from WWII status. You could almost look at the Cold War as being WWIII status, because all these electronic information units or systems were set up in order to spy on West versus East, et cetera. The whole idea of electronic mail, the whole idea of the Internet was an American system established to have no boundaries, to have no central system, which is why it is now turning rampant. In fact, what you have got is the kind of post-border period established by electronic communications, by American media in the Cold War as equivalent of the new boundaries set up by the Second World War … So it is a whole new world.

In this widely shared post-industrial lebenswelt (Edwards, 1993), global ‘electronic communications’ are channelled by rapid technology that has overtaken production [see Table]. Only in that sense is a Technological Revolution as ‘real’ as Snow’s Third Scientific Revolution. Along with First Agricultural and Second Industrial Revolutions, the ‘two cultures’ remain ‘the only qualitative changes in social living that men have ever known’ (1993: 23). Yet while the above quotation translates the trans-avant-gardism of an ‘arts and humanities’ intelligentsia, ‘neoliberals tend to emphasise the entrepreneur as financier’ (Grossberg, 2005: 114) not the artist – even though ‘the growing dominance of finance capital over industrial capital’ means ‘“fictive”, “unreal”’ money is only making money (122). Debating Weber’s unfinished social science, critics warned of a technology, ‘used in such widely differing senses that it eventually becomes unintelligible’ (Freund, 1970: 282). Confirmed by speculation ‘ten times the value of global production’ as early as 1997 (Grossberg, 2005: 122), this is because technology is a neutral medium or culture and not a science (Milonakis, 2002; Werskey, 2002).

rock-chugg

2 IT culture: ‘Tilt’

[Luddites] were chiefly downdraughts, bankrupts, men always in debt and often in drink – men who had nothing to lose, and much in the way of character, cash and cleanliness – to gain.
 Charlotte Bronte (1849) [7]

Social research has embraced new technology in sweeping language, like ‘Information Society’ (Lyon, 1988), ‘Mode of Information’ (Poster, 1984) or ‘Managerial Revolution’ (Burnham, 1962). Advancing a phase from earlier scientific innovations of ‘Industrial Revolution’ (Dosi et al. periodise prior stages as ‘Steam’, ‘Steel’, and ‘Oil’ – 2005: 694), information technology is applied to industrial activity for ‘commercial and managerial uses’ (Hall and Jefferson, 1976). It is a long anticipated and increasingly realised managerial control technique (Rose, 1969; Deleuze, 1992; Postman, 1993). By mediating forms of control (administration and management), new technology (cultural and commercial) ‘speeds up’ industrial practice, such as Fordism mechanics (‘steel’ and ‘oil’) or Sonyism electronics (‘media’ and ‘information’), augmenting productivity for new markets, like bio-technologised genetics, agriculture or medicine. New technology is a ‘mode of information’ (Poster, 1984) or performance culture, developed between two phases (mechanisation and electronisation) of the late capitalist mode of production – alongside mounting ‘managerialist’ ownership changes and ‘Taylorist’ control techniques (Burnham, 1962; Coriat and Dosi, 1998).   

Prompting a vast research program from ‘arts and sciences’, like Science and Technology Studies, Cultural Economy, Economics Imperialism, and Social Construction of Technology, technology analysis is stuck in ‘two cultures’ tilt (in the video game sense), between the subjectivities of ‘technophile’ (Postman, 1993; Krips, 2008), and ‘technophobia’ (Marshall, 1997; Ryan and Kellner, 1990) altered perception. In technophobia mode, for example, Krips revives one of many scientifically (if not culturally) dubious futurist ideas of perception altered by technology, arguing that ‘childhood is changing and in ways that we can scarcely imagine’ (Krips, 2008: 51). Conversely, Ryan and Kellner examine technophile romance, applauding ‘reconstruction of the social world’ in a sexless union of human and android (Ryan and Kellner, 1990: 65). Bellicosely labelled ‘Science Wars’ of the 1990s encapsulate these tendencies, reviving ‘two cultures’ debates now militated around ‘postmodern science’ (Sokal, 1996; Ross, 1996). Lampooned in a ‘hoax’ submission to Social Text magazine by scientist Sokal, in Postman’s words postmodernism was a ‘social technology’ (1993) becoming conscious of its own ‘accident’ (Virilio, 1982: 124) or acculturation. Perhaps an ‘ideal type’ or generalisation based on recurring traits can help to account for this misunderstanding: "Technology value adds to goods with capital intensive services – the culture of performance"(Jones, 1983; Lyotard, 1984; Nelson and Rosenberg, 1998).

The ‘Social Text Affair’ was remarkable (like ‘two cultures’ over thirty years before) not simply for over-reactions it provoked from a veritable bandwagon of reputable technologists and scientists (Dawkins, 1998; Nagel, 1998; Derrida, 1997; Fish, 1996). Those not denouncing ‘postmodern’ cultural studies technology readily highlighted the differential criteria apparently undigested by scientists triumphant. Assertions of ‘objectivity’ behind culture interestingly resumed Mach and Lenin style economic debates, glossed over by decades of Popper and Kuhn oriented institutionalism. In the as yet untapped post-Cold War context of information, nobody noticed that neither side got it wrong despite their mutual institutional membership. People interacting with new technologies in communication society refer to it as Information Technology or ‘IT’ (Lyon, 1988). The central medium of IT is a personal computer. Research and Development recently endowed computers with performance upgrades in size, capacity, and cost (if not ‘equal access for all’ – Willis and Tranter, 2006 [8]). The huge volume of private computer finance exchanged everyday (Hartman, 2005) for example, was preceded by major bank branch closures and staff retrenchments (McQueen, 1983: 218).  

Computers encode information by ‘converging’two forms of capital: 1) cultural, and 2) political. More than communicating cultural symbols, political rules are services. The computer merely extends the earlier nineteenth century typewriter (McLuhan, 1967: 275-82): its two dimensions are ‘number’ and ‘line’ (like ‘Hindu algebra and Greek geometry’ amalgamated in the invention of ‘calculus’, see note [6]). The one is quantitative (political) and other qualitative (cultural), and neither is real (economic). A computer is an administrative and managerial control machine. The word ‘control’ merges this dual etymology of numerical ‘counter’ and linear ‘roll’. Acculturating the mental/manual division of labour, computers remodel (mental) ‘consumer’ political capital of use value services, with (matrixal) ‘commercial’ cultural capital of exchange value symbols, both derived from (manual) ‘productive’ economic capital of surplus value goods (Poulantzas, 1979). Philosopher of science Hilary Putnam (Magee, 2001: 205-6) saw a computer ‘paradox’ in autonomous technology software ‘function’ (‘programme’, ‘rules’), now purged of science hardware or ‘what has that function’ (‘physics and chemistry’). In mental terms, the ‘soul’ of the computer is control or repression (206). Bourdieu also mistrusted ‘disinterested’ cultural capital (like autonomous technology) because of this ‘denial of the economy’ (Bourdieu, 1986).   

Rapid transmission of micro-data from internet memory banks programmed for silicon chips, amount to no more than permutations of noneconomic capital’s vehicle (the capital was assembled over a century ago). Williams formulated this sort of distinction of technological form (vehicle) from content (programming) for his study of earlier televisual media (Williams, 1974). Yet cultural studies uncertainty about technology-form and science-content is recognisable in Snow’s 1950s ‘two cultures’, McLuhan’s 1960s ‘medium is the message’, Baudrillard’s 1980s ‘precession of simulacra’ and Virilio’s 1990s ‘information bomb’. The growing dissociation of derealised post-Cold War information, largely escaping everyday notice, emerges acutely in the identity biopolitics of multiculturalism (Gunew, 1992). The unreconstructed political-culture of expelled economic capital exacts a stubborn inequality of institutionalised racism, prompting worst case scenarios of ‘unscientific’ usage.[9] For example, in Australia: the film ‘Wogboy’, radio ‘Dykes on Mics’, theatre ‘Il Dago’, sport ‘Sheilas, Wogs and Poofters’, advertising ‘Bugger’, and revealingly academic ‘Queer Theory’. [10] The estimated seventy per cent ‘pornification’ (etymology ‘whores’ – Caddick, 2010) dominated internet is just another side effect.[11]

The itinerary of social capital, from Cultural Economy (Hinde and Dixon, 2007) and Economics Imperialism (Fine, 2001) to segregated segments of biopolitical practice and neoliberal niche markets, like ‘gay’ games or ‘women-only’ gyms, sidesteps socialisation by productive business or labour (Bourdieu, 1986). Numerical valued ‘mono’, ‘dual’ or ‘multi’ culturalism policy is political aestheticisation without economics. Even Bourdieu, while granting ‘economic capital at the root of all other types of capital’ (1986: 252), did not distinguish productive economic reality as the origin of abstract market exchange ‘relations’ or politically embedded ‘culture’ (let alone surplus value). Whether academic and business agencies on respective sides of Demand/Supply-side economics wangle or weasel over ostensible commodification and economisation of society, industrial science should re-distinguish acculturated ‘post-industrial’ technology from economy. ‘Perhaps a particularly ostentatious form of bad faith is required of any latter-day “literary intellectual” who composes on a word processor and then faxes to a journal a jeremiad about the wholly negative effects of scientific advance’ (Collini, 1993). Yet both ‘technophile’ and ‘technophobic’ acculturation or assimilation of (in this sense relativised) science only increases that bad faith.     

The national lampoon:
Angered or xenophobic as media technology can get, or deregulating and pure trade-liberalised as ‘globalisation’, mixed economic protections continue to characterise developing nations like China, India and even the USA (each affected by neoliberal inspired finance crises). Similarly, Smelser still sees nation states as ‘the effective agency of normative control’ asserting globalisation really ‘increased the salience of states’ (2003). Australian government proposals for state led recovery from a ‘global financial crisis’ (GFC), and critique of crisis inducing ‘financial liberalisation’ (Rudd, 2009) are consistent with Smelser’s observations. Yet, this policy is betrayed by overawe (see Botsman and Latham, 2001) for Shock Doctrine IMF ‘predictions’ or Third Way ‘economic modernisation’ of Hawke and Keating, who ‘removed protectionist barriers’ (25) in the worst imprudence the national interest has known (Jaensch, 1989). By locking-in to such pure post-industrialism, acculturation gaps (salaries ‘twenty five times’ wages – Greer, 2009: 6) of ‘extreme capitalism’ are consolidated. ‘Electronic space is going to be far more present in highly industrialised countries than in the less developed world; and far more present for middle class households in developed countries than for poor households in those same countries’ (Sassen, 2002: 367).  

In the now familiar refrain, Smelser thus predicts international culturalist restoration of ‘religious diversity’ from future globalisation, not economic or scientific progress (2003). ‘Even the most liberal theorists caution against selling off utilities’ says Greer, noting that, ‘Australians detest being patronised’ (2009: 7, 8). For example, asked about state welfare replacement, like already overstressed religious charity, humanities and arts interviewees await inevitable industrial and environmental crises. For radio’s Stephen Walker, ‘the notion of civilisation is a far more tenuous thing ironically enough in Australia, than it is in a lot of other countries. Because you are imposing a cultural grid on what is primarily a very physical and geographical kind of identity that the country has got. So it is not as if…we keep the ball rolling, this civilisation can keep going the way it is. It looks like it was all built yesterday’. On the workplace, IT researcher Marcus Breen ads, ‘the industrial category, for example, is not any one industry but the entire structure of the society. The inequitable distribution of resources produces some pretty dreadful outcomes…Social democracy or a society like Australia attempts to come to terms with some of those things. But it has generally failed because [of] the pressures from the vested interests …like the capitalist class’.   

3 Acculturation politics: ‘Auto de fé’

Large scale destruction of machinery…occurred in the English manufacturing districts…largely as a result of the employment of the power-loom, and known
as the Luddite movement.
Karl Marx (1867)

A measure of how fatal protection issues became in Australia, might be personified by tensions exposed in conservative politics after the 1967 death, even assassination/suicide of Prime Minister Holt (ABC, 2008). Declassified documents recount a subsequent ASIO raid on the home of staunch free trade supporter, senior Minister, and future Prime Minister McMahon. The Minister was found with incriminating evidence of tariff secret sales to Japan which, jeopardising the future of the party, plausibly led to Holt’s auto de fé. As if cued by the rarity of secret ‘intelligence’ agents acting responsibly, later free trade policy also underwent erratic fortunes. Successive research favouring (at that time) anti-Australian ‘pure’ unmixed free trade (see Williams and Stevenson, 1981; Anderson and Garnaut, 1987; Costa and Easson, 1991) was implicitly adopted without ‘fear’, even adversely influencing, it is argued, Thatcher and Blair (Greer, 2009). Surplus value creating capital in the Australian economy (food, shelter, and clothing) has as a result largely disappeared (Webber and Weller, 2001). Garnaut’s unchecked high-status, in unhinging more equitable economics, failed exploitative Emissions Trading Scheme (ETS), to deindustrialising mineral Super Profit Tax (Stilwell, 2008) is alarming. Endorsing Economic Imperialism charges of ‘indifference to the real world’ (Fine, 2001), pre-crisis cumulative data on this growing inequality was registered, both from within the ‘UN consensus’ of the ILO (Gunter and van der Hoeven, 2004) and macro-research (Galbraith, 2002); and without by micro-research (Klein, 2007) and sociology (Frankel, 2001).  

A key, and often taken for granted ‘social fact’ (Durkheim, 1895/1966) from unfairly discredited theories of capital (Poulantzas, 1979), cultural studies (Hall andJefferson, 1976) and sociology (Rose, 1969; Deleuze, 1992; Postman, 1993), free trade ‘managerialism’ reinforces unequal hierarchies, re-scaling if not neutralising national borders. ‘As the national scale loses significance along with the loss of key components of the state’s formal authority, other scales gain strategic importance. Most notable among these are subnational scales such as the global city, and supranational scales such as global markets’ (Sassen, 2002: 371). According to idealist historical paradigms, nationhood is a modern experience facilitated by new technologies of print media circulating among ‘imagined communities’ (Anderson, 1991). The ‘nation’ is ambitiously seen only in ungrounded ‘imaginary’ terms of political culture, and not economically in the ‘fragile civilisation’ with ‘industrial resources’ noted above by real media and IT respondents (Bourdieu, 1986: 241). Beilharz shifts that imaginary to Australian ‘antipodes’, defining nation as a false universalism (2001: 187) and (like Bourdieu) modes of production as ‘relational’ (192). A Global Village only enlarges this ‘imaginary’ Freudian slip. It ‘does not mean that old hierarchies disappear, but rather that re-scalings emerge along side the old ones which can often override the latter’ (Sassen, 2002: 371).

For historian Anderson, modern nations first emerged in the American New World. In a rehabilitated technology Age of Information, we could logically anticipate that (delimited) national ‘imagined community’, formed earlier around new print media, would intensify in this (unlimited) media era of TV, PCs and mobiles. For example, the recent pre-crisis most ‘profitable industry’, non-productive ‘financialisation’ totalled over 43 percent of global Gross Domestic ‘Product’ (Frankel, 2001: 51, 67, 77). A conservative estimate of ‘specialist professional knowledge’ is 36 per cent of all employment in the United Sates (Brint, 2001: 118). Yet national intensification clearly has not emerged in times some term ‘post-national’ (Docker, 1994). The ‘value adding chain’ framework of Economic Sociology links the ‘integration of world trade’ to a ‘disintegration of industry’, no longer driven by undifferentiated ‘commodities’, but based on ‘geographical fragmentation’ and ‘organizational fragmentation’ of global industry (Gereffi, 2005). In that economy of ‘deregulated markets and unhampered international markets’ (167) the ‘modern world is stateless’ (171), and ‘globalisation appears to have gone furthest in the area of finance’ (163): services not productive goods

An economy fragmented by Information Age inequality, and labour interests managed out of contention, arises from over-controlling national ‘deregulation’ favouring globalisation. Production chains, trade networks and the managerial cyberspace web are tagged an Information Society or Knowledge Economy. If there is controversy over the merits of its private business (Nelson and Rosenberg, 1998) or public university (Brint, 2001) funded research, it is assumed that ‘institutionally, the mental demand of the work is clearly an important organising factor as well’ (114). Brint’s intricate study provides an unscientific division of practical, standard and professional ‘knowledge’. But concedes, ‘all workers have economically valuable, practical knowledge and can, in this sense, be considered “knowledge [or science] workers”’ (113).[12] ‘Standard’ (formal) knowledge only routinises ‘professional’ (theoretical) knowledge. Status quo ‘mental’ information stressed [13], ‘manual’ knowledge excluded from the division of labour lampoons the information/knowledge distinction (Sassen, 2002: 373; Dosi, Orsenigo and Labini, 2005: 688: Chugg, 2006). This national lampoon (economic goods) by sci fi IT (consumer services/commercial matrix) acculturates to break-off point where:

‘Information’ is identified as a ‘factor of production’ or knowledge (Lasch, 1984: 285; Guattari, 1984: 285; Williams and Stevenson, 1981: 64).

‘Economic efficiency’ (goods production) is identified with ‘performance culture’ (commercial delivery).

Two-dimensional information speed up of quantity and quality is only enabled by the third-dimension of productive capital (Brint, 2001; Fine, 2001). This acculturation/assimilation of economic science (Steiner, 2001) to the politics/culture of technology (Sassen, 2002) is a ‘category mistake’ instance of ‘mythology’ noted in the ‘philosophy of mind’ (Ryle, 1980: 17), or again in the Social Text Affair (Sturrock, 1998). Forthcoming research might ascertain whether this bodes a return to the medieval craft ‘Luddism’ censured by two cultures (Snow. 1993) or behaviourism, ‘because their [skilled] jobs were threatened’ (Skinner, 1977: 60, [my italics]); or reverts to ancient scorn for manual labour (and by inference youth and women). Like advertising (Sinclair and Spurgeon, 2006: 50; Chugg, 2006), information mythology rescales economy in a managerial net for ‘new types of political actors’ (Sassen, 2002: 382), reviving inequality (neoliberalism, new Labor) in all industries under imaginary empire-building globalization (Giroux, 2008). Meanwhile ‘virtual society’ debate remains ‘heavily polarised’ (Barraket, 2005: 20) as auto de fé ‘de-industrialisation’ spreads job insecurity (McQueen, 1983).

Concluding remarks: ‘Military alms’

The real machine breakers [Luddites] in Australia today are the free trade dogmatists.
Humphrey McQueen (1983)

In the interests of science ‘valid for all times and for different societies’ (62), Merton intended to ‘distinguish between a theory, a set of logically interrelated assumptions from which empirically testable hypotheses are derived, and an empirical generalisation, an isolated proposition summarising observed uniformities of relationships between two or more variables’ (66). Merton was accused of assorted ‘Capitoline’ and ‘Marxist’ tendencies, as if to confirm the cross-fertilisation of his ‘middle range theory’ between Grand Theory and Abstract Empiricism. In our ostensibly globalised moment of uncommonly acute inequality, acculturation theory fulfils these conditions. When culture subordinates economy, it produces ‘a delightful contradiction’ as Boer puts it: ‘the less historically reliable such a story is, the more powerful it is as a political myth’ (Boer, 2008: 75). ‘Globalisation’, removing production to the Third World, fills the vacuum with ‘religious’ panic. Neglect of science is not also ‘delightful’, but we can say ‘that should they also sell their means of production, then the Christian communities would quickly starve’ (71). This fact unrecognised, an acculturating West’s turn to military arms (Sparrow, 2009) only deters any ‘logic of alms’ (Boer, 2008)[14] to remedy our rashly relinquished reality.  

Before we jump to this conclusion, let us get away from money values and think in ‘real’ terms, that is, of the goods that are produced.
Morris Williams and Keith Stevenson (1981)

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ENDNOTES
[1] Spivak refers to ‘the sophistication of the vocabulary and the poverty of the conclusions’ in this research (2004: 569).
[2] Recent research distinguishes at least three multiculturalisms divided between practical versus commercial activity: ‘corporate’ (Grossberg, 2005), ‘metropolitan’ (Spivak, 2004) or ‘cosmopolitan’ (Hage, 1997). The opposition can be clarified by revisiting Benjamin’s two-sided usage of politics/culture to theorise main continental ideologies in the ‘age of mechanical reproduction’ (1982). Fascism was dubbed culturalisation or ‘aestheticisation of politics’ and communism the ‘politicisation of aesthetics’ or culture. The multiculturalisms of Grossberg, Spivak and Hage remain delimited by these terms (see section 2 below). In our own neoliberal ‘age of information’ updated terms include aestheticisation and politicisation of economy or deindustrialisation in the West. It is argued here that this is acculturation.
[3] See Russell, 1988: 40. Perhaps this view is behind Weber’s idea of violent nationalism preceded by ‘abuses of self-accusation’.
[4] Hage refers to this methodological approach as ‘supply side interviews’ (see 1997: 149).
[5] An ‘epistemological break’, when science is appropriated to ‘form a division between mental and manual labour’. But it is ‘in the last analysis the result of the accumulated experience of the direct producers themselves’ (see Poulantzas, 1979: 236-7).
[6] On ‘Islamic science’, Butterfield’s History of Modern Science refers to ‘Hindu algebra and Greek geometry’ linked in a calculus already discovered by eighth century Baghdad – ‘the centre of civilisation’ – 900 years before Leibnitz, Newton and Descartes(cited in Grace, 1993).
[7] Like ‘IT’, for Thompson Luddite skilled/craft labour was defined by ‘superb’ communications, passwords, security, and secrecy (1963).
[8] In a cybernetic-styled technophile analogy, biologist Cohen and mathematician Stewart estimate that the human brain is composed of some 10 billion brain cells or ‘neurons’, and that each one could be like ‘an entire computer’…‘If so the brain would be far more massively parallel than most people think, and much further beyond the reach of present technology’ (1995: 454).
[9] (ABC, 2006). Moorhouse (2002) praises Lumby for her critique of censorship but exempts ‘racial vilification’ from everyday interest. Yet an express motivation in Lumby’s work is criticism of feminist tendencies to form alliances with reactionary groups (1998).
[10] Apart from rationalising his own irrational ‘hate’ pathology, Clemens blames poststructuralists for ‘Queer theory’ (1997). Bourdieu speaks rather of self-exclusion/assimilation dilemmas motivated by resentimment: ‘the worst thing that the dominant impose on the dominated’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992: 82, 212). A rehabilitating logic ‘which leads stigmatized groups to claim the stigma as a sign of their identity’ (Bourdieu, 1987/1990: 155).
[11] (SBS, 2007). Spivak characterises such multiculturalism as ‘a class division dissimulated as a cultural division’ (2004: 569).
[12] Gramsci could say ‘all men (and women) are intellectuals’ [my brackets] – cited by Poulantzas (1979: 254), who refers to ‘secrecy and the internalised monopoly of knowledge’ of bureaucratisation (175).  This differs from acculturation, which eliminates economy/knowledge.
[13] Technology acculturation researcher Metusevich (1995) claims, ‘knowledge doubles every two years’ with ‘a shelf life of approximately one and half years’: (2, 4, 5). Yet technology transmits ‘information’, not scientific ‘knowledge’. As Nelson and Rosenberg argue, ‘technology’ is distinct from science: ‘often this science was so old that it was no longer considered by some to be science’ (1998: 50).
[14] Rudman suggests ‘Anglo-Saxon settler societies [the United States, Australia and Canada], may be the worst places in the world in which to develop a general theory of acculturation’, because they are both ‘too similar to each other’ and ‘too atypical of the world’s societies’ (Rudmin, 2006).  

 


Author’s Bio
: Rock Chugg is a freelance sociologist from Melbourne,
specialising in science and technology, the information age, deindustrialisation,
media studies, subcultures and civil regulation, with recent research published
in Continuum, Refractory, and Meanjin. Contact: rockchugg@hotmail.com