Journal articles: 'Théâtre (genre littéraire)' – Grafiati (2024)

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(francuski) Lorsque l'on sait reconna?tre dans l'attitude m?prisante des intellectuels byzantins ? l'?gard des ?trangers ce qui tient ? l'expression de l'id?ologie politique de l'Empire et ?carter soigneusem*nt la couche archa?sante d'un mode d'expression rh?torique qui ?tait de riguer dans ce genre litt?raire, la correspondance du XIIe si?cle peut nous fournir de pr?cieuses donn?es sur les allophyloi et nous offrir des repr?sentations plastiques de leur mode de vie.

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Rédigée comme un discours d’adieu, la deuxième épître à Timothée (2 Tm) s’attribue un rôle de clôture dans la biographie de l’apôtre Paul. Comment cette prétention – déguisée ou non – se traduit-elle du point de vue narratif ? Ou, pour le dire autrement, quel rôle 2 Tm endosse-t-elle au sein du corpus paulinien ? Cette question conduit l’argumentaire de la présente thèse de doctorat. Au prisme des approches sociales de la mémoire, cette étude heuristique démontre que le genre littéraire et le contenu de la lettre façonnent une clé herméneutique pour lire et diffuser, au moins, les sept lettres dites proto-pauliniennes (Rm, 1 et 2 Co, Ga, Ph, 1 Th, Phm) et Colossiens comme « héritage essentiel » (B. Schwartz) de l’apôtre Paul. Sa principale originalité réside dans la considération spécifique de 2 Tm au sein d’une collection paulinienne et non uniquement dans le corpus dit des Pastorales (1 et 2 Tm, Tt). La thèse s’organise en trois parties : 1) les jalons historiques et méthodologiques ; 2) l’analyse mémorielle de 2 Tm ; 3) une enquête sur trois « lieux de mémoire » (P. Nora) pauliniens en 2 Tm : les personnages, les lieux géographiques et les lettres de Paul.

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Blogs provide an open space for scholars to share information, communicate about their research, and reach a diversified audience. Posts in academic blogs are usually hybrid texts where various genres are connected and recontextualized; yet little research has examined how these genres function together to support scholars’ activity. The purpose of this article is to analyze how the affordances of new media enable the integration of different genres and different languages in research group blogs written by multilingual scholars and to explore how various genres are coordinated in these blogs to accomplish specific tasks. The study reported in this article shows that the functionalities of the digital medium allow research groups to incorporate myriad genres into their genre ecology and interconnect these genres in opportunistic ways to accomplish complex objectives: specifically, to publicize the group’s research and activities, make the work of the group members available to the disciplinary community, strengthen social links within their community and connect with the interested public, and raise social awareness. Findings from this study provide insights into the ways in which scholars write networked, multimedia, multigenre texts to support the group’s social and work activity.

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The research aims to identify the narrative features of the first prose texts of Yukaghir literature in the context of the historical and cultural process of Yakutia. The paper overviews the history of emergence of essay traditions, genre and functional features of the early prose by the founders of Yukaghir, Yakut Russian-language literatures. Little-studied works are considered from the perspective of the narration typology; the documentary-fiction specifics, the forms of the author’s narration in T. Odulok’s autobiographical prose are revealed. The study is novel in that it is the first to raise the question about the essay principle having become decisive in the development of prose and descriptive narrative forms having formed the transition to new principles of poetics in larger genres. As a result, it has been found that the process of documentary-fiction reflection of reality develops into an essay principle of plot construction in early prose.

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The reaisltic illustration of central characters suffering from rare and severe neurological sicknesses in Lisa Genova’s novels provide an ideal prospect to study trauma in pathography novels, a subset of science fiction. However, despite its scope, these genres of novels have received little consideration in American literary trauma studies. This paper will present a new analysis of trauma in relationship to the ‘neuro’genre, followed by an analysis of narrative and literary devices employed by the author to illustrate traumatic episodes in her novels. Through this case study and critical reflection of how the author has engaged trauma in the novels supports strengthening literary trauma theory within trauma literature and the genre also. The writing of traumatic experiences of the victims, transformed identity, stigmas, fears and phobias and providing face to the sufferer doomed fate, offers an opportunity for a neuroscientist turned novelist like Lisa Genova to advocate about the neurological sicknesses and its suffering with enriched empathetic experience to the non-scientific societies. It also provides a balanced realistic narrative platform for the reader to reflect on their own uncertainties, brought on by the representation of such fictional characterization. This literary research analysis will provide scope to science fiction authors, particularly those aiming to engage with medicine and literature, for a more accurate depiction of trauma in their work. It will further broaden the scope of research in phenomenology, narrative and genre theories and criticism in literary studies.

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As part of the emergence of new writing practices in the social sciences, qualitative researchers have begun to harness the potential of poetic representations as a means of analyzing social worlds and communicating their findings to others. To date, however, this genre has received little attention in sport psychology. The purpose of this article, therefore, is to raise awareness and generate discussion about poetic representations. First, the potential benefits of using this genre are outlined. Next, based on interview data from a study that explored the motivations of elite female golfers, the process of constructing a poetic representation about the experiences of one of the participants is described. The products of this endeavor and the reactions of various audiences to it are then presented. Finally, the issue of judging poetic representations is discussed.

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The article describes thought core of design made for publication project “Altai in the Works of Scientists and Travelers, the 18th the Beginning of the 20th Century” by Shishkov Altai Regional Universal Scientific Library (Barnaul, Russia), the basic element of which became colors and surface type of the Altaian semiprecious stones. Reproduction of little known pictural works made in portrait genre, rare landscape water-colors, esquisses by Russian and foreign painters lived around this time are also used in artistic design of five-volume issue. On the issue’s editorial board’s idea, selection of illustrations should help to a reader to trace a dynamics of interests took by domestic and foreign researchers and travelers in Altai.

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The article describes a little-known archival source – the album of the Vice-Admiral of the Russian Imperial Navy A. I. Khomutov. It was presented to the owner by the Queen of the Hellenes Olga (Grand duch*ess Olga Konstantinovna). The article traces the history of the album, suggests its dating, analyzes the notes made by the hand of the Grand duch*ess, and describes the unique genre structure of the album-almanac. Special attention is paid to the circ*mstances of the appearance in A. I. Khomutov’s copy of lines from the poem by Prince P. A. Vyazemsky “Confession” in 1867, written by the hand of the Queen. The autographs included in the almanac were not previously an object of study, neither was the almanac itself, which is little known to researchers. The intersection of names, dates, poetic images and events allows us to consider the almanac not only as a rare factual source, but also as an artifact of multi-level interpretation. The article reveals the symbolism of the biographical notes, the confessional lines of Prince Vyazemsky (“There are days when the noises of life are silent around...”, 1867), the mystical circ*mstances of the appearance of his “Confession”.

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Every year the Pskov State University hosts the International scientifi c and practical conference “Mukhin readings”, which received its name in honor of the Doctor of psychological Sciences, Honorary Professor of the Department of pedagogics and psychology Yury Mikhailovich Mukhin. He would have turned 95 on July 24, 2018. He devoted many years of his life to the search and systematization of art postcards with the images of masterpieces of world art, which he used in scientifi c and pedagogical activities. The famous collection of Y.M. Mukhin includes more than 12 500 postcards; 10 994 of them were donated by the widow of the scientist to the Pskov regional universal scientifi c library (PRUSB), where they are now kept in the Department of literature on culture and art, as well as in the Regional Center for work with rare and valuable documents of PRUSB. The article describes the content and value of this collection, the main part of which is devoted to paintings, but there are series of postcards with graphics, engravings, sculpture, jewelry, arts and crafts, book illustrations and miniatures, photos, etc. The cards represent a wide variety of pictorial genres: portraits, landscapes, still life, as well as historical, military, religious, domestic genre scenes. You can see here the paintings by famous Russian and foreign artists, as well as works of little-known and unknown authors. The presented reproductions demonstrate the values that the world’s largest galleries and museums have, covering historical periods from ancient times to the end of the 20th century, and acquaint with the paintings, on which many generations were brought up. Truly, the collection of Y.M. Mukhin is the pride of the people of Pskov and is the unique encyclopedia of art, the art world in miniature.

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Among the modern composers of Tuva, the personality and work of Ayana Oyun are covered little of musicology. The main stages of the composer’s creative biography are noted related to studying at Republican School of Arts and Kyzyl College of Arts, receiving a specialized education at Krasnoyarsk State Academy of Music and Theater, Mikhail Glinka Novosibirsk State Conservatory, as well as additional education at St. Petersburg Theatre Arts Academy. The composer’s creative portfolio is surveyed, providing an analysis of one of the illustrative works — the Piano Quintet. The periodization of creativity works correlates with her education in different universities in Russia and with a change in genre preferences. Thus, during the years of study at Krasnoyarsk Academy of Music and Theater (2001–2007), works of chamber genres were predominated, including the being analyzed Piano Quintet. The return to her native Tyva is marked by the formation of an original author’s style. During these years, interest in theatrical music was shown, and a number of performances with music by Ayana Oyun were staged. During the years of study in St. Petersburg (2013–2018), several musical fairy tales were created and staged: Don’t Fly Away!, Mary Poppins and Her Friends, Khorloo (Wheel). Music appeared for a number of performances at the National Theatre as well. The composer’s contribution to the development of musical theater in Tuva and the revival of the first national opera, Chechen and Belekmaa, by Rostislav Kendenbil are noted. Ayana Oyun is a rare case of a successful combination of a composer and a theater director in one person; her personality is distinguished by deep reverence and adherence to the traditions and practices of Buddhist teaching, striving for constant self-improvement, expansion of professional and spiritual horizons.

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According to fundamental scientific principles, simple forms develop into complex ones, with the rare exception of regression. In metaphysics, however, evolution and involution are seen as being in unity, with complex forms developing into simple ones. At any rate (as far as we can see into the past), we might presume basic elementary, primary, simple, artistic, and linguistic typological forms that can be linked with basic cognitive forms. According to art theory, in the beginning there was ancient syncretism, which was dominated by undivided liquid ancient forms. Psychoanalysts and myth researchers speak of ancient language, ancient picture language. Folklorists list blessings, curses, and oaths, as well as work songs, among the primary genres. I present three basic genres as an example: cradle songs, dance words and laments. Their common characteristics are sung lyrics and speech-like melodies (parlando). Further instinctive behaviours that receive little attention include: outbursts, impulsive shouting, cursing, mumbling, sighing, pleading, and prayer, as well as sexual intercourse, giving birth, euphoric speech (under the influence of alcohol or narcotics), aphasia, and speech degraded by old age. Instinctiveness is clearly reflected by rhythmic counting or scribbling.

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This article discusses the use of game design as a method for interdisciplinary project-based teaching in secondary school education to convey informatics and society topics, which encompass the larger social context of computing. There is a lot of knowledge about learning games but little background on using game design as a method for project-based teaching of social issues in informatics. We present the results of an analysis of student-created games and an evaluation of a student-authored database on learning contents found in commercial off-the-shelf games. We further contextualise these findings using a group discussion with teachers. The results underline the effectiveness of project-based teaching to raise awareness for informatics and society topics. We further outline informatics and society topics that are particularly interesting to students, genre preferences, and potentially engaging game mechanics stemming from our analyses.

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This paper studies the little-known Spanish Qur'anic translations included within Christian works of polemics that were produced in Iberia in the first quarter of the sixteenth century. Such fragments are an important testimony of otherwise rare translations of the Qur'an into Iberian vernacular languages. This study focuses on the Qur'anic material cited by authors connected to Martín García, Bishop of Barcelona (c. 845–928/1441–1521) in polemical treatises written for the evangelisation of the Granadan Muslims (converted to Christianity by the decree of 1502) and the conversion of the Valencian and Aragonese Muslims (legally Muslims until 1526). It considers two treatises, authoured respectively by Juan Andrés and Johan Martín de Figuerola, belonging to the genre that has come to be known as Antialcoranes, or ‘anti-Qur'ans’. These are further compared to the quotations included by Martín García himself in his sermons as well as by two subsequent sixteenth-century authors, Lope de Obregón and Bernardo Pérez de Chinchón.

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The orchestration of Karabyts’ Third Concerto for Orchestra “Holosinnia” (“Lamentations”) has been studied. The relevance of the study. Despite a number of research works on Karabits’ Third Concerto its orchestration remains little studied yet. Therefore, the main objective of the paper is to examine orchestration of the Third Concerto for orchestra and to research the interaction between ‘traditional’ and ‘innovative’ traits in Concerto’s orchestration. The methods of the research. The score analysis lies in the core of the paper but historical, comparative, and semiotic methods of analysis have been applied as well. Attention is focused on the combination of traditional and innovative origins which paved the way for the composer to rethink the methods of presentation in the orchestra. Thus, these transformations reflect the original (author’s) approach to the genre. It was emphasized that Karabyts interprets the synthetical character inherent to the concerto for orchestra genre particularly wide. It is emphasized that this approach allows the composer to identify a palette of genres of instrumental music: for one performer, different combinations of chamber ensembles, concerto grosso and solo instrumental concerto. In particular, the opposition between two groups was strengthened not only due to unequal quantity of performers in each of them (concerto grosso), but also by relying on the different nature of the material or the use of bells or tube, quite rare in this role, to solo (solo concerto). The combination of traditional and innovative is reflected in the composition of the orchestra (paired with a large percussion group) and the approach to percussion instruments (endowing them with melodic, semantic, formative and other functions). It is emphasized that Karabyts repeatedly applies “percussion-like" interpretation in relation to other instruments. Such an approach results in a qualitative transformation of the instruments: the inherent warmth of a string timbre decreases; the singularity of each wind color neutral-lizes. Complications of semantics at each rhythmic, intonation, and timbre ostinato formulas are revealed. The introduction of a particular (author’s) approach to the baroque tradition of combining the functions of a soloist and a capellmeister, the manifestation of which is the solo of bells perso-nally made by Karabyts, has been noticed. The conclusions state that the Concerto’s orchestration plays important role in dialectically combination of “objective” and traditional (the passage of time, the history of the people, destiny) with “subjective” and individual (the author’s attitude to events and their rethinking). Such an approach is typical for the twentieth-century musical art. The significance of the research is that it reveals the importance of orchestration as a means of expression and thus brings better understanding of the functional potential of orchestration within the frame of the twentieth-century art tendencies.

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In the late 1960s, Canada’s regional theatres – those established by the federal government to celebrate the 1967 Centennial – had a general reputation for offering few opportunities for Canadian work to appear. Artistic directors of these houses tended to be primarily European-born – Christopher Newton at Theatre Calgary and Heiner Piller at Neptune Theatre, for example – and were inclined to produce remounted Broadway hits and musicals or popular foreign-stage classics. Theatre companies like Edmonton’s Citadel Theatre, Winnipeg’s Manitoba Theatre Centre and Nova Scotia’s Neptune Theatre were ostensibly created to present Canadian theatre, but the repertories broadened and playbills often told a different story, listing productions by Shaw, Miller, Wilde, Chekhov and Shakespeare with the rare Canadian play. As a result, there was virtually no space on our regional stages for new Canadian works and little interest on the part of Artistic Directors to actively search out and develop this genre.

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Abstract This article argues that Viktor Shklovsky and his allies’ theory cannot be duly appreciated and understood without accounting for their engagement in journalism. The latter was both practiced and theorized by Shklovsky’s group of the Russian Formalists, which stood out as a then rare combination of rigorous theory and extreme performativity. Accordingly, there was disagreement among the Formalists of Shklovsky’s group. On one hand, they did not want the kind of criticism that is published in periodicals and holds sway over contemporary writers to be naïve banter—the Formalists would rather criticism recognize the literariness of literature and hew to the patterns and laws they discovered. On the other hand, the Formalists applied these literary patterns to their own writing, creative or not, which is why Shklovsky wrote that he was both a fish zoologist and a fish. Hence the Formalists’ desire to make their scholarship and criticism performative. The conflict between rigor and performativity could be resolved only in a periodical, and while the Formalists, as this article explains, had a problem with issuing one fully of their own, Shklovsky’s literary magazine Petersburg was a short-lived exception. This magazine is as little studied as it is largely important—for both the history and theory of Russian Formalism, as well as journalism per se, which in 1920s Russia was recognized as a new modus vivendi of literature in the Formalists’ theory of factography (literatura fakta). The leading genre of factography was the feuilleton, and it is from this genre’s standpoint that the article analyzes Shklovsky’s Petersburg, and, in the second part, compares it with another literary magazine—the famous The Library for Reading, run by Osip Senkovsky, one of the prominent feuilletonists of the nineteenth century. The comparison of Shklovsky with Senkovsky as editors of these magazines makes it possible to appreciate both not as vivid exceptions but the very rule—a particular canon with its unique approach to culture that became relevant with the advent of fragmentation in our civilization and remains so to this day.

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A student song is one of the little-studied genres of song folklore, despite its wide popularity in the student community. The article is devoted to the most popular student song, the existence of which began in the 19th century. The history of the song, its origin and further existence in the student environment are considered. The rare plot of the song allows to track all song changes from the original text to the present day. I will consider the process of song folklorization – how exactly the transition from a typical student song with details of the local city text to a full-fledged parodia sacra took place, and how much the text has changed in volume. Thus, the main vectors of the song analysis will be the presence of the local university and city text in it, as well as how parodia sacra develops in the text and what form it takes in various versions. The ethnographic context of the song’s existence and the reasons for the text popularity in various communities are also considered. The occurrence of the plot elements in other folklore genres is revealed: in fairy tales, chastushkas, as well as in other student songs that appeal to various holy personages.

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AbstractThis study arose from an encounter with some paintings (still lives, Madonnas and other religious or genre scenes of mainly seventeenth-century Northern European origin) at the Queensland Art Gallery in 2012. They were intriguing because they were part of a bequest by squatter and colonial parliamentarian Thomas Lodge Murray-Prior (1819–92), which formed the nucleus of the original Queensland Art Gallery collection when it opened in 1895. Little is known about them, but they raise questions: What part did they play in the life of the donor? Did he collect them merely to burnish his reputation? Were they hung in a town house or in the bush? How did they enter the collection of the Queensland Art Gallery and what reception did they receive? What subsequent use has been made of them? This article examines the collection and the role it played in Murray-Prior's life, arguing that it is a coherent collection of Northern European art and more than a status symbol. Furthermore, it has much to say about a period that saw the development of art collecting and exhibiting. As such, it is the perfect foundation for an art gallery in colonial Australia.

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RésuméCette étude vise à mieux connaitre le patrimoine floristique de l’Algérie. Dans ce travail nous avons dressé une liste des orchidées de la région de Tlemcen grâce à une série de prospection réalisée entre 2006 et 2018 et qui s’est soldée par l’inventaire de 11 genres, comprenant 48 taxons dont 329 espèces et 2 hybrides. Des cartes de répartition et des données écologiques ont été établies pour chaque espèce afin d’aider à les retrouver pour des éventuelles recherches. Certains taxons présentent une large distribution à travers la région de Tlemcen, alors que d’autres sont très localisés. Parmi les taxons observés, 27 sont qualifiés de rares ou très rares à l’échelle du pays. Mots clés: Orchidées, région de Tlemcen, endémique, protection, chorologie. SummaryOrchidaceae of the region of Tlemcen (Algeria).This study aims at knowing better floral heritage of Algeria. In this work we so raised a list of the orchids of the region of Tlemcen en thanks to a series of prospecting realized between 2006 and 2017 and which ended in the inventory of 11 genres including 48 let us taxa among which 29 species and 2 hybrids. Maps of distribution and ecological data were established for every species help to find them for possible look for. Some let us let us tax present a wide distribution through the territory of the wilaya, while others are very located (localized). Among tax them observed, 26 are considered as rare or very rare on the scale of the country.Key words: Orchids, Tlemcen region, endemic, protection, chorology.

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The article is devoted to the 100th anniversary of the birth of the German writer O. Preussler (1923—2013), whose works have gained popularity among children in many countries and have been repeatedly translated into different languages, including the language of fine arts. The most important facts of the jubilee’s biography are listed, the peculiarities of his approach to the genre of fairy tales, to folklore images and plots are characterized, and the master’s statements about children’s literature and his own work are given. The aim of this study is to identify and analyze the most significant and successful illustrations by Russian artists for the writer’s works. The main task is to compare them on the basis of book studies, art history and source research methods. This task, which has not yet been set in Russian book science, seems to be topical, since O. Preussler’s works are still popular among domestic readers and are constantly republished, but the visual range of these publications often leaves much to be desired.Graphic interpretations of a particularly favorite fairy tale trilogy in Russia — “The Little Water Sprite”, “The Little Witch”, “The Little Ghost” — are considered. The author of the article concludes that the images of the Little Witch and the Little Ghost (whose appearance is not described in the text) are difficult for artists, so their convincing pictorial interpretations are rare. I.I. Kabakov, N.G. Golts, B.A. Diodorov, D.A. Trubin, and E.A. Silina are among the best illustrators of the tales that make up the trilogy. Among the pictorial interpretations of other works by O. Preussler the drawings by L.A. Tokmakov and S.A. Krestovsky for the story “Krabat and the Sorcere’s Mill”, G.K. Spirin for “The Tale of the Unicorn”, V.N. Zuikov and V.S. Lubarov for the book “The Hörbe and His Friend Zwottel” stand out. It is shown how these art works reflect the peculiarities of the author’s intonation and reveal the hidden meaning of O. Preussler’s works. In them, as well as in the writer’s texts, there is no boring edification, but there is a game of liberated imagination, life-affirming humor, sincere empathy with the heroes. Following the author, the illustrators reinterpret traditional folklore motifs, discovering new qualities in them.

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ObjectiveTo explore how out-of-hours primary healthcare services (OOHS) are represented in UK national newspapers, focusing on content and tone of reporting and the use of personal narratives to frame stories.DesignA retrospective cross-sectional quantitative content analysis of articles published in 2005, 2010 and 2015.Data sourcesNexis database used to search 10 UK national newspapers covering quality, middle-market and tabloid publications.Inclusion/exclusion criteriaAll articles containing the terms ‘out-of-hours’ (≥3 mentions per article) or (‘NHS 24’ OR ‘NHS 111’ OR ‘NHS Direct’) AND ‘out-of-hours’ (≥1 mention per article) were included. Letters, duplicate news items, opinion pieces and articles without a substantial portion of the story (>50% of an article’s word count, as judged by researchers) concerning OOHS were excluded.Results332 newspaper articles were identified: 113 in 2005 (34.1%), 140 in 2010 (42.2%) and 79 in 2015 (23.8%). Of these, 195 (58.7%) were in quality newspapers, 99 (29.8%) in middle-market and 38 (11.3%) in tabloids. The most commonly reported themes were OOHS organisation, personal narratives and telephone triage. Stories about service-level crises and personal tragedy, including unsafe doctors and missed or delayed identification of rare conditions, predominated. The majority of articles (252, 75.9%) were negative in tone. This was observed for all included newspapers and by publication genre; middle-market newspapers had the highest percentage of negative articles (Pearson χ2=35.72, p<0.001). Articles presented little supporting contextual information, such as call rates per annum, or advice on how to access OOHS.ConclusionIn this first reported analysis of UK national newspaper coverage of OOHS, media representation is generally negative in tone, with frequent reports of ‘negative exemplars’ of OOHS crises and fatal individual patient cases with little or no contextualisation. We present recommendations for the future reporting of OOHS, which could apply to the reporting of healthcare services more generally.

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Mikhail Zoshchenko’s Sentimental Tales are organized as a pyramid where each level is consistent and connected with the previous ones and with Russian classic literature. One of the writers who most influenced Zoshchenko was Anton Chekhov. Their creative similarity is manifold: the poetics of daily life, the image of the little man they wrote about, the lyrical humor, the existential problems they raised. The present study provides a comprehensive analysis and an intertextual comparison of M. Zoshchenko’s and A. Chekhov’s poetics. The paper aims to identify how Zoshchenko employs and transforms Chekhov’s principle of discovery story and to determine the meaning-forming functions performed by intertexts. The analysis revealed that M. Zoshchenko’s Sentimental Tales are to a great degree based on Chekhov’s discovery story genre. The theme of sudden insight, the it seemed versus it turned out compositional principle, existential problems, man-in-a-case complex continue the literary succession and offer new opportunities for the interpretation of Zoshchenko’s prose. Characters created by Zoshchenko represent the average intellectual type of the last century. The tragedy lies in the fact that their world no longer exists, and fate is irreversible, thus the intellectuals become senseless martyrs, victims of the change of epoch. Whether the characters are aware of this problem or not, being the subjects of orientation in reality, they inevitably plunge into a dead end of cognition of being. Consequently, fears, loneliness, lack of understanding, perplexity, disunity, communication failure acquire depth in M. Zoshchenko’s tales. The paper evidently demonstrates the authors sympathy for intellectuals he writes about. Existential pathos, eternal powerlessness of the thought and action, pathos of the impossibility of returning to the past life, and fear of the unknown future, constitute the inner issues of Sentimental Tales and raise the stories to the philosophical level.

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The article is focused on the study of linguo-stylistic features of the Anglo-American writer Frances Burnett idiostyle based on the novels "A little Princess" and "The Secret Garden". In the course of the study, it was defined that flourishing of children's literature in the XIXth - 1st part of the XXth century was due to a number of cultural factors that contributed to the emergence of a large number of authors whose work from the point of view of ideological, thematic and linguistic aspects was focused on children. No less important in this process was the establishment of traditions of home reading and the desire of adults to form aesthetic tastes in their children. Being both a representative of the neo-romantic trend and a children's writer, Frances Burnett rethinks traditional, even fairy-tale plots and builds a world whose image has a symbolic meaning (e.g. a garden for Mary, a boarding house for Sarah). A characteristic feature of F. Burnett's novels is the depiction of the world of childhood, realized through portrait characteristics that convey the characters' external and internal world, descriptions of landscapes and interiors that reproduce various emotional states. It was found out that to realize her own ideas, the writer uses epithets, in particular, to emphasize the specific features of the characters and to raise the emotional tension. The use of metaphors makes it possible to decorate the text with vivid pictures of nature and make images poetic, while thanks to comparisons and repetitions, the author reveals psychological states and focuses on strong emotions. The paper draws the conclusion that specific linguo-stylistic means belong to specific features of Frances Burnett's idiostyle, which make her work stand out among a large number of other authors and make it popular in the genre of children's literature. Keywords: children’s literature; idiostyle; individual style; linguostilistic means; epithet; simile; psychological portrait.

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The article examines the little-known story of the Ukrainian writer and literary critic Denys Lukiyanovych (1873–1965) "My Son!" (1935). It was printed in its time only in the well-known literary and arts magazine Nazustrich (1934–1938). An attempt was made to characterize the ideological and thematic content and genre-stylistic specificity of the named work, thereby "writing" it into the history of Ukrainian literature of the 1920s–1930s. The relevance of the study is determined by the anti-war pathos of D. Lukiyanovych's story. Special attention is paid to the author's creation of a female image involved in the war events of 1914–1918, in particular, the so-called Great Retreat (June 27–September 14, 1915). As a result of this retreat, the operation of the troops of the Central Powers (Austria-Hungary, the German Empire, the Ottoman Empire, the Bulgarian Empire) led to the crushing defeat of the Russian Empire and its withdrawal into the territory for several hundred kilometers. D. Lukiyanovych names specific villages of Lviv Oblast, Trostyanets and Stilsko, which were locally related to the mentioned events. The article points out the condensed content of the work, its plot-compositional features, and analyzes the system of images. It is proved that the author uses the strategy of synthesis of styles of the 20th century – from romantic and expressionistic tendencies, characteristic of the display of war, to naturalistic and impressionistic ones that "bare" the souls of the heroes. In the laconic format of the story, D. Lukiyanovych managed to create a monologue-recollection or rather a monologue-confession of the heroine, who, having lost her son, suffered more from the war than anyone else. The use of such a monologue narrative from the first person "intimates" what is written, and provides the effect of the presence of the recipient in the epicenter of events. The figure of the central heroine in her existential situation is the mouthpiece of the impoverished people and a symbol of their indomitability. The article characterizes the language features of the work (the peculiarity of word usage), the wealth of figurative techniques. It has been proven that the entire set of poetic techniques "works" in D. Lukiyanovych for the realization of the main idea, which consisted in condemning any war and expressing deep sorrow for human losses through the display of maternal grief. Of course, the story "My Son!" with its leading philosophical motif of life and death, life as a tragedy caused by war, is close to the works about the First World War by O. Kobylyanska, N. Kobrynska, O. Makovey, V. Stefanyk, Marko Cheremshyna, B. Lepkyi, I. Sinyuk, O. Turyanskyi, and many other artists. In conclusion, it was established that D. Lukiyanovych was able not only to depict the horrors of war but also to "immerse" his reader in the world of people who were destined to experience this horror. The original female image, written by the author in the story "My Son!", actually belongs to a number of iconic literary types associated with the war. Whereas the continuous semantic and emotional tension, specific stylistics allow us to call the analyzed story of D. Lukiyanovych dramatic. The research of other works of this author dedicated to the theme of man and war is promising. It would raise our understanding of the peculiarities of this particular artistic expression to a higher level. Key words: D. Lukiyanovych, the story "My Son!", the theme of war, the image of the mother, genre, style, modernity of writing.

Abstract:

Formulation of the problem. In the chamber-vocal genre, the composer exists in two images: he is both the interpreter of the poetic composition and the author of a new synthetic music and poetic composition. The experience of the style analysis of one of the best examples of Ukrainian vocal lyrics of the first third of the 20th century shows that the cycle op. 20 characterizes the mature style of the composer, which was formed, on the one hand, under the influence of European Romanticism. On the other hand, the essence of the Ukrainian “branch” of the Western European song-romance (“solo-singing”) is revealed by the prominent national song-romance intonation, filled with not only a romantic worldview, but also with some personal sincerity, chastity, intimate involvement with the great in depth and simplicity poetry line, read from the individual position of the musician. The paradox is as follows. Although Pushkin’s poetry is embodied in a “holistic adequacy” (A. Khutorskaya), and the composer found the fullest semantic analogue of the poetic source, however, in terms of translating the text into the Ukrainian language, the musical semantics changes its intonation immanence, which naturally leads to inconsistency of the listeners’ position and ideas about the style of Russian romance. We are dealing with inter-specific literary translation: Pushkin’s discourse creates the Ukrainian romance style and system of figurative thinking. The purpose of the article is to reveal the principle of re-semantization of the intonation-figurative concept of the vocal composition by V. Kosenko (in the context of translating Pushkin’s poetry into the Ukrainian language) in light of the theory of interspecific art translation. Analysis of recent publications on the topic. Among the most recent studies of Ukrainian musicology, one should point out the dissertation by G. Khafizova (Kyiv, 2017), in which the theory of modelling of the stylistic system of the vocal composition as an expression of Pushkin’s discourse is described. The basis for the further stylistic analysis of V. Kosenko’s compositions is the points from A. Hutorska’s candidate’s thesis; she develops the theory of interspecific art translation. The types of translation of poetry into music are classified according to two parameters. The exact translation creates integral adequacy, which involves the composer’s finding a maximally full semantic analogue of the poetic source. The free translation is characterized by compensatory, fragmentary, generalized-genre adequacy. Presenting the main material. The Zhitomir period for Viktor Kosenko was the time of the formation of his creative style. Alongside the lyrical imagery line, the composer acquired one more – dramatic, after his mother’s death. It is possible that the romances on the poems of A. Pushkin are more late reflection of this tragic experience (op. 20 was created in 1930). “I Loved You” opens the vocal cycle and has been dedicated by A. V. Kosenko. The short piano introduction contains the intonation emblem of the love-feeling wave. The form of the composition is a two part reprising (А А1) with the piano Introduction and Postlude. The semantic culmination is emphasized by the change of metro-rhythmic organization 5/4 (instead of 4) and the plastic phrase “as I wish, that the other will love you” sounding in the text. Due to these melodies (with national segments in melo-types, rhythm formulas and harmony) V. Kosenko should be considered as “Ukrainian Glinka”, the composer who introduced new forms and “figures” of the love language into the romantic “intonation dictionary”. In general, V. Kosenko’s solo-singing represents the Ukrainian analogue of Pushkin’s discourse – the theme of love. The melos of vocal piece “I Lived through My Desires” is remembered by the broad breath, bright expression of the syntactic deployment of emotion. On the background of bass ostinato, the song intonation acquires a noble courage. This solo-singing most intermediately appeal to the typical examples of the urban romance of Russian culture of the 19th century. “The Raven to the Raven” – a Scottish folk ballad in the translation by A. Pushkin. V. Kosenko as a profound psychologist, delicately transmits the techniques of versification, following each movement of a poetic phrase, builds stages of the musical drama by purely intonation means. The semantics of a death is embodied through the sound imaging of a black bird: a marching-like tempo and rhythm of the accompaniment, with a characteristic dotted pattern in a descending motion (like a raven is beating its wings). The middle section is dominated by a slow-motion perception of time space (Andante), meditative “freeze” (size 6/4). The melody contrasts with the previous section, its profile is built on the principle of descending move: from “h1” to “h” of the small octave (with a stop on S-harmony), which creates a psychologically immersed state, filled by premonition of an unexpected tragedy. In general, the Ukrainian melodic intonation intensified the tragic content of the ballad by Pushkin. The musical semantics of V. Kosenko’s romances is marked by the dependence on the romantic “musical vocabulary”, however, it is possible to indicate and national characteristics (ascending little-sixth and fifth intervals, which is filled with a gradual anti-movement; syllabic tonic versification, and other). Conclusion. The romances (“solo-singings”) by V. Kosenko belongs to the type of a free art translation with generalized-genre adequacy. There is a re-semantization of poetic images due to the national-mental intonation. Melos, rhythm, textural presentation (repetitions), stylization of different genre formulas testify to the rare beauty of Kosenko’s vocal style, spiritual strength and maturity of the master of Ukrainian vocal culture. Entering the “Slavic song area”, the style of Ukrainian romance, however, is differenced from the Russian and common European style system of figurative and intonation thinking (the picture of the world).

Abstract:

Интерес к гоголевскому наследию в литературной ситуации XX–XXI вв. отмечен многими исследователями. Литературоведами активно вводятся в научный оборот произведения современных авторов, позволяющие поставить вопрос о месте и роли гоголевского творчества в эстетических поисках литературного процесса рубежа XX–XXI вв. Цель исследования – проанализировать принципы функционирования повести «Шинель» Н. В. Гоголя и ее системообразующего образа маленького человека в произведениях писателей рубежа XX–XXI вв. Новизна исследования заключается, во-первых, в осмыслении материала, который ранее не привлекался к анализу, во-вторых, в реконструкции видов, способов и функции рецепции «шинельного текста» в историко-литературном контексте XX–XXI вв. В качестве материала привлечены произведения современных авторов: глава «Маленький человек Тетелин» из романа В. Маканина «Андеграунд, или Герой нашего времени» (1998), рассказы В. Пьецуха «Николаю Васильевичу. Демонстрация возможностей» из сборника «Плагиат» (2001) и О. Славниковой «CHANEL № 5» (2009). Точкой схождения между выбранными произведениями различной эстетической и жанровой принадлежности является их диалогическое переосмысление стилистической системы повести «Шинель», построенной на совмещении двух режимов повествования – «мимики скорби» и «мимики смеха» (Б. Эйхенбаум). Доказывается, что стилистическая организация принципов повествования повести «Шинель» оказывает моделирующее воздействие на произведения. Все три рассматриваемых автора используют прямую цитатную аллюзию на текст гоголевской повести. В. Маканиным и В. Пьецухом «шинельный сюжет» проецируется на осмысление судьбы советской интеллигенции в постсоветских социально-исторических реалиях. Писателями фиксируется и осмысляется духовная деградация и измельчание советского интеллигента как социально-антропологического типа. У О. Славниковой принципы трансформации «шинельного сюжета» связаны с размышлением об онтологической ценности и самодостаточности индивида, которые утрачиваются в ситуации размывания границ между материальным и идеальным, человеком и вещью. Обнаруживаемая и исследуемая Славниковой деформация человека мыслится как немотивированное фундаментальное свойство мира. The interest to Gogol’s literature heritage in the literature era of the XX–XXI centuries has been noted by many researchers. Literature scholars are actively introducing into scientific circulation the works of modern authors. They allow to raise the question of the place and role of Gogol’s heritage in the aesthetic search of the literature process of the turn of the XX–XXI centuries. The aim of the study is to analyze the functioning principles of the novel “The overcoat” and its system-forming image of a small man in the works of writers of the turn of the XX–XXI centuries. The novelty of the study lies, firstly, in the comprehension of the material that has not been previously analyzed, and secondly, in the reconstruction of the types, methods and function of the reception of the “overcoat text” in the literary era of the XX–XXI centuries. The works of modern authors were used as material: the chapter “Little Man Tetelin” from V. Makanin’s novel “The Underground or the Hero of Our Time” (1998). Makanin’s novel “The Underground, or the Hero of Our Time” (1998), stories by V. Petsukh “To Nikolai Vasilievich. Demonstration of Possibilities” from the collection “Plagiarism” (2001) and O. Slavnikova’s “CHANEL No. 5” (2009). The selected works belong to different aesthetic and genre forms and the point of convergence between them is their dialogical reinterpretation of the stylistic system of the novel “The Overcoat”, built on the combination of two modes of narration – “mimicry of grief” and “mimicry of laughter” (B. Eichenbaum). It is proved that the stylistic organization of the narrative principles of the novel “The overcoat” has a modeling effect on the works. All three selected authors use direct quotation allusion to the text of Gogol’s novel. The “overcoat plot” is projected by V. Makanin and V. Petsukh to comprehend the fate of the Soviet intelligentsia in the post-soviet realities. The writers record and comprehend the spiritual degradation aand grinding f the Soviet intellectual as a social and anthropological type. O. Slavnikova’s principles of transformation of the “overcoat plot” are connected with the reflection on the ontological value and self-sufficiency of the individual, which are lost in the situation of blurring the boundaries between the material and the ideal, man and thing. The human deformation discovered and explored by Slavnikova is thought of as an unmotivated fundamental property of the world. All three authors are characterized by the actualization of Gogol’s laughter, where the comic and the tragic coexist.

Abstract:

&nbsp; <p>Ilias Anagnostakis - Natalia Poulou-Papadimitriou</p><p>Mess&egrave;ne protobyzantine (Ve-VIIe s.) et probl&egrave;mes de la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e dans le P&eacute;loponn&egrave;se.</p><p>L'&eacute;tude est divis&eacute;e en trois chapitres, qui suivent l'enqu&ecirc;te, l'orientation et les stades du travail entrepris. Dans le chapitre I (Mess&egrave;ne protobyzantine Ve-VIIe s.) nous pr&eacute;sentons une synth&egrave;se de l'ensemble de la ville d'apr&egrave;s les sources et les fouilles r&eacute;centes dirig&eacute;es par P. Themelis. La d&eacute;couverte des tr&eacute;sors des monnaies dat&eacute;es du 6e s., d'un habitat et d'un cimeti&egrave;re chr&eacute;tien, o&ugrave; sont utilis&eacute;s des mat&eacute;riaux provenant de la cit&eacute; antique et romaine, et surtout les objets trouv&eacute;s dans la tombe 31B (une boucle et un pot model&eacute;) nous ont conduit &agrave; sugg&eacute;rer la survie de l'habitat au milieu du 7e s. La datation r&eacute;sulte par l'&eacute;tude d'un nombre de fibules identiques &agrave; celle de la tombe 31B, trouv&eacute;es dans le territoire grec et que nous consid&eacute;rons de provenance byzantine et d'utilisation commune. Cette datation s'applique, par cons&eacute;quent, au pot model&eacute;, lui aussi identique au pot d'une tombe de Corinthe, consid&eacute;r&eacute;e comme &laquo;avaroslave&raquo; ou &laquo;barbare&raquo; et dat&eacute;e vaguement &agrave; la fin du 6e-d&eacute;but 7e s. Ce fut, donc, une raison suffisante pour le r&eacute;examen exhaustif et la r&eacute;appr&eacute;ciation de l'ensemble de la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e trouv&eacute;e dans le P&eacute;loponn&egrave;se afin de trancher sur la question barbare ou slave et de donner une chronologie <em>ante</em> <em>quem</em> de la tombe et de l'habitat protobyzantin de Mess&egrave;ne.</p><p>L'&eacute;tude de la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e est pr&eacute;sent&eacute;e au chapitre II: La C&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e du P&eacute;loponn&egrave;se. D'embl&eacute;e nous proposons la d&eacute;signation de cette c&eacute;ramique comme model&eacute;e (&chi;&epsilon;&iota;&rho;&omicron;&pi;&omicron;ί&eta;&tau;&eta;) au lieu des termes &laquo;slave&raquo; ou &laquo;avaroslave&raquo;. Par cette appellation ces objets sont d&eacute;tach&eacute;s de toute id&eacute;e pr&eacute;con&ccedil;ue et de toute interpr&eacute;tation historiographique. La c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e est regroup&eacute;e en trois cat&eacute;gories: 1) C&eacute;ramique commune de production familiale, 2) C&eacute;ramique qui sert de mobilier (pot) fun&eacute;raire, et 3) Urnes d'incin&eacute;ration. Ces trois cat&eacute;gories correspondaient aux besoins et aux moeurs d'une population au d&eacute;but h&eacute;t&eacute;rog&egrave;ne, qui v&eacute;cut en commun la transition vers une &eacute;conomie du troc. Ainsi la poterie commune, diversifi&eacute;e suivant les r&eacute;gions et les moeurs, est &eacute;tudi&eacute;e en dehors de toute interpr&eacute;tation ethnique douteuse, mais comme produit de l'ensemble d'une population, que caract&eacute;risent les interf&eacute;rences culturelles. Les urnes &agrave; incineration de l'Olympie restent uniques, une exception dans l'ensemble du P&eacute;loponn&egrave;se: elles sont attribu&eacute;es aux Slaves de la r&eacute;gion, qui tout en restant en marge, ils vivaient en rapport avec les autochtones. Une grande partie du chapitre II est consacr&eacute;e au r&eacute;examen de la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e d'Argos, ainsi qu'&agrave; la c&eacute;ramique tourn&eacute;e de bonne qualit&eacute;, qui fut trouv&eacute;e dans la m&ecirc;me couche. Avec des arguments, qui r&eacute;sultent des recherches r&eacute;centes sur la c&eacute;ramique tourn&eacute;e et sur la stromatographie probl&eacute;matique des fouilles d'Argos, cette c&eacute;ramique ne peut que dater du 7e si&egrave;cle. Cela nous am&egrave;ne forc&eacute;ment &agrave; la critique et l'abandon de la chronologie propos&eacute;e par Aupert et de l'attribution de la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute; de l'Argos aux envahisseurs avaroslaves du 585. Apr&egrave;s l'examen critique de la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e trouv&eacute;e toujours avec de la c&eacute;ramique tourn&eacute;e de bonne qualit&eacute; dans un nombre de sites p&eacute;loponn&eacute;siens (Argos, Tiryns, Isthmia, Sparte, Pallantion) nous constatons que cette c&eacute;ramique s'&eacute;tend du 7e au 14e s.; elle peut ainsi &ecirc;tre difficilement attribu&eacute;e aux invasions slaves du 6e-7e s. ou &agrave; une seule partie de la population. Au contraire, elle constitue un autre type de c&eacute;ramique utilis&eacute;e par l'ensemble de la population &agrave; travers les si&egrave;cles en m&ecirc;me temps que la c&eacute;ramique tourn&eacute;e. En conclusion, la c&eacute;ramique mont&eacute;e &agrave; la main trouv&eacute;e en Gr&egrave;ce n'est ni toujours ni forc&eacute;ment slave.</p><p>Dans le Chapitre III: La c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e dans l'Ouest du P&eacute;loponn&egrave;se et les perspectives de la recherche, notre orientation consiste &agrave; r&eacute;&eacute;valuer l'impact des invasions slaves dans le P&eacute;loponn&egrave;se et surtout dans sa partie Ouest consid&eacute;r&eacute;e comme la r&eacute;gion slavis&eacute;e par excellence. Nous essayons d'examiner sur le terrain, sans id&eacute;e pr&eacute;con&ccedil;ue, &agrave; quoi correspondent les &laquo;Dark Ages&raquo; de la r&eacute;gion et de sa slavisation, d'autant plus que la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e commune y manque compl&egrave;tement, alors qu'elle est plut&ocirc;t abondante dans la partie Est, qui fut toujours sous contr&ocirc;le byzantin. Consid&eacute;rant a priori comme slaves les objets de la tombe 31B de Mess&egrave;ne nous proposons une hypoth&egrave;se de travail, calqu&eacute;e sur celle de plusieurs chercheurs, pour esquisser la Mess&egrave;ne et sa r&eacute;gion &agrave; l'&eacute;poque des invasions avaroslaves vers le 580. Ainsi, avec des arguments tir&eacute;s de la toponymie, des tr&eacute;sors et des textes post&eacute;rieurs, mais surtout utilisant le t&eacute;moignage des urnes &agrave; incin&eacute;ration de l'Olympie, que certains datent vers la fin du 6e s., et le pot model&eacute; de la tombe 31B de Mess&egrave;ne nous constatons que tout s'accorde pour donner droit et justifier le r&eacute;cit du 10e s. de la <em>Chronique de Monembasie</em> sur la slavisation de la r&eacute;gion de l'Ouest d&eacute;j&agrave; &agrave; la fin du 6e s. Cette structure s'&eacute;croule n&eacute;anmoins si les objets de la tombe sont dat&eacute;s au milieu du 7e s. Ce genre d'approche met en relief l'impact de l'historiographie et les probl&egrave;mes du rapport entre les textes et les donn&eacute;es arch&eacute;ologiques. Nous pensons finalement que la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e nous offre plut&ocirc;t des informations pr&eacute;cieuses sur la coexistence et les interf&eacute;rences culturelles. Mais plus encore: nous consid&eacute;rons comme la seule perspective de la recherche sur la c&eacute;ramique model&eacute;e du P&eacute;loponn&egrave;se celle qui sera bas&eacute;e sur une nouvelle approche. Une approche qui posera un autre regard sur le probl&egrave;me du rapport entre textes et donn&eacute;es arch&eacute;ologiques, sur le probl&egrave;me du passage &agrave; une &eacute;conomie du troc, de la rar&eacute;faction et la ruralisation des villes et sur le retour &agrave; une poterie locale faite &agrave; la main.</p><p>&nbsp;</p>

Abstract:

Introduction: DNMT3A is well accepted as an ancestral lesion in clonal hematopoiesis. Canonical R882 mutations ( MT) enriched in acute myeloid leukemia are considered dominant negative. In contrast, the functional impact of non-R882 lesions is quite heterogeneous and largely present in clonal hematopoiesis of indeterminate potential (CHIP) and myeloid neoplasms (MN). While it has been shown that a single non-R882 DNMT3AMT may not be as functionally impactful as R882, little is known about whether double mutant non-R882 DNMT3A (monoallelic or hemi/heterozygous biallelic) has a similar functional/biological impact as R882 canonical lesion. Studying this aspect is only feasible in a larger cohort of sequencing studies. We performed an extensive analysis to compare the prognostic outcome between single canonical and non-canonical double mutant DNMT3AMT in MN. Methods: Multiple datasets were used to construct a larger cohort of 16,565 MN patients with sequencing data. This included MN patients from Karmanos Cancer Institute and a publicly available metanalytic cohort including Awada et al., Blood 2021, Kewan et al., Nature Communications 2023, cBioPortal (Cerami et al., 2012) and AACR GENIE (v 13.1). Patients with known DNMT3A mutational status were included in the final analysis. Baseline clinical and molecular characteristics were noted. The chi-square test was used to study various parameters described, and the Kaplan-Meier curves were used for survival analyses. Results: DNMT3A was mutated in 18% (2903/16,565) of all MN which included primary acute myeloid leukemia (pAML, n=1910), secondary (sAML, n=531), myeloproliferative neoplasms (MPN, n=100), myelodysplastic syndrome/myeloproliferative neoplasm (MDS/MPN, n=57), myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS, n=305) in the whole cohort. We analyzed 2903 DNMT3AMT MN and further classified them; 41%(n=1191/2903) had single R882, 48%(n=1407/2903) with single non-R882, 8%(n=226/2903) had double mutations at non-R882 locus, 1%(n=39/2903) was hom*ozygous for R882 and 1% (n=40/2903) with mutations at R882 and non-R882 positions. Among non-R882 mutations, missense was more common [38%(85/226)] than nonsense [4%(9/226)], frameshift [1%(2/226)], and all others [57%(130/226)] (including splice-site, insertions, deletions, and other combinations in double non-R882 mutations). Double non-R882 were common in older MN patients [median age 68(37-89) vs. 63(18-96) yrs. in single R882 DNMT3AMT, p=&lt;0.0001]. Double non-R882 compared to single R882 DNMT3AMT were less enriched in pAML and more in sAML [67 vs. 78%, p=0.0012 and 20 vs. 14%, p=0.010 resp]. Double non-R882 was more associated with abnormal karyotype, had lower WBC and BM blast percentage vs. single R882 DNMT3AMT [45 vs. 25%, p&lt;0.0001, median WBC 11(0.5-280) vs 28 (0.1-427)x10 3/mm 3, p&lt;0.010 and median BM blasts 55(0-100) vs 70(0-100),%, p&lt;0.015 resp.]. Median overall survival (OS) was better in single R882 [17 vs. 13 mo. in double non-R882 DNMT3AMT patients, p=0.0013]. Single R882 with normal cytogenetics had better median OS than double non-R882 with normal and abnormal cytogenetics [20 vs. 15 mo., p=0.047 and 20 vs. 11 mo., p=&lt;0.0001 resp.]. Median OS in single R882 was better than in double non-R882 DNMT3AMT p&sAML patients [16 vs. 13 mo., p=0.0267 and 15 vs. 11 mo., p=0.098 resp]. IDH2 (33% vs. 17%, p=&lt;0.0001), BCOR (14% vs. 8%, p=0.003) and ASXL1 (14% vs. 7%, p=0.003) were the most common associated mutations in double non-R882 whereas FLT3 (25% vs. 37%, p=0.0009) and NPM1 (19% vs. 42%, p=&lt;0.0001) were common in single R882 DNMT3AMT MN. Also, a minority [20/226(9%)] of double non-R882were hom*ozygous and had poor median OS [11.5 vs 13.5 mo., p=0.69)] than double non-hom*ozygous non-R882 DNMT3AMT. Our analysis reveals a poor prognosis for double non-R882 vs. single R882 DNMT3AMT patients. Double non-R882 DNMT3AMT patients were older, more enriched with abnormal cytogenetics, and co-mutated with other poor prognostic mutations such as BCOR and ASXL1. BCOR and ASXL1 co-mutated patients are observed to have worse outcomes in myeloid neoplasms (data not shown here). Our ongoing analysis, to be presented at the ASH meeting, will determine if treatment and transplant may alter poor outcomes in this unique subgroup of DNMT3AMT patients. Biallelic hom*ozygous non-R882 DNMT3AMT is rare and carries a worse prognosis, and further studies are needed to elucidate this unique subgroup of AML.

Abstract:

In 1940, Virginia Woolf blamed the printing press for killing the oral tradition that had promoted authorial anonymity: “Anon is dead,” she pronounced. Scholarship on the printed word has abundantly recognized that, far from being dead, Anon remained very much alive in Britain through the end of the nineteenth century. Even in the twentieth century, Anon lived on, among particular groups and particular genres, yet little scholarship has addressed this endurance. Here, after defining anonymity and sketching its history in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, I offer three findings. First, women had less need for anonymity as they gained civil protections elsewhere, but anonymity still appealed to writers made vulnerable by their marginalized identities or risky views. Second, in the early twentieth century the genre most likely to go unsigned was autobiography, in all its forms. Third, on rare occasions, which I enumerate, strict anonymity achieves what pseudonymity cannot. I conclude by suggesting that among British modernist authors, the decline of practiced anonymity stimulated desired anonymity and the prizing of anonymity as an aesthetic ideal.

Abstract:

Functions of Meta-discursive Nouns: A Corpus-based Comparison of Post-graduate Genres in L1 and L2 EnglishAcademic discourse is characterized by various linguistic features that academic writers utilize to maintain cohesion, reader–writer communication, and authorial stance. Recently, meta-discourse (MD) has received considerable attention as one of the most prominent linguistic and pragmatic features of academic writing. Despite the abundance of nouns in academic genres, there has been little attention paid to their meta-discursive functions. In this study, we intend to address this gap by exploring the usage of nouns, specifically in two important post-graduate genres: MA and Ph.D. theses written by both native and non-native academic writers of English. The analysis draws on a corpus of 1,148,992 words of MA and Ph.D. theses, and the concordance software, AntConc version 3.5.8, was utilized to calculate the frequency counts of MD nouns. Log-likelihood statistics were performed to determine whether there was a statistical difference among four corpora regarding the use of MD nouns. We observed cultural variations in the MD noun usage between native and non-native academic writers of English. The analysis also reflected the same rhetorical decisions by both groups of academic writers regarding the deployment of MD nouns in MA and Ph.D. theses. Hence, it may be suggested that a genre-based approach in academic writing courses may raise students’ awareness of socially and disciplinary-based norms of academic genres.Funkcje rzeczowników metadyskursywnych: porównawcze badania korpusowe gatunków akademickich w języku angielskim L1 i L2Dyskurs akademicki charakteryzuje się różnymi cechami językowymi, które autorzy akademiccy wykorzystują w celu utrzymania spójności, komunikacji między odbiorcą a autorem oraz wyrażenia postawy autorskiej. W ostatnim czasie metadyskurs zyskał znaczną rolę jako jedna z najbardziej znaczących cech językowych i pragmatycznych dzieł akademickich. Pomimo obfitości rzeczowników w gatunkach akademickich niewiele uwagi poświęcono ich funkcjom metadyskursywnym. W niniejszym artykule zamierzamy wypełnić powstałą lukę, badając użycie rzeczowników, szczególnie w dwóch ważnych gatunkowo pracach: magisterskich i doktorskich, napisanych zarówno przez rodzimych, jak i nierodzimych użytkowników języka angielskiego. Analiza opiera się na korpusie prac magisterskich i doktorskich liczącym 1 148 992 słowoform. Do ustalania konkordancji i obliczenia częstości użycia poszczególnych rzeczowników zastosowano oprogramowanie AntConc w wersji 3.5.8. Statystyka log-likelihood została przeprowadzona w celu określenia, czy istnieje statystyczna różnica pomiędzy czterema korpusami w zakresie użycia rzeczowników metadyskursywnych. Zaobserwowaliśmy różnice kulturowe w użyciu rzeczowników metadyskursywnych pomiędzy rodzimymi i nierodzimymi użytkownikami języka angielskiego. Analiza odzwierciedliła również te same decyzje retoryczne obu grup autorów akademickich dotyczące użycia rzeczowników MD w pracach magisterskich i doktorskich. W związku z tym można zasugerować, że podejście oparte na gatunku w kursach pisania prac akademickich może zwiększyć świadomość studentów na temat norm społecznych i dyscyplinarnych gatunków akademickich.

Abstract:

While the popular genres of progressive rock and heavy metal have received significant scholarly attention, discussions of the syncretic subgenre of progressive metal are rare. Jonathan Pieslak’s 2007 article on the music of Meshuggah does much to delimit the stylistic boundaries of the subgenre, noting the importance placed by progressive metal bands and their fans on the rhythmic and metrical complexity of the music. Dream Theater, one of the most visible and commercially successful progressive metal bands, however, has received little scholarly attention to this point. The aim of this article is to describe Dream Theater’s unique metrical processes, focusing on a technique that I label the ABAC Additive Metrical Process (ABAC-AMP). The temporally complex examples I analyze in this article—culled from throughout Dream Theater’s decades-long career—are compared with techniques of early minimalist composers. The analysis demonstrates Dream Theater’s “progressive” aesthetic, and it aids in a characterization of the band’s sound as possessing a progressive rock center and a heavy metal periphery.

Abstract:

No one who knows the quality and quantity of his work will be surprised to hear that G. E. Bentley, Jr., published one more meticulous, thoughtful, and eminently readable book before his death in 2017. This one is an account of the publishing career of Thomas Macklin, patron of William Blake (and most of his colleagues in art), proprietor of the Poets’ Gallery (the name of a printshop, a gallery, and a series of publications), and the publisher of the largest and most opulent illustrated letterpress King James Bible ever produced. Little is known about Macklin beyond the public facts of his commercial activities—even the year of his birth is expressed by a span of nearly a decade—but in his day he was second in importance only to John Boydell among English publishers of prints and illustrated books. Boydell began building his publishing empire in the early 1750s, cannily introducing vertical integration into the prevailing model of printselling, in which independent engravers sold their prints and sometimes their plates to printsellers, who retailed them to the public. Except for Hogarth’s works, the English print market in the first half of the eighteenth century was dominated by portraits, landscapes, and genre subjects with only modest aesthetic pretensions, using merely functional graphic techniques. Hoping to raise the dignity of the English print, Boydell began to hire the best painters in England to create grand images of historical (that is, narrative) subjects from myth and ancient and modern history, then hired the best engravers to create large, highly polished prints, often on the scale of small paintings, using elegant graphic techniques that had been the specialty of European engravers. “History painting” was the most exalted, among critics, at least, of the pictorial modes, but had been largely avoided in the early English print market, whether because of vestigial Protestant iconoclasm, objections to the “Roman” associations of traditional religious subjects, or aversion to classical paganism. Boydell’s new English prints often appealed to patriotism (as in the large engraving of Benjamin West’s Death of Wolfe) and were marketed as fine art for those who could not afford oil paintings but could manage a few fancy prints, framed and glazed, perhaps hand colored, for their parlors. This phenomenon expanded and exalted the English print market for a while, but bourgeois parlors had limited space on the walls, and only wealthy collectors could afford to buy and store, much less display, large numbers of prints.

Abstract:

I. First Brexit, then Trump: Has the past year or so ushered in a “wave” (Weisberg), a “barrage” (Desmond-Harris) or a “deluge” (Sidahmed) of that notoriously noxious affect, hate? It certainly feels that way to those of us identified with progressive social and political causes—those of us troubled, not just by Trump’s recent electoral victory, but by the far-right forces to which that victory has given voice. And yet the questions still hanging over efforts to quantify emotional or affective states leaves the claim that there has been a clear spike in hate moot (Ngai 26; Massumi 136-7; Ahmed, Promise 3-8). So let’s try asking a different question. Has this same period seen a rise, across liberal media platforms, in the rhetorical work of “hate-attribution”? Here, at least, an answer seems in readier reach. For no one given to scrolling distractedly through liberal Anglophone media outlets, from The New York Times, to The Guardian, to Slate, will be unfamiliar with a species of journalism that, in reporting the appalling activities associated with what has become known as the “alt-right” (Main; Wallace-Wells; Gourarie), articulates those activities in the rubric of a calculable uptick in hate itself.Before the U.S. Presidential election, this fledgling journalistic genre was already testing its wings, its first shudderings felt everywhere from Univision anchor Jorge Ramos’s widely publicized documentary, Hate Rising (2016), which explores the rise of white supremacist movements across the South-West U.S, to an edition of Slate’s Trumpcast entitled “The Alt-Right and a Deluge of Hate,” which broached the torment-by-Twitter of left-wing journalist David French. In the wake of the election, and the appalling acts of harassment and intimidation it seemed to authorize, the genre gained further momentum—leading to the New Yorker’s “Hate Is on the Rise After Trump’s Election,” to The Guardian’s “Trump’s Election led to Barrage of Hate,” and to Vox’s “The Wave of Post-Election Hate Reportedly Sweeping the Nation, Explained.” And it still has traction today, judging not just by James King’s recent year-in-review column, “The Year in Hate: From Donald Trump to the Rise of the Alt-Right,” but by Salon’s “A Short History of Hate” which tracks the alt-right’s meteoric 2016 rise to prominence, and the New York Times’ recently launched hate-speech aggregator, “This Week in Hate.”As should already be clear from these brisk, thumbnail accounts of the texts in question, the phenomena alluded to by the titular term “hate” are not instances of hate per se, but rather instances of “hate-speech.” The word “hate,” in other words, is being deployed here not literally, to refer to an emotional state, but metonymically, as a shorthand for “hate-speech”—a by-now widely conventionalized and legally codified parlance originating with the U.N. Declaration to describe “violent or violence-inciting speech or acts that “aim or intend to inflict injury, or incite prejudice or hatred, against persons of groups” because of their ethnic, religious, sexual or social affiliation. And there is no doubt that, beyond the headlines, these articles do incredibly important work, drawing connections between, and drawing attention to, a host of harmful activities associated with the so-called “alt-right”—from a pair of mangled, pretzel-shaped swastikas graffiti-ed in a children’s playground, to acts of harassment, intimidation and violence against women, African-Americans, Latinos, Muslims, Jews, and LGBTQ people, to Trump’s own racist, xenophobic and misogynistic tweets. Yet the fact that an emotion-term like hate is being mobilized across these texts as a metonym for the “alt-right” is no oratorical curio. Rather, it perpetuates a pervasive way of thinking about the relationship between the alt-right (a political phenomenon) and hate (an emotional phenomenon) that should give pause to those of us committed to mining that vein of cultural symptomatology now consigned, across the social sciences and critical humanities, to affect theory. Specifically, these headlines inscribe, in miniature, a kind of micro-assessment, a micro-geography and micro-theory of hate. First, they suggest that, even prior to its incarnation in specific, and dangerous, forms of speech or action, hate is in and of itself anathema, a phenomenon so unquestioningly dangerous that a putative “rise” or “spike” in its net presence provides ample pretext for a news headline. Second, they propose that hate may be localized to a particular social or political group—a group subsisting, unsurprisingly, on that peculiarly contested frontier between the ideological alt-right and the American Midwest. And third, they imply that hate is so indubitably the single most significant source of the xenophobic, racist and sexist activities they go on to describe that it may be casually used as these activities’ lexical proxy. What is crystallizing here, I suggest, is what scholars of rhetoric dub a rhetorical “constellation” (Campbell and Jamieson 332)—a constellation from which hate emerges as, a) inherently problematic, b) localizable to the “alt-right,” and, c) the primary engine of the various activities and expressions we associate with them. This constellation of conventions for thinking about hate and its relationship to the activities of right-wing extremist movement has coalesced into a “genre” we might dub the genre of “hate-attribution.” Yet while it’s far from clear that the genre is an effective one in a political landscape that’s fast becoming a political battleground, it hasn’t appeared by chance. Treating “hate,” then, less as a descriptive “grid of analysis” (Sedgwick 152), than as a rhetorical projectile, this essay opens by interrogating the “hate-attribution” genre’s logic and querying its efficacy. Having done so, it approaches the concept of “alternatives” by asking: how might calling time on the genre help us think differently about both hate itself and about the forces catalyzing, and catalyzed by, Trump’s presidential campaign? II.The rhetorical power of the genre of hate-attribution, of course, isn’t too difficult to pin down. An emotion so thoroughly discredited that its assignment is now in and of itself a term of abuse (see, for example, the O.E.D’s freshly-expanded definition of the noun “hater”), hate is an emotion the Judeo-Christian tradition deems not just responsible for but practically akin to murder (John 3:1). In part as a result of this tradition, hate has proven thoroughly resistant to efforts to elevate it from the status of an expression of a subject’s pestiferous inner life to the status of a polemical response to an object in the world. Indeed, while a great deal of the critical energy amassing under the rubric of “affect theory” has recently been put into recuperating the strategic or diagnostic value of emotions long scorned as irrelevant to oppositional struggle—from irritation and envy, to depression, anger and shame (Ngai; Cvetkovich; Gould; Love)—hate has notably not been among them. In fact, those rare scholarly accounts of affect that do address “hate,” notably Ahmed’s excellent work on right-wing extremist groups in the United Kingdom, display an understandable reluctance to rehabilitate it for progressive thought (Cultural Politics). It should come as no surprise, then, that the genre of “hate-attribution” has a rare rhetorical power. In identifying “hate” as the source of a particular position, gesture or speech-act, we effectively drain said position, gesture or speech-act of political agency or representational power—reducing it from an at-least-potentially polemical action in or response to the world, to the histrionic expression of a reprehensible personhood. Yet because hate’s near-taboo status holds across the ideological and political spectrum, what is less clear is why the genre of hate-attribution has achieved such cachet in the liberal media in particular. The answer, I would argue, lies in the fact that the work of hate-attribution dovetails all too neatly with liberal political theory’s longstanding tendency to laminate its social and civic ideals to affective ideals like “love,” “sympathy,” “compassion,” and, when in a less demonstrative humor, “tolerance”. As Martha Nussbaum’s Political Emotions has recently shown, this tradition has an impressive philosophical pedigree, running from Aristotle’s philia (16), John Locke’s “toleration” and David Hume’s “sympathy” (69-75), to the twentieth century’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights, with its promotion of “tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial or religious groups.” And while the labour of what Lauren Berlant calls “liberal sentimentality” (“Poor Eliza”, 636) has never quite died away, it does seem to have found new strength with the emergence of the “intimate public sphere” (Berlant, Queen)—from its recent popular apotheosis in the Clinton campaign’s notorious “Love Trumps Hate” (a slogan in which “love,” unfortunately, came to look a lot like resigned technocratic quietism in the face of ongoing economic and environmental crisis [Zizek]), to its revival as a philosophical project among progressive scholars, many of them under the sway of the so-called “affective turn” (Nussbaum; Hardt; Sandoval; hooks). No surprise, then, that liberalism’s struggle to yoke itself to “love” should have as its eerie double a struggle to locate among its ideological and political enemies an increasingly reified “hate”. And while the examples of this project we’ve touched on so far have hailed from popular media, this set of protocols for thinking about hate and its relationship to the activities of right-wing extremist movements is not unique to media circles. It’s there in political discourse, as in ex-DNC chair Debbie Wasserman Schultz’s announcement, on MSNBC, that “Americans will unite against [Trump’s] hatred.” And it’s there, too, in academic media studies, from FLOW journal’s November 2016 call for papers inviting respondents to comment, among other things, on “the violence and hatred epitomized by Trump and his supporters,” to the SCMS conference’s invitation to members to participate in a pop-up panel entitled “Responding to Hate, Disenfranchisem*nt and the Loss of the Commons.” Yet while the labor of hate-attribution to which many progressive forces have become attached carries an indisputable rhetorical force, it also has some profound rhetorical flaws. The very same stigma, after all, that makes “hate” such a powerful explanatory grenade to throw also makes it an incredibly tough one to land. As Ahmed’s analysis of the online rhetoric of white supremacist organizations should remind us (Cultural Politics), most groups structured around inciting and promoting violence against women and minorities identify, perversely, not as hate groups, but as movements propelled by the love of race and nation. And while left-wing pundits pronounce “hate” the signature emotion of a racist, misogynist Trump-voting right, supporters of Trump ascribe it, just as routinely, to the so-called “liberal elite,” a group whose mythical avatars—from the so-called “Social Justice Warrior” or “SJW,” to the supercilious Washington politico—are said to brand “ordinary [white, male] Americans” indiscriminately as racist, misogynistic, hom*ophobic buffoons. Thus, for example, The Washington Post’s uncanny, far-right journalistic alter-ego, The Washington Times, dubs the SPLC a “liberal hate group”; the Wikipedia mirror-site, Conservapedia, recasts liberal objections to gun violence as “liberal hate speech” driven by an “irrational aversion to weapons”; while one blood-curdling sub-genre of reportage on Steve Bannon’s crypto-fascist soapbox, Breitbart News, is devoted to denouncing what it calls “ ‘anti-White Racism.’” It’s easy enough, of course, to defend the hate-attribution genre’s liberal incarnations while dismissing its right-wing variants as cynical, opportunistic shams, as Ahmed does (Cultural Politics)—thereby re-establishing the wellspring of hate where we are most comfortable locating it: among our political others. Yet to do so seems, in some sense, to perpetuate a familiar volley of hate-attribution. And to the extent that, as many media scholars have shown (Philips; Reed; Tett; Turow), our digital, networked political landscape is in danger of being reduced to a silo-ed discursive battleground, the ritual exchange of terminological grenades that everyone seems eager to propel across ideological lines, but that no one, understandably, seems willing to pick up, seems counter-productive to say the least.Even beyond the genre’s ultimate ineffectiveness, what should strike anyone used to reflecting on affect is how little justice it does to the ubiquity and intricacy of “hate” as an affective phenomenon. Hate is not and cannot be the exclusive property or preserve of one side of the political spectrum. One doesn’t have to stretch one’s critical faculties too far to see the extent to which the genre of hate-attribution participates in the emotional ballistics it condemns or seeks to redress. While trafficking in a relatively simple hate-paradigm (as a subjective emotional state that may be isolated to a particular person or group), the genre itself incarnates a more complex, socially dynamic model of hate in which the emotion operates through logics of projection perhaps best outlined by Freud. In the “hate-attribution” genre, that is, hate—like those equally abjected categories “sentimentality,” “worldliness” or “knowingness” broached by Sedgwick in her bravura analyses of “scapegoating attribution” (150-158)—finds its clearest expression in and through the labor of its own adscription. And it should come as no surprise that an emotion so widely devalued, where it is not openly prohibited, might also find expression in less overt form.Yet to say as much is by no means to discredit the genre. As legal scholar Jeremy Waldron has recently pointed out, there’s no particular reason why “the passions and emotions that lie behind a particular speech act” (34)—even up to and including hate—should devalue the speech acts they rouse. On the contrary, to pin the despicable and damaging activities of the so-called “alt right” on “hate” is, if anything, to do an injustice to a rich and complex emotion that can be as generative as it can be destructive. As Freud suggests in “Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego,” for example, hate may be the very seed of love, since the forms of “social feeling” (121) celebrated under the liberal rubric of “tolerance,” “love,” and “compassion,” are grounded in “the reversal of what was first a hostile feeling into a positively-toned tie in the nature of an identification” (121; italics mine). Indeed, Freud projects this same argument across a larger, historical canvas in Civilization and its Discontents, which contends that it is in our very struggle to combat our “aggressive instincts” that human communities have developed “methods intended to incite people into identifications and aim-inhibited relationships of love” (31). For Freud, that is, the practice of love is a function of ongoing efforts to see hate harnessed, commuted and transformed. III.What might it mean, then, to call time on this round of hate-attribution? What sort of “alternatives” might emerge when we abandon the assumption that political engagement entails a “struggle over who has the right to declare themselves as acting out of love” (Ahmed, Cultural Politics 131), and thus, by that same token, a struggle over the exact location and source of hate? One boon, I suggest, is the license it gives those of us on the progressive left to simply own our own hate. There’s little doubt that reframing the dangerous and destructive forms of speech fomented by Trump’s campaign, not as eruptions of hate, or even as “hate-speech,” but as speech we hate would be more consistent with what once seemed affect theory’s first commandment: to take our own affective temperature before launching headlong into critical analysis. After all, when Lauren Berlant (“Trump”) takes a stab at economist Paul Krugman’s cautions against “the Danger of Political Emotions” with the timely reminder that “all the messages are emotional,” the “messages” she’s pointing to aren’t just those of our political others, they’re ours; and the “emotions” she’s pointing to aren’t just the evacuated, insouciant versions of love championed by the Clinton campaign, they’re of the messier, or as Ngai might put it, “uglier” (2) variety—from shame, depression and anger, to, yes, I want to insist, hate.By way of jump-starting this program of hate-avowal, then, let me just say it: this essay was animated, in part, by a certain kind of hate. The social critic in me hates the breathtaking simplification of the complex social, economic and emotional forces animating Trump voters that seem to actuate some liberal commentary; the psychologist in me hates the self-mystification palpable in the left’s insistence on projecting and thus disowning its own (often very well justified) aggressions; and the human being in me, hating the kind of toxic speech to which Trump’s campaign has given rise, wishes to be able to openly declare that hatred. Among its other effects, hate is characterized by hypervigilance for lapses or failings in an object it deems problematic, a hypervigilance that—sometimes—animates analysis (Zeki and Romoya). In this sense, “hate” seems entitled to a comfortable place in the ranks of what Nick Salvato has recently dubbed criticism’s creative “obstructions”—phenomena that, while “routinely identified as detriments” to critical inquiry, may also “form the basis for … critical thinking” (1).Yet while one boon associated with this disclosure might be a welcome intellectual honesty, a more significant boon, I’d argue, is what getting this disclosure out of the way might leave room for. Opting out of the game of hurling “hate” back and forth across a super-charged political arena, that is, we might devote our column inches and Facebook posts to the less sensational but more productive task of systematically challenging the specious claims, and documenting the damaging effects, of a species of utterance (Butler; Matsuda; Waldron) we’ve grown used to simply descrying as pure, distilled “hate”. And we also might do something else. Relieved of the confident conviction that we can track “Trumpism” to a spontaneous outbreak of a single, localizable emotion, we might be able to offer a fuller account of the economic, social, political and affective forces that energize it. Certainly, hate plays a part here—although the process by which, as Isabelle Stengers puts it, affect “make[s] present, vivid and mattering … a worldly world” (371) demands that we scrutinize that hate as a syndrome, rather than simply moralize it as a sin, addressing its mainsprings in a moment marked by the nerve-fraying and life-fraying effects of what has become known across the social sciences and critical humanities as conditions of social and economic “precarity” (Muehlebach; Neil and Rossiter; Stewart).But perhaps hate’s not the only emotion tucked away under the hood. Here’s something affect theory knows today: affect moves not, as more traditional theorists of political emotion have it, “unambiguously and predictably from one’s cognitive processing,” but in ways that are messy, muddled and indirect (Gould 24). That form of speech is speech we hate. But it may not be “hate speech.” That crime is a crime we hate. But it may not be a “hate-crime.” One of the critical tactics we might crib from Berlant’s work in Cruel Optimism is that of decoding and decrypting, in even the most hateful acts, an instance of what Berlant, herself optimistically, calls “optimism.” For Berlant, after all, optimism is very often cruel, attaching itself, as it seems to have done in 2016, to scenes, objects and people that, while ultimately destined to “imped[e] the aim that brought [it to them] initially,” nevertheless came to seem, to a good portion of the electorate, the only available exponent of that classic good-life genre, “the change that’s gonna come” (“Trump” 1-2) at a moment when the Democratic party’s primary campaign promise was more of the free-market same. And in a recent commentary on Trump’s rise in The New Inquiry (“Trump”), Berlant exemplified the kind of critical code-breaking this hypothesis might galvanize, deciphering a twisted, self-mutilating optimism in even the most troublesome acts, claims or positions. Here’s one translation: “Anti-P.C. means: I feel unfree.” And here’s another: “people react negatively, reactively and literally to Black Lives Matter, reeling off the other ‘lives’ that matter.” Berlant’s transcription? “They feel that they don’t matter, and they’re not wrong.”ReferencesAhmed, Sara. The Promise of Happiness. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010.———. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. London: Routledge, 2004.Aristotle. Rhetoric. Trans. W. Rhys Roberts. New York: Cosimo Classics, 2010.———. Politics. Trans. Ernest Barker. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.Berlant, Lauren. Cruel Optimism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011.———. “Trump, or Political Emotions.” The New Inquiry 5 Aug. 2016. <http://thenewinquiry.com/features/trump-or-political-emotions/>.———. “Poor Eliza.” American Literature 70.3 (1998): 635-668.———. The Queen of America Goes to Washington City. Durham, NC: Duke UP: 1998.Butler, Judith. Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative. New York and London: Routledge, 1997.Campbell, Karlyn Kohrs, and Kathleen Hall Jamieson. “Introduction to Form and Genre.” Methods of Rhetorical Criticism: A Twentieth Century Perspective. Eds. Bernard Brock, Robert L. Scott, and James W. Chesebro. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1990. 331-242.Conservapedia. “Liberal Hate Speech.” <http://www.conservapedia.com/Liberal_hate_speech>.Cvetkovich, Ann. Depression. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012.Desmond-Harris, Jenna. “The Wave of Post-Election Hate Reportedly Sweeping the Nation, Explained.” Vox 17 Nov. 2016. <http://www.vox.com/2016/11/17/13639138/trump-hate-crimes-attacks-racism- xenophobia-islamophobia-schools>.Freud, Sigmund. “Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego.” Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud Vol. XVIII: 1920-1922. Trans James Strachey. London: Vintage, 2001.———. Civilization and Its Discontents. Trans. James Strachey. 1930. <http://www.stephenhicks.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/FreudS-CIVILIZATION-AND-ITS-DISCONTENTS-text-final.pdf>.Gould, Deborah. “Affect and Protest.” Political Emotions. Eds. Janet Staiger, Anne Cvetkovich, Ann Reynolds. New York: Routledge, 2010.Gourarie, Chava. “How the Alt-Right Checkmated the Media.” Columbia Journalism Review 30 Aug. 2016. <http://www.cjr.org/analysis/alt_right_media_clinton_trump.php>.Hardt, Michael. “For Love or Money.” Cultural Anthropology 26. 4 (2011): 676-82.hooks, bell. All about Love: New Visions. New York: Harper Collins, 2001. Horowitz, David. “Anti-White Racism: The Hate That Dares Not Speak Its Name.” Breitbart News 26 Apr. 2016. <http://www.breitbart.com/big-journalism/2016/04/26/anti-white-racism-hate-dares-not-speak-name-2/>.Hume, David. A Treatise of Human Nature: Being an Attempt to Introduce the Experimental Method of Reasoning into Moral Subjects. London: Thomas and Joseph Allman, 1817.KCRW. “The Rise of Hate and the Right Wing.” <http://www.kcrw.com/news-culture/shows/press-play->.King, James. “This Year in Hate.” Vocativ 12 Dec. 2016. <http://www.vocativ.com/383234/hate-crime-donald-trump-alt-right-2016/>.Locke, John. A Letter Concerning Toleration. London: Huddersfield, 1796.Main, Thomas J. “What’s the Alt-Right?” Los Angeles Times 25 Aug. 2016. <http://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-oe-main-alt-right-trump-20160825-snap-story.html>.Massumi, Brian. Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002.Matsuda, Mari. Words That Wound: Critical Race Theory, Assaultive Speech, and the First Amendment. Westview Press 1993.Muehlebach, Andrea. “On Precariousness and the Ethical Imagination: The Year in Sociocultural Anthropology.” American Anthropologist 115. 2 (2013): 297-311.Neilson, Brett, and Ned Rossiter. “From Precarity to Precariousness and Back Again: Labour, Life and Unstable Networks.” Fibreculture 5 (2005). <http://five.fibreculturejournal.org/fcj-022-from-precarity-to-precariousness-and-back-again-labour-life-and-unstable-networks/1>.Ngai, Sianne. Ugly Feelings. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2005.Nussbaum, Martha. Political Emotions: Why Love Matters for Justice. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2013.Okeowo, Alexis. “Hate on the Rise after Trump’s Election.” New Yorker 17 Nov. 2016. <http://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/hate-on-the-rise-after-trumps-election>.Phillips, Angela. “Social Media Is Changing the Face of Politics—and It’s Not Good News.” The Conversation 9 Feb. 2016. <https://theconversation.com/social-media-is-changing-the-face-of-politics-and-its-not-goodnews-54266>.Reed, T.V. Digitized Lives: Culture, Power and Social Change in the Internet Era. New York: Routledge, 2014.Salvato, Nick. Obstructions. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016.Sandoval, Chela. Methodology of the Oppressed. Minneapolis; Minnesota University Press, 2001. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Epistemology of the Closet. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990.Sidahmed, Mazin. “Trump's Election Led to 'Barrage of Hate', Report Finds.” The Guardian 29 Nov. 2016. <https://www.theguardian.com/society/2016/nov/29/trump-related-hate-crimes-report-southern-poverty-law-center>.Stengers, Isabelle. “Wondering about Materialism.” The Speculative Turn: Continental Philosophy and Realism. Eds. Levi Bryant, Nick Srnicek, and Graham Harman. Melbourne: re.press, 2001. 368-380. Stewart, Kathleen. “Precarity’s Forms.” Cultural Anthropology 27.3 (2012): 518-525. Tett, Gillian. The Silo Effect: The Peril of Expertise and the Promise of Breaking. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2016.Turow, Joseph. The Daily You: How the New Advertising Industry Is Defining Your Identity and Your Worth. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2011.Waldron, Jeremy. The Harm in Hate Speech. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Wallace-Wells, Benjamin, “Is the Alt-Right for Real?” New Yorker 5 May 2016. <http://www.newyorker.com/news/benjamin-wallace-wells/is-the-alt-right-for-real>.Washington Times. “Editorial: The FBI Dumps a ‘Hate Group’.” 28 Mar. 2014. <http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2014/mar/28/editorial-the-fbi-dumps-a-hate- group/>.Weisberg, Jacob. “The Alt-Right and a Deluge of Hate.” Slate 1 Nov. 2016. <http://www.slate.com/articles/podcasts/trumpcast/2016/11/how_the_alt_right_harassed_david_french_on_twitter_and_at_home.html>.Zeki, S., and J.P. Romaya. “Neural Correlates of Hate.” PLoS ONE 1.3 (2008). <http://dx.doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0003556>.Zizek, Slavoj. “Love as a Political Category.” Paper presented to the 6th Subversive Festival, 16 May 2013. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b44IhiCuNw4>.

Abstract:

Among the sub-genres of science fiction, one of the most traditional and most machine-laden is space opera. The name is dismissive and was coined in parallel with the now little recognised 'horse opera' (for westerns) in the wake of the success of the term 'soap opera' (for romantic serials). Space operas were adventure sagas across the galaxies with space ships carrying intrepid crews on voyages of discovery, into glorious battles and terrifying encounters with aliens. The 'opera' part presumably refers to their seriality and overstated melodrama. At various times during the last fifty years space opera has seemed as doomed as the horse type, but sufficient examples were published to keep the sub-genre puttering along until new authors could invigorate it. This has now happened and I want in this brief note to see the change, through looking at one current writer's series to see what has been done, how it has been received and how observing the role of a particular novum (Darko Suvin's term for the imaginative invention that characterises sf) -- a machine in this case, of course -- illuminates what has happened. Because this begins with a consideration of sf history, I want to start with one of the key distinctions that has long operated in both popular and academic analysis of science fiction (though admittedly it has more currency now in the popular); that between hard and soft sf. Unsurprisingly, given how loaded those terms are, it is a gendered distinction. Hard sf is the boys' playground; technologically driven, its allegiances are to physics and engineering. From nano-widgets to space ships as big as planets, it loves machines. The boysiness of hard sf was sedimented in popular sf through the generic hegemony achieved by Hugo Gernsback in his US pulp magazine empire starting with Astounding in 1926. Space opera was the quintessential type of hard sf in the early years, though it came to be challenged if not displaced by colonisation narratives that concentrated on engineering. Soft sf, of necessity the girly stuff, has the squishy bits -- biology certainly, but also the social sciences. Both New Wave and feminist sf, the innovative sub-genres of sf in the 60s and 70s, used soft rather than hard tropes in their subsequently incorporated revisions of the genre. In the 80s, cyberpunk presented itself as the hard stuff, but this was pretty disingenuous (all that voodoo, those drugs, the excursions into various social sciences), not to mention, as Samuel Delany among others has pointed out, the way this could only be managed by denying its feminist foremothers. These days, the traces of space opera's pulp-laden past are there to be read in the way that the more serious American writers like Kim Stanley Robinson prefer sober space colonisation narratives while the truly innovative work (as well as the quality writing) is done outside the US, by a Scot -- Iain M. Banks. In addition to Banks's wondrous novels of the Culture, the revivified field includes more traditional series like Lois McMaster Bujold's Vorkosigan saga, David Weber's Honor Harrington sequence and Colin Greenland's tracing of the career of Tabitha Jute. It would not be possible to examine how Banks has remapped the field in a note such as this, but dealing with some of the more traditional examples can provide an interesting case study in the hardness of the sub-genre, as well as pointing to wider movements in the sf world. It is the latter that is evident in the way in which the male writers produce female lead and the female the male (by and large, Bujold does occasional female leads). Not that Weber makes any attempt to make Honor credible as a female, she's laughably improbable and only needs to be placed near Greenland's Tabitha Jute for the disparity to become evident. (I'm using this comparison not just for its power but also because it stops the suggestion that male writers can't produce decent female action heroes.) For the more detailled part of this I want to concentrate on Bujold's series in part to mull over why it might be that her books are dismissed as too soft and 'girly' to be good space opera. There is something of a problem in that I find the whole hard:soft distinction more than a bit juvenile and value it primarily for its power in understanding sf history. The moves to broaden the field beyond what it was so artificially limited to in early to mid-twentieth century America seem to me to be a move to a more integrated adulthood rather than the imposition of a line of squishy feminine referents to be denied or repelled. I don't see 'softness' as a negative quality (nor 'hardness' for that matter), but I am interested in why and how a space opera series with space ships, space weaponry, gadgets galore and large quantities of prime quality derring-do should be deemed soft. Bujold has written a long series of space operas set in an Earth-colonised far-future that centre on the deformed figure of Lord Miles Vorkosigan. A few other fictions are set in the same universe and link in various ways to the core texts. Not all are set on spaceships though the majority require their presence as significant features of the plot while others rely on such standards of space narrative as space stations, terra-forming and the hardware of space warfare. To dismiss Bujold's world as one where the hardness of space opera technology is subsumed in girliness, it is necessary to overlook not just great passages of certain texts, but to dismiss whole novels. The Vor Game for instance follows a long sequence at an arctic weather station which culminates in the necessary destruction of outdated toxic weaponry with an escapade across great reaches of space in a whole range of ships displaying, selling and eventually using all manner of wonderful weaponry climaxing in a battle for control of a wormhole nexus. The only woman of any narrative prominence is a evil mercenary leader ("face of an angel, mind of a rabid mongoose"). One would think that it all sounds rather a sitter as a hard piece of space opera fare written for a readership of boys of all ages. My description though so far fails to convey where it is that Bujold has updated the sub-genre. It could be that the problem lies in the same place as the updating -- in the nuancing of the character of the hero Miles Vorkosigan and the continuing delineation of the interweaving of his double life as mercenary Admiral and loyal Imperial lieutenant. Traditionally the space opera hero comes into the world if not fully formed, then at least ready for a coming-of-age tale. Bujold shows us the formation of the hero, ensuring that he remains located within his extended family. It could be that complaints come from those who would prefer their heroes not to have mothers. But then again it could be about the humour. Bujold doesn't see earnestness as desirable and writes a fantastical adventure romp. It seems to me that this is one core difference between her and fellow Baen writer David Weber. There is no predicting what a descriptive passage about technology will lead to in Bujold; it could be a novel way to win hand to hand combat or a comic sequence making a moral point about abuse of power. For Weber, a sequence of space ships and weaponry is sufficient in itself, being an opportunity to talk of model numbers and ballistic capabilities with all the narrative brio of Tom Clancy (i.e. none), but at least Clancy is usually talking about something that has an existence in the real world. When both the machine and the science it operates by are more than speculative, labouring the trainspotters'-guide-to-hyperspace-technology talk can only delight anoraks. Machines are ends in themselves for Weber, means to a narrative or characterological point in Bujold. As well as why the machine is mentioned, there is also the question of what kind of machines are favoured. Maybe over the whole sequence, Bujold pays more attention to biologically-based technologies; when she focusses on engineering it is more often as a means to a biological end (usually terraforming), though in Falling Free, the least closely linked of the novels, the biology which enables the creation of the 'quads' -- freefall workers with four arms rather than arms and legs -- is in the service of engineering advantage. The passion in her work, and despite the humour and invention, there is considerable ideologically driven passion, is reserved for her biologically based beliefs -- that physical difference should be no barrier to achievement. As is common in sf, race is incidental and not part of the argument (it is rare for any but black writers of sf to see race as a meaningful issue for the future), but sex and ability are primary. Thus Miles, whose bones were damaged while a foetus and who is short and hunched, Bel Thorne, the hermaphrodite, Taura, the genetically engineered 'perfect soldier' eight foot tall with claws and fangs, Mark, Miles's clone brother and many others who appear less frequently carry the story of difference that must not be allowed to make a difference. Where gender is concerned, the popular spread of feminism means that forceful statements of position are read as political, not as some more woolly bit of being 'nice to the afflicted'. Bujold's feminism may be old-fashioned liberal rather than radical or post-modern, but it doesn't operate by parachuting women in to narratively significant positions of power. You buy the book and you get the argument and with Cordelia, Miles's mother, inscribed as the figure of rationality, the bases are loaded. The machine around which the discourse of liberation is organised, Bujold's novum and the machine which is the focus of complaint, is the uterine replicator -- an artificial womb. In the Bujold universe this is the ultimate good machine. It was a replicator that enabled Miles to survive after teratogenic damage in utero; his first love and his mother both issued from them; and it seems like the key test of a man is his willingness or otherwise to have his wife reproduce in vitro. I suppose I can see why this offends those wedded to old-fashioned hard space opera. Traditionally, the machines that tell the men from the girls/boys/lesser beings are the ships and their weaponry, but here the machines that count replicate the uterus (ultimate squishiness) and so, far from delivering death, deliver babies. Furthermore, their entry into the narrative is almost always the cue for a disquisition on the inequities of the patriarchal society within which Bujold sets almost all her action. InMirror Dance Miles's clone brother Mark finally meets the senior Vorkosigans. He is taken to a court ball by his 'mother' who explains the dynamics of the evening in terms of the political agenda of the old men and the genetic one of the old women. The men imagine theirs is the only one but that's just an ego-serving self-delusion. ... The old men in government councils spend their lives arguing against or scheming to fund this or that piece of off-planet military hardware. Meanwhile the uterine replicator is creeping in past their guard. (296) In the most recent book,Komarr, the main female character is an abused wife with a young son and the fact that her husband required her to bear the child herself is presented as just one of the many abuses he subjects her to. When you read the various passages which discuss the uterine replicators across the books, it can be surprising to discover the insistence with which barbarity and male oppression are figured in the refusal to countenance the machine and good men are revealed by their regarding it as a valuable device. It seems almost to verge on the excessive (but then this is not how such ephemeral texts as popular space opera are read, and if one put together a collection of the passages of 'best bits of weapons admiration' that would look a bit strange too). One could, if so minded, easily dismiss the Vorkosigan adventures as a bit girly on the basis of their enjoyment of interpersonal relations, character development, or romance. If, though, one were willing to admit that only certain pieces of hardware had generically usable hardness, it might rather be possible to observe that the carping at the centrality of the wrong kind of machine identifies much more accurately what is really worrying about the whole popularity of the series -- that this machine is a Trojan Horse for the incorporation through hard technology of 'hard' feminist politics. References Bujold, Lois McMaster. Komarr. Earthlight, 1998. ---. Mirror Dance Riverdale: Baen, 1994. ---. The Vor Game. Riverdale: Baen, 1990. Delany, Samuel R. Silent Interviews: On Language, Race, Sex, Science Fiction and Some Comics. Hanover: Wesleyan UP, 1994. Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. New Haven: Yale UP, 1979. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Frances Bonner. "The Hard Question of Squishy Machines." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.6 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php>. Chicago style: Frances Bonner, "The Hard Question of Squishy Machines," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 6 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Frances Bonner. (1999) The hard question of squishy machines. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(6). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php> ([your date of access]).

Abstract:

The history of public discourse (and in many cases, academic publishing) on p*rnography is, notoriously, largely polemical and polarised. There is perhaps no other media form that has been so relentlessly the centre of what boils down to little more than arguments “for” or “against”; most famously, on the basis of the oppression, dominance or liberation of sexual subjectivities. These polarised debates leave much conceptual space for researchers to explore: discussions of p*rnography often lack specificity (when speaking of p*rn, what exactly do we mean? Which genre? Which markets?); assumptions (eg. about exactly how the sexualised “white male body” functions culturally, or what the “uses” of p*rn actually might be) can be buried; and empirical opportunities (how p*rn as media industry connects to innovation and the rest of the mediasphere) are missed. In this issue, we have tried to create and populate such a space, not only for the rethinking of some of our core assumptions about p*rnography, but also for the treatment of p*rnography as a bona fide, even while contested and problematic, segment of the media and cultural industries, linked economically and symbolically to other media forms. Our feature article, David Russell’s The Tumescent Citizen, opens up new ways of looking at issues of masculinity and power through the image of renowned p*rn star Ron Jeremy. In particular Russell develops Lauren Berlant’s notion of ‘surplus embodiment’, a concept used to describe so-called ‘problem citizens’, characterized traditionally as women of colour and the poor, who are seen to embody more visibly the laws that define them, to examine the hero status of Ron Jeremy – a white male citizen. Russell shows how Jeremy’s hero status – which is mythologized through, and becomes reducible to the ‘surplus embodiment’ of his penis – subjects Jeremy to excessive regulatory treatment and personal ridicule. By examining the career of the most famous male p*rn star, our feature article directly addresses dominant discourses that otherwise simplistically frame p*rn as a male dominated, privileged industry. Russell’s article strongly introduces our approach to p*rn, and heads an edition that explores p*rn as a multi-faceted, fragmentary collection of industries, intersecting various political, educational and other media discourses, to highlight how very private desires surface publicly, in quite unexpected ways. Providing an important intervention into the ongoing moral panic around the accessibility of Internet p*rnography to children, Donell Holloway, Lelia Green and Robyn Quin present the results of their empirical study of the Internet in everyday Australian family life. Their article “What p*rn? Children and the Family Internet” concludes that Australian parents are less concerned about p*rnography than they are about the Internet as a “time waster”, and that there is a serious disparity between the level of significance afforded the negative implications on families of Internet p*rnography and the way in which the Internet is actually consumed in the household. In “p*rnographic Pedagogies?” Susan Driver reflects upon the usefulness of integrating p*rn texts within educational curricula, describing, through her own teaching experiences, the unpredictable, contradictory but nevertheless engaging readings her students produce of Christine Aguilera’s Dirrty music video. Drawing upon Brian McNair’s ‘p*rno-chic’, which describes the recent crossover of p*rn motifs into contemporary mainstream media, Driver is primarily concerned with how students’ and teachers’ personal desires become vulnerably public through classroom discussion about advertising, film and televisual p*rn imageries. By exploring texts that are ‘chosen by, for and about students’, the article explores the inevitable, and often rewarding, challenges in asking: ‘Who is willing to risk exposure and vulnerability? What are the ethical and political limits of interrogating intimate pleasures? How do I render this intimacy culturally meaningful? When personal pleasures are questioned as part of a public dialogue are they diminished? Intensified? Transformed?’ Also concerned with the cracks in established public discourses around p*rnography, Linda Levitt’s “Family Business” explores the reality TV program of the same name, a “behind the scenes” look at the everyday life of the p*rn producer Adam Glasser. Levitt’s article draws our attention to the ways in which “p*rn” as in industry and as a genre, rather than remaining quarantined off as the “other” of legitimate media, can become visible to the mainstream, raising interesting questions about the boundaries of mainstream acceptance. Richard Hand’s “Dissecting the Gash” explores the ways in which manga comics fuse both horror and p*rnographic conventions with the ‘purpose of transgressing and provoking the jargon of particular social norms’. The article points to how p*rn can be taken-up as a resistive discourse, particularly in Japan where images of pubic hair are thoroughly forbidden. Surveying the work of Suehiro Maruo in particular, Hand shows how manga’s extreme tendencies are tightly interconnected with Japan’s strict censorship laws, whilst the country’s ascension to superpower status in the mid-nineteen-eighties raises different obsessions for Japan’s involvement in the war. Katrien Jacobs’ article “The Amateur p*rnographer and the Glib Voyeur” marks a shift toward thinking about the relationships between p*rn producers and consumers; a shift most productively explored through a discussion of amateur p*rnography, based on “the changing work practices of web-based and film/video amateur p*rn producers and their spectators”. Jacobs frames such practices within the more general new media fields of indie media, participatory culture, and peer-to-peer production, and perhaps most interestingly, in terms of the “schooling” and “democratization” of the p*rnography industry. In a slightly different take on the social implications of p*rnographic amateurism, Shenja van der Graf addresses some new ways in which p*rnography continues to operate at the forefront of innovation in new media and e-business. She uses the example of SuicideGirls.com to map new relations between producers and consumers in digital contexts, discusses the role of the Suicide Girls’ (amateur) weblogs in building online communities around both shared erotic and corporate interests, and suggests the term “collaborative eroticism” to mark the industry-specific shift from centralized, top-down to decentralized, “peer-to-peer” production and marketing. The issue closes, perhaps fittingly, with Michael C. Bolton’s “Cumming to an End”, rare in that it offers a discussion of the p*rn consumer’s relationship with the p*rnographic text. Bolton’s arguments are framed within the standard construction of the p*rnographic audience – the lone, mastubatory male. While Bolton does not directly challenge this definition, he does track the theme of viewer ejacul*tion through many of the arguments from the “classic” academic literature on p*rn, eventually challenging the assumption that the viewer’s physical response is somehow programmed by the structure of the p*rnographic text, particularly in the case of non-linear (i.e. digital) media such as the DVD. MLA Style Burgess, Jean & King, Andrew. "Editorial: p*rn and the Mediasphere." M/C Journal 7.4 (2004). 10 October 2004 &l4;http://www.media-culture.org.au/0410/00_editorial.php> APA Style Burgess, J. & King, A. (2004 Oct 11). Editorial: p*rn and the Mediasphere, M/C Journal, 7(4). Retrieved Oct 10 2004 from <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0410/00_editorial.php>

Abstract:

Literature—at least serious literature—is something that we work at. This is especially true within the academy. Literature departments are places where workers labour over texts carefully extracting and sharing meanings, for which they receive monetary reward. Specialised languages are developed to describe professional concerns. Over the last thirty years, the productions of mass culture, once regarded as too slight to warrant laborious explication, have been admitted to the academic workroom. Gothic studies—the specialist area that treats fearful and horrifying texts —has embraced the growing acceptability of devoting academic effort to texts that would once have fallen outside of the remit of “serious” study. In the seventies, when Gothic studies was just beginning to establish itself, there was a perception that the Gothic was “merely a literature of surfaces and sensations”, and that any Gothic of substantial literary worth had transcended the genre (Thompson 1). Early specialists in the field noted this prejudice; David Punter wrote of the genre’s “difficulty in establishing respectable credentials” (403), while Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick hoped her work would “make it easier for the reader of ‘respectable’ nineteenth-century novels to write ‘Gothic’ in the margin” (4). Gothic studies has gathered a modicum of this longed-for respectability for the texts it treats by deploying the methodologies used within literature departments. This has yielded readings that are largely congruous with readings of other sorts of literature; the Gothic text tells us things about ourselves and the world we inhabit, about power, culture and history. Yet the Gothic remains a production of popular culture as much as it is of the valorised literary field. I do not wish to argue for a reintroduction of the great divide described by Andreas Huyssen, but instead to suggest that we have missed something important about the ways in which popular Gothics—and perhaps other sorts of popular text—function. What if the popular Gothic were not a type of work, but a kind of play? How might this change the way we read these texts? Johan Huizinga noted that “play is not ‘ordinary’ or ‘real’ life. It is rather a stepping out of ‘real’ life into a temporary sphere of activity with a disposition all of its own. Every child knows perfectly well he is ‘only pretending’, or that it was ‘only for fun’” (8). If the Gothic sometimes offers playful texts, then those texts might direct readers not primarily towards the real, but away from it, at least for a limited time. This might help to account for the wicked spectacle offered by Dennis Wheatley’s The Devil Rides Out, and in particular, its presentation of the black mass. The black mass is the parody of the Christian mass thought to be performed by witches and diabolists. Although it has doubtless been performed on rare occasions since the Middle Ages, the first black mass for which we have substantial documentary evidence was celebrated in Hampstead on Boxing Day 1918, by Montague Summers; it is a satisfying coincidence that Summers was one of the Gothic’s earliest scholars. We have record of Summer’s mass because it was watched by a non-participant, Anatole James, who was “bored to tears” as Summers recited tracts of Latin and practiced hom*osexual acts with a youth named Sullivan while James looked on (Medway 382-3). Summers claimed to be a Catholic priest, although there is some doubt as to the legitimacy of his ordination. The black mass ought to be officiated by a Catholic clergyman so the host may be transubstantiated before it is blasphemed. In doing so, the mass de-emphasises interpretive meaning and is an assault on the body of Christ rather than a mutilation of the symbol of Christ’s love and sacrifice. Thus, it is not conceived of primarily as a representational act but as actual violence. Nevertheless, Summers’ black mass seems like an elaborate form of sexual play more than spiritual warfare; by asking an acquaintance to observe the mass, Summers formulated the ritual as an erotic performance. The black mass was a favourite trope of the English Gothic of the nineteen-sixties and seventies. Dennis Wheatley’s The Devil Rides Out features an extended presentation of the mass; it was first published in 1934, but had achieved a kind of genre-specific canonicity by the nineteen-sixties, so that many Gothics produced and consumed in the sixties and seventies featured depictions of the black mass that drew from Wheatley’s original. Like Summers, Wheatley’s mass emphasised licentious sexual practice and, significantly, featured a voyeur or voyeurs watching the performance. Where James only wished Summers’ mass would end, Wheatley and his followers presented the mass as requiring interruption before it reaches a climax. This version of the mass recurs in most of Wheatley’s black magic novels, but it also appears in paperback romances, such as Susan Howatch’s 1973 The Devil on Lammas Night; it is reimagined in the literate and genuinely eerie short stories of Robert Aickman, which are just now thankfully coming back into print; it appears twice in Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast books. Nor was the black mass confined to the written Gothic, appearing in films of the period too; The Kiss of the Vampire (1963), The Witches (1966), Satan’s Skin, aka Blood on Satan’s Claw (1970), The Wicker Man (1973), and The Satanic Rites of Dracula (1974) all feature celebrations of the Sabbat, as, of course do the filmed adaptations of Wheatley’s novels, The Devil Rides Out (1967) and To the Devil a Daughter (1975). More than just a key trope, the black mass was a procedure characteristic of the English Gothic of the sixties; narratives were structured so as to lead towards its performance. All of the texts mentioned above repeat narrative and trope, but more importantly, they loosely repeat experience, both for readers and the characters depicted. While Summers’ black mass apparently made for tiresome viewing, textual representations of the black mass typically embrace the pageant and sensuality of the Catholic mass it perverts, involving music, incense and spectacle. Often animalistic sex, bestial*ty, infanticide or human sacrifice are staged, and are intended to fascinate rather than bore. Although far from canonical in a literary sense, by 1969 Wheatley was an institution. He had sold 27 million books worldwide and around 70 percent of those had been within the British market. All of his 55 books were in print. A new Wheatley in hardcover would typically sell 30,000 copies, and paperback sales of his back catalogue stood at more than a million books a year. While Wheatley wrote thrillers in a range of different subgenres, at the end of the sixties it was his ‘black magic’ stories that were far and away the most popular. While moderately successful when first published, they developed their most substantial audience in the sixties. When The Satanist was published in paperback in 1966, it sold more than 100,000 copies in the first ten days. By 1973, five of these eight black magic titles had sold more than a million copies. The first of these was The Devil Rides Out which, although originally published in 1934, by 1973, helped by the Hammer film of 1967, had sold more than one and a half million copies, making it the most successful of the group (“Pooter”; Hedman and Alexandersson 20, 73). Wheatley’s black magic stories provide a good example of the way that texts persist and accumulate influence in a genre field, gaining genre-specific canonicity. Wheatley’s apparent influence on Gothic texts and films that followed, coupled with the sheer number of his books sold, indicate that he occupied a central position in the field, and that his approach to the genre became, for a time, a defining one. Wheatley’s black magic stories apparently developed a new readership in the sixties. The black mass perhaps became legible as a salacious, nightmarish version of some imaginary hippy gathering. While Wheatley’s Satanists are villainous, there is a vaguely progressive air about them; they listen to unconventional music, dance in the nude, participate in unconventional sexual practice, and glut themselves on various intoxicants. This, after all, was the age of Hair, Oh! Calcutta! and Oz magazine, “an era of personal liberation, in the view of some critics, one of moral anarchy” (Morgan 149). Without suggesting that the Satanists represent hippies there is a contextual relevancy available to later readers that would have been missing in the thirties. The sexual zeitgeist would have allowed later readers to p*rnographically and pleasurably imagine the liberated sexuality of the era without having to approve of it. Wheatley’s work has since become deeply, embarrassingly unfashionable. The books are racist, sexist, hom*ophobic and committed to a basically fascistic vision of an imperial England, all of which will repel most casual readers. Nor do his works provide an especially good venue for academic criticism; all surface, they do not reward the labour of careful, deep reading. The Devil Rides Out narrates the story of a group of friends locked in a battle with the wicked Satanist Mocata, “a pot-bellied, bald headed person of about sixty, with large, protuberant, fishy eyes, limp hands, and a most unattractive lisp” (11), based, apparently, on the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley (Ellis 145-6). Mocata hopes to start a conflict on the scale of the Great War by performing the appropriate devilish rituals. Led by the aged yet spry Duke de Richleau and garrulous American Rex van Ryn, the friends combat Mocata in three substantial set pieces, including their attempt to disrupt the black mass as it is performed in a secluded field in Wiltshire. The Devil Rides Out is a ripping story. Wheatley’s narrative is urgent, and his simple prose suggests that the book is meant to be read quickly. Likewise, Wheatley’s protagonists do not experience in any real way the crises and collapses that so frequently trouble characters who struggle against the forces of darkness in Gothic narratives. Even when de Richlieu’s courage fails as he observes the Wiltshire Sabbat, this failure is temporary; Rex simply treats him as if he has been physically wounded, and the Duke soon rallies. The Devil Rides Out is remarkably free of trauma and its sequelæ. The morbid psychological states which often interest the twentieth century Gothic are excluded here in favour of the kind of emotional fortitude found in adventure stories. The effect is remarkable. Wheatley retains a cheerful tone even as he depicts the appalling, and potentially repellent representations become entertainments. Wheatley describes in remarkable detail the actions that his protagonists witness from their hidden vantage point. If the Gothic reader looks forward to gleeful blasphemy, then this is amply provided, in the sort of sardonic style that Lewis’ The Monk manages so well. A cross is half stomped into matchwood and inverted in the ground, the Christian host is profaned in a way too dreadful to be narrated, and the Duke informs us that the satanic priests are eating “a stillborn baby or perhaps some unfortunate child that they have stolen and murdered”. Rex is chilled by the sound of a human skull rattling around in their cauldron (117-20). The mass offers a special quality of experience, distinct from the everyday texture of life represented in the text. Ostensibly waiting for their chance to liberate their friend Simon from the action, the Duke and Rex are voyeurs, and readers participate in this voyeurism too. The narrative focus shifts from Rex and de Richlieu’s observation of the mass, to the wayward medium Tanith’s independent, bespelled arrival at the ritual site, before returning to the two men. This arrangement allows Wheatley to extend his description of the gathering, reiterating the same events from different characters’ perspectives. This would be unusual if the text were simply a thriller, and relied on the ongoing release of new information to maintain narrative interest. Instead, readers have the opportunity to “view” the salacious activity of the Satanists a second time. This repetition delays the climactic action of the scene, where the Duke and Rex rescue Simon by driving a car into the midst of the ritual. Moreover, the repetition suggests that the “thrill” on offer is not necessarily related to plot —it offers us nothing new —but instead to simply seeing the rite performed. Tanith, although conveyed to the mass by some dark power, is delayed and she too becomes a part of the mass’ audience. She saw the Satanists… tumbling upon each other in the disgusting nudity of their ritual dance. Old Madame D’Urfé, huge-buttocked and swollen, prancing by some satanic power with all the vigour of a young girl who had only just reached maturity; the Babu, dark-skinned, fleshy, hideous; the American woman, scraggy, lean-flanked and hag-like with empty, hanging breasts; the Eurasian, waving the severed stump of his arm in the air as he gavotted beside the unwieldy figure of the Irish bard, whose paunch stood out like the grotesque belly of a Chinese god. (132) The reader will remember that Madame D’Urfé is French, and that the cultists are dancing before the Goat of Mendes, who masquerades as Malagasy, earlier described by de Richlieu as “a ‘bad black’ if ever I saw one” (11). The human body is obsessively and grotesquely racialized; Wheatley is simultaneously at his most politically vile and aesthetically Goya-like. The physically grotesque meshes with the crudely sexual and racist. The Irishman is typed as a “bard” and somehow acquires a second racial classification, the Indian is horrible seemingly because of his race, and Madame D’Urfé is repulsive because her sexuality is framed as inappropriate to her age. The dancing crone is defined in terms of a younger, presumably sexually appealing, woman; even as she is denigrated, the reader is presented with a contrary image. As the sexuality of the Satanists is excoriated, titillation is offered. Readers may take whatever pleasure they like from the representations while simultaneously condemning them, or even affecting revulsion. A binary opposition is set up between de Richlieu’s company, who are cultured and moneyed, and the Satanists, who might masquerade as civilised, but reveal their savagery at the Sabbat. Their race becomes a further symptom of their lack of civilised qualities. The Duke complains to Rex that “there is little difference between this modern Satanism and Voodoo… We might almost be witnessing some heathen ceremony in an African jungle!” (115). The Satanists become “a trampling mass of bestial animal figures” dancing to music where, “Instead of melody, it was a harsh, discordant jumble of notes and broken chords which beat into the head with a horrible nerve-racking intensity and set the teeth continually on edge” (121). Music and melody are cultural constructions as much as they are mathematical ones. The breakdown of music suggests a breakdown of culture, more specifically, of Western cultural norms. The Satanists feast, with no “knives, forks, spoons or glasses”, but instead drink straight from bottles and eat using their hands (118). This is hardly transgression on the scale of devouring an infant, but emphasises that Satanism is understood to represent the antithesis of civilization, specifically, of a conservative Englishness. Bad table manners are always a sign of wickedness. This sort of reading is useful in that it describes the prejudices and politics of the text. It allows us to see the black mass as meaningful and places it within a wider discursive tradition making sense of a grotesque dance that combines a variety of almost arbitrary transgressive actions, staged in a Wiltshire field. This style of reading seems to confirm the approach to genre text that Fredric Jameson has espoused (117-9), which understands the text as reinforcing a hegemonic worldview within its readership. This is the kind of reading the academy often works to produce; it recognises the mass as standing for something more than the simple fact of its performance, and develops a coherent account of what the mass represents. The labour of reading discerns the work the text does out in the world. Yet despite the good sense and political necessity of this approach, my suggestion is that these observations are secondary to the primary function of the text because they cannot account for the reading experience offered by the Sabbat and the rest of the text. Regardless of text’s prejudices, The Devil Rides Out is not a book about race. It is a book about Satanists. As Jo Walton has observed, competent genre readers effortlessly grasp this kind of distinction, prioritising certain readings and elements of the text over others (33-5). Failing to account for the reading strategy presumed by author and audience risks overemphasising what is less significant in a text while missing more important elements. Crucially, a reading that emphasises the political implications of the Sabbat attributes meaning to the ritual; yet the ritual’s ability to hold meaning is not what is most important about it. By attributing meaning to the Sabbat, we miss the fact of the Sabbat itself; it has become a metaphor rather than a thing unto itself, a demonstration of racist politics rather than one of the central necessities of a black magic story. Seligman, Weller, Puett and Simon claim that ritual is usually read as having a social purpose or a cultural meaning, but that these readings presume that ritual is interested in presenting the world truthfully, as it is. Seligman and his co-authors take exception to this, arguing that ritual does not represent society or culture as they are and that ritual is “a subjunctive—the creation of an order as if it were truly the case” (20). Rather than simply reflecting history, society and culture, ritual responds to the disappointment of the real; the farmer performs a rite to “ensure” the bounty of the harvest not because the rite symbolises the true order of things, but as a consolation because sometimes the harvest fails. Interestingly, the Duke’s analysis of the Satanists’ motivations closely accords with Seligman et al.’s understanding of the need for ritual to console our anxieties and disappointments. For the cultists, the mass is “a release of all their pent-up emotions, and suppressed complexes, engendered by brooding over imagined injustice, lust for power, bitter hatred of rivals in love or some other type of success or good fortune” (121). The Satanists perform the mass as a response to the disappointment of the participant’s lives; they are ugly, uncivil outsiders and according to the Duke, “probably epileptics… nearly all… abnormal” (121). The mass allows them to feel, at least for a limited time, as if they are genuinely powerful, people who ought to be feared rather than despised, able to command the interest and favour of their infernal lord, to receive sexual attention despite their uncomeliness. Seligman et al. go on to argue ritual “must be understood as inherently nondiscursive—semantic content is far secondary to subjunctive creation.” Ritual “cannot be analysed as a coherent system of beliefs” (26). If this is so, we cannot expect the black mass to necessarily say anything coherent about Satanism, let alone racism. In fact, The Devil Rides Out tends not to focus on the meaning of the black mass, but on its performance. The perceivable facts of the mass are given, often in instructional detail, but any sense of what they might stand for remains unexplicated in the text. Indeed, taken individually, it is hard to make sense or meaning out of each of the Sabbat’s components. Why must a skull rattle around a cauldron? Why must a child be killed and eaten? If communion forms the most significant part of the Christian mass, we could presume that the desecration of the host might be the most meaningful part of the rite, but given the extensive description accorded the mass as a whole, the parody of communion is dealt with surprisingly quickly, receiving only three sentences. The Duke describes the act as “the most appalling sacrilege”, but it is left at that as the celebrants stomp the host into the ground (120). The action itself is emphasised over anything it might mean. Most of Wheatley’s readers will, I think, be untroubled by this. As Pierre Bourdieu noted, “the regularities inherent in an arbitrary condition… tend to appear as necessary, even natural, since they are the basis of the schemes of perception and appreciation through which they are apprehended” (53-4). Rather than stretching towards an interpretation of the Sabbat, readers simply accept it a necessary condition of a “black magic story”. While the genre and its tropes are constructed, they tend to appear as “natural” to readers. The Satanists perform the black mass because that is what Satanists do. The representation does not even have to be compelling in literary terms; it simply has to be a “proper” black mass. Richard Schechner argues that, when we are concerned with ritual, “Propriety”, that is, seeing the ritual properly executed, “is more important than artistry in the Euro-American sense” (178). Rather than describing the meaning of the ritual, Wheatley prefers to linger over the Satanist’s actions, their gluttonous feasting and dancing, their nudity. Again, these are actions that hold sensual qualities for their performers that exceed the simply discursive. Through their ritual behaviour they enter into atavistic and ecstatic states beyond everyday human consciousness. They are “hardly human… Their brains are diseased and their mentality is that of the hags and the warlocks of the middle ages…” and are “governed apparently by a desire to throw themselves back into a state of bestial*ty…” (117-8). They finally reach a state of “maniacal exaltation” and participate in an “intoxicated nightmare” (135). While the mass is being celebrated, the Satanists become an undifferentiated mass, their everyday identities and individuality subsumed into the subjunctive world created by the ritual. Simon, a willing participant, becomes lost amongst them, his individual identity given over to the collective, subjunctive state created by the group. Rex and the Duke are outside of this subjunctive world, expressing revulsion, but voyeuristically looking on; they retain their individual identities. Tanith is caught between the role played by Simon, and the one played by the Duke and Rex, as she risks shifting from observer to participant, her journey to the Sabbat being driven on by “evil powers” (135). These three relationships to the Sabbat suggest some of the strategies available to its readers. Like Rex and the Duke, we seem to observe the black mass as voyeurs, and still have the option of disapproving of it, but like Simon, the act of continuing to read means that we are participating in the representation of this perversity. Having committed to reading a “black magic story”, the reader’s procession towards the black mass is inevitable, as with Tanith’s procession towards it. Yet, just as Tanith is compelled towards it, readers are allowed to experience the Sabbat without necessarily having to see themselves as wanting to experience it. This facilitates a ludic, undiscursive reading experience; readers are not encouraged to seriously reflect on what the Sabbat means or why it might be a source of vicarious pleasure. They do not have to take responsibility for it. As much as the Satanists create a subjunctive world for their own ends, readers are creating a similar world for themselves to participate in. The mass—an incoherent jumble of sex and violence—becomes an imaginative refuge from the everyday world which is too regulated, chaste and well-behaved. Despite having substantial precedent in folklore and Gothic literature (see Medway), the black mass as it is represented in The Devil Rides Out is largely an invention. The rituals performed by occultists like Crowley were never understood by their participants as being black masses, and it was not until the foundation of the Church of Satan in San Francisco in the later nineteen-sixties that it seems the black mass was performed with the regularity or uniformity characteristic of ritual. Instead, its celebration was limited to eccentrics and dabblers like Summers. Thus, as an imaginary ritual, the black mass can be whatever its writers and readers need it to be, providing the opportunity to stage those actions and experiences required by the kind of text in which it appears. Because it is the product of the requirements of the text, it becomes a venue in which those things crucial to the text are staged; forbidden sexual congress, macabre ceremony, violence, the appearance of intoxicating and noisome scents, weird violet lights, blue candle flames and the goat itself. As we observe the Sabbat, the subjunctive of the ritual aligns with the subjunctive of the text itself; the same ‘as if’ is experienced by both the represented worshippers and the readers. The black mass offers an analogue for the black magic story, providing, almost in digest form, the images and experiences associated with the genre at the time. Seligman et al. distinguish between modes that they term the sincere and the ritualistic. Sincerity describes an approach to reading the world that emphasises the individual subject, authenticity, and the need to get at “real” thought and feeling. Ritual, on the other hand, prefers community, convention and performance. The “sincere mode of behavior seeks to replace the ‘mere convention’ of ritual with a genuine and thoughtful state of internal conviction” (103). Where the sincere is meaningful, the ritualistic is practically oriented. In The Devil Rides Out, the black mass, a largely unreal practice, must be regarded as insincere. More important than any “meaning” we might extract from the rite is the simple fact of participation. The individuality and agency of the participants is apparently diminished in the mass, and their regular sense of themselves is recovered only as the Duke and Rex desperately drive the Duke’s Hispano into the ritual so as to halt it. The car’s lights dispel the subjunctive darkness and reduce the unified group to a gathering of confused individuals, breaking the spell of naughtily enabling darkness. Just as the meaningful aspect of the mass is de-emphasised for ritual participants, for readers, self and discursive ability are de-emphasised in favour of an immersive, involving reading experience; we keep reading the mass without pausing to really consider the mass itself. It would reduce our pleasure in and engagement with the text to do so; the mass would be revealed as obnoxious, unpleasant and nonsensical. When we read the black mass we tend to put our day-to-day values, both moral and aesthetic, to one side, bracketing our sincere individuality in favour of participation in the text. If there is little point in trying to interpret Wheatley’s black mass due to its weakly discursive nature, then this raises questions of how to approach the text. Simply, the “work” of interpretation seems unnecessary; Wheatley’s black mass asks to be regarded as a form of play. Simply, The Devil Rides Out is a venue for a particular kind of readerly play, apart from the more substantial, sincere concerns that occupy most literary criticism. As Huizinga argued that, “Play is distinct from ‘ordinary’ life both as to locality and duration… [A significant] characteristic of play [is] its secludedness, its limitedness” (9). Likewise, by seeing the mass as a kind of play, we can understand why, despite the provocative and transgressive acts it represents, it is not especially harrowing as a reading experience. Play “lies outside the antithesis of wisdom and folly, and equally outside those of truth and falsehood, good and evil…. The valuations of vice and virtue do not apply...” (Huizinga 6). The mass might well offer barbarism and infanticide, but it does not offer these to its readers “seriously”. The subjunctive created by the black mass for its participants on the page is approximately equivalent to the subjunctive Wheatley’s text proposes to his readers. The Sabbat offers a tawdry, intoxicated vision, full of strange performances, weird lights, queer music and druggy incenses, a darkened carnival apart from the real that is, despite its apparent transgressive qualities and wretchedness, “only playing”. References Bourdieu, Pierre. The Logic of Practice. Trans. Richard Nice. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1990. Ellis, Bill. Raising the Devil: Satanism, New Religions, and the Media. Lexington: The UP of Kentucky, 2000. Hedman, Iwan, and Jan Alexandersson. Four Decades with Dennis Wheatley. DAST Dossier 1. Köping 1973. Huyssen, Andreas. After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1986. Jameson, Fredric. The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act. London: Routledge, 1989. Huizinga, J. hom*o Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture. International Library of Sociology. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1949. Medway, Gareth J. The Lure of the Sinister: The Unnatural History of Satanism. New York: New York UP, 2001. “Pooter.” The Times 19 August 1969: 19. Punter, David. The Literature of Terror: A History of Gothic Fictions from 1765 to the Present Day. London: Longman, 1980. Schechner, Richard. Performance Theory. Revised and Expanded ed. New York: Routledge, 1988. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. The Coherence of Gothic Conventions. 1980. New York: Methuen, 1986. Seligman, Adam B, Robert P. Weller, Michael J. Puett and Bennett Simon. Ritual and Its Consequences: An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Thompson, G.R. Introduction. “Romanticism and the Gothic Imagination.” The Gothic Imagination: Essays in Dark Romanticism. Ed. G.R. Thompson. Pullman: Washington State UP, 1974. 1-10. Wheatley, Dennis. The Devil Rides Out. 1934. London: Mandarin, 1996.

Abstract:

‘Country’ is a word that is made to do much discursive work. In one common configuration, country is synonymous with ‘rural’, also evinced through terms like countryside and country-minded. Yet, at the same time, country is synonymous with ‘nation’. This usage is more emotive and identificatory than administrative, as in ‘my country’, ‘my land’, ‘my homeland’. Augmenting a sense of national allegiance, this use of country evokes something of the connection between people, landscape, belonging, identity and subjectivity. Moreover, country-as-rural(ity) and country-as-nation(ality) have significant overlaps. The rural landscape – the countryside – is often imagined as the ‘heartland’ of the modern Western nation-state – a source of national identity and a storehouse for values ‘lost’ through the experience of progress, modernity and industrialisation (Bell). Here, the countryside, supposedly, is a traditional material and discursive site for family, community and well-being (Little and Austin). From yet another angle, country is a genre or style, as in country music, country and western film, country living, country comfort and country cooking. In this way, country becomes a commercial selling point and a commodified imaginary – although this is not at all mutually exclusive with the evocation of belonging, identity and national cultural values through the countryside. This commodification is seen in the recent revaluing of country getaways (McCarthy), sea-change (Burnley and Murphy) and tree-change (Costello), which in turn invokes the notion of country as a store of traditional values, moral restoration and physical revitalisation. Clearly, then, these multifaceted invocations of country – as rurality, nationality and commodity – interleave and overlap in various and complex ways. The papers comprising this issue of M/C Journal seek to explore the intermingling discourses of country, and how these have changed (and continue to change) over time and between places. Indeed, many of these meanings have heightened importance in the present cultural and political moment, and the contents of the papers draw attention to these emerging currencies. Country-as-nation(ality) – and as homeland – is reinforced in the current context of social unrest around terror, security, minority political rights, and climate change threats. And as people search for anchors of security, reinvestments are made in the ‘authenticity’ of rurality and rural communities as sources of both personal respite and wider national cultural values. This has flow on effects in the sphere of the cultural economy, where country living, rustic style and bucolic retreats are increasingly sought by cultural consumers. These affiliations between country, nation, rurality, security, community and consumption are critically interrogated in the subsequent papers. One key theme elicited across the collection is how country – as style, commodity, rurality and/or nationality – shapes social and cultural identities. Annabel Cooper, Chris Gibson, Loria Maxwell and Kara Stooksbury, Anthony Lambert and Catherine Simpson, and Andrew Gorman-Murray, explore the links between country and national identities, and how these interconnections take both similar and different contours across the United States, Europe and the Antipodes. In their papers, Cooper and Gibson also consider the connections between national identities, country style and gendered subjectivities. Simpson and Lambert, Michael Wesch and Clemence Due, meanwhile, draw attention to the links between land, country and Indigenous subjectivities. In doing so, Due and Lambert and Simpson, as well as Lelia Green, Gerry Bloustien and Mark Balnaves, elicit how discourses of country exclude particular identities, and leave certain social groups with a sense of unease. Terry Maybury, Donna Lee Brien and Jesse Schlotterbeck focus on the broader intermingling of rurality, regionality and identity. Another key theme traced through the papers is how county is also linked with a range of media and cultural commodities. Country music is most well-known in this regard, but also prominent are country and western films and country cooking. Several authors in this collection – Gibson, Maxwell and Stooksbury, and Brien – show the ongoing importance of these products, and their role in linking different notions of country across the scales and sites of the rural, the national and the transnational. Cooper, Schlotterbeck, and Lambert and Simpson reveal how ideas of country seep into films not specifically designated as country films, such as the noir, period and thriller genres. The deployment of country in a range of other cultural and media products is explored in this collection as well, including print news media (Due; Gorman-Murray), tourist promotions (Brien; Gorman-Murray), archival photographs (Gorman-Murray), statecraft (Wesch), and social mores and practices of belonging, attachment and alienation (Green et al; Maybury). Importantly, then, the papers in this collection, drawing on a range of data, entry points and conceptual lenses, explore the way different meanings and scales country overlap, and how notions of country ‘travel’ between places and contexts, in the process transforming and taking on new inflections. In the lead paper, Annabel Cooper explores the way country, national identities and feminine subjectivities come together in Jane Campion’s Portrait of a Lady. In this evocative discussion she shows how gender is modulated by national identities as much as other subjectivities, and moreover, how the insertion of an Antipodean femininity in the film version of Portrait reworked the geographical underpinnings of Henry James’ novel. She argues that the United States’ national self-imagination has moved on in the century between the novel and the film, and that Campion rearticulated the story through a feminine Antipodean lens. In Campion’s Portrait, notions of country and narratives of national femininities travel not only between the United States and Europe, but between the Americas and the Antipodes as well. Chris Gibson provides a complementary piece. Focusing on the imagery and lyrics of country sheet music in pre-war Australia, he shows how masculinities are inflected by discourses of both country-as-rurality and country-as-nation. In this case, images of masculinities from the American West insinuated into Australia through the trans-Pacific transaction of country music, particularly in the simultaneously visual and oral register of sheet music. For both Gibson and Cooper, country, whether associated with rurality or nationality, is not singularly emplaced, but travels transnationally as well. Lori Maxwell and Kara Stooksbury also turn their attention to country music. In their case the focus is contemporary country music in the United States, and the role this genre and its artists has played in recent American political culture, particularly Republican positions on ‘love of country’ and national allegiance. Their analysis shows how country, as a commodity linked with a particular species of rurality, is used by presidents, politicians and commentators to frame discourses of patriotic nationalism and appropriate notions of American belonging. Also focusing on cultural production in the United States’ context, Jesse Schlotterbeck critically examines the diverse roles of rurality and rural places in film noir, helping to define a subgenre of ‘rural noir’. He not only discusses the deployment of the rural in noir as a place of goodness, decency and traditional values, but also how the rural is simultaneously drawn into networks of crime, and even becomes a haven for criminality. This adds to work which challenges the romantic idyllisation of the countryside as a site of moral integrity and a store of ‘proper’ national cultural values. Anthony Lambert and Catherine Simpson similarly raise the spectre of criminality in the countryside through film analysis, but their focus is on the Australian film Jindabyne and the associated geographical context of the Australian Alps. The issues around criminality and country(side) in their analysis is broader than legal transcendence, encompassing contemporary cultural politics and social justice. Jindabyne’s narrative focus on the murder of a young Aboriginal woman provides a catalyst for interrogating Indigenous dispossession, postcolonial race relations, environmental change, and the shifting senses of belonging to country for settler Australians negotiating this ‘aftermath culture’. Andrew Gorman-Murray also concentrates on the Australian Alps, and explores the changing links between this countryside and national identity in a postcolonial settler society, but his cultural political context and catalyst are different: the threats to landscape, country and national values from imminent climate change impacts in the Australian Alps. Cultural dimensions and meanings of climate change are an emerging and important research concern (Hulme), and his analysis demonstrates how national identities and ideals of country(side) are reconfigured through the anticipated effects of climate change on the landscape. The next few papers turn to minority or Indigenous social groups’ belonging and attachment to country, both as nation and (home)land, through various experiences of insecurity. Lelia Green, Gerry Bloustien and Mark Balnaves discuss their survey finding that Jewish-Australians express the highest level of fear amongst religious groups in this country. Analysing both survey responses and additional narratives, they comprehensively interpret this heightened fear through intersecting contemporary processes of terror, insecurity, anti-Semitism, and diasporic community-formation, which collide in the context of cultural and political rhetoric about national homeland security. Complimenting both this paper and Simpson and Lambert’s discussion, Clemence Due considers the vexed question of who can lay claim to country in Australia – understood at-once as the nation, the rural countryside, and its resources – in the cultural political context of Indigenous dispossession and native title issues. She examines how this debate – about negotiating Indigenous rights to country in a political and legal context of white sovereignty – has been depicted in The Australian during 2008. Michael Wesch explores similar tensions between government authority and Indigenous sovereignty in a different context, that of New Guinea. His ethnographic analysis is evocative, showing the quite different concepts of country deployed by the state and local peoples in relation to land, settlement and governance, where Indigenous relational connections to land and belonging rub up against the categorical imperatives of statecraft. The final two papers return to rural and regional areas of Australia, and consider embodied connections to place for settler Australians. Situating her discussion within the academic arenas of food studies and the cultural economy, Donna Lee Brien provides an illuminating analysis of the role and significance of rural and regional chefs within their local communities. Her geographical focus is Armidale and Guyra, in northern New South Wales. Linking country as a generic commodity and as a rural locality, she shows how ‘foodie culture’ is not merely a tourist drawcard, but also deeply implicated in the maintenance of the local community. Terry Maybury, meanwhile, delivers a provocative discussion of the links between country, regionality and belonging through a diagrammatical analysis of ‘home’ – home understood as both “the virtuality of digital flows and the reality of architectural footings.” In this conceptualisation, home provides a nexus for self in a global/regional network, the site which allows one to gather the various elements, scales and nuances of country together in a comprehensible fashion. Home, in this way, lies at the heart of country, and makes sense of all its multifarious and interleaving dimensions and meanings. I would also like to acknowledge and thank Rohan Tate, our cover artist, for providing a photographic montage of ‘country’ which draws together the various strands explored through this collection – as nationality, rurality and commodity. The collection of various signifiers and objects prompts one to question what country is and where it is to be found. I extend thanks to those who reviewed the submissions for this issue. I trust the readers find this collection of papers as stimulating as I have. I hope the juxtaposition of various takes on country, and discussions of how those meanings and experiences intermingle, prompt further exploration and conceptualisation of the discursive and material significance of country in contemporary society and culture. References Bell, David. “Variations on the Rural Idyll.” Handbook of Rural Studies. Eds. Paul Cloke, Terry Marsden and Patrick Mooney. London: Sage, 2006. 149-160. Burnley, Ian and Peter Murphy. Sea Change: Movement from Metropolitan to Arcadian Australia. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2004. Costello, Lauren. “Going bush: the implications of urban-rural migration.” Geographical Research 45.1 (2007): 85-94. Hulme, Mike. “Geographical work at the boundaries of climate change.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 33.1 (2008): 5-11. Little, Jo and Patricia Austin. “Women and the Rural Idyll.” Journal of Rural Studies 12.1 (1996): 101-111. McCarthy, James. “Rural Geography: Globalizing the Countryside.” Progress in Human Geography 32.1 (2008): 129-137.

Abstract:

Showtime’s reality TV series Family Business opens with a black screen and audio: the whirring of a 16mm projector, the home movies of a generation ago. The sound connotes nostalgia, memory, family, and film. In my childhood, the sound of the projector meant family time, a glance back at our toddler years, the years of Sunday dinners in the suburbs, when my mother and all my aunts still smoked. Later, as my sister and cousins whose childhoods are fixed in that celluloid began to date and marry, family movies were a means of introducing the soon-to-be-married other into the family; this was how we told our history. This kind of telling is one side of Family Business. The other, as Adam Glasser reports in his voiceover in the opening credits is “just one more thing. My business is entertaining adults.” Glasser, producer, director and occasional actor, is known in the adult entertainment industry as Seymore Butts, alluding to his particular personal and professional interest in anal sex. He self-describes, in the opening credits of Family Business, as “a pretty average guy,” a single father who runs his business with help from his mother and cousin. Viewers glance over Glasser’s shoulder into his everyday life as he cooks breakfast for his son, dates women in his ongoing search for a lasting relationship, and goes about the business of producing p*rnography. Family Business uniquely combines two genres that trouble perceptions of reality mediated through television, p*rnography and reality TV. Reality television troubles the real by effectively blurring the lines between the actual and the contrived. With the genre of reality TV now firmly in place, viewers take pleasure in reading between those lines, trying to determine what aspects of the characters, contexts and events of a television program are “authentic”. Searching for the real demands the viewer suspend disbelief, conveniently forgetting the power of the camera’s presence. Scripted or not, the camera is always played to, suppressing the “real” in favor of performance. Like reality TV, p*rnography blurs the line between reality and fantasy. As Elizabeth Bell points out, the difference between soft-core p*rnography and hard-core p*rnography is the difference between simulated and real sex. Hard-core p*rn depends on “an ironic tension between ‘real’ sexual acts within ‘faked’ sexual contexts” (181), troubling the viewer’s sense of whether such performances could “really” take place. The lingering disbelief sets p*rn apart from one’s personal sex life, just as questioning the authentic in reality TV keeps it from being “real.” Reality TV plays on a tension similar to Bell’s description of hard-core p*rnography. Manufactured contexts succinctly expose the personalities of the actors/ordinary people who are featured on reality TV programs. As a result, the audience can gain familiarity with these individuals in a neat thirty or sixty minute time slot. Inherent in any TV series is the notion that the audience forms opinions about and alliances for or against certain characters, stepping into their lives, mediated as they are, each week. Kenneth Gergen notes that “so powerful are the media in their well-wrought portrayals that their realities become more compelling than those furnished by common experience” (57). By conflating p*rnography with the everyday lives of its actors and directors, Family Business works to naturalize p*rnography by displaying it as real. When viewers are constantly sorting between the scripted and the spontaneous, where do they locate the real on Family Business? In a mediated world, the search for the real is always already fruitless: viewers and producers of reality TV recognize that the chasm between lived experience and the depiction of lived experience on television and film can’t be crossed. Reality TV and p*rnography both work to bring the mediated image closer to the experience of the viewer, placing “people just like you” in everyday situations that brush up against the outrageous. Laura Kipnis argues that p*rnography does not reflect reality but is “mythological and hyperbolic, peopled by fictional characters. It doesn’t and never will exist.” While p*rnography does not try to claim itself as real, Kipnis says, it does “insist on a sanctioned space for fantasy.” Acknowledging that space, and declaring that “normal” people engage the fantasy of p*rn, is important cultural work for Glasser. An episode of Family Business features Glasser giving a class on ways to please your partner using methods he learned in the industry. He speaks in interviews about letters he has received, proclaiming that the Seymore Butts films have enhanced couples’ sex lives. Family Business is not only important cultural work for Glasser; it is also important professional work. Naturalizing p*rnography, and giving viewers a glimpse of Seymore Butts films, certainly helps his product sales. Seeing Family Business as part of the mainstreaming of p*rnography, Glasser says “it’s the natural course of things” for p*rnography to be increasingly accepted. “Sex is just so much a part of mainstream people’s lives. So it’s natural that they would be curious about sex and people who have sex for a living” (Brioux). Adam Glasser “is” Seymore Butts, or is he? Viewers are exposed to a character-within-a-character: Glasser as father, son, and entrepreneur is difficult to separate from Glasser as Butts—adult entertainment producer and actor, p*rn celebrity. Glasser does not appear to distinguish between these identities, but is presented as one person seamlessly performing the everyday roles of his chosen life. He is a role model for the normalizing and mainstreaming of p*rnography. Family Business aspires to naturalize the integration of p*rnography into everyday life, naturalizing the adult entertainment industry, its producers and ultimately, its consumers. Viewers see Glasser as a fun-loving, single dad who plays baseball with his son. We look on as his Cousin Stevie, nearing 60 years old, goes to the doctor for a prostate exam (which the audience voyeuristically enjoys, is repelled by, and is compelled by to tend to health concerns). That Glasser and Cousin Stevie are also producers and distributors of adult entertainment enables the viewer to naturalize her/his own consumption of p*rnography. Fans posting on Showtime’s Family Business message board question whether the show authentically depicts the “real” lives of its characters, with discussions about what scenes are staged and scripted. Media consumption is seldom a passive practice, and one of the pleasures of reality TV is the audience’s resistance to what is presented as “real.” While the everyday lives of the characters are hotly debated on the message board, there is little discussion of p*rnography, beyond assertions of support for and the rare protest against adult entertainment on cable television. The Seymore Butts movies are rarely mentioned. What Family Business gives viewers access to is a soft-p*rn version of the staging of Seymore Butts films, as much as censors allow for MA cable programming. According to Bell, “all theoretical treatments of hard-core p*rnography…begin with the declaration that the performers are engaged in real sexual activity” (183). Glasser categorizes his p*rn as hard-core, but should fans believe it is authentically real, not just real sex acts but also a reflection of real life? He claims that it is: “My adult movies that I’ve made for the last 12 years have been what you would call reality based,” Glasser says. “They’re basically a documentation of my life, my relationships, good and bad.” (Haffenreffer). Glasser’s documentary of his life and relationships, however, is mediated through the lens of his camera and work in the editing room, presented in such a way to be compelling to its audience. Whether there is something intrinsically real in the Seymore Butts films, the contexts of the films are certainly contrived. Viewers of Family Business see Glasser describe fantasy scenarios to the actors preparing for a scene. While the situations are more mundane than fantastic, the implausibility of a group of people spontaneously having sex while waiting for friends to come back from lunch, for example, places Glasser’s p*rnography in a liminal space between fantasy and the real. What renders these films different from other p*rnography and makes them somewhat more believable is precisely the mundane scenarios in which they occur. The conflation of p*rnography and the everyday is reinforced spatially on Family Business: viewers see Glasser shoot a p*rn film in his living room, where sexual acts are performed on the same sofa where, in another scene, Glasser’s mother Lila plays with his son, Brady. After a comment about this was posted on the show’s message board, Flower, one of Glasser’s “Tushy Girls” posted a response: “But in defence [sic] of Semyore, He has his furniture steam cleaned after every shoot. Have you ever heard of kids laying or sitting on their parents [sic] bed? Don’t parents have sex too? I’m sure plenty of kids have sat where people have had sex before. So I don’t find it strange.” What Flower asks of message board readers is the normalization of p*rnography, a blending of p*rn and private sex acts into the same category. Family Business works to eradicate the perceptions of p*rnography that Kipnis describes as “all the nervous stereotypes of pimply teenagers, furtive perverts in raincoats, and anti-social compulsively masturbating misfits.” p*rnography is not situated in the world of the outcast, Kipnis argues. Rather, it is “central to our culture,” simultaneously revealing our mostly deeply felt desires and fears. The series functions to relieve its viewers of the sense of guilty indiscretion. It typically airs on Friday nights at 11:00 p.m., the opening of Mature Adult-rated programming on cable television. Family Business is not only p*rnography, it also presents itself as a family sitcom. The show provides a neat segue from prime-time programming to after-hours, commingling the two genres for viewers to seamlessly make that shift themselves. Week after week, viewers of Family Business find the conflation of p*rnography and everyday life more acceptable. In sharp contrast to the sordid, sad life stories of Linda Lovelace, the Mitchell brothers and organized crime that are stitched into the history of p*rnography, Adam Glasser is presented as a respectable public figure, a free speech activist with a solid moral foundation. The morality or immorality of adult entertainment is not questioned here: inherent in Family Business is the idea that “they” have rendered sexual expression immoral where “we” (the characters in the series and the viewers at home) are accepting of, and even committed to, the pleasures of sex. As presented on Family Business, Glasser’s lifestyle is rather morally sound. There is no drug use, not even cigarette smoking, and although a pack of Merits appears occasionally in the pocket of Cousin Stevie’s stylish shirt, he does not smoke on camera. Safe sex is a priority, and the actors are presented as celebrating and enjoying their sexuality. The viewer is encouraged to do the same. The everyday behavior of the cast of Family Business is far from extraordinary, as Glasser takes pains to point out. Comparing Family Business to The Osbournes, he says “they are outrageous people in a normal world, and we’re normal people in an outrageous world” (Hooper). We’ve come to tolerate the Osbournes, perhaps even pitying them at times as if they have no control over their own outrageousness. Can viewers accept the outrageous in Family Business? Certainly the mundane lives of Adam and Lila—a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn and his dear, doting mom—indicate that normal people can accept the outrageous world of p*rnography, so why should we not accept it as well? Tolerating Family Business is, essentially, tolerating p*rnography. Bringing the backstage of the adult entertainment industry into the frontstage of cable television programming marks a desire to shift the uses of p*rnography. Rather than being an underground outlet for sexual deviance, Family Business works to make p*rn a reflection of our everyday personal and sexual lives. Kipnis notes there is “virtually no discussion of p*rnography as an expressive medium in the positive sense—the only expressing it’s presumed to do is of misogyny or social decay.” Viewers can openly chat about Family Business and the glimpse it offers into the world of p*rnography, without the shame or embarrassment that would run alongside a discussion of p*rn itself. When sexual pleasure enters the public discourse through mainstream entertainment, there is power for those who fight against conservative voices wishing to suppress not just p*rnography but also sexual pleasure. References Bell, Elizabeth. “Weddings and p*rnography: The Cultural Performance of Sex.” Text and Performance Quarterly 19 (1999): 173-195. Brioux, Bill. “A Family Affair: New Show Takes a Peek Behind Adam Glasser’s p*rn Business.” The Toronto Sun. 3 October 2003, final ed.: E11. Gergen, Kenneth J. The Saturated Self: Dilemmas of Identity in Contemporary Life. New York: Basic Books, 2000. Haffenreffer, David. “Reality Imitates Art: When the ‘Family Business’ is in the Sex Industry.” CNN.com. 13 January 2004. Hooper, Barrett. “‘Normal people in an outrageous world’: Adam Glasser, star of the reality TV show Family Business, is just a regular guy who also happens to be a p*rn producer.” National Post. 5 December 2003: B4. http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/p*rn/special/eloquence.html MLA Style Levitt, Linda. "Searching for the Real: “Family Business,” p*rnography, and Reality Television." M/C Journal 7.4 (2004). 10 October 2004 <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0410/04_searching.php> APA Style Levitt, L. (2004 Oct 11). Searching for the Real: “Family Business,” p*rnography, and Reality Television, M/C Journal 7(4). Retrieved Oct 10 2004 from <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0410/04_searching.php>

Abstract:

Prometheus, chained to a rock, having his liver pecked out by a great bird only for the organ to grow back again each night so that the torture may be repeated afresh the next day must be the quintessential image of masculinity in crisis. This paper will consider Promethean myth and the issues it raises regarding 'creation' including: the role of creator, the relationship between creator and created, the usurping of maternal (creative) power by patriarchy and, not least, the offering of an experimental model in which masculine identity can be recreated. I argue that Promethean myth raises significant issues relating to anxieties associated with notions of masculinity and gender, which are subsequently transposed in Shelley's modernist recasting of the myth, Frankenstein. I then consider 'Promethean' science fiction film, as an area particularly concerned with re-creation, in terms of construction of the self, gender and masculinity. Prometheus & Creation Prometheus (whose name means 'forethought') was able to foresee the future and is credited with creating man from mud/clay. As Man was inferior to other creations and unprotected, Prometheus allowed Man to walk upright [1] like the Gods. He also stole from them the gift of fire, to give to Man, and tricked the Gods into allowing Man to keep the best parts of sacrifices (giving the Gods offal, bones and fat). Thus Prometheus is regarded as the father and creator of Mankind, and as Man's benefactor and protector; whose love of Man (or love of trickery and his own cleverness) leads him to deceive the Gods. Prometheus's brother, Epimetheus (whose name means 'afterthought'), was commissioned to make all the other creations and Prometheus was to overlook his work when it was done. Due to Epimetheus's short-sightedness there were no gifts left (such as fur etc.) to bestow upon Man – the nobler animal which Prometheus was entrusted to make. Prometheus, a Titan, and illegitimate son of Iapetus and the water nymph Clymene (Kirkpatrick, 1991), helped fight against the Titans the side of Zeus, helping Zeus seize the throne. More than simple indication of a rebellious spirit, his illegitimate status (albeit as opposed to an incestuous one – Iapetus was married to his sister Themis) raises the important issues of both legitimacy and filial loyalty, so recurrent within accounts of creation (of man, and human artifice). Some hold that Prometheus is punished for his deceptions i.e. over fire and the sacrifices, thus he is punished as much for his brother's failings as much as for his own ingenuity and initiative. Others maintain he is punished for refusing to tell Zeus which of Zeus's sons would overthrow him, protecting Zeus' half mortal son and his mortal mother. Zeus's father and grandfather suffered castration and usurpment at the hands of their offspring – for both Zeus and Prometheus (pro)creation is perilous. Prometheus's punishment here is for withholding a secret which accords power. In possessing knowledge (power) which could have secured his release, Prometheus is often viewed as emblematic of endurance, suffering and resistance and parental martyrdom. Prometheus, as mentioned previously, was chained to a rock where a great bird came and tore at his liver [2], the liver growing back overnight for the torture to be repeated afresh the following day. Heracles, a half mortal son of Zeus, slays the bird and frees Prometheus, thus Man repays his debt by liberation of his benefactor, or, in other accounts, he is required to take Prometheus's place, and thus liberating his creator and resulting in his own enslavement. Both versions clearly show the strength of bond between Prometheus and his creation but the latter account goes further in suggesting that Man and Maker are interchangeable. Also linked to Promethean myth is the creation of the first woman, Pandora. Constructed (by Jupiter at Zeus's command) on one hand as Man's punishment for Prometheus's tricks, and on the other as a gift to Man from the Gods. Her opening of 'the box', either releasing all mans ills, plagues and woes, or letting all benevolent gifts but hope escape, is seen as disastrous from either perspective. However what is emphasised is that the creation of Woman is secondary to the creation of Man. Therefore Prometheus is not the creator of humankind but of mankind. The issue of gender is an important aspect of Promethean narrative, which I discuss in the next section. Gender Issues Promethean myths raise a number of pertinent issues relating to gender and sexuality. Firstly they suggest that both Man and Woman are constructed [3], and that they are constructed as distinct entities, regarding Woman as inferior to Man. Secondly creative power is posited firmly with the masculine (by virtue of the male sex of both Prometheus and Jupiter), negating maternal and asserting patriarchal power. Thirdly Nature, which is associated with the feminine, is surpassed in that whilst Man is made from the earth (mud/clay) it is Prometheus who creates him (Mother Earth providing only the most basic raw materials for production); and Nature is overcome as Man is made independent of climate through the gift of fire. Tensions arise in that Prometheus's fate is also linked to childbirth in so far as that which is internal is painfully rendered external (strongly raising connotations of the abject – which threatens identity boundaries). The intense connection between creation and childbirth indicates that the appropriation of power is of a power resting not with the gods, but with women. The ability to see the future is seen as both frightening and reassuring. Aeschylus uses this to explain Prometheus's tolerance of his fate: he knew he had to endure pain but he knew he would be released, and thus was resigned to his suffering. As the bearer of the bleeding wound Prometheus is feminised, his punishment represents a rite of passage through which he may earn the status 'Father of Man' and reassert and define his masculine identity, hence a masoch*stic desire to suffer is also suggested. Confrontations with the abject, the threat posed to identity, and Lacanian notions of desire in relation to the other, are subjects which problematise the myth's assertion of masculine power. I will now consider how the Promethean myth is recast in terms of modernity in the story of Frankenstein and the issues regarding male power this raises. Frankenstein - A Modern Prometheus Consistent with the Enlightenment spirit of renewal and reconstruction, the novel Frankenstein emerges in 1818, re-casting Promethean myth in terms of science, and placing the scientist (i.e. man) as creator. Frankenstein in both warning against assuming the power of God and placing man as creator, simultaneously expresses the hopes and fears of the transition from theocratic belief to rationality. One of the strategies Frankenstein gives us through its narrative use of science and technology is a social critique and interrogation of scientific discourse made explicit through its alignment with gender discourse. In appropriating reproductive power without women, it enacts an appropriation of maternity by patriarchy. In aligning the use of this power by patriarchy with the power of the gods, it attempts to deify and justify use of this power whilst rendering women powerless and indeed superfluous. Yet as it offers the patriarchal constructs of science and technology as devoid of social responsibility, resulting in monstrous productions, it also facilitates a critique of patriarchy (Cranny Francis, 1990, p220). The creature, often called 'Frankenstein' rather than 'Frankenstein's monster', is not the only 'abomination to God'. Victor Frankenstein is portrayed as a 'spoilt brat of a child', whose overindulgence results in his fantasy of omnipotent power over life itself, and leads to neglect of, and lack of care towards, his creation. Indeed he may be regarded as the true 'monster' of the piece, as he is all too clearly lacking Prometheus's vision and pastoral care [4]. "Neither evil nor inhuman, [the creature] comes to seem little more than morally uninformed, poorly 'put together' by a human creator who has ill served both his creation and his fellow humans." (Telotte, 1995, p. 76). However, the model of the natural – and naturally free – man emerges in the novel from an implied pattern of subjection which demonstrates that the power the man-made constructs of science and technology give us come at great cost: "[Power] is only made possible by what [Mary Shelley] saw as a pointedly modern devaluation of the self: by affirming that the human is, at base, just a put together thing, with no transcendent origin or purpose and bound to a half vital existence at best by material conditions of its begetting."(ibid.) Frankenstein's power expressed through his overcoming of Nature, harnessing of technology and desire to subject the human body to his will, exhibits the modern world's mastery over the self. However it also requires the devaluation of self so that the body is regarded as subject, thus leading to our own subjection. For Telotte (1995, p37), one reflection of our Promethean heritage is that as everything comes to seem machine-like and constructed, the human too finally emerges as a kind of marvellous fiction, or perhaps just another empty invention. Access to full creative potential permits entry "into a true 'no man's land'…. a wonderland...where any wonder we might conceive, or any wondrous way we might conceive of the self, might be fashioned". Certainly the modernist recasting of Promethean myth embodies that train of thought which is most consciously aiming to discover the nature of man through (re)creating him. It offers patriarchal power as a power over the self (independent of the gods); a critique of the father; and the fantasy of (re)construction of the self at the cost of deconstruction of the body which, finally, leads to the subjection of the self. The Promethean model, I maintain, serves to illuminate and further our understanding of the endurance, popularity and allure of fantasies of creation, which can be so readily found in cinematic history, and especially within the science fiction genre. This genre stands out as a medium both well suited to, and enamoured with, Promethean reworkings [5]. As religion (of which Greek mythology is a part) and science both attempt to explain the world and make it knowable they offer the reassurance, satisfaction and the illusion of security and control, whilst tantalising with notions of possible futures. Promethean science fiction film realises the visual nature of these possible futures providing us, in its future visions, with glimpses of alternative ways of seeing and being. Promethean Science Fiction Film Science fiction, can be seen as a 'body genre' delineated not by excess of sex, blood or emotion but by excess of control over the body as index of identity (Cook, 1999, p.193). Science fiction films can be seen to fall broadly into three categories: space flight, alien invaders and futuristic societies (Hayward, 1996, p.305). Within these, Telotte argues (Replications, 1995), most important are the images of "human artifice", which form a metaphor for our own human selves, and have come to dominate the contemporary science fiction film (1995, p11). The science fiction film contains a structural tension that constantly rephrases central issues about the self and constructedness. Paradoxically whilst the science fiction genre profits from visions of a technological future it also displays technophobia – the promises of these fictions represent dangerous illusions with radical and subversive potential, suggesting that nature and the self may be 'reconstructable' rather than stable and unchanging. Whilst some films return us safely to a comforting stable humanity, others embrace and affirm the subversive possibilities advocating an evolution or rebirth of the human. Regardless of their conservative (The Iron Giant, 1999, Planet of the Apes, 1968) or subversive tendencies (Metropolis 1926, Blade Runner 1982, Terminator 1984), they offer the opportunity to explore "a space of desire" (Telotte, p. 153, 1990) a place where the self can experience a kind of otherness and possibilities exceed the experience of our normal being (The Stepford Wives 1974, The Fly 1986, Gattaca 1997 [6]). What I would argue is central to the definition of a Promethean sub-genre of science fiction is the conscious depiction and understanding of the (hu)man subject or artifice as technological or scientific construction rather than natural. Often, as in Promethean myth, there is a mirroring between creator and creation, constructor and constructed, which serves to bind them despite their differences, and may often override them. Power in this genre is revealed as masculine power over the feminine, namely reproductive power; as such tensions in male identity arise and may be interrogated. Promethean (film) texts have at their centre issues of what it is to be human, and within this, what it is to be a man. There is a focus on hegemonic masculinity within these texts, which serves as a measure of masculinity. Furthermore these texts are most emphatically concerned with the construction of masculinity and with masculine power. The notion of creation raises questions of paternity, motherhood, parenting, and identification with the father, although the ways in which these issues are portrayed or explored may be quite diverse. As a creation of man, rather than of 'woman', the subjects created are almost invariably 'other' to their creators, whilst often embodying the fantasies, desires and repressed fears of their makers. That otherness and difference form central organising principles in these texts is undisputable, however there also can be seen to exist a bond between creator and created which is worthy of exploration, as the progeny of man retains a close likeness (though not always physically) to its maker [7]. Particularly in the Promethean strand of science fiction film we encounter the abject, posing a threat to fragile identity constructions (recalling the plight of Prometheus on his rock and his feminised position). I also maintained that 'lack' formed part of the Promethean heritage. Not only are the desires of the creators often lacking in Promethean care and vision, but their creations are revealed as in some way lacking, falling short of their creator's desire and indeed their own [8]. From the very beginnings of film we see the desire to realise (see) Promethean power accorded to man and to behold his creations. The mad scientists of film such as Frankenstein (1910), Homunculus (1916), Alraune (1918), Orlacs Hande (1925) and Metropolis (1926) and Frankenstein (1931) all point to the body as source of subjection and resistance. Whilst metal robots may be made servile, "the flesh by its very nature always rebels" (Telotte, 1995, p. 77). Thus whilst they form a metaphor for the way the modern self is subjugated, they also suggest resistance to that subjugation, pointing to "a tension between body and mind, humanity and its scientific attainments, the self and a cultural subjection" (ibid.). The films of the 1980's and 90's, such as Blade Runner (1982), Robocop (1987) Terminator 2: Judgement Day (1994), point towards "the human not as ever more artificial but the artificial as ever more human" (Telotte, 1995, p.22). However, these cyborg bodies are also gendered bodies providing metaphors for the contemporary anxieties about 'masculinities'. Just as the tale of Prometheus is problematic in that there exist many variations of the myth [9], with varying accounts capable of producing a range of readings, concepts of 'masculinity' are neither stable nor uniform, and are subject to recasting and reconstruction. Likewise in Promethean science fiction film masculine identities are multiple, fragmented and dynamic. These films do not simply recreate masculinities in the sense that they mirror extant anxieties but recreate in the sense that they 'play' with these anxieties, possibilities of otherness and permeate boundaries. We may see this 'play' as liberating, in that it offers possible ways of being and understanding difference, or conservative, reinstating hegemonic masculinity by asserting old hierarchies. As versions of the myth are reconstructed what new types of creator/creature will emerge? What will they say about our understanding and experiences of "masculinities"? What new possibilities and identities may we envision? Perhaps the most significant aspect of our Promethean heritage is that, as Prometheus is chained to his rock and tortured, through the perpetual regeneration of his liver, almost as if to counterweight or ballast the image of masculinity in crisis, comes the 'reassuring' notion that whatever the strains cracks or injuries the patriarchal image endures: 'we can rebuild him' [10]. We not only can but will, for in doing so we are also reconstructing ourselves. Footnote According to Bulfinch (web) he gave him an upright stature so he could look to the Heavens and gaze on the stars. Linking to Science Fiction narratives of space exploration etc. (Encyclopedia Mythica – [web]) -The liver was once regarded as the primary organ of our being (the heart being our contemporary equivalent) where passions and pain and were felt. Both physically constructed and sociologically, with woman as inferior lesser being and implying gender determinism. This is further articulated to effect in the James Whale film (Frankenstein, 1931), where 'Henry' Frankenstein's creation is regarded as his 'first born' and notions of lineage predominate, ultimately implying he will now pursue more natural methods of (pro)creation. Frankenstein is seen by some as the first cyborg novel in its linking of technology and creation and also often cited as the first science fiction film (although there were others). For example in Andrew Niccol's Gattaca (1997), the creation of man occurs through conscious construction of the self, acknowledging that we are all constructed and acknowledging that masculinity must be reconstructed if it is to be validated. Patriarchy has worked to mythologise our relationship to (mother) nature, so that the human becomes distinct from the manufactured. What is perhaps the most vital aspect of the character Vincent in Gattaca is his acknowledgement that the body must be altered, restructured, reshaped and defined in order to pass from insignificance to significance in terms of hegemonic masculine identity. It is therefore through a reappraisal of the external that the internal gains validity. See Foucault on resemblance and similitude (in The Gendered Cyborg, 2000). See Scott Bukatman on Blade Runner in Kuhn, 1990. The tale of Prometheus had long existed in oral traditions and folklore before Hesiod wrote of it in Theogeny and Works and Days, and Aeschylus, elaborated on Hesiod, when he wrote Prometheus Bound (460B.C). Catchphrase used in the 1970's popular TV series The Six Million Dollar Man in relation to Steve Austin the 'bionic' character of the title. References Bernink, M. & Cook, P. (eds.) The Cinema Book (2nd edition). London: British Film Institute Publishing, 1999. Clute, J. Science Fiction: The Illustrated Encyclopaedia. London: Dorling Kindersley, 1995. Cohan, S. & Hark, I.R. (eds.) Screening the Male. London: Routledge, 1993. Hall, S., Held, D. & McLennan, G. (eds.) Modernity and its Futures. Cambridge and Oxford: Polity Press in association with The Open University, 1993. Jancovich, M. Rational Fears: American horror in the 1950's. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1996. Jeffords, S. Can Masculinity be Terminated? In Cohan, S. & Hark, I.R. (eds.) Screening the Male. London and New York: Routledge, 1993. Kirkup, G., Janes, L., Woodward, K. & Hovenden, F. (eds.) The Gendered Cyborg: A Reader. London: Routledge, 2000. Kuhn, A. (ed.) Alien Zone: Cultural Theory and Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema. London and New York: Verso, 1990. Sobchack, V. Screening Space. New Brunswick, New Jersey and London: Rutgers University Press 1999. Telotte, J.P. A Distant Technology: Science Fiction Film and the Machine Age, Hanover and London: Wesleyan University Press, 2000. Telotte, J.P. Replications. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1995 Bulfinch's Mythology, The Age of Fable – Chapter 2: Prometheus and Pandora: (accessed 21st March 2000) http://www.bulfinch.org/fables/bull2.html Bulfinch's Mythology: (accessed March 21st 2000) http://www.bulfinch.org.html Encyclopaedia Mythica: Greek Mythology: (accessed June 15th 2000) http://oingo.com/topic/20/20246.html Encyclopaedia Mythica: Articles (accessed 15th June 2000) http://www.pantheon.org/mythica/articles.html

Abstract:

This issue of M/C Journal is devoted to all things cute – Internet animals and stuffed toys, cartoon characters and branded bears. In what follows our nine contributors scrutinise a diverse range of media objects, discussing everything from the economics of Grumpy Cat and the aesthetics of Furbys to Reddit’s intellectual property dramas and the ethics of kitten memes. The articles range across diverse sites, from China to Canada, and equally diverse disciplines, including cultural studies, evolutionary economics, media anthropology, film studies and socio-legal studies. But they share a common aim of tracing out the connections between degraded media forms and wider questions of culture, identity, economy and power. Our contributors tell riveting stories about these connections, inviting us to see the most familiar visual culture in a new way. We are not the first to take cute media seriously as a site of cultural politics, and as an industry in its own right. Cultural theory has a long, antagonistic relationship with the kitsch and the disposable. From the Frankfurt School’s withering critique of cultural commodification to revisionist feminist accounts that emphasise the importance of the everyday, critics have been conducting sporadic incursions into this space for the better part of a century. The rise of cultural studies, a discipline committed to analysing “the scrap of ordinary or banal existence” (Morris and Frow xviii), has naturally provided a convincing intellectual rationale for such research, and has inspired an impressive array of studies on such things as Victorian-era postcards (Milne), Disney films (Forgacs), Hallmark cards (West, Jaffe) and stock photography (Frosh). A parallel strand of literary theory considers the diverse registers of aesthetic experience that characterize cute content (Brown, Harris). Sianne Ngai has written elegantly on this topic, noting that “while the avant-garde is conventionally imagined as sharp and pointy, as hard- or cutting-edge, cute objects have no edge to speak of, usually being soft, round, and deeply associated with the infantile and the feminine” (814). Other scholars trace the historical evolution of cute aesthetics and commodities. Cultural historians have documented the emergence of consumer markets for children and how these have shaped what we think of as cute (Cross). Others have considered the history of domestic animal imagery and its symptomatic relationship with social anxieties around Darwinism, animal rights, and pet keeping (Morse and Danahay, Ritvo). And of course, Japanese popular culture – with its distinctive mobilization of cute aesthetics – has attracted its own rich literature in anthropology and area studies (Allison, Kinsella). The current issue of M/C Journal extends these lines of research while also pushing the conversation in some new directions. Specifically, we are interested in the collision between cute aesthetics, understood as a persistent strand of mass culture, and contemporary digital media. What might the existing tradition of “cute theory” mean in an Internet economy where user-generated content sites and social media have massively expanded the semiotic space of “cute” – and the commercial possibilities this entails? As the heir to a specific mode of degraded populism, the Internet cat video may be to the present what the sitcom, the paperback novel, or the Madonna video was to an earlier moment of cultural analysis. Millions of people worldwide start their days with kittens on Roombas. Global animal brands, such as Maru and Grumpy Cat, are appearing, along with new talent agencies for celebrity pets. Online portal I Can Haz Cheezburger has received millions of dollars in venture capital funding, becoming a diversified media business (and then a dotcom bubble). YouTube channels, Twitter hashtags and blog rolls form an infrastructure across which a vast amount of cute-themed user-generated content, as well as an increasing amount of commercially produced and branded material, now circulates. All this reminds us of the oft-quoted truism that the Internet is “made of kittens”, and that it’s “kittens all the way down”. Digitization of cute culture leads to some unusual tweaks in the taste hierarchies explored in the aforementioned scholarship. Cute content now functions variously as an affective transaction, a form of fandom, and as a subcultural discourse. In some corners of the Internet it is also being re-imagined as something contemporary, self-reflexive and flecked with irony. The example of 4Chan and LOLcats, a jocular, masculinist remix of the feminized genre of pet photography, is particularly striking here. How might the topic of cute look if we moving away from the old dialectics of mass culture critique vs. defense and instead foreground some of these more counter-intuitive aspects, taking seriously the enormous scale and vibrancy of the various “cute” content production systems – from children’s television to greeting cards to CuteOverload.com – and their structural integration into current media, marketing and lifestyle industries? Several articles in this issue adopt this approach, investigating the undergirding economic and regulatory structures of cute culture. Jason Potts provides a novel economic explanation for why there are so many animals on the Internet, using a little-known economic theory (the Alchian-Allen theorem) to explain the abundance of cat videos on YouTube. James Meese explores the complex copyright politics of pet images on Reddit, showing how this online community – which is the original source of much of the Internet’s animal gifs, jpegs and videos – has developed its own procedures for regulating animal image “piracy”. These articles imaginatively connect the soft stuff of cute content with the hard stuff of intellectual property and supply-and-demand dynamics. Another line of questioning investigates the political and bio-political work involved in everyday investments in cute culture. Seen from this perspective, cute is an affect that connects ground-level consumer subjectivity with various economic and political projects. Carolyn Stevens’ essay offers an absorbing analysis of the Japanese cute character Rilakkuma (“Relaxed Bear”), a wildly popular cartoon bear that is typically depicted lying on the couch and eating sweets. She explores what this representation means in the context of a stagnant Japanese economy, when the idea of idleness is taking on a new shade of meaning due to rising under-employment and precarity. Sharalyn Sanders considers a fascinating recent case of cute-powered activism in Canada, when animal rights activists used a multimedia stunt – a cat, Tuxedo Stan, running for mayor of Halifax, Canada – to highlight the unfortunate situation of stray and feral felines in the municipality. Sanders offers a rich analysis of this unusual political campaign and the moral questions it provokes. Elaine Laforteza considers another fascinating collision of the cute and the political: the case of Lil’ Bub, an American cat with a rare genetic condition that results in a perpetually kitten-like facial expression. During 2011 Lil’ Bub became an online phenomenon of the first order. Laforteza uses this event, and the controversies that brewed around it, as an entry point for a fascinating discussion of the “cute-ification” of disability. These case studies remind us once more of the political stakes of representation and viral communication, topics taken up by other contributors in their articles. Radha O’Meara’s “Do Cats Know They Rule YouTube? How Cat Videos Disguise Surveillance as Unselfconscious Play” provides a wide-ranging textual analysis of pet videos, focusing on the subtle narrative structures and viewer positioning that are so central to the pleasures of this genre. O’Meara explains how the “cute” experience is linked to the frisson of surveillance, and escape from surveillance. She also explains the aesthetic differences that distinguish online dog videos from cat videos, showing how particular ideas about animals are hardwired into the apparently spontaneous form of amateur content production. Gabriele de Seta investigates the linguistics of cute in his nuanced examination of how a new word – meng – entered popular discourse amongst Mandarin Chinese Internet users. de Seta draws our attention to the specificities of cute as a concept, and how the very notion of cuteness undergoes a series of translations and reconfigurations as it travels across cultures and contexts. As the term meng supplants existing Mandarin terms for cute such as ke’ai, debates around how the new word should be used are common. De Seta shows us how deploying these specific linguistic terms for cuteness involve a range of linguistic and aesthetic judgments. In short, what exactly is cute and in what context? Other contributors offer much-needed cultural analyses of the relationship between cute aesthetics, celebrity and user-generated culture. Catherine Caudwell looks at the once-popular Furby toy brand its treatment in online fan fiction. She notes that these forms of online creative practice offer a range of “imaginative and speculative” critiques of cuteness. Caudwell – like de Seta – reminds us that “cuteness is an unstable aesthetic that is culturally contingent and very much tied to behaviour”, an affect that can encompass friendliness, helplessness, monstrosity and strangeness. Jonathon Hutchinson’s article explores “petworking”, the phenomenon of social media-enabled celebrity pets (and pet owners). Using the famous example of Boo, a “highly networked” celebrity Pomeranian, Hutchinson offers a careful account of how cute is constructed, with intermediaries (owners and, in some cases, agents) negotiating a series of careful interactions between pet fans and the pet itself. Hutchinson argues if we wish to understand the popularity of cute content, the “strategic efforts” of these intermediaries must be taken into account. Each of our contributors has a unique story to tell about the aesthetics of commodity culture. The objects they analyse may be cute and furry, but the critical arguments offered here have very sharp teeth. We hope you enjoy the issue.Acknowledgments Thanks to Axel Bruns at M/C Journal for his support, to our hard-working peer reviewers for their insightful and valuable comments, and to the Swinburne Institute for Social Research for the small grant that made this issue possible. ReferencesAllison, Anne. “Cuteness as Japan’s Millenial Product.” Pikachu’s Global Adventure: The Rise and Fall of Pokemon. Ed. Joseph Tobin. Durham: Duke University Press, 2004. 34-48. Brown, Laura. Homeless Dogs and Melancholy Apes: Humans and Other Animals in the Modern Literary Imagination. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010. Cross, Gary. The Cute and the Cool: Wondrous Innocence and Modern American Children's Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Forgacs, David. "Disney Animation and the Business of Childhood." Screen 33.4 (1992): 361-374. Frosh, Paul. "Inside the Image Factory: Stock Photography and Cultural Production." Media, Culture & Society 23.5 (2001): 625-646. Harris, Daniel. Cute, Quaint, Hungry and Romantic: The Aesthetics of Consumerism. New York: Basic Books, 2000. Jaffe, Alexandra. "Packaged Sentiments: The Social Meanings of Greeting Cards." Journal of Material Culture 4.2 (1999): 115-141. Kinsella, Sharon. “Cuties in Japan” Women, Media and Consumption in Japan. Ed. Lise Skov and Brian Moeran. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1995. 220 - 54. Frow, John, and Meaghan Morris, eds. Australian Cultural Studies: A Reader. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1993. Milne, Esther. Letters, Postcards, Email: Technologies of Presence. New York: Routledge, 2012. Morse, Deborah and Martin Danahay, eds. Victorian Animal Dreams: Representations of Animals in Victorian Literature and Culture. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing. 2007. Ngai, Sianne. "The Cuteness of the Avant‐Garde." Critical Inquiry 31.4 (2005): 811-847. Ritvo, Harriet. The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987. West, Emily. "When You Care Enough to Defend the Very Best: How the Greeting Card Industry Manages Cultural Criticism." Media, Culture & Society 29.2 (2007): 241-261.

Abstract:

Despite numerous critics describing him as an auteur (i.e. a film-maker who ‘does’ everything and fulfils every production role [Bordwell and Thompson 37] and/or with a signature “world-view” detectable in his/her work [Caughie 10]), Rolf de Heer appears to have declined primary authorship of Dance Me to My Song (1997), his seventh in an oeuvre of twelve feature films. Indeed, the opening credits do not mention his name at all: it is only with the closing credits that the audience learns de Heer has directed the film. Rather, as the film commences, the viewer is informed by the titles that it is “A film by Heather Rose”, thus suggesting that the work is her singular creation. Direct and uncompromising, with its unflattering shots of the lead actor and writer (Heather Rose Slattery, a young woman born with cerebral palsy), the film may be read as a courageous self-portrait which finds the grace, humanity and humour trapped inside Rose’s twisted body. Alternatively, it may be read as yet another example of de Heer’s signature interest in foregrounding a world view which gives voice to marginalised characters such as the disabled or the disadvantaged. For example, the developmentally retarded eponyme of Bad Boy Bubby (1993) is eventually able to make art as a singer in a band and succeeds in creating a happy family with a wife and two kids. The ‘mute’ girl in The Quiet Room (1996) makes herself heard by her squabbling parents through her persistent activism. In Ten Canoes (2006) the Indigenous Australians cast themselves according to kinship ties, not according to the director’s choosing, and tell their story in their own uncolonised language. A cursory glance at the films of Rolf de Heer suggests he is overtly interested in conveying to the audience the often overlooked agency of his unlikely protagonists. In the ultra-competitive world of professional film-making it is rare to see primary authorship ceded by a director so generously. However, the allocation of authorship to a member of a marginalized population re-invigorates questions prompted by Andy Medhurst regarding a film’s “authorship test” (198) and its relationship to a subaltern community wherein he writes that “a biographical approach has more political justification if the project being undertaken is one concerned with the cultural history of a marginalized group” (202-3). Just as films by gay authors about gay characters may have greater credibility, as Medhurst posits, one might wonder would a film by a person with a disability about a character with the same disability be better received? Enabling authorship by an unknown, crippled woman such as Rose rather than a famous, able-bodied male such as de Heer may be cynically regarded as good (show) business in that it is politically correct. This essay therefore asks if the appellation “A film by Heather Rose” is appropriate for Dance Me to My Song. Whose agency in telling the story (or ‘doing’ the film-making), the able bodied Rolf de Heer or the disabled Heather Rose, is reflected in this cinematic production? In other words, whose voice is enabled when an audience receives this film? In attempting to answer these questions it is inevitable that Paul Darke’s concept of the “normality drama” (181) is referred to and questioned, as I argue that Dance Me to My Song makes groundbreaking departures from the conventions of the typical disability narrative. Heather Rose as Auteur Rose plays the film’s heroine, Julia, who like herself has cerebral palsy, a group of non-progressive, chronic disorders resulting from changes produced in the brain during the prenatal stages of life. Although severely affected physically, Rose suffered no intellectual impairment and had acted in Rolf de Heer’s cult hit Bad Boy Bubby five years before, a confidence-building experience that grew into an ongoing fascination with the filmmaking process. Subsequently, working with co-writer Frederick Stahl, she devised the scenario for this film, writing the lead role for herself and then proactively bringing it to de Heer’s attention. Rose wrote of de Heer’s deliberate lack of involvement in the script-writing process: “Rolf didn’t even want to read what we’d done so far, saying he didn’t want to interfere with our process” (de Heer, “Production Notes”). In 2002, aged 36, Rose died and Stahl reports in her obituary an excerpt from her diary: People see me as a person who has to be controlled. But let me tell you something, people. I am not! And I am going to make something real special of my life! I am going to go out there and grab life with both hands!!! I am going to make the most sexy and honest film about disability that has ever been made!! (Stahl, “Standing Room Only”) This proclamation of her ability and ambition in screen-writing is indicative of Rose’s desire to do. In a guest lecture Rose gave further insights into the active intent in writing Dance Me to My Song: I wanted to create a screenplay, but not just another soppy disability film, I wanted to make a hot sexy film, which showed the real world … The message I wanted to convey to an audience was “As people with disabilities, we have the same feelings and desires as others”. (Rose, “ISAAC 2000 Conference Presentation”) Rose went on to explain her strategy for winning over director de Heer: “Rolf was not sure about committing to the movie; I had to pester him really. I decided to invite him to my birthday party. It took a few drinks, but I got him to agree to be the director” (ibid) and with this revelation of her tactical approach her film-making agency is further evidenced. Rose’s proactive innovation is not just evident in her successfully approaching de Heer. Her screenplay serves as a radical exception to films featuring disabled persons, which, according to Paul Darke in 1998, typically involve the disabled protagonist struggling to triumph over the limitations imposed by their disability in their ‘admirable’ attempts to normalize. Such normality dramas are usually characterized by two generic themes: first, that the state of abnormality is nothing other than tragic because of its medical implications; and, second, that the struggle for normality, or some semblance of it in normalization – as represented in the film by the other characters – is unquestionably right owing to its axiomatic supremacy. (187) Darke argues that the so-called normality drama is “unambiguously a negation of ascribing any real social or individual value to the impaired or abnormal” (196), and that such dramas function to reinforce the able-bodied audience’s self image of normality and the notion of the disabled as the inferior Other. Able-bodied characters are typically portrayed positively in the normality drama: “A normality as represented in the decency and support of those characters who exist around, and for, the impaired central character. Thus many of the disabled characters in such narratives are bitter, frustrated and unfulfilled and either antisocial or asocial” (193). Darke then identifies The Elephant Man (David Lynch, 1980) and Born on the Fourth of July (Oliver Stone, 1989) as archetypal films of this genre. Even in films in which seemingly positive images of the disabled are featured, the protagonist is still to be regarded as the abnormal Other, because in comparison to the other characters within that narrative the impaired character is still a comparatively second-class citizen in the world of the film. My Left Foot is, as always, a prime example: Christy Brown may well be a writer, relatively wealthy and happy, but he is not seen as sexual in any way (194). However, Dance Me to My Song defies such generic restrictions: Julia’s temperament is upbeat and cheerful and her disability, rather than appearing tragic, is made to look healthy, not “second class”, in comparison with her physically attractive, able-bodied but deeply unhappy carer, Madelaine (Joey Kennedy). Within the first few minutes of the film we see Madelaine dissatisfied as she stands, inspecting her healthy, toned and naked body in the bathroom mirror, contrasted with vision of Julia’s twisted form, prostrate, pale and naked on the bed. Yet, in due course, it is the able-bodied girl who is shown to be insecure and lacking in character. Madelaine steals Julia’s money and calls her “spastic”. Foul-mouthed and short-tempered, Madelaine perversely positions Julia in her wheelchair to force her to watch as she has perfunctory sex with her latest boyfriend. Madelaine even masquerades as Julia, commandeering her voice synthesizer to give a fraudulently positive account of her on-the-job performance to the employment agency she works for. Madelaine’s “axiomatic supremacy” is thoroughly undermined and in the most striking contrast to the typical normality drama, Julia is unashamedly sexual: she is no Christy Brown. The affective juxtaposition of these two different personalities stems from the internal nature of Madelaine’s problems compared to the external nature of Julia’s problems. Madelaine has an emotional disability rather than a physical disability and several scenes in the film show her reduced to helpless tears. Then one day when Madelaine has left her to her own devices, Julia defiantly wheels herself outside and bumps into - almost literally - handsome, able-bodied Eddie (John Brumpton). Cheerfully determined, Julia wins him over and a lasting friendship is formed. Having seen the joy that sex brings to Madelaine, Julia also wants carnal fulfilment so she telephones Eddie and arranges a date. When Eddie arrives, he reads the text on her voice machine’s screen containing the title line to the film ‘Dance me to my song’ and they share a tender moment. Eddie’s gentleness as he dances Julia to her song (“Kizugu” written by Bernard Huber and John Laidler, as performed by Okapi Guitars) is simultaneously contrasted with the near-date-rapes Madelaine endures in her casual relationships. The conflict between Madeline and Julia is such that it prompts Albert Moran and Errol Vieth to categorize the film as “women’s melodrama”: Dance Me to My Song clearly belongs to the genre of the romance. However, it is also important to recognize it under the mantle of the women’s melodrama … because it has to do with a woman’s feelings and suffering, not so much because of the flow of circ*mstance but rather because of the wickedness and malevolence of another woman who is her enemy and rival. (198-9) Melodrama is a genre that frequently resorts to depicting disability in which a person condemned by society as disabled struggles to succeed in love: some prime examples include An Affair to Remember (Leo McCarey, 1957) involving a paraplegic woman, and The Piano (Jane Campion, 1993) in which a strong-spirited but mute woman achieves love. The more conventional Hollywood romances typically involve attractive, able-bodied characters. In Dance Me to My Song the melodramatic conflict between the two remarkably different women at first seems dominated by Madelaine, who states: “I know I’m good looking, good in bed ... better off than you, you poor thing” in a stream-of-consciousness delivery in which Julia is constructed as listener rather than converser. Julia is further reduced to the status of sub-human as Madelaine says: “I wish you could eat like a normal person instead of a bloody animal” and her erstwhile boyfriend Trevor says: “She looks like a f*ckin’ insect.” Even the benevolent Eddie says: “I don’t like leaving you alone but I guess you’re used to it.” To this the defiant Julia replies; “Please don’t talk about me in front of me like I’m an animal or not there at all.” Eddie is suitably chastised and when he treats her to an over-priced ice-cream the shop assistant says “Poor little thing … She’ll enjoy this, won’t she?” Julia smiles, types the words “f*ck me!”, and promptly drops the ice-cream on the floor. Eddie laughs supportively. “I’ll just get her another one,” says the flustered shop assistant, “and then get her out of here, please!” With striking eloquence, Julia wheels herself out of the shop, her voice machine announcing “f*ck me, f*ck me, f*ck me, f*ck me, f*ck me”, as she departs exultantly. With this bold statement of independence and defiance in the face of patronising condescension, the audience sees Rose’s burgeoning strength of character and agency reflected in the onscreen character she has created. Dance Me to My Song and the films mentioned above are, however, rare exceptions in the many that dare represent disability on the screen at all, compliant as the majority are with Darke’s expectations of the normality drama. Significantly, the usual medical-model nexus in many normality films is ignored in Rose’s screenplay: no medication, hospitals or white laboratory coats are to be seen in Julia’s world. Finally, as I have described elsewhere, Julia is shown joyfully dancing in her wheelchair with Eddie while Madelaine proves her physical inferiority with a ‘dance’ of frustration around her broken-down car (see Starrs, "Dance"). In Rose’s authorial vision, audience’s expectations of yet another film of the normality drama genre are subverted as the disabled protagonist proves superior to her ‘normal’ adversary in their melodramatic rivalry for the sexual favours of an able-bodied love-interest. Rolf de Heer as Auteur De Heer does not like to dwell on the topic of auteurism: in an interview in 2007 he somewhat impatiently states: I don’t go in much for that sort of analysis that in the end is terminology. … Look, I write the damn things, and direct them, and I don’t completely produce them anymore – there are other people. If that makes me an auteur in other people’s terminologies, then fine. (Starrs, "Sounds" 20) De Heer has been described as a “remarkably non-egotistical filmmaker” (Davis “Working together”) which is possibly why he handed ownership of this film to Rose. Of the writer/actor who plied him with drink so he would agree to back her script, de Heer states: It is impossible to overstate the courage of the performance that you see on the screen. … Heather somehow found the means to respond on cue, to maintain the concentration, to move in the desired direction, all the myriad of acting fundamentals that we take for granted as normal things to do in our normal lives. (“Production NHotes”) De Heer’s willingness to shift authorship from director to writer/actor is representative of this film’s groundbreaking promotion of the potential for agency within disability. Rather than being passive and suffering, Rose is able to ‘do.’ As the lead actor she is central to the narrative. As the principle writer she is central to the film’s production. And she does both. But in conflict with this auteurial intent is the temptation to describe Dance Me to My Song as an autobiographical documentary, since it is Rose herself, with her unique and obvious physical handicap, playing the film’s heroine, Julia. In interview, however, De Heer apparently disagrees with this interpretation: Rolf de Heer is quick to point out, though, that the film is not a biography.“Not at all; only in the sense that writers use material from their own lives.Madelaine is merely the collection of the worst qualities of the worst carers Heather’s ever had.” Dance Me to My Song could be seen as a dramatised documentary, since it is Rose herself playing Julia, and her physical or surface life is so intense and she is so obviously handicapped. While he understands that response, de Heer draws a comparison with the first films that used black actors instead of white actors in blackface. “I don’t know how it felt emotionally to an audience, I wasn’t there, but I think that is the equivalent”. (Urban) An example of an actor wearing “black-face” to portray a cerebral palsy victim might well be Gus Trikonis’s 1980 film Touched By Love. In this, the disabled girl is unconvincingly played by the pretty, able-bodied actress Diane Lane. The true nature of the character’s disability is hidden and cosmeticized to Hollywood expectations. Compared to that inauthentic film, Rose’s screenwriting and performance in Dance Me to My Song is a self-penned fiction couched in unmediated reality and certainly warrants authorial recognition. Despite his unselfish credit-giving, de Heer’s direction of this remarkable film is nevertheless detectable. His auteur signature is especially evident in his technological employment of sound as I have argued elsewhere (see Starrs, "Awoval"). The first distinctly de Heer influence is the use of a binaural recording device - similar to that used in Bad Boy Bubby (1993) - to convey to the audience the laboured nature of Julia’s breathing and to subjectively align the audience with her point of view. This apparatus provides a disturbing sound bed that is part wheezing, part grunting. There is no escaping Julia’s physically unusual life, from her reliance on others for food, toilet and showering, to the half-strangled sounds emanating from her ineffectual larynx. But de Heer insists that Julia does speak, like Stephen Hawkings, via her Epson RealVoice computerized voice synthesizer, and thus Julia manages to retain her dignity. De Heer has her play this machine like a musical instrument, its neatly modulated feminine tones immediately prompting empathy. Rose Capp notes de Heer’s preoccupation with finding a voice for those minority groups within the population who struggle to be heard, stating: de Heer has been equally consistent in exploring the communicative difficulties underpinning troubled relationships. From the mute young protagonist of The Quiet Room to the aphasic heroine of Dance Me to My Song, De Heer’s films are frequently preoccupied with the profound inadequacy or outright failure of language as a means of communication (21). Certainly, the importance to Julia of her only means of communication, her voice synthesizer, is stressed by de Heer throughout the film. Everybody around her has, to varying degrees, problems in hearing correctly or understanding both what and how Julia communicates with her alien mode of conversing, and she is frequently asked to repeat herself. Even the well-meaning Eddie says: “I don’t know what the machine is trying to say”. But it is ultimately via her voice synthesizer that Julia expresses her indomitable character. When first she meets Eddie, she types: “Please put my voice machine on my chair, STUPID.” She proudly declares ownership of a condom found in the bathroom with “It’s mine!” The callous Madelaine soon realizes Julia’s strength is in her voice machine and withholds access to the device as punishment for if she takes it away then Julia is less demanding for the self-centred carer. Indeed, the film which starts off portraying the physical superiority of Madelaine soon shows us that the carer’s life, for all her able-bodied, free-love ways, is far more miserable than Julia’s. As de Heer has done in many of his other films, a voice has been given to those who might otherwise not be heard through significant decision making in direction. In Rose’s case, this is achieved most obviously via her electric voice synthesizer. I have also suggested elsewhere (see Starrs, "Dance") that de Heer has helped find a second voice for Rose via the language of dance, and in doing so has expanded the audience’s understandings of quality of life for the disabled, as per Mike Oliver’s social model of disability, rather than the more usual medical model of disability. Empowered by her act of courage with Eddie, Julia sacks her uncaring ‘carer’ and the film ends optimistically with Julia and her new man dancing on the front porch. By picturing the couple in long shot and from above, Julia’s joyous dance of triumph is depicted as ordinary, normal and not deserving of close examination. This happy ending is intercut with a shot of Madeline and her broken down car, performing her own frustrated dance and this further emphasizes that she was unable to ‘dance’ (i.e. communicate and compete) with Julia. The disabled performer such as Rose, whether deliberately appropriating a role or passively accepting it, usually struggles to placate two contrasting realities: (s)he is at once invisible in the public world of interhuman relations and simultaneously hyper-visible due to physical Otherness and subsequent instantaneous typecasting. But by the end of Dance Me to My Song, Rose and de Heer have subverted this notion of the disabled performer grappling with the dual roles of invisible victim and hyper-visible victim by depicting Julia as socially and physically adept. She ‘wins the guy’ and dances her victory as de Heer’s inspirational camera looks down at her success like an omniscient and pleased god. Film academic Vivian Sobchack writes of the phenomenology of dance choreography for the disabled and her own experience of waltzing with the maker of her prosthetic leg, Steve, with the comment: “for the moment I did displace focus on my bodily immanence to the transcendent ensemble of our movement and I really began to waltz” (65). It is easy to imagine Rose’s own, similar feeling of bodily transcendence in the closing shot of Dance Me to My Song as she shows she can ‘dance’ better than her able-bodied rival, content as she is with her self-identity. Conclusion: Validation of the Auteurial OtherRolf de Heer was a well-known film-maker by the time he directed Dance Me to My Song. His films Bad Boy Bubby (1993) and The Quiet Room (1996) had both screened at the Cannes International Film Festival. He was rapidly developing a reputation for non-mainstream representations of marginalised, subaltern populations, a cinematic trajectory that was to be further consolidated by later films privileging the voice of Indigenous Peoples in The Tracker (2002) and Ten Canoes (2006), the latter winning the Special Jury prize at Cannes. His films often feature unlikely protagonists or as Liz Ferrier writes, are “characterised by vulnerable bodies … feminised … none of whom embody hegemonic masculinity” (65): they are the opposite of Hollywood’s hyper-masculine, hard-bodied, controlling heroes. With a nascent politically correct worldview proving popular, de Heer may have considered the assigning of authorship to Rose a marketable idea, her being representative of a marginalized group, which as Andy Medhurst might argue, may be more politically justifiable, as it apparently is with films of gay authorship. However, it must be emphasized that there is no evidence that de Heer’s reticence about claiming authorship of Dance Me to My Song is motivated by pecuniary interests, nor does he seem to have been trying to distance himself from the project through embarrassment or dissatisfaction with the film or its relatively unknown writer/actor. Rather, he seems to be giving credit for authorship where credit is due, for as a result of Rose’s tenacity and agency this film is, in two ways, her creative success. Firstly, it is a rare exception to the disability film genre defined by Paul Darke as the “normality drama” because in the film’s diegesis, Julia is shown triumphing not simply over the limitations of her disability, but over her able-bodied rival in love as well: she ‘dances’ better than the ‘normal’ Madelaine. Secondly, in her gaining possession of the primary credits, and the mantle of the film’s primary author, Rose is shown triumphing over other aspiring able-bodied film-makers in the notoriously competitive film-making industry. Despite being an unpublished and unknown author, the label “A film by Heather Rose” is, I believe, a deserved coup for the woman who set out to make “the most sexy and honest film about disability ever made”. As with de Heer’s other films in which marginalised peoples are given voice, he demonstrates a desire not to subjugate the Other, but to validate and empower him/her. He both acknowledges their authorial voices and credits them as essential beings, and in enabling such subaltern populations to be heard, willingly cedes his privileged position as a successful, white, male, able-bodied film-maker. In the credits of this film he seems to be saying ‘I may be an auteur, but Heather Rose is a no less able auteur’. References Bordwell, David and Kristin Thompson. Film Art: An Introduction, 4th ed. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1993. Capp, Rose. “Alexandra and the de Heer Project.” RealTime + Onscreen 56 (Aug.-Sep. 2003): 21. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.realtimearts.net/article/issue56/7153›. Caughie, John. “Introduction”. Theories of Authorship. Ed. John Caughie. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981. 9-16. Darke, Paul. “Cinematic Representations of Disability.” The Disability Reader. Ed. Tom Shakespeare. London and New York: Cassell, 1988. 181-198. Davis, Therese. “Working Together: Two Cultures, One Film, Many Canoes.” Senses of Cinema 2006. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/06/41/ten-canoes.html›. De Heer, Rolf. “Production Notes.” Vertigo Productions. Undated. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.vertigoproductions.com.au/information.php?film_id=10&display=notes›. Ferrier, Liz. “Vulnerable Bodies: Creative Disabilities in Contemporary Australian Film.” Australian Cinema in the 1990s. Ed. Ian Craven. London and Portland: Frank Cass and Co., 2001. 57-78. Medhurst, Andy. “That Special Thrill: Brief Encounter, hom*osexuality and Authorship.” Screen 32.2 (1991): 197-208. Moran, Albert, and Errol Veith. Film in Australia: An Introduction. Melbourne: Cambridge UP, 2006. Oliver, Mike. Social Work with Disabled People. Basingstoke: MacMillan, 1983. Rose Slattery, Heather. “ISAAC 2000 Conference Presentation.” Words+ n.d. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.words-plus.com/website/stories/isaac2000.htm›. Sobchack, Vivian. “‘Choreography for One, Two, and Three Legs’ (A Phenomenological Meditation in Movements).” Topoi 24.1 (2005): 55-66. Stahl, Frederick. “Standing Room Only for a Thunderbolt in a Wheelchair,” Sydney Morning Herald 31 Oct. 2002. 6 June 2008 ‹http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2002/10/30/1035683471529.html›. Starrs, D. Bruno. “Sounds of Silence: An Interview with Rolf de Heer.” Metro 152 (2007): 18-21. ———. “An avowal of male lack: Sound in Rolf de Heer’s The Old Man Who Read Love Stories (2003).” Metro 156 (2008): 148-153. ———. “Dance Me to My Song (Rolf de Heer 1997): The Story of a Disabled Dancer.” Proceedings Scopic Bodies Dance Studies Research Seminar Series 2007. Ed. Mark Harvey. University of Auckland, 2008 (in press). Urban, Andrew L. “Dance Me to My Song, Rolf de Heer, Australia.” Film Festivals 1988. 6 June 2008. ‹http://www.filmfestivals.com/cannes98/selofus9.htm›.

Abstract:

In 2019, Netflix released the first season of its highly anticipated show The Witcher. Based on the books of Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski, the fantasy show tells the intersecting stories of the Witcher Geralt of Rivia (Henry Cavill), the princess of Cintra Ciri (Freya Allan), and sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg (Anya Chalotra), who is commonly referred to as a ‘mage’. Although not as popular among critics as its original book incarnations and adapted game counterparts, the show went on to achieve an 89% audience score on Rotten Tomatoes and was subsequently renewed for more seasons. Although the general success of the show is clear among viewers, The Witcher was not without its detractors, who accused creator Lauren Hissrich of developing a woke series with a feminist agenda (Worrall), especially because of her desire to emphasise strong female characters (Crow). The latter is, of course, a direction that the Netflix series inherited from the video game version of The Witcher – especially The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt – even if the portrayal is often considered to be biased and “problematic” (Heritage). Supporting the view that the show focusses on the character trajectories of independent and capable women is the analysis offered by Worrow (61), who attests that “the female representations in season one of The Witcher offer prominent female characters who are imbued with agency, institutional power and well-developed narrative arcs”. Although Worrow’s analysis offers a clear critical account of Yennefer’s story arc – among the other female characters – what it does not consider is the relationship between women and magic, which has historically seen the mistreatment and ostracising of women as practitioners, and which tacitly informs representation in The Witcher by providing a gendered view of magical power. In response to this, the purpose of our article is to consider how Yennefer’s pursuit of magic both maintains and challenges gender stereotypes, particularly as they pertain to sorceresses and witches. The analysis will focus primarily on the episodes of Season One. Through the course of Season One, audiences are introduced to the character of Yennefer as she transitions from a deformed woman into a ‘beautiful’ sorceress. Alienated by her community because of a hunched back and cleft palate, Yennefer remains mistreated until she exhibits magical tendencies – or “the ability to conduct Chaos” (Guimarães). This is an aptitude that will later be revealed to be a direct outcome of her Elvin heritage (Worrow). Having gained the attention of Tissaia (MyAnna Buring), the Rectress of the magical school Aretuza, Yennefer is purchased from her family and relocated to Aretuza to train as a mage. Initially, Yennefer struggles with the magic training, where magic itself is referred to as “chaos”. In particular, she specifically finds it hard to “control [her] chaos”, as the series puts it, because of her emotional tendencies. After a short period of time, however, Yennefer develops into a strong, talented sorceress who is later instrumental in the final battle of Season One against the Nilfgaardian forces that are at war with the city-state of Cintra (Chitwood); the conflict with the kingdom of Nilfgaard is a central plot development in The Witcher, running across multiple seasons of the series. Throughout Season One, audiences view Yennefer’s character development, as she sheds her kind, naïve personality in favour of becoming an agent of chaos, who is fully immersed in the political intrigue that influences the Continent – the broader geographical land where the events of The Witcher take place. What It Means to Be a Sorceress For the purpose of this article, we will be using the terms “sorceress” and “witch” interchangeably (Stratton). It is important to mention here that several strands of anthropological research contend that the two terms are not synonymous, with “sorcery” referring to the ability to “manipulate supernatural forces for malicious or deviant purposes” (Moro, 2); the term “witch”, on the other hand, would preferably be used for “people suspected of practising, either deliberately or unconsciously, socially prohibited forms of magic“ (Moro, 1). Nonetheless, historians and sociologists have long equated the two because of their prepotency to describe magic users who channel power for productive and nefarious purposes (Godsend; Lipscomb). We cite our understanding of these important terminologies in the latter critical area, seeing the important social, cultural, and political interconnections concomitantly held by the terms “sorceress” and “witch” in the context of magical practices within The Witcher series. ‘Mage’, for its part, seems to be used in the series as a gender-neutral term, openly recalling a well-known narrative trajectory from both fantasy novels and games. Regardless of whether they were deemed witches, sorceresses, mages, or enchantresses, and despite historical records that prove the contrary, practitioners of magic, as such, have predominantly been gendered as female (Godwin; Stratton). Such a misconception has meant that stereotypes and representations of magic and witchcraft in popular culture have continued to show a penchant for depicting witches not only as female but also as powerful and intimidating beings that continuously challenge hegemonic power structures (Burger & Mix; Stratton). Historically, and especially so in the Western context, individuals labelled as witches and sorceresses have been ostracised, in some instances eradicated through mass killings, to ostensibly contain their power and remove the threat of the evil they inevitably embodied and represented (Johnson). This established historical framework is tacitly embedded in the narrative structure of The Witcher, with examples such as Yennefer often being portrayed as out of control because of her magical powers. The series, however, acknowledges unspoken historical truths and reinforces its own canon, as it is made clear throughout that men can also be magic users; indeed, the show includes a variety of male druids, sorcerers, and mages. Where a potential gender divide exists, however, is in reference to the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, who seemingly control the activities and powers of magical practitioners. Although there is a female equivalent in Sapkowski’s novels, called the Lodge of Sorceresses, the first season of The Witcher does not openly engage with it. Such an omission could be construed as a gender concern in the Netflix show, as a patriarchal group seemingly oversees the activities of mages. As Worrow argues, the show implies that “The Brotherhood controls and legitimizes the use of magic” (66), and by being referred to as a ‘brotherhood’, creates a gender imbalance within the series. This interpretation is not unexpected, bearing in mind that gender studies scholars have consistently pointed out how structural inequalities exist, even in fictitious offerings. In social, cultural, and media contexts alike, these offerings subordinate women in favour of maintaining ideologies that advantage hegemonic masculinity (Connell; Butler). Where the stereotypes of women diverge in The Witcher, however, is in the general characterisation of these powerful witches and sorceresses as empathetic and compassionate individuals. Across the history of representation, witches have been portrayed as cruel, evil, manipulative, and devious, making witches one of the most recognisable tropes of evil women in storytelling, from fairy tales to film, TV, novels, and games (Zipes). While a number of notable exceptions exist – one should only think here of Practical Magic, both in its book and film adaptations (1995/1998), as examples of texts exploring the notion of the good witch – the representational stereotype of witches as wicked and malevolent creatures has held centrally true. A witch’s activities are generally focussed on controlling and bringing misfortune upon others, in favour of their own gain (Moro). As Schimmelpfennig puts it, the recurrent image of the witch is that of someone who is “envious” of others: “nobody loves, likes, or pities her. She seems to have brought disaster upon herself and lives on the margins of society, [often] visualised by her residence in the woods” (31). The common perception, as cemented in fictional contexts, has been that witches have nefarious and villainous intents, and their magical actions (especially) are perpetually motivated by this. Although she was initially alienated by both her magical and non-magical communities, Yennefer’s character development does not adhere exactly to the broadly established characterisation of witches. Admittedly, she does act in morally ambiguous ways. For example, in the episode “Bottled Appetites”, her desire to have children leads her to attempt to control a jinn regardless of the dangerous costs to herself and others. And yet, in the following episode, "Rare Species", Yennefer changes her mind about trying to slay a dragon whose magical properties could help her, and instead works with Geralt to defend the Dragon and its family from Reavers. She also confronts injustices by helping to defend the territory of Sodden Hill which is threatened by Nilfgaardian forces ("Much More"). Rather than being purely evil, as witches have long been considered to be, Yennefer offers a more nuanced and relatable depiction, as both a witch and, arguably, a woman character. The moral complexity of Yennefer as a magical figure, then, not only makes for compelling viewing – with such magical characters often being an expected presence in mainstream programming (Greene) – but her continued growth, and the attention given to her identity development by showrunners, challenge gender stereotypes. On screen, female characters have often been treated as auxiliaries to their male counterparts (Taber et al.); they have fulfilled roles as mother, lover, or damsel in distress, reducing any potential for growth (Nairn). The Witcher Season One gives Yennefer her own arc and, in doing so, becomes a series that elevates the status of women rather than treating them as, to borrow Simone de Bauvoir’s famous words, ‘the second sex’. Power & Empowerment Differentiating Yennefer from the stereotypes of female characters, and witches/sorceresses more specifically within the broader popular media and culture landscape, is her obvious agency within The Witcher series. Gammage et al. argue that agency can be understood as “the capacity for purposive action, the ability to make decisions and pursue goals free from violence, retribution, and fear, but it also includes a cognitive dimension” (6). Throughout The Witcher, Yennefer does not act subserviently and will even oppose the will of those around her. For example, in the episode “Before the Fall”, she gives advice to young girls training to be mages to ignore the instructions of their tutors and "to think for themselves" (26:19-26:20). She follows up by later telling the young mages about how Aretuza takes away their opportunity to bear children, to ensure the mages stay loyal to the cause. As she puts it: "Even if you do everything right, follow their rules, that's still no guarantee you will get what you want" (29:42-29:51). This exposes her character as not tied to traditional patriarchal notions of subservience. And while personal motivations may laterally aid the conception of witches as egotistical, her actions still stand out as being propelled by individual agency. Female characters on screen have often been portrayed as submissive and passive, and this includes iconic on-screen witches from Samantha in Bewitched to the titular character in Sabrina the Teenage Witch. It is not uncommon to see good witches in popular media and culture, in particular, as still defined by male relationships in terms of cultural and social value (for instance, Sally Owens in Practical Magic, and Wanda Maximoff in the Marvel Cinematic Universe). As Godwin puts it, these characters embody the expected gender roles of a patriarchal society, with storylines, for example, that favour love potions or keeping house. As far as The Witcher is concerned, being submissive and passive is often in direct contrast with Yennefer’s preferences. For example, in “Betrayer Moon”, she intentionally ignores the decision of the Brotherhood to act as the mage in Nilfgaard by intentionally catching the eye of the King of Aedirn: the King then asks for Yennefer to be his mage. Fringilla (Mimi Ndiweni), who was supposed to be the mage in Aedirn, is forced to go to Nilfgaard instead. Yennefer's behaviour not only defies The Brotherhood in favour of her own interests but also demonstrates her unwillingness to conform to the expectations placed on her. Such depictions of Yennefer acting with agency make her, arguably, relatable to audiences. Female characters and witches such as Yennefer become emblematic of independent, competent women who use magic to take control of their own destiny (Burger and Mix) and can be praised for opposing “oppressive societal norms” and instead advocating for “independent thought” (Godwin 92). It is possible to argue here that what drives Yennefer appears to be her sense of Otherness, as an intrinsic difference that is central to her being, both physically and emotionally. Although initially her othered nature is seemingly the product of her deformities and ethnic background (with elves being socially, culturally, and politically ostracised on the Continent), she openly admits to feeling othered throughout the series, even after her physical disfigurement is cured by magic. Her individualised agency makes her inevitably stand out and becomes a marker of difference. This representation is not dissimilar to the feelings expressed by women across First, Second, and Third-wave Feminism (Butler; Connell). Indeed, Worrow observes that “The Witcher encodes female characters with power as ‘other’, enhancing this otherness through magical abilities” (61). It would seem that, in essence, the show surreptitiously gives voice to the plight of minority groups through the hard work, dedication, and determination of Yennefer as an Othered character, as she struggles and defies expectations in pursuit of her goal of becoming a powerful sorceress. Her independence and agency tell a story of empowerment because, like other fictional witches of the last decade in the twenty-first century, Yennefer “refuses to pretend to be someone or something they are not, eschewing the lie to instead embody the truth of themselves, their identity's, and their unapologetic strength” (Burger and Mix 14). This profoundly diverges from other representations where being the ‘other’ was seen as a justification for punishment, marginalisation, or mistreatment, and amply seen across the historicised media spectrum, from Disney films to horror narratives and beyond. Nonetheless, although it appears as if Yennefer has agency and is empowered, there is the argument that she is a conduit of magic, and as such, lacks real power and influence without a capacity to control the chaos. As Godwin contends, witches are often limited in their capacity to be influential and to have true autonomy by the fact that they do not possess magic but are often seemingly controlled by it. At various times in Season One, Yennefer struggles to control the chaos magic. For example, while being beaten up, she inadvertently portals for the first time. During her magical training, she can't manage a number of magical tasks ("Four Marks"). Here, the suggestion is that she is not completely free to act as she chooses because it can produce unintentional consequences or no consequences at all; this conceptual enslavement to magic as the source of her power and individuality seemingly dilutes some of her agency. Furthermore, instances of her trying to control the chaos within the show also conform to stereotypes of women being ruled by emotions and prone to hysterical outbursts (Johnson). Aesthetics & Sexuality Stereotypically, and in keeping with fictional tropes in literature, media, and film, witches have been described as “mature” women, “with bad skin, crooked teeth, foul breath, a cackling laugh, and a big nose with a wart at the end of it” (Henderson 66). Classic examples include the witches depicted in the works of the Brothers Grimm, Disney’s instances of Madam Mim in The Sword in the Stone and the transformed Evil Queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), the witches of Roald Dahl’s eponymous novel (1983), and (even more traditionally and iconically) the hags of Shakespeare’s Macbeth (1623). Yet, more recently the witch aesthetic has altered significantly in the media spectrum with an increased focus on young, alluring, and enchanting women, such as Rowan Fielding in Mayfair Witches (2023 –), Sabrina Spellman of The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (2018–2020), Freya Mikealson of The Originals (2013–2018), and of course, Yennefer in The Witcher. These examples emphasise that female magic users, much like a significant ratio of female characters in popular culture, are sexualised, with the seductive nature of the witch taking precedence and, in some cases, detracting from the character's agency as she becomes objectified for the male gaze (Mulvey). The hiring of actress Chaltora as Yennefer, although designed to challenge racialised beauty standards (Kain), does not dispel the treatment of women as sex objects as she is filmed nude during some magic rituals and in intimate scenes. Importantly, and as briefly mentioned above, when Yennefer’s back story is told, she is introduced as a young woman with physical deformities. As part of her ascension to a sorceress, she is required to undergo a physical transformation to make her beautiful, as conventional beauty and allure appear to be requirements for mages. As Worrow (66) attests, she is seen “undergoing an invasive, painful, magical metamorphosis which remakes her in the image of classical feminine beauty”. Unsurprisingly, the makeover received backlash for being ableist (Calder), but the magical change also enforced stereotypical views of women needing to be “manicured and coiffed” (Eckert, 530) to have relevancy and value. Yennefer’s beautifying procedure could also be interpreted as paralleling current cultural currents in contemporary society, where cosmetic interventions and physical transformations, often in the form of plastic surgery, are encouraged for women to be accepted. Indeed, Yennefer is shown as being much more accepted by human and mage communities alike after her transformation, as both her political and magical influence grows. In these terms, the portrayal of Yennefer maintains rather than challenges gender norms, making for a disappointing turn in the plotline of The Witcher. The decision to submit to the transformation also came at a cost to Yennefer. She was forced to forfeit her uterus and by extension her potential to become a mother. Such a storyline conforms to Creed’s long-standing perspective that “when a woman is represented as monstrous it is almost always in relation to her mothering and reproductive functions” (118). Here, even after achieving the expected beauty standards, Yennefer is still treated as abject because she can no longer “fulfil the function dictated by patriarchal and phallocentric hegemony” (Worrow 68), which further contributes to the widespread ideological perspective that women’s roles are to be nurturing and child-rearing (Bueskens). Of course, motherhood remains a contentious topic for Yennefer as, although she made the decision to forgo her uterus in pursuit of power and beauty, she later comes to regret that decision. In the episode “Rare Specifies”, Yennefer admits to Geralt that she feels loss and sadness over her inability to reproduce, which contributes to the complexity and inner turmoil of her character, while equally reinforcing the perception that women should be mothers. Her initial independence and choice are undermined by her attempts to regain her uterus and later, in Season 3, by her adopting the role of mother figure to Ciri. Conclusion In many respects, the story arc of sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg conforms to what McRobbie describes as female individualism, and Gill considers post-feminist. That is, Yennefer has choice and agency. She makes decisions out of a sense of entitlement, and privileges her desire for power, beauty, and freedom, sometimes above all else. Much like other post-feminist icons, Yennefer is empowered and challenges gender stereotypes that charge women with being passive and submissive. Yet, despite the fact that 60% of the writing credits are held by women on The Witcher (Worrow), Yennefer’s character is still objectified. Although the male gaze might not always be privileged, there are examples where her sexuality is exploited; by being portrayed as physically attractive, desirable, and promiscuous, she still conforms to gender norms about ideal beauty standards. The sexuality of her character maintains perceptions of witches and sorceresses as seducers, and while she is not cavorting with Satan, as many witches have historically claimed to be (Stratton), her depiction maintains the adage that sex sells – at least as far as media production goes. Ultimately, the character of Yennefer in The Witcher appears to be an attempt to respond to a tacit cultural desire for strong female characters with relatable storylines, without ostracising male fans. Despite the desire to include empowered female characters in the show, however, Yennefer is also depicted as a continuously unhappy and unfulfilled character, as her value becomes entangled with notions of motherhood. The balancing of these competing adages continues to simultaneously maintain and challenge stereotypes of witches and sorceresses, as representational exemplifications of women’s experiences in media and culture. References “Before a Fall.” The Witcher. Created by Lauren Hissrich. Season 1, episode 7. Netflix. Little Schmidt Productions, 2019. “Betrayer Moon.” The Witcher. Created by Lauren Hissrich. Season 1, episode 3. Netflix. Little Schmidt Productions, 2019. “Bottled Appetites.” The Witcher. Created by Lauren Hissrich. Season 1, episode 5. Netflix. Little Schmidt Productions, 2019. Bueskens, Petra. Modern Motherhood and Women’s Dual Identities: Rewriting the Sexual Contract. London: Routledge, 2018. 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Abstract:

At a time when almost every human transgression, illness, profession and other personal aspect of life has been chronicled in autobiographical writing (Rak)—in 1998 Zinsser called ours “the age of memoir” (3)—writing about fat is one of the most recent subjects to be addressed in this way. This article surveys a range of contemporary autobiographical texts that are titled with, or revolve around, that powerful and most evocative word, “fat”. Following a number of cultural studies of fat in society (Critser; Gilman, Fat Boys; Fat: A Cultural History; Stearns), this discussion views fat in socio-cultural terms, following Lupton in understanding fat as both “a cultural artefact: a bodily substance or body shape that is given meaning by complex and shifting systems of ideas, practices, emotions, material objects and interpersonal relationships” (i). Using a case study approach (Gerring; Verschuren), this examination focuses on a range of texts from autobiographical cookbooks and memoirs to novel-length graphic works in order to develop a preliminary taxonomy of these works. In this way, a small sample of work, each of which (described below) explores an aspect (or aspects) of the form is, following Merriam, useful as it allows a richer picture of an under-examined phenomenon to be constructed, and offers “a means of investigating complex social units consisting of multiple variables of potential importance in understanding the phenomenon” (Merriam 50). Although the sample size does not offer generalisable results, the case study method is especially suitable in this context, where the aim is to open up discussion of this form of writing for future research for, as Merriam states, “much can be learned from […] an encounter with the case through the researcher’s narrative description” and “what we learn in a particular case can be transferred to similar situations” (51). Pro-Fat Autobiographical WritingAlongside the many hundreds of reduced, low- and no-fat cookbooks and weight loss guides currently in print that offer recipes, meal plans, ingredient replacements and strategies to reduce fat in the diet, there are a handful that promote the consumption of fats, and these all have an autobiographical component. The publication of Jennifer McLagan’s Fat: An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient, with Recipes in 2008 by Ten Speed Press—publisher of Mollie Katzen’s groundbreaking and influential vegetarian Moosewood Cookbook in 1974 and an imprint now known for its quality cookbooks (Thelin)—unequivocably addressed that line in the sand often drawn between fat and all things healthy. The four chapter titles of this cookbook— “Butter,” subtitled “Worth It,” “Pork Fat: The King,” “Poultry Fat: Versatile and Good For You,” and, “Beef and Lamb Fats: Overlooked But Tasty”—neatly summarise McLagan’s organising argument: that animal fats not only add an unreplaceable and delicious flavour to foods but are fundamental to our health. Fat polarised readers and critics; it was positively reviewed in prominent publications (Morris; Bhide) and won influential food writing awards, including 2009 James Beard Awards for Single Subject Cookbook and Cookbook of the Year but, due to its rejection of low-fat diets and the research underpinning them, was soon also vehemently criticised, to the point where the book was often described in the media as “controversial” (see Smith). McLagan’s text, while including historical, scientific and gastronomic data and detail, is also an outspokenly personal treatise, chronicling her sensual and emotional responses to this ingredient. “I love fat,” she begins, continuing, “Whether it’s a slice of foie gras terrine, its layer of yellow fat melting at the edges […] hot bacon fat […] wilting a plate of pungent greens into submission […] or a piece of crunchy pork crackling […] I love the way it feels in my mouth, and I love its many tastes” (1). Her text is, indeed, memoir as gastronomy / gastronomy as memoir, and this cookbook, therefore, an example of the “memoir with recipes” subgenre (Brien et al.). It appears to be this aspect – her highly personal and, therein, persuasive (Weitin) plea for the value of fats – that galvanised critics and readers.Molly Chester and Sandy Schrecengost’s Back to Butter: A Traditional Foods Cookbook – Nourishing Recipes Inspired by Our Ancestors begins with its authors’ memoirs (illness, undertaking culinary school training, buying and running a farm) to lend weight to their argument to utilise fats widely in cookery. Its first chapter, “Fats and Oils,” features the familiar butter, which it describes as “the friendly fat” (22), then moves to the more reviled pork lard “Grandma’s superfood” (22) and, nowadays quite rarely described as an ingredient, beef tallow. Grit Magazine’s Lard: The Lost Art of Cooking with Your Grandmother’s Secret Ingredient utilises the rhetoric that fat, and in this case, lard, is a traditional and therefore foundational ingredient in good cookery. This text draws on its publisher’s, Grit Magazine (published since 1882 in various formats), long history of including auto/biographical “inspirational stories” (Teller) to lend persuasive power to its argument. One of the most polarising of fats in health and current media discourse is butter, as was seen recently in debate over what was seen as its excessive use in the MasterChef Australia television series (see, Heart Foundation; Phillipov). It is perhaps not surprising, then, that butter is the single fat inspiring the most autobiographical writing in this mode. Rosie Daykin’s Butter Baked Goods: Nostalgic Recipes from a Little Neighborhood Bakery is, for example, typical of a small number of cookbooks that extend the link between baking and nostalgia to argue that butter is the superlative ingredient for baking. There are also entire cookbooks dedicated to making flavoured butters (Vaserfirer) and a number that offer guides to making butter and other (fat-based) dairy products at home (Farrell-Kingsley; Hill; Linford).Gabrielle Hamilton’s Blood, Bones and Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef is typical among chef’s memoirs in using butter prominently although rare in mentioning fat in its title. In this text and other such memoirs, butter is often used as shorthand for describing a food that is rich but also wholesomely delicious. Hamilton relates childhood memories of “all butter shortcakes” (10), and her mother and sister “cutting butter into flour and sugar” for scones (15), radishes eaten with butter (21), sautéing sage in butter to dress homemade ravoli (253), and eggs fried in browned butter (245). Some of Hamilton’s most telling references to butter present it as an staple, natural food as, for instance, when she describes “sliced bread with butter and granulated sugar” (37) as one of her family’s favourite desserts, and lists butter among the everyday foodstuffs that taste superior when stored at room temperature instead of refrigerated—thereby moving butter from taboo (Gwynne describes a similar process of the normalisation of sexual “perversion” in erotic memoir).Like this text, memoirs that could be described as arguing “for” fat as a substance are largely by chefs or other food writers who extol, like McLagan and Hamilton, the value of fat as both food and flavouring, and propose that it has a key role in both ordinary/family and gourmet cookery. In this context, despite plant-based fats such as coconut oil being much lauded in nutritional and other health-related discourse, the fat written about in these texts is usually animal-based. An exception to this is olive oil, although this is never described in the book’s title as a “fat” (see, for instance, Drinkwater’s series of memoirs about life on an olive farm in France) and is, therefore, out of the scope of this discussion.Memoirs of Being FatThe majority of the other memoirs with the word “fat” in their titles are about being fat. Narratives on this topic, and their authors’ feelings about this, began to be published as a sub-set of autobiographical memoir in the 2000s. The first decade of the new millennium saw a number of such memoirs by female writers including Judith Moore’s Fat Girl (published in 2005), Jen Lancaster’s Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist’s Quest to Discover If Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer, and Stephanie Klein’s Moose: A Memoir (both published in 2008) and Jennifer Joyne’s Designated Fat Girl in 2010. These were followed into the new decade by texts such as Celia Rivenbark’s bestselling 2011 You Don’t Sweat Much for a Fat Girl, and all attracted significant mainstream readerships. Journalist Vicki Allan pulled no punches when she labelled these works the “fat memoir” and, although Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson’s influential categorisation of 60 genres of life writing does not include this description, they do recognise eating disorder and weight-loss narratives. Some scholarly interest followed (Linder; Halloran), with Mitchell linking this production to feminism’s promotion of the power of the micro-narrative and the recognition that the autobiographical narrative was “a way of situating the self politically” (65).aken together, these memoirs all identify “excess” weight, although the response to this differs. They can be grouped as: narratives of losing weight (see Kuffel; Alley; and many others), struggling to lose weight (most of these books), and/or deciding not to try to lose weight (the smallest number of works overall). Some of these texts display a deeply troubled relationship with food—Moore’s Fat Girl, for instance, could also be characterised as an eating disorder memoir (Brien), detailing her addiction to eating and her extremely poor body image as well as her mother’s unrelenting pressure to lose weight. Elena Levy-Navarro describes the tone of these narratives as “compelled confession” (340), mobilising both the conventional understanding of confession of the narrator “speaking directly and colloquially” to the reader of their sins, failures or foibles (Gill 7), and what she reads as an element of societal coercion in their production. Some of these texts do focus on confessing what can be read as disgusting and wretched behavior (gorging and vomiting, for instance)—Halloran’s “gustatory abject” (27)—which is a feature of the contemporary conceptualisation of confession after Rousseau (Brooks). This is certainly a prominent aspect of current memoir writing that is, simultaneously, condemned by critics (see, for example, Jordan) and popular with readers (O’Neill). Read in this way, the majority of memoirs about being fat are about being miserable until a slimming regime of some kind has been undertaken and successful. Some of these texts are, indeed, triumphal in tone. Lisa Delaney’s Secrets of a Former Fat Girl is, for instance, clear in the message of its subtitle, How to Lose Two, Four (or More!) Dress Sizes—And Find Yourself Along the Way, that she was “lost” until she became slim. Linden has argued that “female memoir writers frequently describe their fat bodies as diseased and contaminated” (219) and “powerless” (226). Many of these confessional memoirs are moving narratives of shame and self loathing where the memoirist’s sense of self, character, and identity remain somewhat confused and unresolved, whether they lose weight or not, and despite attestations to the contrary.A sub-set of these memoirs of weight loss are by male authors. While having aspects in common with those by female writers, these can be identified as a sub-set of these memoirs for two reasons. One is the tone of their narratives, which is largely humourous and often ribaldly comic. There is also a sense of the heroic in these works, with male memoirsts frequently mobilising images of battles and adversity. Texts that can be categorised in this way include Toshio Okada’s Sayonara Mr. Fatty: A Geek’s Diet Memoir, Gregg McBride and Joy Bauer’s bestselling Weightless: My Life as a Fat Man and How I Escaped, Fred Anderson’s From Chunk to Hunk: Diary of a Fat Man. As can be seen in their titles, these texts also promise to relate the stratgies, regimes, plans, and secrets that others can follow to, similarly, lose weight. Allen Zadoff’s title makes this explicit: Lessons Learned on the Journey from Fat to Thin. Many of these male memoirists are prompted by a health-related crisis, diagnosis, or realisation. Male body image—a relatively recent topic of enquiry in the eating disorder, psychology, and fashion literature (see, for instance, Bradley et al.)—is also often a surprising motif in these texts, and a theme in common with weight loss memoirs by female authors. Edward Ugel, for instance, opens his memoir, I’m with Fatty: Losing Fifty Pounds in Fifty Miserable Weeks, with “I’m haunted by mirrors … the last thing I want to do is see myself in a mirror or a photograph” (1).Ugel, as that prominent “miserable” in his subtitle suggests, provides a subtle but revealing variation on this theme of successful weight loss. Ugel (as are all these male memoirists) succeeds in the quest be sets out on but, apparently, despondent almost every moment. While the overall tone of his writing is light and humorous, he laments every missed meal, snack, and mouthful of food he foregoes, explaining that he loves eating, “Food makes me happy … I live to eat. I love to eat at restaurants. I love to cook. I love the social component of eating … I can’t be happy without being a social eater” (3). Like many of these books by male authors, Ugel’s descriptions of the food he loves are mouthwatering—and most especially when describing what he identifies as the fattening foods he loves: Reuben sandwiches dripping with juicy grease, crispy deep friend Chinese snacks, buttery Danish pastries and creamy, rich ice cream. This believable sense of regret is not, however, restricted to male authors. It is also apparent in how Jen Lancaster begins her memoir: “I’m standing in the kitchen folding a softened stick of butter, a cup of warmed sour cream, and a mound of fresh-shaved Parmesan into my world-famous mashed potatoes […] There’s a maple-glazed pot roast browning nicely in the oven and white-chocolate-chip macadamia cookies cooling on a rack farther down the counter. I’ve already sautéed the almonds and am waiting for the green beans to blanch so I can toss the whole lot with yet more butter before serving the meal” (5). In the above memoirs, both male and female writers recount similar (and expected) strategies: diets, fasts and other weight loss regimes and interventions (calorie counting, colonics, and gastric-banding and -bypass surgery for instance, recur); consulting dieting/health magazines for information and strategies; keeping a food journal; employing expert help in the form of nutritionists, dieticians, and personal trainers; and, joining health clubs/gyms, and taking up various sports.Alongside these works sit a small number of texts that can be characterised as “non-weight loss memoirs.” These can be read as part of the emerging, and burgeoning, academic field of Fat Studies, which gathers together an extensive literature critical of, and oppositional to, dominant discourses about obesity (Cooper; Rothblum and Solovay; Tomrley and Naylor), and which include works that focus on information backed up with memoir such as self-described “fat activist” (Wann, website) Marilyn Wann’s Fat! So?: Because You Don’t Have to Apologise, which—when published in 1998—followed a print ’zine and a website of the same title. Although certainly in the minority in terms of numbers, these narratives have been very popular with readers and are growing as a sub-genre, with well-known actress Camryn Manheim’s New York Times-bestselling memoir, Wake Up, I'm Fat! (published in 1999) a good example. This memoir chronicles Manheim’s journey from the overweight and teased teenager who finds it a struggle to find friends (a common trope in many weight loss memoirs) to an extremely successful actress.Like most other types of memoir, there are also niche sub-genres of the “fat memoir.” Cheryl Peck’s Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs recounts a series of stories about her life in the American Midwest as a lesbian “woman of size” (xiv) and could thus be described as a memoir on the subjects of – and is, indeed, catalogued in the Library of Congress as: “Overweight women,” “Lesbians,” and “Three Rivers (Mich[igan]) – Social life and customs”.Carol Lay’s graphic memoir, The Big Skinny: How I Changed My Fattitude, has a simple diet message – she lost weight by counting calories and exercising every day – and makes a dual claim for value of being based on both her own story and a range of data and tools including: “the latest research on obesity […] psychological tips, nutrition basics, and many useful tools like simplified calorie charts, sample recipes, and menu plans” (qtd. in Lorah). The Big Skinny could, therefore, be characterised with the weight loss memoirs above as a self-help book, but Lay herself describes choosing the graphic form in order to increase its narrative power: to “wrap much of the information in stories […] combining illustrations and story for a double dose of retention in the brain” (qtd. in Lorah). Like many of these books that can fit into multiple categories, she notes that “booksellers don’t know where to file the book – in graphic novels, memoirs, or in the diet section” (qtd. in O’Shea).Jude Milner’s Fat Free: The Amazing All-True Adventures of Supersize Woman! is another example of how a single memoir (graphic, in this case) can be a hybrid of the categories herein discussed, indicating how difficult it is to neatly categorise human experience. Recounting the author’s numerous struggles with her weight and journey to self-acceptance, Milner at first feels guilty and undertakes a series of diets and regimes, before becoming a “Fat Is Beautiful” activist and, finally, undergoing gastric bypass surgery. Here the narrative trajectory is of empowerment rather than physical transformation, as a thinner (although, importantly, not thin) Milner “exudes confidence and radiates strength” (Story). ConclusionWhile the above has identified a number of ways of attempting to classify autobiographical writing about fat/s, its ultimate aim is, after G. Thomas Couser’s work in relation to other sub-genres of memoir, an attempt to open up life writing for further discussion, rather than set in placed fixed and inflexible categories. Constructing such a preliminary taxonomy aspires to encourage more nuanced discussion of how writers, publishers, critics and readers understand “fat” conceptually as well as more practically and personally. 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Abstract:

Introduction Where children’s television once ruled supreme as a vehicle for sales of kids’ brands, the marketing of children’s toys now often hinges on having the right social media influencer, many of them children themselves (Verdon). As Forbes reported in 2021, the pandemic saw an increase in children spending more time online, many following their favourite influencers on YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram. The importance of tapping into partnering with the right influencer grew, as did sales in toys for children isolated at home. We detail, through a case study approach and visual narrative analysis of two Australian influencer siblings’ Instagram accounts, the nature of toy marketing to children in 2023. Findings point to the continued gendered nature of toys and the concurrent promotion of aspirational adult ‘toys’ (for example, cars, high-end cosmetics) and leisure pursuits that blur the line between what we considered to be children’s playthings and adult objects of desire. To Market, to Market Toys are a huge business worldwide. In 2021, the global toys market was projected to grow from $141.08 billion to $230.64 billion by 2028. During COVID-19, toy sales increased (Fortune Business Insights). The rise of the Internet alongside media and digital technologies has given toy marketers new opportunities to reach children directly, as well as producing new forms of digitally enabled play, with marketers potentially having access to children 24/7, way beyond the previous limits of children’s programming on television (Hains and Jennings). Children’s digital content has also extended to digital games alongside digital devices and Internet-connected toys. Children’s personal tablet ownership rose from less than 1 per cent in 2011 to 42 per cent in 2017 (Rideout), and continues to grow. Children’s value for brands and marketers has increased over time (Cunningham). The nexus between physical toys and the entertainment industry has grown stronger, first with the Disney company and then with the stand-out success of the Star Wars franchise (now owned by Disney) from the late 1970s (Hains and Jennings). The concept of transmedia storytelling and selling, with toys as the vehicle for children to play out the stories they saw on television, in comics, books, movies, and online, proved to be a lucrative one for the entertainment company franchises and the toy manufacturers (Bainbridge). All major toy brands now recognise the power of linking toy brands and entertaining transmedia children’s texts, including online content, with Disney, LEGO and Barbie being obvious examples. Gender and Toys: Boys and Girls Come Out to Play Alongside the growth of the children’s market, the gendering of children’s toys has also continued and increased, with concerns that traditional gender roles are still strongly promoted via children’s toys (Fine and Rush). Research shows that girls’ toys are socialising them for caring roles, shopping, and concern with beauty, while toys aimed at boys (including transportation and construction toys, action figures, and weapons) may promote physicality, aggression, construction, and action (Fine and Rush). As Blakemore and Center (632) suggested, then, if children learn from toy-play “by playing with strongly stereotyped toys, girls can be expected to learn that appearance and attractiveness are central to their worth, and that nurturance and domestic skills are important to be developed. Boys can be expected to learn that aggression, violence, and competition are fun, and that their toys are exciting and risky”. Recently there has been some pushback by consumers, and some toy brands have responded, with LEGO committing to less gendered toy marketing (Russell). YouTube: The World’s Most Popular Babysitter? One business executive has described YouTube as the most popular babysitter in the world (Capitalism.com). The use of children as influencers on YouTube to market toys through toy review videos is now a common practice (Feller and Burroughs; De Veirman et al.). These ‘reviews’ are not critical in the traditional sense of reviews in an institutional or legacy media context. Instead, the genre is a mash-up, which blurs the lines between three major genres: review, branded content, and entertainment (Jaakkola). Concerns have been raised about advertising disguised as entertainment for children, and calls have been made for nuanced regulatory approaches (Craig and Cunningham). The most popular toy review channels have millions of subscribers, and their hosts constitute some of YouTube’s top earners (Hunting). Toy review videos have become an important force in children’s media – in terms of economics, culture, and for brands (Hunting). Concurrently, surprise toys have risen as a popular type of toy, thanks in part to the popularity of the unboxing toy review genre (Nicoll and Nansen). Ryan’s World is probably the best-known in this genre, with conservative estimates putting 10-year-old Ryan Kanji’s family earnings at $25 million annually (Kang). Ryan’s World, formerly Ryan’s Toy Review, now has 10 YouTube channels and the star has his own show on Nic Junior as well as across other media, including books and video games (Capitalism.com). Marsh, through her case study of one child, showed the way children interact with online content, including unboxing videos, as ‘cyberflaneurs’. YouTube is the medium of choice for most children (now more so than television; Auxier et al.). However, Instagram is also a site where a significant number of children and teens spend time. Australian data from the e-Safety Commission in 2018 showed that while YouTube was the most popular platform, with 80 per cent of children 8-12 and 86 per cent of teens using the site, 24 per cent of children used Instagram, and 70 per cent of teens 13-17 (e-Safety Commissioner). Given the rise in social media, phone, and tablet use in the last five years, including among younger children, these statistics are now likely to be higher. A report from US-based Business Insider in 2021 stated that 40 per cent of children under 13 already use Instagram (Canales). This is despite the platform ostensibly only being for people aged 13 and over. Ofcom (the UK’s regulator for communications services) has discussed the rise of ‘Tik-Tots’ – young children defying age restrictions to be on social media – and the increase of young people consuming rather than sharing on social media (Ofcom). Insta-Kidfluencers on the Rise Marketers are now tapping into the selling power of children as social media influencers (or kidfluencers) to promote children’s toys, and in some cases, parents are happy to act as their children’s agents and managers for these pint-size prosumers. Abidin ("Micromicrocelebrity") was the first to discuss what she termed ‘micro-microcelebrities’, children of social media influencers (usually mothers) who have become, through their parents’ mediation, paid social media influencers themselves, often through Instagram. As Abidin noted: “their digital presence is deliberately commercial, framed and staged by Influencer mothers in order to maximize their advertorial potential, and are often postured to market even non-baby/parenting products such as fast food and vehicles”. Since that time, and with children now a growing audience on Instagram, some micro-microcelebrities have begun to promote toys alongside other brands which appeal to both children and adults. While initially these human ‘brand extensions’ of their mothers (Archer) appealed to adults, their sponsored content has evolved as they have aged, and their audience has grown and broadened to include children. Given the rise of Instagram as a site for the marketing of toys to children, through children themselves as social media influencers, and the lack of academic research on this phenomenon, our research looks at a case study of prominent child social media influencers on Instagram in Australia, who are managed by their mother, and who regularly promote toys. Within the case study, visual narrative analysis is used, to analyse the Instagram accounts of two high-profile child social media influencers, eleven-year-old Australian Pixie Curtis and her eight-year-old brother, Hunter Curtis, both of whom are managed by their entrepreneur and ‘PR queen’ mother, Roxy Jacenko. We analysed the posts from each child from March to July 2022 inclusive. Posts were recorded in a spreadsheet, with the content described, hashtags or handles recorded, and any brand or toy mentions noted. We used related media reports to supplement the analysis. We have considered ethical implications of our research and have made the decision to identify both children, as their accounts are public, with large follower numbers, promote commercial interests, and have the blue Instagram ‘tick’ that identifies their accounts as verified and ‘celebrity’ or brand accounts, and the children are regularly featured in mainstream media. The children’s mother, Jacenko, often discusses the children on television and has discussed using Pixie’s parties as events to gain publicity for the toy business. We have followed the lead of Abidin and Leaver, considered experts in the field, who have identified children and families in ethnographic research when the children or families have large numbers of followers (see Abidin, "#Familygoals"; Leaver and Abidin). We do acknowledge that other researchers have chosen not to identify influencer children (e.g., Ågren) with smaller numbers of followers. The research questions are as follows: RQ1: What are the toys featured on the two social media influencer children’s sites? RQ2: Are the toys traditionally gendered and if so, what are the main gender-based toys? RQ3: Do the children promote products that are traditionally aimed at adults? If so, how are these ‘toys’ presented, and what are they? Analysis The two child influencers and toy promoters, sister and brother Pixie (11) and Hunter (8) Curtis, are the children of celebrity, entrepreneur and public relations ‘maven’, Roxy Jacenko. Jacenko’s first business was a public relations firm, Sweaty Betty, one she ran successfully but has recently closed to focus on her influencer talent agency business, the Ministry of Talent, and the two businesses related to her children, Pixie’s Pix (an online toy store named after her daughter) and Pixie’s Bows, a line of fashion bows aimed at girls (Madigan). Pixie Curtis grew up with her own Instagram account, with her first Instagram post on 18 June 2013, before turning two, and featuring a promotion of an online subscription service for toys, with the hashtag #babblebox. At time of writing, Pixie has 120,000 Instagram followers; her ‘bio’ describes her account as ‘shopping and retail’ and as managed by Jacenko. Pixie is also described as the ‘founder of Pixie’s Pix Toy Store’. Her brother Hunter’s account began on 6 May 2015, with the first post to celebrate his first birthday. Hunter’s page has 20,000 followers with his profile stating that it is managed by his mother and her talent and influencer agency. RQ1: What are the toys featured on the two children’s Instagram sites? The two children feature toy promotions regularly, mostly from Pixie’s online toy shop, with the site tagged @pixiespixonline. These toys are often demonstrated by Pixie and Hunter in short video format, following the now-established genre of the toy unboxing or toy review. Toys that are shown on Pixie’s site (tagged to her toy store) include air-clay (clay designed to be used to create clay sculptures); a Scruff-a-Luv soft toy that mimics a rescue pet that needs to be bathed in water, dried, and groomed to become a ‘lovable’ soft toy pet; toy slime; kinetic sand; Hatchimals (flying fairy/pixie dolls that come out of plastic eggs); LOL OMG dolls and Mermaze (both with accentuated female/made up features). LOL OMG (short for Outrageous Millennial Girls) are described as “fierce, fashionable, fabulous” and their name taps into common language used to communicate while texting. Mermaze are also fashion and hair styling dolls, with a mermaid’s tail that changes colour in water. While predominantly promoting toys on Pixie’s Pix, Pixie posts promotions of other items on her Website aimed at children. This includes practical items such as lunch boxes, but also beauty products including a skin care headband and scented body scrubs. Toys shown on Hunter’s Instagram site are often promotions of his sister’s toy store offerings, but generally fall into the traditional ‘boys’ toys’ categories. The posts that tag the Pixie’s Pix store feature photos or video demonstrations by Hunter of toys, including trucks, slime, ‘Splat balls’ (squish balls), Pokémon cards, Zuru toys’ ‘Smashers’ (dinosaur eggs that are smashed to reveal a dinosaur toy), a Bubblegum simulator for Roblox (a social media platform and game), Needoh Sticku*ms, water bombs, and Hot Wheels. RQ2: Are the toys traditionally gendered and if so, what are the main gender-based toys? Although both children promote gender-neutral sensory toys such as slime and splat balls, they do promote strongly gendered toys from Pixie’s Pix. Hunter also promotes gendered toys that are not tagged to Pixie’s Pix, including Jurassic World dinosaur toys (tying into the film release). One post by Hunter features a (paid) cross-promotion of PlayStation 5 themed Donut King donuts (with a competition to win a PlayStation 5 by buying the donuts). In contrast, Pixie posts a paid promotion of a high-tea event to promote My Little Ponies. Hunter’s posts of toys and leisure items that do not tag Pixie’s toyshop include him on a go-kart, buying rugby gear, and with an ‘airtasker’ (paid assistant) helping him sort his Nerf gun collection. There are posts of both children playing and doing ‘regular’ children’s activities, including sport (Pixie plays netball, Hunter rugby), with their dog, ice-skating, and swimming (albeit often at expensive resorts), while Hunter and Pixie both wear, unbox, and tag some high-end children’s clothes brands such as Balmain and promote department store Myer. RQ3: Do the children promote products that are traditionally aimed at adults? If so, how are these ‘toys’ presented, and what are they? The Cambridge dictionary provides the following two definitions of toys, with one showing that ‘toys’ may also be considered as objects of pleasure for adults. A toy is “an object for children to play with” while it can also be “an object that is used by an adult for pleasure rather than for serious use”. The very meaning of the word toys shows the crossover between the adult and children’s world. The more ‘adult’ products promoted by Pixie are highly gendered, with expensive bags, clothes, make-up, and skin care regularly featured on her account. These are arguably toys but also teen or adult objects of aspiration, with Pixie’s collection of handbags featured and the brand tagged. The bag collection includes brightly coloured bags by Australian designer Poppy Lissiman. Other female-focussed brands include a hairdryer brand, with photos and videos posted of Pixie ‘playing’ at dressing up and ‘getting ready’, using skincare, make-up, and hair products. These toys cater to age demographics older than Pixie. Hunter is pictured in posts on a jet-ski, and in others with a mobile and tablet, or washing a Tesla car and with a helicopter. The gendered tropes of girls being concerned with their appearance, and boys interested in vehicles, action, and competitive (video) games appear to be borne out in the posts from the two children. Discussion and Conclusion As an entrepreneur, Jacenko has capitalised on her daughter’s and son’s personal brands that she has co-created by launching and promoting a toyshop named after her daughter, following the success of her children’s promotion of toys for other companies and Pixie’s successful hairbow line. The toy shop arose out of Pixie promoting sales of fidget spinners during the pandemic lockdowns where toy sales rose sharply across the world. The children are also now on TikTok, and while they have a toy review channel on YouTube it has not been posted on for three years. Therefore, it is safe to assume that Instagram is one of the main channels for the children to promote the toyshop. In an online newspaper article describing the success of Pixie’s toyshop and the purchase of an expensive Mercedes car, Jacenko said that the children work hard, and the car was their “reward” (Scanlan). “The help both her brother and her [Pixie] give me on the buying (every night we work on new style selections and argue over it), the packing, the restocking, goes well beyond their years”, Jacenko is quoted as saying. “We’ve made a pact, we must keep going, work harder. Next, it’s a Rolls Royce.” Analysis of the children’s Instagram pages shows highly gendered promotion of toys. The children also promote a variety of high-end, aspirational tween, teen, and adult ‘toys’, including clothes, make-up, and skincare (Pixie) and expensive cars (Hunter and Pixie). Gender stereotyping has been found in adult influencer content (see, for example, Jorge et al.) and researchers have also pointed to sexualisation of young girl influencers on Instagram (Llovet et al.). Our research potentially echoes these findings. Posts from the children regularly include aspirational commodities that blur the lines between adult and child items of desire. Concerns have been raised in other academic articles (and in government reports) regarding the possible exploitation of children’s labour by parents and marketers to promote brands, including toys, on social media (see, for example, Ågren; De Veirman et al.; House of Commons; Masterson). The French government is believed to be the only government to have moved to regulate regarding the labour of children as social media influencers, and the same government at time of writing was debating laws to enshrine children’s right to privacy on social media, to stop the practice of ‘sharenting’ or parents sharing their children’s images and other content on social media without their children’s consent (Rieffel). Mainstream media including Teen Vogue (Fortesa), and some influencers themselves, have also started to raise issues relevant to ‘kidfluencers’. In the state of Utah, USA, the government has introduced laws to stop children under 18 having access to social media without parents’ consent, although some view this as potentially having some negative impacts (Singer). The ethics and impact of toy advertorials on children by social media influencers, with little or no disclosure of the posts being advertisem*nts, have also been discussed elsewhere (see, for example, House of Commons; Jaakkola), with Rahali and Livingstone offering suggestions aimed key stakeholders. It has been found that beyond the marketing of toys and adult ‘luxuries’ to kids, other products that potentially harm children (for example, junk food and e-cigarettes) are also commonly seen in sponsored content on Instagram and YouTube aimed at children (Fleming‐Milici, Phaneuf, and Harris; Smith et al.). Indeed, it could be argued that e-cigarettes have been positioned as playthings and are appealing to children. While we may bemoan the loss of innocence of children, with the children in this analysis posed by their entrepreneurial mother as purveyors of material goods including toys, it is useful to remember that perhaps it has always been a conundrum, given the purpose of toy marketing is to make commercial sales. Children’s toys have always reflected and shaped society’s culture, often with surprisingly sinister and adult overtones, including the origins of Barbie as a male ‘sex’ toy (Bainbridge) and the blatant promotion of guns and other weapons to boys (for example the famous Mattel ‘burp’ gun of the 50s and 60s), through advertising and sponsorship of television (Hains and Jennings). Recently, fashion house Balenciaga promoted its range of adult bags using children as models via Instagram – the bags are teddy bears dressed in bondage outfits and the marketing stunt caused considerable backlash, with the sexually dressed bears and use of children raising outrage (Deguara). Were these teddy bags framed as children’s toys for adults or adult toys for children? The line was blurred. This research has limitations as it is focussed on a case study in one country (but with global reach through Instagram). However, the current analysis is believed to be one of the first to focus on children’s promotion of toys through Instagram, by two children’s influencers, a relatively new marketing approach aimed at children. As the article was being finalised, the children’s mother announced that as Pixie was transitioning into high school and wanted to focus on her studies rather than running a business, the toy business would conclude but Pixie’s Bows would continue (Madigan). In the UK, recent research by Livingstone et al. for the Digital Futures Commission potentially offers a way forward related to this phenomenon, when viewed alongside the analysis of our case study. Their final report (following research with children) suggests a Playful by Design Tool that would be useful for designers and brands, but also children, parents, regulators, and other stakeholders. Principles such as adopting ethical commercial models, being age-appropriate and ensuring safety, make sense when applied to kidfluencers and those that stand to benefit from their playbour. It appears that governments, society, some academics, and the media are starting to question the current generally unrestricted frameworks related to social media in general (see, for example, the ACCC’s ongoing enquiry) and toy and other marketing by kids to kids on social media specifically (House of Commons). We argue that more frameworks, and potentially laws, are required in this mostly unregulated space. Through our case study we have highlighted key areas of concern on one of the world’s most popular platforms for children and teens, including privacy issues, commodification, and gendered and ‘stealth’ marketing of toys through ‘advertorials’. We also acknowledge that children do gain playful and social benefits and entertainment from seeing influencers online. Given that it has been shown that gendered marketing of toys (and increased focus on appearance for girls through Instagram) could be potentially harmful to children’s self-esteem, and with related concerns on the continued commodification of childhood, further research is also needed to discover the responses and views of children to these advertorials masquerading as cute content. References Abidin, Crystal. "Micromicrocelebrity: Branding Babies on the Internet." M/C Journal 18.5 (2015). <https://doi.org/10.5204/mcj.1022>. ———. "#Familygoals: Family Influencers, Calibrated Amateurism, and Justifying Young Digital Labor." 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Abstract:

This paper addresses that natural consort of love: sex. It particularly considers the absence of actual sex from mainstream popular culture and the marginalisation of 'fun' sex as p*rn, requiring its illicit circulation as ‘illegitimate’ videos. The absence of sex from films classified and screened in public venues (even to over-18s) prevents a discourse about actual sex informing the discourse of love and romance perpetuated through Hollywood movies. The value of a variety of representations of sexual practice in the context of a discussion of love, sex and romance in Western cinema was briefly illuminated for the few days that Baise-moi was legitimately screened in Australia. For all that love is one of the great universal themes, Western cinema tends to communicate this ‘finer feeling’ through recourse to romance narratives. Which is not to say that romantic representations of love are devoid of sex, just that that the cinematic convention is to indicate sex, without showing it. Indeed, without the actors 'doing it'. The peculiarity of this situation is not usually clear, however, because there is so little mainstream sex-cinema with which to compare the anodyne gyrations of romantic Hollywood. Which was where Baise-moi came in, briefly. Baise-moi is variously translated for English-speaking cinema audiences as 'f*ck me' (in Australia) and 'Rape me' (in the US, where, astonishingly, Rape me is seen as a less objectionable title than f*ck me.) Of the two titles, f*ck me is by far the cleverer and more authentically related to the meaning and content, whereas Rape me is a travesty, particularly given the shocking power of an extremely graphic and violent rape scene which initiates much of the succeeding violence. An early appeal by the Australian Attorney-General (to the Review Board) against the Office of Film and Literature Classification’s granting of an R rating meant that Baise-moi was hastily removed from Australian cinemas. The movie is, however, heavily reviewed on the web and readers are referred to commentaries such as those by Gary Morris and Frank Vigorito. The grounds on which Classification was refused were given as ‘strong depictions of violence’, ‘sexual violence’, ‘frequent, actual detailed sex scenes’ and ‘scenes which demean both women and men’. Violence, sexual violence and ‘scenes which demean’ are hardly uncommon in films (although it may be unusual that these demean even-handedly). If the amount of violence is nothing new, the sex was certainly different from the usual cinematic fare. Although this was not the first time that ‘unsimulated’ sex had been shown on the art-house big screen, the other major examples were not entirely similar. Romance was wordy, arguably feminist, and a long way from mindless sex-because-they-like-it. Intimacy 's ‘sex scenes are explicit but totally non p*rnographic, they’re painful, needy, unsatisfying except on an org*smic level’, according to Margaret Pomeranz, who reviewed the film for SBS. Baise-moi is different because, as Vigorito says, ‘please make no mistake that the two main characters in this film, the so-called French Thelma and Louise, certainly do want to f*ck’. (They also like to kill.) Baise-moi is often characterised as a quasi-feminist revenge movie where the two protagonists Manu (a p*rn star) and Nadine (a sex worker) seek revenge with (according to Morris) ‘ultimately more nihilism than party-hearty here, with the non-stop killings laid squarely at the doorstep of a society that’s dehumanized its citizens’. While the brutality depicted is mind-blowing (sometimes literally/visually) it is the sex that got the film banned, but not until after some 50,000 Australians had seen it. The elements that separate Baise-moi from Intimacy and Romance (apart from the extreme violence) is that the characters have (heterosexual) sex with a variety of partners, and sometimes do so just for fun. Further, although the Office of Film and Literature Classification ‘considers that the film has significant artistic and cultural merit’ (OFLC), one of the directors wrote the novel on which the film is based while the other director and the two stars are former p*rn industry workers. If Baise-moi had been accepted as cinema-worthy, where would the sex-on-the-screen factor have stopped for future classification of films? The popular culture approach to romance, love and sex moves comparatively smoothly from the first kiss to the rumpled sheets. Although the plot of a romantic film may consist in keeping the love and sex activities apart, the love is (almost invariably) requited. And, as films such as Notting Hill demonstrate, true love these days is communicated less frequently through the willingness of a couple to have sex (which generally goes without saying), and more often through commitment to the having and rearing of a shared child (whereas off-screen this may more usually be the commitment of a shared mortgage). Sex, in short, is popularly positioned as a precursor to love; as not entirely necessary (and certainly not sufficient) but very usually associated with the state of 'being in love'. It is comparatively rare to see any hesitation to engage in sex on the part of a film-portrayed loving couple, other than hurdles introduced through the intervention of outside forces. A rare example of thinking and talking before f*cking is The Other Sister , but this means it rates as an R in the States because of ‘thematic elements involving sex-related material’. In contrast, the film Notting Hill, where the characters played by Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant hardly pause for breath once attraction is established, rates a PG-13 (‘for sexual content and brief strong language’). Thus it is all right for producers to have sex in a storyline, but any hesitation, or discussion, makes the film unsuited to younger audiences. Given that characters’ thinking about sex, and talking about sex, as part of (or preliminary to) having sex apparently increases the age at which the audience is allowed to see the film, perhaps it should not be surprising that actually showing sex about which the audience can then think and talk is almost entirely banned. Yet for a culture that associates sex so strongly with love, and celebrates love so thoroughly in film, television and literature (not to mention popular magazines such as Woman's Day, New Idea, New Weekly and Who), to be occasionally challenged by a film that includes actual sex acts seems not unreasonable, particularly when restricted to audiences of consenting adults. Ian McEwan's debut collection of short stories, First love, last rites explores this conundrum of 'the sex that shall only be acted, never performed' in a short story, 'co*cker at the theatre' (McEwan 57). The tale is about a theatrical production where the actors are new, and nude, and the theme of the play is copulation. It is a story of its time, mid-seventies, the resonating-hippie Age of Aquarius, when Hair still rocked. McEwan's naked couples are assembled by the play's director and then pressed together to begin the rhythmic moves required to complement the thumping musical score of GTC: ‘Grand Time Copulation’. The male and female actors are not near enough to each other, so they are spliced closer together: ‘When they began to move again their pubic hair rasped’ (57-8). The director is unimpressed by the result: ‘I know it's hard, but you have to look as if you're enjoying this thing.' (His voice rose.) 'Some people do, you know. It's a f*ck, you understand, not a funeral.' (His voice sank.) 'Let's have it again, with some enthusiasm this time.' However, all is not entirely well, after a good second beginning. ‘Them on the end, they're going too fast, what do you think?' [says the director to the stage manager] They watched together. It was true, the two who had been moving well, they were a little out of time ... 'My God,' said [the director] 'They're f*cking … It's disgusting and obscene … pull them apart.' (58-9). The issue raised here, as in the case of the removal of any classification from Baise-moi that effectively prevented further public screenings, is the double standard of a society that expends so much of its critical and cultural energies in exploring the nature of love, romance and sexual attraction but balks (horrified) at the representation of actual sex. Yet one of the values of a cinematic replay of 'unsimulated sex' is that it acts as a ‘reality check’ for all the mushy renditions of romance that form the mainstream representation of 'love' on-screen. So, if we want to see sex, should we not simply consume p*rnography? In modern-day Australia it is impossible to discuss depictions of live sex without conjuring up connotations of ‘p*rn’. p*rn, however, is not usually consumed in a manner or place that allows it to interrogate media messages from mainstream production houses and distributors. Watching p*rn, for example at home on video, removes it from a context in which it could realistically prompt a re-evaluation of the visual diet of love and sex Hollywood-style, an opportunity that was provided by Baise-moi during its temporary season. The comparative absence of on-screen sexual activity means that there is an absence of texts through which we can interrogate mainstream representations of lovemaking. Whereas the Eros Foundation aims to promote debate leading to ‘logical perspectives on sex and rational law reform of the sex industry’, and avoids using the term 'p*rnography' on its home page, it is hard to find any representations of unsimulated sex that are not classified as p*rn and consequently easily pigeon-holed as 'not relevant' to cultural debate except in general terms regarding (say) 'censorship' or 'the portrayal of women'. It is hard to know what Baise-moi might have said to Australian audiences about the relationship between sex, authenticity (Morris uses the term ‘trashy integrity’) and popular culture since the film was screened for only the briefest of intervals, and throughout that time the ‘hype’ surrounding it distracted audiences from any discussion other than would it/wouldn't it, and should it/shouldn't it, be banned. Hopefully, a future Attorney-General will allow the adults in this country to enjoy the same range of popular cultural inputs available to citizens in more liberal nations, and back the initial (liberal) decision of the OFLC. And what has love got to do with all this? Not much it seems, although doesn't popular culture ‘teach’ that one of the main uses for a love theme is to provide an excuse for some gratuitous sex? Perhaps, after all, it is time to cut to the chase and allow sex to be screened as a popular culture genre in its own right, without needing the excuse of a gratuitous love story. Works Cited McEwan, Ian. First love, last rites. London: Picador, 1975. 56-60. Morris, Gary. “Baise-moi. Feminist screed or fetish-f*ckathon? Best to flip a coin.” Lip Magazine 2001. http://www.lipmagazine.org/articles/revi... OFLC. Classification Review Board News release, 10 May 2002. http://www.oflc.gov.au/PDFs/RBBaiseMoi.pdf Pomeranz, Margaret. “Intimacy.” The Movie Show: Reviews. http://www.sbs.com.au/movieshow/reviews.... Vigorito, Frank. “Natural p*rn killers.” Offoffofffilm 2001. http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/baise... Filmography Baise-moi. Dirs. Virginie Despentes and CoRalie Trinh Thi. Dist. Film Fixx, 2000. Intimacy. Dir. Patrice Chereau. Dist. Palace Films, 2001. Notting Hill. Dir. Roger Michell. Dist. Universal Pictures, 1999. Romance. Dir. Catherine Breillat. Dist. Potential Films, 1999. The other sister. Dir. Gary Marshall. Dist. Touchstone Pictures, 1999. Links http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/baisemoi.php3 http://www.eros.com.au http://film.guardian.co.uk/censorship/news/0,11729,713540,00.html http://www.sbs.com.au/movieshow/reviews.php3?id=838 http://www.michaelbutler.com/hair http://www.oflc.gov.au/PDFs/RBBaiseMoi.pdf http://www.movie-source.com/no/othersister.shtml http://www.lipmagazine.org/articles/revimorris_128.shtml Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Green, Lelia. "Sex" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.6 (2002). Dn Month Year < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/sex.php>. APA Style Green, L., (2002, Nov 20). Sex. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 5,(6). Retrieved Month Dn, Year, from http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/sex.html

Abstract:

Introduction Music scholarship across genres is often concerned with music's metaphysical and ephemeral effects on individuals, communities, and society. These scholarly framings constitute a concept that we refer to here as “the magic of music”. Using this framing, this article addresses the ways that the magic is undermined by a range of worldly, non-magical realities, using the case study of the COVID-19 pandemic lockdowns and their devastating effects on the previously thriving live music industry in Naarm/Melbourne, Australia. The magic of music includes such aspects as the intangible sounds of music, the mysterious practice of creative music-making, and the transformative effects on audiences and others who participate in music culture. We begin with a broad discussion of the sonic properties of music as a form of magic—a common rhetoric that has been used across the world regardless of genre or cultural origin. Next, we turn to the social contexts surrounding music, such as live music settings. De Jong and Lebrun argue that “the power of music” can create “moments of rare, intense and direct interactions between individuals” that are often described as magical, and that “magic is, in this sense, understood as a perfectly natural and plausible, and not supernatural, experience, even if its intensity and rarity in one's life makes it extra-ordinary” (4). We use this framing of “music as magic” in our consideration of the specific context of Australia’s music industry from 2020 to the present. We posit that the devastating effects of the COVID-19 pandemic, alongside government-sanctioned lockdowns, cultural shifts such as an increased focus on poor working conditions and risk in music work, and detrimental arts funding policies worked together to effectively break the spell of “music as magic” for industry and patrons. Finally, we draw on key examples from popular music studies, industry reports and new government policies, to call attention to recent proposals to rehabilitate the magic through a re-enchantment of music and the music industry. Feels like Magic: The Social Context of Music Music is a form of organised sound and silence that people across cultures, history, and places, have articulated as possessing magical properties (Nettl). Music is not only sound waves but also a social category, thus the notion of magic extends beyond sound into everyday discourse in the social realm of music, which will be the focus of this article. Audiences/listeners may describe their own response to music as a magical feeling, stemming from the performer’s ability to convey emotion and provide a performance that “mirrors the performer’s [own] deep connection to the music” (Loeffler 19). Such ‘magical moments’ of deep connection among audience members and between audiences and performers may be elicited in various ways. Examples include the sense of emotional self-recognition found via personal lyrics, resonance with unique vocal timbres, or the shared sense of belonging that develops with fellow audience members, including strangers, during musical events (Anderson). For the latter, the magic (or “magick”, a spelling associated with stagecraft) of ritualised music performance is a common element of Paganism in music performance, with some popular music artists implicitly “appropriat[ing] the Pagan subculture's symbols for artistic inspiration and commercial gain”, presenting themselves as contemporary conduits that reconnect audiences to old magics (Sweeney Smith 91; see also Weston). When it comes to these sorts of ideas about magic and music, performers and audiences routinely make claims about magical musical powers such as “talent”, an idea deployed to describe the skills and charisma of certain musicians, and “creativity”, a “magic ingredient” (see McRobbie) that people who write or produce music are supposed to possess in order to perform their craft (Gadir 61–4; Gross and Musgrave 10, 22; see also Nairn). Music of all forms can provide profound affective experiences, regardless of how it is made and who plays it. There is also a magical discourse present in popular music that has reached millions of people in a globalised musical world dominated by recordings. For as long as music has had a mass market, its magic properties (as articulated in multiple ways across history) have been a selling point for musicians, records, and concerts. The recorded music industry’s very selection process is rooted in the idea that “creativity is based on ‘little bits of magic’ and that success is down to luck and timing” (Gross and Musgrave 140). Music writing (scholarly, criticism, journalism) tends to focus on these magical properties: from the sublime nature of a musical work and its form to the phenomenology of sound and affective experience of music, and even the inexplicable, elusive ‘talent’ of particular musicians. Jimi Hendrix labelled his music work “completely, utterly a magic science” (Clarke 195), while Joni Mitchell “consistently referred to Charles Mingus, Wayne Shorter, and Jaco Pastorius as ‘magicians’ and ‘shamans,’ thereby conferring a susceptibility to the miraculous upon the musicians she most respected” (Lloyd 124). As we show below, this conflation of magical and religious concepts is evident elsewhere in discourse on the intangibility of musical talent. Some genres of music have emphasised the idea of music as magic more than others. For example, scholarship on electronic dance music (EDM) has embraced the concept of “DJ as shaman” (Brewster and Broughton 19; Luckman 133; Rietveld “Introduction” 1; Rietveld This Is Our House) and the nightclub as a “pseudo-religious pilgrimage site” (Becker and Woebs 59), extending Benjamin’s argument for art’s origins in service of ritual (24). Miller has further alluded to a mystical DJ craft, both as a performer quoted in music media (Gallagher) and in his own academic writing: “gimme two records and I’ll make you a universe” (DJ Spooky That Subliminal Kid 127; Miller 497). Shamanism is also explored in rock music discourse (see Kennedy 81–90). Notions of musical magic extend beyond performances and personalities into the recording studio. Music mastering is commonly labelled a “dark art” (Hepworth-Sawyer and Golding 241; Hinksman 13; Nardi 211), and the music studio as a site where magic is made (Anthony 43, 194). Rolling Stone magazine has even deployed a recurrent editorial phrase—“the magic that can set you free”—to distinguish the authenticity of rock from pop music (Frith 164–5). We argue that two key ruptures of the last few years—namely, widespread lockdown policies during the COVID-19 pandemic, and emerging discussions on poor working conditions and harms in the music industries—have had the effect of breaking the magic spell of music. There has been a groundswell of musicians, commentators, and scholars pausing to query (and in some cases overturn entirely) some of the illusions that the music industry constructs around musicians. We use the city of Naarm/Melbourne in Australia to draw out some of these trends. When the Magic Dies: Breaking the Spell of the Music Industry The COVID-19 pandemic resulted in lengthy lockdowns in the city of Naarm/Melbourne. In total, over a two-year period, the city spent 262 days in home confinement under strict orders from the government, with limited travel and no access to the usual amenities of the city, including all public in-person entertainment (Jose). This had a profound effect on the state’s musicians and the music industries that service them. It completely closed the city’s music venues for an extended period, driving musicians into alternative, virtual modes of performance (Vincent) and driving other music workers into non-music-related employment. For a city often touted as “the live music capital of Australia” (see Homan et al.), the lockdowns effectively broke the spell of music as a key employer and as a driver of arts practice and social experience in Melbourne. Quite suddenly, the lockdown periods revealed the precarious lives of musicians away from the stage. Once stripped of the “magical” quality of live performance, musicians’ work and practice appeared both more complex and more routine. The COVID-19 pandemic broke the spell of music that takes place in social settings. At the start of 2020, live music was one of the first activities to be banned. Live music relies on people being near one another, often in enclosed spaces. It often involves people on stage and in the crowd singing, an activity identified early in the pandemic as an effective method of spreading the virus. These attributes, together with its status as “entertainment” rather than as an essential activity, meant that live music gatherings became entirely illegal (Strong and Cannizzo). Even as lockdowns were lifted, live music was one of the last activities to be reinstated, albeit with access restricted in various ways. People continued to engage with music via other means, for example, through virtual live-streamed performances and platform-based audio streaming. Globally, there was an increase in people listening to older, nostalgic music (Yeung)—an indicator that music was still being used for its magical self-soothing capacities, alleviating the worst pandemic anxieties. However, the closure of the Victorian live music sector drew attention to the material conditions of music making in new ways (“Losses Continue”). Many musicians and music workers could not take advantage of government schemes to support workers who had lost their income during the pandemic (Triscari). This highlighted what was already known to music industry workers: that their work was insecure. It also revealed the contradictions within government music policies: on the one hand, music’s utility for city branding, on the other, little regard for what support and resources are required for it to take place. As more and more musicians used the pandemic to draw attention to their already existing labour conditions, the precarious and mundane aspects of music-making became foregrounded in broader discussions (see Strong and Cannizzo). These included the overall degree to which musicians are exploited (see Nairn), whether musicians can earn a living wage, pay their rent, or receive other workplace benefits including safe working environments. These problems exist in stark contrast to the historically mythologised portrayals of musicians as concerned about their art and Dionysian social experience above all else, regardless of their physical or material conditions. In reality, live music work has always included mundane activities and routine labour. The historical mythology of the “star”, regardless of genre, tends to depict the lives of performers as exotic and removed from everyday life. In this sense, performers are perceived as magical as much as the music they make. The everyday world, within this mythology, is something akin to “a fearful, life-threatening condition that could ensnare you in its grasp … as relentless routine and the marker of social distinction” (Highmore 16). Audiences tend to view musicians as committed to alternative ways of being, and music performance as an escape from the everyday, wherein work becomes interchangeable with leisure and touring provides a nomadic lifestyle. However, in recent years, popular music studies research, together with musicians, fans, and media, have called these ideas into question. A career in live music performance appears to offer no escape from responsibility—something at the heart of fearful representations of everyday life. Inside of a music practice, new responsibilities emerge. Leisure becomes labour with all its attendance downsides. Close-knit familial-style relationships are formed, often based on financial and creative partnerships, including the risk of gender-based abuse that exists within such relationships (Fileborn et al.). The nomadic life of a performer involves its own cramped and confining aspects (a life of group transit and service entrances). This combines with an already in-progress push towards making the vicissitudes of this work more visible—afforded by social media, cultural formations such as #MeToo, and a significant upswing in research showing the harms of music work (Gross and Musgrave; Strong and Cannizzo)—to significantly undermine the myth of live music’s magical properties. In Naarm/Melbourne, prior to the pandemic, this myth was brittle. After years of lockdown, it arguably shattered. The emotional devastation wrought by an abrupt and almost complete cessation of live music activities also had flow-on effects on recorded music. For example, it prevented activities such as tours that support album releases, recording sessions, or rehearsing new musical material. Already existing mental health issues in the music industry were highlighted and amplified by these circ*mstances (Brunt and Nelligan). Together with the aforementioned financial disadvantage experienced by musicians, research had already shown for years before the pandemic that mental health was poor in this sector (Gross and Musgrave). Such mental health issues are due in part to the relationship between music work and conceptions of self and identity, where success or failure are felt as intensely personal (a by-product of the idea that music possesses magical qualities). Mental health problems are also associated with exclusion, bullying and harassment, which are not only widespread but have been normalised and even celebrated for decades. Pre-existing pressures such as these were exacerbated dramatically by the pandemic lockdowns, which spurred on further discussions about them (Strong and Cannizzo). During the pandemic, the magic of music had been disrupted in several ways: the ability of music to connect people to one another in live settings had been curtailed or removed, and the narratives of the creation of music being magical had been replaced with a vision of mundanity, hardship, and underappreciation. If the magic did not set musicians or music workers free, why should they return to long working hours for little pay in an industry that was frequently unsafe and that left them feeling bad—especially when they discovered that when the chips were down, they would be left out of the support offered to others? Re-Enchanting Music: Conjuring a Different Kind of Magic Weber used the term “enchantment” as a means of explaining the magic within worldly (empirical) phenomena. By contrast, he argued that disenchantment was the removal of magical experience from the real world and that this was the result of replacing the “supernatural” exclusively with rationality and calculation (Koshul 9). The easing of lockdown conditions heralded what we call here the “re-enchantment” of the music industry. An industry that is re-enchanted refers to a world which is “susceptible again to redemption” and is “reimbued not only with mystery and wonder but also with order [and] purpose” (Landy and Slalor 2). During the early post-lockdown period, the aim of government, patrons, and the entertainment industry was to rekindle the pre-COVID levels of audience engagement with live music. Audiences themselves were eager to return to live music and were prepared to spend money on concert tickets and music festivals, according to findings from the Australia Council’s Audience Outlook Monitor (Patternmakers). However, this report also showed that restrictions, fears of further outbreaks, and lockdowns were still looming in the minds of audiences and event organisers. This was compounded by a lack of investment in the creative industries broadly by the Australian Federal government during lockdowns and a staggered reopening, particularly in the state of Victoria, where lockdowns continued well into 2021. The road back to ‘normality’ would require putting audiences, industry, and, indeed, the government, back under the spell of music. Reaffirming the idea that music has a fundamental value in society and culture was the first step. The election of a federal Labor government in 2022 started this process, after a decade of conservative Liberal leadership that had actively worked to devalue and defund the arts. The new government quickly launched a consultation process around the arts in Australia, and launched the resulting policy, titled Revive: Australia's Cultural Policy for the Next Five Years, in mid-2023. This policy not only reaffirmed the central place of the arts, including music, in Australia's social life, but went further than any previous government in acknowledging some of the disenchantment in the industry. They committed to establishing Music Australia (Creative Australia) as a body dedicated to ensuring the prominence of music in arts activities, and the Centre for Arts and Entertainment Workplaces, a body that would, among other things, deal with complaints around workplace misconduct of various types. This later body was created partly in response to the Raising Their Voices report documenting widespread bullying and sexual harassment in music spaces. In addition to this, Australian state governments implemented various measures to encourage the re-normalisation of concert attendance. For example, the Victorian State Government’s Always Live funded programme was launched with a regional, one-off gig by the Foo Fighters. Initiatives such as these on the state and federal level served to bolster the struggling industry. An initially slow return to live shows, followed by a spate of visually spectacular, large-scale, sold-out shows by Harry Styles and Taylor Swift, indicate a return to a form of ‘business as usual’ for top-tier international touring artists. Although top-down policy can send a message that music work is valued, much of the ‘magic’ of music is created by communities and within grassroots spaces. In Naarm/Melbourne, the announcement that the iconic live music venue the Tote Hotel was being put up for sale has provided a flashpoint moment. The venue’s current owners have become emblematic of the problems in the industry, reportedly failing to provide proper benefits to their staff over a long period (Marozzi). The owners of the Last Chance Rock and Roll Bar have since announced a fundraiser for three million dollars to buy the Tote, which they have framed in terms of protecting the value of music to the Naarm/Melbourne community. The owners promised to not only protect music-making on the site but also to “leave the Tote to the bands and future generations for the rest of time” by “putting the building into a trust that will legally protect the Tote from being anything other than a Live Music Venue” (“Last Chance to Save the Tote”). References to the (dark) magic of this situation is visible in the designs for the t-shirts given out for contributors to the funding campaign: two zombies crawling from the grave of the Tote, beers in hand, ready to keep on rockin’. The zombies are indicative of a venue risen from the dead through the Naarm/Melbourne music community’s magical effort. The response of the public and commentators that have followed the achievement of this fundraising goal is akin to the wonderment of an audience seeing a magician perform an impressive trick. Notably, the community-led and community-focussed approach of the Tote draws on the magic of connection built around music scenes, not only corporate interests. This includes exploring how venues can be owned by the communities that use them (Wray), schemes that provide artists with a universal basic income (Caust), and “safer spaces” strategies that work to increase the accessibility of music for everyone (Hill et al.). Conclusion In this article, we have outlined the ways that Naarm/Melbourne, which has been celebrated as one of the world’s best live music cities, temporarily lost the magical allure of its musical life in the eyes of many, and subsequently started to regain it through a fragile process of rejuvenation. Traces of ideas about live music’s ineffable magic can clearly be found in recovery stories that now circulate. Moreover, such stories are articulated against a backdrop of new mythologies forming around the city’s music branding and practice. The especially long pandemic lockdown period in Naarm/Melbourne has brought into sharper focus the hard realities of music-making and performance—as labour, local culture, and policy. The post-COVID city is now tasked with selectively rebuilding itself as a music city, unifying the magical potency of the old with a more clear-eyed, unromantic analysis of the present. References Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1991 [1983]. Anthony, Brendan. Music Production Cultures: Perspectives on Popular Music Pedagogy in Higher Education. Milton: Taylor and Francis, 2022. Australian Government. Revive: Australia's Cultural Policy for the Next Five Years. Canberra: Department of Infrastructure, Transport, Regional Development, Communications and the Arts, 2023. <https://www.arts.gov.au/publications/national-cultural-policy-revive-place-every-story-story-every-place>. Becker, Tim, and Raphael Woebs. “‘Back to the Future’: Hearing, Rituality and Techno.” The World of Music 41.1 (1999): 59–71. Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility: SECOND VERSION.” The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility, and Other Writings on Media. Eds. Michael W. Jennings, Brigid Doherty, E.F.N. Jephcott, and Thomas Y. Levin. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 2008. 19–55. Brewster, Bill, and Frank Broughton. Last Night a DJ Saved My Life: The History of the Disc Jockey. New York: Grove, 2006. Brunt, Shelley, and Kat Nelligan. “The Australian Music Industry’s Mental Health Crisis: Media Narratives during the Coronavirus Pandemic.” Media International Australia 178.1 (2021): 42–46. Caust, Jo. “Australia Should Have a Universal Basic Income for Artists. Here’s What That Could Look Like.” The Conversation, 2 May 2022. <https://theconversation.com/australia-should-have-a-universal-basic-income-for-artists-heres-what-that-could-look-like-182128>. Clarke, Paul. “‘A Magic Science’: Rock Music as a Recording Art.” Popular Music 3 (1983): 195–213. “Creative Australia, Music Australia and Creative Workplaces Now Law.” Minister for the Arts, 16 June 2023. <https://minister.infrastructure.gov.au/burke/media-release/creative-australia-music-australia-and-creative-workplaces-now-law>. De Jong, Nanette, and Barbara Lebrun. “Introduction: The Notion of Magic in Popular Music Discourse.” Popular Music 38.1 (2019): 1–7. DJ Spooky That Subliminal Kid. Rhythm Science. Cambridge: Mediawork/MIT Press, 2004. Fileborn, Bianca, Rosemary L. Hill, and Catherine Strong. Unsilenced: Women Musicians after Sexual Abuse in the Popular Music Industries. New York: Bloomsbury, forthcoming 2024. Frith, Simon. “‘The Magic That Can Set You Free’: The Ideology of Folk and the Myth of the Rock Community.” Popular Music 1 (1981): 159–168. Gadir, Tami. “Forty-Seven DJs, Four Women: Meritocracy, Talent, and Postfeminist Politics.” Dancecult 9.1 (2017): 50–72. Gallagher, Hugh. “Gimme Two Records and I'll Make You a Universe: DJ Spooky, the Subliminal Kid.” Wired, Aug. 1994: 86. Gross, Sally Anne, and George Musgrave. Can Music Make You Sick? Measuring the Price of Musical Ambition. London: U of Westminster P, 2020. Hepworth-Sawyer, Russ, and Craig Golding. “The Mastering Session.” What Is Music Production. Eds. Russ Hepworth-Sawyer and Craig Golding. Burlington: Focal, 2011. 241–253. Highmore, Ben. The Everyday Life Reader. London: Routledge, 2002. Hill, Rosemary Lucy, Desmond Hesmondhalgh, and Molly Megson. “Sexual Violence at Live Music Events: Experiences, Responses and Prevention.” International Journal of Cultural Studies 23.3 (2020): 368–384. Hinksman, Alexander. “The Mastering Engineer – Manipulator of Feeling and Time.” Riffs – Experimental Writing on Popular Music 1.1 (2017): 11–18. Homan, Shane, Seamus O’Hanlon, Catherine Strong, and John Tebbutt. Music City Melbourne: Urban Culture, History and Policy. New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2022. Jose, Renju. “Melbourne Readies to Exit World’s Longest COVID-19 Lockdown.” Reuters, 21 Oct. 2021. <https://www.reuters.com/world/asia-pacific/melbourne-readies-exit-worlds-longest-covid-19-lockdowns-2021-10-20/>. Kennedy, Victor. Strange Brew: Metaphors of Magic and Science in Rock Music. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013. Koshul, Basit Bilal. The Postmodern Significance of Max Weber’s Legacy: Disenchanting Disenchantment. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Landy, Joshua, and Michael Saler. “Introduction: The Varieties of Modern Enchantment.” The Re-Enchantment of the World: Secular Magic in a Rational Age. Eds. Joshua Landy and Michael Saler. Redwood City, CA: Stanford Scholarship Online. “Last Chance to Save the Tote.” 2023. Pozible campaign. 10 July 2023 <https://www.pozible.com/project/the-last-chance-to-save-the-tote>. Lloyd, Brian. “Gender, Magic, and Innovation: The Musical Artistry of Joni Mitchell.” Rock Music Studies 7.2 (2020): 114–131. Loeffler, Zachary. “‘The Only Real Magic’: Enchantment and Disenchantment in Music's Modernist Ordinary.” Popular Music 38.1 (2019): 8–32. “Losses Continue.” 2021. 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Abstract:

Locating the Format What is format radio? At a glance, the answer might seem simple. In common parlance, the concept is often presented as a pejorative counterpart to non-commercial broadcasting. However, to render the concept synonymous with commercial broadcasting neglects its historical specificity. Previous research has demonstrated the nuanced factors at stake in the selection of music at specific broadcasting stations (Ahlkvist and Fisher 301-325). Beyond economic structures and conditions, however, remains the matter of whether we can posit an aesthetic expression that epitomises format radio. Previous research has focussed predominantly on semantic source materials and theoretical propositions to hone in on the question. However, my wager is that the signal content itself can help us reveal something about the nature of formats. To pursue such a task, the Swedish case offers a promising possibility. Swedish media archives provide the opportunity to study how, and if, formatting tendencies can be detected beyond the realm of commercial broadcasting. Unlike many of its global counterparts, Sweden maintained a public service radio monopoly until the late twentieth century. Throughout the 1980s, experiments were done with regional radio, and by 1993 full commercial licencing was permitted. The result is a rare situation where the entire flow of daily Public Service Broadcasting (PSB) can be studied from the 1980s onwards, which in turn allows for large-scale analysis of the relationship between organisation structure and content stylistics before and after the introduction of commercial broadcasting. Broadcasting in Sweden was during this time maintained by the company Sveriges Radio (SR), and had been in more or less the same form since the early 1920s. The organisation was not directly owned by the state, but financed through the so-called broadcasting licence, which in turn depended upon governmentally decided goals. The overall ambition was similar to the usual PSB objectives: the guiding documents for broadcasting would thus be inclined to emphasise values like objectivity and diversity – yet little is said about aesthetics (Banerjee and Seneviratne 10). This arrangement was the setting for regular conflicts throughout Swedish radio history, in which the demand of the audience squared off with the ideals of broadcasters. Yet in the last decade of the century, the media environment was about to change in a precedented way. During these years, conceptual and economic tension between commercial and public service radio reached new heights, in turn forcing the matter of formats on the agenda. Research by Stjernstedt and Forsman, while not exclusively focussed on radio formats, addresses the theme within the broader framework of commercial Swedish radio. Their findings, along with those of Hedman and Jauert, suggest the influence of commercial formats on Swedish radio prior to the formal introduction of commercial broadcasting. This allows for an interesting epistemic possibly: if their propositions are correct, it would allow us to study the character of radio formats, without being intermixed with the scope of commercial broadcasting. The following analysis thus attempts to track the actual changes in the content, which could reveal the influence of format radio on PSB. For critics like David Hendy and Wolfgang Hagen, the format comes down to a question of self-similarity, “Programmierung von Selbstverständlichkeit” as Hagen critically dubs it (333), supposedly induces a certain superficial uniqueness of music stations, despite a fundamental sameness in their content. For this reason, the analysis is focussed on repeated similarities in the musical content. Methodological Approach Given the significant role ascribed to music in the theorisation of radio formatting, this aspect appears to be a potentially apt focus for constructing an experimental analysis. This is also practical as it allows for the translation and application of established spectral analysis methods from the realm of music analysis. In the context of audio data, spectral analysis refers to a process where the frequency components of a sound signal are decomposed and examined as numerical values. This method is crucial in audio engineering to understand the underlying structure and composition of sound and can assist in identifying specific patterns or anomalies in audio data. The analysis uses a sampling approach, concentrating on full-day broadcasts from music channels P2 and P3 in order to capture the general channel characteristics. These were the two formal music channels of SR during the time, with P3, the popular music channel, being directed at a younger audience, and P2 offering a more diverse mixture of classic and world music. The data, selected randomly from five weekdays across each of the years 1988, 1991, 1994, and 1999, are examined for indicators of self-similarity and format structuring. The hypothesis guiding this study suggests that format radio, shaped by technical standards and theoretical principles, exhibits a degree of radiophonic self-similarity. This proposition is explored quantitatively, applying statistical methods to the spectral data to assess similarities. The analysis itself is executed in combining a set of Python libraries. Initially, a segmentation model from The National Audiovisual Institute of France is used to isolate the musical content from the broadcasts. Then, the audio analysis library librosa converts these segments into spectral data, providing insights into timbre, key, and tempo. The results are presented using Principal Component Analysis (PCA) visualisations. These visualisations employ dimension reduction to represent the relationships between audio segments in a Euclidean space, with the proximity of nodes indicating similarity between data points. Even though the PCA method has limitations, well-discussed in the methodological literature, it grants certain insight into the structure of the dataset (Jolliffe and Cadima). In essence the method uses two-dimensional space to plot the relationship between n-dimensional data objects. The implication is that the distance between each entry entails something about the general similarity between the features of these data points. Critical scholarship, like that of Johanna Drucker, has brought attention to the epistemological tendencies inherent in these standardised statistical methods. The PCA method was also at the centre of discussions concerning the general credibility of computational literary studies in 2019, and I here follow Andrew Piper’s conclusion that the limitations are less a reason to abandon ship, and more an encouragement to remain “skeptical” (11). Thus, it is a call for complementary and comparative approaches. In order to do this, my analysis also employs audio recognition tools to compare the feature elements of the data set. By comparing both these different levels of analysis, across yearly samples from the decade, the study traces the evolution of musical styles and formats, potentially relating them to wider technological, cultural, or sociopolitical shifts. Results Fig. 1: The distribution of observations from the years 1988, 1991, 1994, and 1999, arranged from the top right to the bottom left. For each year, around 1,000 songs from each channel were studied. Data from 1988 indicate that the popular music channel P3 had a somewhat broader distribution spectrum in its content than its more eclectic counterpart. Initially, this may seem counterintuitive, as one might expect the expanding range of classic and world music of P2 to exhibit greater sonic variety than a channel playing mainstream and popular music. A possible explanation for these results can be found in prior research. Musicologist Alf Björnberg has provided a detailed account of the musical content of Sveriges Radio. His narrative emphasises that P3 underwent a significant content shift during the 1980s. Throughout this decade, the channel began to accommodate artists and genres that had been marginalised in the expanding landscape of broadcast media for decades (320). While P2 was not without variation during this era, P3 experienced a more notable change, moving towards avant-garde rock and experimental electronic music. This shift reflects a broader trend in the radio landscape, where traditional boundaries of genre and style were increasingly blurred, allowing for more diverse and experimental sounds to emerge in mainstream channels. The visualisation of these data not only highlights these historical shifts but also provides a quantitative basis for understanding the evolution of musical trends and preferences within the radio broadcasting domain. Björnberg’s study, predominantly centred on playlists and textual documents, mainly focusses on the period up to the end of the 1980s. Shortly summarising the 1990s, Björnberg concludes that 'the effects of commercial competition were most noticeable for P3' (326), especially during the early years of this competition. The data reveal a surprising trend in this regard too. At first glance, it might appear that P3 is reducing its musical variety, which could be interpreted as a response to the new, more rigidly formatted radio landscape. However, this perception is an illusion created by the rescaling of graphs to accommodate P2's possibly drastic content expansion. When calculating the average distance between points in P3's data, it becomes evident that the variation remains within the same range, with a fluctuation of only 0.4. This figure contrasts with P2's distance, which increases from 34.2 to 46.7 between 1988 and 1994. Instead of P3 reducing its musical variety, it is P2 that broadens its musical offerings. This can be seen as a response to the identified issue. Sveriges Radio addressed the new competitive situation with two seemingly contradictory initiatives: seeking a unique sonic identity while emphasising "diversity with a quality signifier" (Björnberg). The developments in P2's data can be viewed as a concrete expression of this ambition to counter the entry of format radio with increased variation. These findings underscore the complexities and adaptive strategies in the broadcasting landscape, demonstrating how public broadcasters like Sveriges Radio navigated the challenges posed by commercial competition. By expanding and diversifying their musical content, channels like P2 showed a commitment to maintaining their relevance and appeal in a rapidly changing media environment. This study not only sheds light on the historical trajectory of Swedish radio but also offers broader insights into the dynamics of cultural adaptation and change within the media industry. However, it is crucial to understand what the analysis actually signifies – it is not an absolute statement about the variation in music, but rather an analysis based on a number of specific measures. The assessment of the musical content, as mentioned earlier, is based on the combined factors of tempo, key, and a simplified measure of timbre. These metrics are analytically recognised methods for categorising musical content and have been used in previous research to address genre variation (Bogdanov et al.). However, this does not necessarily mean that they provide a comprehensive understanding of how the music actually sounded. In the graphs above, the timbre data is represented by a median value. To more accurately capture the variation in the sound profile, it might be more appropriate to analyse a broader spectrum of frequency values. In the following graphs, values are compared over time across 13 different frequency bands, based on the first 30 seconds of each song. This refined approach allows for a more nuanced understanding of the sonic domain. By examining a wider range of frequency values, the analysis can potentially reveal subtler shifts in the musical characteristics of the radio channels over time. This method acknowledges that while tempo, key, and timbre are significant, they are only part of a more complex auditory picture. By broadening the scope of analysis to include more detailed frequency data, a richer and more textured picture of the evolution of musical content on these radio stations emerges. This approach offers deeper insights into the intricate ways in which radio programming responds to and reflects broader musical trends and listener preferences. Fig. 2: The distribution of observations from 1988, 1991, 1994, and 1999, from the top right to the bottom left. This approach to measuring audio content results in a less dramatic visualisation, with no longer a clear dominance in the pace of development; instead, both channels undergo a similar process of differentiation. What we observe here is a form of channel profiling, where both channels progressively establish a more distinct sound profile. According to the definition by Hendy and Hagen, this type of channel characterisation can be considered in terms of formatting. What is revealed is an increase in channel self-similarity. However, this empirical examination of audio material suggests a nuanced understanding of formatting. On one hand, both channels, particularly P2, expand certain aspects of their music. Simultaneously, the sound profile becomes more distinctly framed for each channel. Understanding this stylistic evolution compels us to reflect on what self-similarity means on a perceptual level. While self-similarity as a mathematical concept does not require comparative data points from another source, this value means little for the listener's perceptual experience. The content coherence of a channel, in terms of experience, depends on a contrasting example. This contrast is precisely what the two music channels within Sveriges Radio offered during this period. Their musical profiles became clearer by sonically contrasting with each other. Under this broader channel similarity, certain characteristics, such as tempo and key, appear to have been able to vary more freely. Nonetheless, this profiling represents a type of complexity reduction – an increased predictability within the format's constraints. These conclusions offer an indication on how radio channels adapt and refine their identities over time, responding to both internal objectives and external competitive pressures. It underscores the dynamic nature of radio broadcasting, where channels continually evolve their formats to maintain relevance and listener engagement. The nuanced understanding of formatting and self-similarity provides valuable insights into the strategic decisions made by broadcasters in shaping their auditory content. Björnberg echoes Hagen and Hendy’s tendency to primarily criticise the lack of creativity in radio formats. However, his focus is specifically on a certain format – the 'adult contemporary' (Björnberg). Against this backdrop, a comparative study of the audio content of commercial alternatives would indeed be interesting. Unfortunately, due to the scarcity of preserved material, compiling a proportionate dataset for such a study is challenging. However, we can still contemplate the general content of 'adult contemporary' music. One speculative approach to addressing this question is to examine the instruments used in the music to see if they align with specific format descriptions. Such an analysis could provide further insight into how the PSB style is changing under the stakes of commercial competition. Fig. 3: Percentage distribution of instruments in sub-segments from the music content of P2 and P3 in the sample data from 1988. The results offer a potential explanation for the questions raised by the initial graphs in this study. While P2 shows some variation, there remains a, perhaps expected, focus on string instruments and the piano. P3, on the other hand, displays a wide mix of content. Notably, there is a relatively high presence of the accordion – an instrument that is as lauded as it is loved within the Swedish context. The instrument belongs to a longer tradition of popular music, encapsulating both certain folk music traditions, as well as ‘dansband’ tunes. Already by the onset of broadcasting, the accordion split the audiences right down the middle (Hadenius 76), and by the late 1960s, it was proclaimed a “dead” instrument (Björnberg 257). Here, my results highlight a certain perseverance of the instrument, speaking to the resilience of this sound. While the accordion may seem peripheral to the 1990s debates about radio formats, this example serves both as a reminder of the persistence of stylistic questions and their emotional charge. Therefore, it is instructive to study the instrument distribution in the final year of the sample data. Fig. 4: Percentage distribution of instruments in sub-segments from the music content of P2 and P3 in the sample data from 1999. The historical development has several interesting tendencies. Whilst the general distribution of instruments on P2 remains similar, P3 has witnessed significant changes. The previous sample displayed a wide variety of sounds with high distribution, albeit with guitar at the top. The data from 1999 have developed in a more guitar-centred direction. While this provides certain analytical depth to the previous stages of analysis, it might also give a clue into the more general question of format radio. The results demonstrate a tendency towards a clearer channel identity, with a more unified sound. Extending the interpretation, we can also consider the results in a scope of international research. Eric Weisbard, alongside other researchers like Saesha Senger, has extensively mapped the content of the top charts during the final decades of the twentieth century, revealing a clear direction towards synth music and guitar-driven rock during the 80s and 90s. Since we cannot study the actual content of commercial broadcasting in Sweden during this time, such historical references remain a promising second-degree comparison. In this perspective, P3 partly mirrors global trends, illustrating the station's responsiveness to changing listener preferences and the dynamic nature of music consumption. We are here engaged in classical historical work, piecing together fragments of data from different types of sources. Nevertheless, the results indicate how old traditions and global trends intermingle in the construction of a national format: a soundscape where accordions and guitars reverberate in parallel. Summary The investigation into SR’s channels P2 and P3 during the 1980s and 1990s reveals a nuanced understanding of radio formatting and its implications. Both channels exhibit idiosyncratic approaches that blend various musical styles to develop distinct channel identities within the context of format radio. While the channels have moved towards more predictable and structured formats, reminiscent of commercial radio, this has not led to an overall hom*ogenisation of content. Instead, each channel has developed a unique version of formatting, and maintained its distinct identity while incorporating elements of structure and predictability. Finally, this matter runs up against an epistemological question which has fascinated sound scholars for some time. To create format radio is to create a sound in time that feels uniform. Philosophers and psychologists have long debated whether sounds can at all be understood as continuous perceptual phenomena, and what it means for a sound to be 'the same' over time (for example, Moles). If sonic uniformity is a scientific challenge already on the time scale of the second, then radiophonic flows introduce whole new complications and questions. Here it is no longer the similarity between two tones in flow, but day-long broadcast products to be understood under the same channel identity. This requires a shaping of sound at completely different scale. The empirical study of such challenges has only begun. References Ahlkvist, Jarl A., and Gene Fisher. "And the Hits Just Keep on Coming: Music Programming Standardization in Commercial Radio." Poetics 27.5-6 (2000): 301–325. Banerjee, Indrajit, and Kalinga Seneviratne. Public Service Broadcasting: A Best Practices Sourcebook. Asian Media Information and Communication Centre, 2005. Björnberg, Alf. Skval och harmoni: musik i radio och TV 1925-1995. Stockholm: Etermedierna i Sverige, 1998. Bogdanov, D., J. Serr, N. Wack, and P. Herrera. "From Low-Level to High-Level: Comparative Study of Music Similarity Measures." Proceedings of the IEEE International Symposium on Multimedia (ISM'09), International Workshop on Advances in Music Information Research (AdMIRe'09). 2009. 453-458. Doukhan, David, et al. "An Open-Source Speaker Gender Detection Framework for Monitoring Gender Equality." 2018 IEEE International Conference on Acoustics, Speech and Signal Processing (ICASSP). IEEE, 2018. Drucker, Johanna. Visualization and Interpretation: Humanistic Approaches to Display, Cambridge: MIT P, 2020. Forsman, Michael. Lokalradio och kommersiell radio 1975-2010: en mediehistorisk studie av produktion och konkurrens. Diss. Stockholms Universitet, 2011. Hadenius, Stig. Kampen om monopolet: Sveriges radio och TV under 1900-talet. Stockholm: Prisma 1998. Hagen, Wolfgang. Das Radio: Zur Geschichte und Theorie des Hörfunks – Deutschland/USA. Das Radio. Paderborn: Brill Fink, 2005. Hedman, L. "Radio." In Mediesverige 2003, ed. U. Carlsson. Gothenburg: Nordicom, 2002. Hendy, David. Radio in the Global Age. Cambridge: Polity, 2003. Jolliffe, Ian T., and Jorge Cadima. "Principal Component Analysis: A Review and Recent Developments." Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society A 374 (2016). Juaert, Per. "Policy Development in Danish Radio Broadcasting 1980-2002: Layers, Scenarios and the Public Service Remit." In New Articulations of the Public Service Remit, eds. Gregory Ferrell Lowe and Taisto Hujanen. Gothenburg: Nordicom, 2003. McFee, B. et al. “Librosa: Audio and Music Signal Analysis in Python.” Proceedings of the 14th Python in Science Conference. 2015. 18-25. Moles, Abraham. Information Theory and Esthetic Perception. Trans. Joel E. Cohen. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1966. Piper, Andrew. “Do We Know What We Are Doing?” Journal of Cultural Analytics 5.1 (2019). <https://doi.org/10.22148/001c.11826>. Stjernstedt, Fredrik. Från radiofabrik till mediehus: medieförändring och medieproduktion på MTG-radio. Örebro Universitet, 2013. Weisbard, Eric. Top 40 Democracy: The Rival Mainstreams of American music. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2014.

Abstract:

This article treads a fine line. I want to discuss the way that particular contemporary pop soloists talk about, and are talked about in terms of, authentic identity. And I want to use this to make an argument about the significance of those claims within a broader cultural dialogue about identity; specifically: that they demonstrate the persistent popular desirability of “authentic identity” in the face of its perceived theoretical indefensibility and supposed loss of significance. But I want to do all this without perpetuating the tendency for popular music scholarship to engage “authenticity” as the basis for assessing the relative merits of different musical forms. Rather than adjudicating on competing claims to authenticity, I want to ask: when specifically attached to identity, what does the claim to authenticity do? This paper investigates popular ways of speaking about the identities of three soloists: Britney Spears; Christina Aguilera; and Jennifer Lopez. All three combine aurally undemanding mass-market pop with a public persona organised under a rubric of authenticity. Irrespective of whether the claims made about the authenticity of their identities could be judged illegitimate, the repeated references to authenticity within this context engenders a taken-for-grantedness about its significance with regard to identity. As a way of describing this operation it seems useful to liberally adapt ideas advanced by Meaghan Morris and describe pop celebrities as operating like sites where anecdotes accumulate to establish a specific discursive context for identity. Morris writes that anecdotes are ‘functional’ in that they are: orientated futuristically towards the construction of a precise, local and social discursive context, of which the anecdote then functions as a mise en abyme (Morris 150). This is complex and parts of it require some re-engineering before it can be usefully adapted as a model for discussing celebrity. The “future orientation” operates somewhat differently in this context from how it operates within the kind of writing practice that Morris was seeking to promote. For Morris, the anecdote grounds an academic writing practice by smuggling in a day-to-day way of conceiving of the workings of the world. The “future orientation” is an invitation for a writing practice to engage in the kind of explication that could draw currently marginal or impossible ideas and experiences into a precise discursive context. This is different from the kind of operation that I want to describe. In the stories told about the authenticity of these pop celebrities there is similarly a “future orientation” but here it is one where constant evocation works toward amassing significance around a particular idea. Specifically, I am arguing that constant repetition of “authentic” and its cognates in thinking and speaking of these pop soloists makes that term appear crucial for identity. So this is a situation where very many anecdotes, derived from a common model of the way that identity could be said to be working, construct by virtue of their similarity a particular discursive context for identity. They work to actually form that context rather than simply inviting it. While each alone can serve as that discursive context’s mise en abyme, their role is not restricted to that. Each anecdote is less important in its singularity than it is as part of an accumulation. Spears, Aguilera and Lopez are repeatedly the subjects of anecdotes themed around the idea of authenticity — anecdotes which regularly employ the terms “real” or “realness.” The examples which I am about to give I am using advisedly, being aware of popular music scholarship’s repeated warnings about the dangers of the kind of scholarly analysis that gives too much regard to what musicians sing or say. I am not using these examples in order to seek to challenge or verify the truthfulness of the claims made in lyrics or interviews. My interest is more in examining the kinds of claims that are made. A Rolling Stone profile of Spears reveals that: “Real” is very important to Britney. Her upcoming movie, tentatively titled Not a Girl [released as Crossroads], is, in her estimation, “really real.” Sarandon is one of Britney’s favourite actresses because she “has a realness about her.” And one of her biggest pet peeves, she says after a moment’s thought, is “fake people.” (Eliscu 58) Similarly, Aguilera has observed of the content of her song “I’m OK” (2002) — which seems to address the domestic abuse she suffered in childhood — that ‘everything’s really real’ (quoted in Heath 55). In fact, she introduces her album with the part spoken, part sung “Stripped – Part One” (2002), which begins: Allow me to introduce myself I want you to come a little closer I’d like you to get to know me a little bit better Meet the real me. And Lopez has commented, while discussing her debut album On The 6 (1999): Someone said to me: “it’s so you. It couldn’t be anything but that. It’s natural – you’re not faking anything. This is who you are.” (Jennifer Lopez: Feelin’ So Good 2000) Whether or not each woman speaks or sings these words in earnest — irrespective of whether the words represent what she “really” thinks or feels — there is a persistent and significant reiteration of the idea of the “real” self. Morris observes that ‘anecdotes need not be true stories’ in order to operate but it is necessary that they ‘be functional in a given exchange’ (150). Adopting this idea, it is possible to circumvent the question of the truthfulness of these claims to being “real.” This is useful because it enables a description of how each anecdote need not itself be a true story in order to posit the “real” or the “authentic.” It is precisely this somewhat paradoxical potential that makes the anecdote so versatile a tool for the celebrity to claim “authentic” identity. Lopez, for example, sings in “Jenny From the Block” (2002) that staying real is so effortless for her that ‘it’s like breathing.’ She is simply asserting that she embodies a qualitatively better, more authentic way of being a person. At one level it is a patently ridiculous statement. But at another it is quite an effective mobilisation of “real” as a self-descriptive term, coming as it does in a context where there is no scope to argue the point. Had she written a philosophical paper on how real she was, there would be a clearer basis on which to challenge her claim. But instead she is using a medium — pop music — with obvious links neither to veracity nor “realness.” The supposed “inauthenticity” of the context is no bar on her claim and in fact has the effect of making it difficult to challenge. To claim, as Morris does, that ‘anecdotes need not be true stories’ (150) is, however, somewhat disingenuous. Certainly an anecdote can function allegorically even if its truthfulness is doubtful, but it is precisely a sense of the possibility that “it actually happened” that differentiates an anecdote from overtly fictional kinds of story. It is this possibility that enables anecdotes to function as what Morris describes as ‘allegorical expositions of a model of the way that the world can be said to be working’ (150). The actual person associated with the pop soloist’s story about authenticity enables that story to appear as an allegorical exposition of the real workings of the world. There is, for example, an actual person “Jennifer Lopez” who at least appears to embody “Jenny from the block.” This actual person is the guarantee of the allegory’s potential applicability to other actual people — people who might potentially include ourselves. I have chosen to focus on pop music soloists because they seem specially equipped to engender these kinds of anecdotes that work to allegorise what an identity might be. Their individuation is a constantly present and pressing issue. The appearance of unique identity is felt to be commercially necessary as a means for differentiating between the work of different soloists. Elaborate individuation is employed to guarantee this differentiation, encouraging the prevalence of anecdotes of authentically distinct identity. In addition to this, the lack of the group identity that a band might provide means that there is relatively little apparent mediation between the soloist’s personal identity and their music’s form and content. Lopez has described how: The music is just you. It’s you out there on your own… As a solo artist it’s you – very solo. (Jennifer Lopez: Feelin’ So Good 2000) While her comment is rather circular, that circularity usefully expresses how the ‘music’, the ‘you’ and the ‘artist’ appear indivisible when she is ‘out there’ on her own. The singularity of the source of the voice — it at least appears to come from just one person — adds to the hyper-individuation of the pop star; it makes her appear ‘very solo.’ This means that the songs do not even have to be explicitly about the self in order to appear as symptomatic of singular identity. The anecdotes told about the authentic identities of Spears, Aguilera and Lopez tend to associate authenticity either with their own control over their representation or with the lifelong persistence of childhood characteristics. These aspects are encapsulated in an interview in Esquire magazine, which is worth quoting extensively, in which Lopez describes how: People always ask me, “Have you changed from what you were?” And I’m always like, “No way!” And they find it so hard to believe. And I go, “Look, I’m not saying my life hasn’t changed. But I am still the person I started off as.” Has it affected me? Do things get weird? Yes. But I am still Jennifer. I did grow up poor… And now it’s different. It’s different because I worked hard to get here. And I never take it for granted. I really do realize, like, oh my gosh, I wanted to do this my whole life and now I’m able to do it. It feels amazing, you know what I mean? (Lopez in Sager 60) The implication of this kind of anecdote is that being authentic has made Lopez successful and now, her dreams having come true, she can revel in her success. Authenticity promises enviable kinds of pleasure. Even if this is a myth, it is a powerful and powerfully attractive one. This puts these anecdotes quite clearly at odds with a general tendency within cultural theory, where “authentic” has lost favour as a descriptive term and an alternative set of terms have been developed for describing identity as, variously; mobile, flexible, changeable, or performative. At the risk of dangerously complicating my argument at this late stage, it appears that these anecdotes about authentic identity serve for this academic tendency a function not dissimilar to Morris’s original intention for anecdotes. What I mean by this is that they invite the attempt to develop a discursive context for identity that could incorporate an account of what appears to be a persistent cultural attachment to authenticity. In serving this function, these anecdotes raise a series of questions with which I will conclude: Does the persistent desirability of authentic identity mean that the shift toward avowedly postmodern identities has been less pervasive than has been suggested elsewhere (that stopping to be certain kinds of selves is not happening all that quickly)? Or does it mean that despite the shift toward avowedly postmodern identities, ideals of identity are still imagined in ‘outdated’ terms (that the ways of describing things hasn’t caught up to the way things are)? Or is the maintenance of a mythical ideal of authenticity necessary to make palatable an existence within a changeable, temporary or mobile identity? Footnote What I am avoiding is the unproductive question: is the music “authentic”? Popular music scholarship has been profoundly influenced — haunted, perhaps — by the work of Theodor Adorno, who was profoundly antithetical towards popular music. Adorno’s main bone of contention was that, despite its regular and varied claims to authenticity, popular music was invariably — even inevitably — inauthentic (1976). Due in no small part to Adorno’s influence, the question of the relative authenticity of different musicians or musical forms has operated as a kind of touchstone in writing about popular music (Leppert 346-47). Charles Hamm provides a useful history and an explicit critique of the discourse of authenticity within writing about popular music (1995). The creation of hierarchies of authenticity serve partly, he writes, as a means of differentiating the author’s taste from the relative ignorance in which mass taste is seen to be formed (15). Hamm views this theoretical preoccupation as the result of the persistence of modernist narratives — particularly neo-Marxism — within popular music scholarship (23-27), underpinned by an assumption that ‘capitalist production negates “authentic” expression by certain groups’ (25). Popular music scholarship, he observes, has consequently privileged ‘marginal, oppositional, or so-called authentic genres or repertoires… Commercially viable music, if studied at all, is usually placed in an oppositional context’ (36). References Adorno, Theodor W. Introduction to the Sociology of Music. New York: Seabury Press, 1976. Aguilera, Christina. “Stripped – Part One.” Stripped. New York: RCA, 2002. —. “I’m OK.” Stripped. New York: RCA, 2002. Eliscu, Jenny. “Britney’s Just like a Woman But She Breaks Just like a Little Girl.” Rolling Stone, 13 Sep. 2001: 56. Hamm, Charles. Putting Popular Music in Its Place. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1995. Heath, Chris. “Has Anyone Seen Christina?” Rolling Stone, 14 Nov. 2002, 50-5. Leppert, Richard. Essays on Music / Theodor W. Adorno. Berkeley: U of California P, 2002. Lopez, Jennifer. “Jenny from The Block.” This Is Me… Then. New York: Epic, 2002. Lopez, Jennifer. On the 6. New York: Sony, 1999. Morris, Meaghan. “Banality in Cultural Studies.” What is Cultural Studies?: A Reader. Ed. John Storey. London: Arnold, 1997. 147-67. Sager, Mike. “What Does It Feel Like to Be Jennifer Lopez?” Esquire Aug. 2003: 60. Jennifer Lopez: Feelin’ So Good. Videorecording. Dir. Benny Medina. New York: Sony, 2000. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Tregoning, William. "'Very Solo': Anecdotes of Authentic Identity." M/C Journal 7.5 (2004). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/04-tregoning.php>. APA Style Tregoning, W. (Nov. 2004) "'Very Solo': Anecdotes of Authentic Identity," M/C Journal, 7(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/04-tregoning.php>.

Abstract:

Introduction Media and trauma cannot exist independently but are always caught in a cross-feedback loop. Depending on its mediating technology, trauma has always given rise to a different “technological unconscious” whereby the very conditions of trauma are tied to its form and technological dimensions (Johanssen 311). Our analysis explores this link, drawing on the case of the 2023 Greek TRAUMA podcast (Koukoumakas et al.), an audio documentary nested in iMEdD Lab, tracing seven disastrous events that have afflicted Greece in the last twenty-four years – from the Parnitha earthquake in 1999 to the Tempi train crash in 2023. This is a unique example of a quality news podcast that touches upon the ways collective trauma has built into the national identity of modern Greek people. There is a striking similarity in the way Amit Pinchevski describes how the Holocaust became a collectively shared trauma in Israel and how the TRAUMA podcast narrates the collective trauma in Greece. Without diminishing the experience of those directly involved and traumatised, TRAUMA weaves an audiography of a national body traversed with traumatic symptoms. Already from the title, TRAUMA bears a self-contradictory promise: to document that which essentially escapes documentation, or, in Amit Pinchevski’s apt words, to mediate a “failed mediation” (4). More specifically, trauma is being shaped by the technology through which it is mediated, and is tied to its form and technological dimensions (Johanssen 311). This is also the case in the present podcast, which (re)mediates seven stories of traumatic disaster in the acoustic language of voice and sound, and is necessarily bound and shaped by the very logics and limitations of the podcast medium. What concerns the present article is how, in the case of TRAUMA, podcasting logics tap on the existing media landscape of trauma coverage, negotiating and shaping trauma representation anew. Following current scholarship in the field, we read TRAUMA not only as a journalistic audio archive aiming to document and share traumatic narratives, but, rather, as essentially a(e)ffecting the way these stories are perceived. Far from aestheticising or sensationalising the “private drama of catastrophe”, as is often the perverse “lure” and the case with trauma coverage in traditional media, TRAUMA utilises podcast logics to create audibility platforms for otherwise lost voices, and thus, in an activist gesture, to draw attention to and raise concern about the painful repetition of tragic stories in the light of a non-(pro)active Greek state. Our analysis, framed in audio and content analysis of the TRAUMA podcast, minds a gap; there is little podcast-specific analysis of trauma mediation (Karathanasopoulou and Williams; Cardell and Douglas) even if the latter seems to flesh a recurrent thematic concern in podcast narratives (such as the podcast re-mediation of Holocaust narratives in 2019, titled “Those Who Were There: Voices from the Holocaust”, or Greek podcasts From a Wonder to a Trauma and iMEdD’s Mute). Individual Voice Testimonies in the TRAUMA Podcast In light of its unique characteristics (lo-fi, low-cost, amateur-friendly, open-source, and relatively content-free), podcasting has been read as potentially challenging and even transgressing mainstream media discourse (Park; Rae; McHugh; Tiffe and Hoffmann). In her work on podcasting and political listening, Maria Rae sees in podcasts the ability to intervene in and disrupt existing media structures of attention that determine who is heard and how. Upending such “regimes of attention”, they may invite us, instead, to retune, un-hear, or hear differently. In the case of TRAUMA, the work taps on topics which have cross-fed a barrage of images on social media platforms, and fuelled 24-hour news cycles on traditional visual media. To this trauma-casting, it juxtaposes its own audio logics of multiple, yet unified, voicing and of slow, engaged listening. Literally “opening the mic” for those unheard or only heard little, TRAUMA makers aspire to host what they term as “the ‘unedited experience’ of the disaster”. This, they see as a gesture away from existing media coverage of disasters in Greece that may silence, voice-over, aestheticise, or selectively frame (and un-frame) individual voicing. The “voyeurism lure” is mindfully addressed as TRAUMA podcast makers have published – parallel to their documentary work – a journalists’ code of conduct in cases of trauma coverage, addressing issues related to “privacy, legislation, and journalist ethics” (Voutsina et al.). At the same time, the silencing or voice-over tactics, often employed in cases of trauma coverage, are also actively counter-balanced as TRAUMA utilises verbatim testimonies and offers opportunities for direct earwitnessing of what surfaces less as a private catastrophe and more as shared, public wound for Greek citizens. The notion of earwitnessing encompasses a form of listening attuned to the specific social, cultural, and political manifestations of sound and voice. To “earwitness” is to listen to the history that unfolds and to become responsible for what you listen to (Rae et al.). Letting otherwise lost voices surface and having us listen to those accounts, TRAUMA actively gestures towards “acoustic justice”, defined by Brandon Labelle in his hom*onymous book as “the practices or gestures that seek to rework the distribution of the heard” (131). Such reworking of audibility norms is best served through emphasis on unheard testimonies. Testimonies are indeed the more extensive part of the text genres emerging in the TRAUMA podcast. A relatively large number of codes were created, and data revealed that two codes appeared more frequently: the codes referring to the Mati fires and the Tempi fatal train accident. There are a couple of reasons for this, as both accidents were severe: the Mati fires that took place in 2018 “would go on to become the second deadliest fire globally in the past 25 years. 104 lives were tragically lost in Mati”, as the narration script testifies. The train crash in the Tempi valley in February 2023 was the most recent tragic event, and one that involved the loss of very young people. In the case of both disasters, testimonies prevail, only carefully complemented by narrative voice-over, news clips, or accompanying music. The news clip chosen to inform listeners about the tragic accident in Tempi is short and sharp: “Intercity train collides with commercial train, resulting in three wagons derailing”. Most of the sparse news clips used to enhance the informative lens of the documentary adopt the same style: they are short, accurate, and show the core of the news story. They are like stamps of verification of what actually happened, without however overshadowing or emotionally framing the actual verbatim material featured in the piece. Narrative voice-over and music follow the same logic of only discreetly framing the testimonial material. The voice-over that is featured in the podcast, with an agonising tune playing in the background, carefully offers sharp and concrete information on disastrous facts, introducing testimonies or drawing links between voices. Music also plays a significant role, even if the focus of the audio documentary is on discourse and voice; the musical background sets a mysterious tone, adding to the audio experience of the listener when accompanying the narrative voice. Its notable absence when we move from the voice to the testimonies is also a clear documentation of the value that the TRAUMA podcast attributes to testimonies. With no accompanying music, testimonies retune us to the soundscape of the people involved, securing sharper focus on those voices and greater empathy on the part of the listener. Testimonies flesh out engaging, emotive narratives that also harbour accurate information of the stories involved (Theodosiadou). A multitude of intimacies exist in podcasting, and this intimacy contains the possibility to materially connect the listener to a story (fictional or factual; Karathanasopoulou). In the quote below there is a possible connection between the listener and the factual story as the narration becomes very realistic and absolutely grounded in the tragic events; the listener has a chance to envision the situation at the hospital, and this acoustic illustration possibly connects them more tightly to the actual story. From the Tempi train crash, the father of a young student-victim describes the most difficult moment while waiting that first night at the hospital: I dubbed that day 'a game of poker with death': in the hospital, whenever an ambulance arrived, everyone would rush towards it, hoping to find their loved ones injured or anxiously checking if the body bag was sealed, all racing to discover if their dear ones were dead. Victim relatives are heard sharing their private trauma-scapes and reporting on how difficult it has been to cope with such a traumatic event, and how these tragedies have influenced all their lives. Our attention, as podcast listeners deprived of any visual stimuli, is actively drawn both to the content of their sayings but also to the vocal utterances per se, in all their individual acoustic register of gaps or hesitations, of voice colour, pace, and rhythm: it was incredibly difficult to endure such a situation. Most of us struggled through five years without any medication. But there are so many others that rely on very strong medications to cope. Fig. 1: Visual installation 58 Nails in Tempi, by artist Georgios Koftis. Tempi Valley, January 2024 (photo by Georgios Koftis). “We believe that there are more and more of us people not having a voice, contrary to what is depicted in the media” — Georgios Koftis. From the Individual to the Collective TRAUMA hosts survivors’ and victim relatives’ testimonies, maintaining the force and intimacy of the individual witness, yet not letting them flesh out a singular, eccentric, private disaster drama. Not only are individual voices balanced out with other voices of the various field experts on whom the documentary draws, but they are also amplified in echoes as we listen on to more (and all the more similar) testimonies. In this sense, we move from the private to the collective, and the documentary escapes the risk of over-emphasising personal disaster or aestheticising the pain of those directly involved. On a similar note, we hear both a relative of a victim of the Tempi crash and a relative of a victim in the Mati fires become equally cynical and accepting of the inevitability of accidents in life: in the collective unconsciousness we exist within, it was inevitable. Whether it be a boat, a ship, a plane, or a power station, it was destined to occur somewhere, and undoubtedly, it will happen again. We have grown somewhat cynical. After the Tempi train crash, when we gather during court breaks, we quip, "What's next, a plane crash?" We even start placing bets. It may come across as cynical, but considering what we have experienced and what we are likely to experience again, that's just how it is. In the case of the Mati fire tragedy, many testimonies similarly focus on the absence of care or action from the Greek state and the feeling of aloneness in confronting such a preposterous disaster. Around 18:00, my mother gave me a call and informed me about a fire... There was no mention of it on TV. If only my family had been alerted just 5 minutes earlier, they could have jumped into the car and taken the route through Marathon Avenue, just like many others who managed to survive. We're talking about a mere distance of 500 metres, and the authorities had a clear view of the scene. They witnessed people burning, yet made no attempt to rescue them. There was no fire brigade in sight, not a single siren reached out ears, no loudspeakers blaring "Evacuate" to warn us, nothing at all. From the intense heat and lack of oxygen, we were beginning to lose our strength, my entire family. The relatives of the victims report on how difficult it has been to cope with such a traumatic event and how these tragedies have influenced all their lives. What can I say… The boy is seeing a psychologist to cope with the trauma. Whenever he sees us about to light a match, he thinks there’ll be a fire and quickly jumps to put it out. It’s so sad. These scars will never heal – they don't simply fade away no matter how much we wish they would. Joining voices from disparate disaster events, TRAUMA captures the “return and repeat” logics of trauma temporality, but, more importantly, meddles with and away from the “shock and freeze” effect of the singular event to reveal threads, echoes, re-doublings, and flashbacks that flesh a silently ongoing, collective trauma. Individual narratives of disaster are thus both solidified and pluralised in a sonic space that merges the private and the public, the singular and the plural, the rupture and the thread, allowing personal stories to open up into informed public conversations. Moving on in echoes and counterpoint polyphony, TRAUMA ultimately effects a “hearing different” of individual trauma testimonies, enabling the latter to surface less as closed echo chambers and more as resonant channels of shared wounds. The movement from the private to the collective is also repetitively referenced in the podcast per se. Both in the expert talks but also in the narrative script the notion of collective trauma is insistently mentioned: “erosion of trust in the state and the absence of catharsis” are considered to be the two main characteristics of collective trauma, according to the experts on the podcast and the journalist-narrator. This profound lack of trust that victims felt personally but also collectively surfaces as a resonant feeling, threading the two decades of fatal accidents that the TRAUMA podcast touches on. Collective trauma is what occurs when a community or society is stripped of its essential functions, such as democracy, institutions, social solidarity, and, most importantly, the preservation of social bonds. Negligence can never be equated with acts that are considered felonious. Felonies encompass acts where the outcome is a result of deliberate and conscious actions. It is not only the outcome that is condemned, but also the intentional and rational behavior of the perpetrator. Conclusion The TRAUMA podcast revolutionises auditory experience both in tapping to unmute individual voices and thus offering acoustic justice, but also in terms of activating political listening. The acts of podcast creation and “political listening” can reinforce the audience’s political opposition to unjust practices (Rae et al.). TRAUMA is an example of a podcast that attempts to raise awareness of the Greek state’s failure to take relevant action, thus sensitising and mobilising listeners in ethical responsibility. Re-tuning listeners to trauma narratives and turning them into earwitnesses may fashion a space of empowerment. Writing of post-9/11 trauma and mourning and the ways in which the latter was quickly dismissed by U.S. authorities to allow for militant action, Judith Butler questions the typical equation of grief and trauma with passive numbness or stillness, and aptly observes that “suffering can yield an experience of humility, of vulnerability, of impressionability and dependence, and these can become resources if we do not resolve them too quickly” (149-50). Staying with trauma voices, as enabled in the case of TRAUMA, may help for “mourning otherwise” or for what Athena Athanasiou terms “agonistic mourning”, opening quietly militant spaces of ethical response-ability and caring, and even re-orienting trauma rupture and paralysis in actively “contending with dominant and prevailing systems that make and unmake bodies” (LaBelle 564). In the case of TRAUMA, letting listeners linger in the aural intimacy of the private trauma transforms listening into active earwitnessing and political contestation. The originality of the documentary lies in the weaving of the personal to the collective trauma, as well as in how this pain intertwines and defines the national collective trauma. Maybe this is also a hidden message that TRAUMA conveys: a silent ‘activism’ to make listeners participate in the personal and collective trauma and activate them in a positive and empowering way towards taking responsibility and work in line with the collective good (Theodosiadou). This brings the podcast genre to a new epoch, an epoch that transcends from audio blogging to silent activism. This concluding remark aligns with Karathanasopoulou & Williams's findings that non-visual media can provide a safe environment to reveal deeply personal experiences and, in some cases, form an example of “quiet activism”. Future research should enlarge the lens of podcasting on traumatic events, through comparative research on podcasting in other countries, as well as through sustained analysis on how narration, sound, and music elements in podcasts (re)negotiate media representations of trauma. Acknowledgment Georgios Koftis made his visual memoriam in January 2024, almost a year after the Tempi accident, for the 57 people who tragically died in the Tempi train crash in February 2023 (also adding one more nail for the missing and injured people). He generously granted us the copyright both for the visual art and for his photograph of the 58 Nails in Tempi. We sincerely thank him for this as well as for making our voice heard. References Athanasiou, Athena. Agonistic Mourning: Political Dissidence and the Women in Black. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2017. Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London: Verso, 2004. Cardell, Kylie, and Kate Douglas. “Okay to Laugh? Trauma, Memoir, and Teaching the Podcast Mum Says My Memoir Is a Lie.” a/b: Auto/Biography Studies 37.2 (2002): 299-315. DOI: 10.1080/08989575.2022.2136826. Johanssen, Jacob. “Amit Pinchevski, Transmitted Wounds: Media and the Mediation of Trauma.” Journal of Communication Inquiry 46.3 (2022): 311-315. Karathanasopoulou, E. “Audio within Audio: Story-Telling and the Evocation of Emotion in Podcasting.” In The Bloomsbury Handbook of Radio, eds. K. Mc Donald and H. Chignell. Bloomsbury, 2023. 226-242. Karathanasopoulou, E., and H. Williams. “Podcasting as a Feminist Space for the Disclosure of Trauma and Intimate Embodied Experience: The Heart as a Case Study of Quiet Activism.” Radio Journal: International Studies in Broadcast & Audio Media 21.1 (2023). Koukoumakas, Kostas, et al. Trauma. iMEdD Lab, 2023. <https://lab.imedd.org/en/trauma/>. LaBelle, Brandon. Acoustic Justice: Listening, Performativity and the Work or Reorientation. New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2021. ———. LaBelle, Brandon. “Towards Acoustic Justice.” Law Text Culture 24.1 (2020): 550–72. 9 Feb. 2024 <https://ro.uow.edu.au/ltc/vol24/iss1/21>. McHugh, Siobhan "Truth to Power: How Podcasts Are Getting Political." The Conversation, 31 Aug. 2017. <https://theconversation.com/truth-to-power-how-podcasts-are-getting-political-81185>. Park, Chang Sup. “Citizen News Podcasts and Engaging Journalism: The Formation of a Counter-Public Sphere in South Korea.” Pacific Journalism Review 1.1 (2017): 245. DOI: 10.24135/pjr.v23i1.49. Pinchevski, Amit. “Archive, Media, Trauma.” In On Media Memory: Collective Memory in a New Media Age. Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. 253-64. ———. Transmitted Wounds: Media and the Mediation of Trauma. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2019. Pinchevski, Amit, and Michael Richardson. “Trauma and Digital Media: Introduction to Crosscurrents Special Section.” Media, Culture & Society (2022). <https://doi.org/10.1177/01634437221122244>. Rae, Maria. “Podcasts and Political Listening: Sound, Voice and Intimacy in the Joe Rogan Experience.” Continuum 37.2 (2023): 182-93. DOI: 10.1080/10304312.2023.2198682. Rae, Maria, et al. “Earwitnessing Detention: Carceral Secrecy, Affecting Voices, and Political Listening in the Messenger Podcast.” International Journal of Communication (2019): 13-20. Scomazzon, Giulia. “Amit Pinchevski, Transmitted Wounds: Media and the Mediation of Trauma. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021.” Cinéma & Cie. Film and Media Studies Journal 22.39 (2023): 157–8. <https://doi.org/10.54103/2036-461x/19081>. Theodosiadou, Sofia. “Review of TRAUMA Audio Podcast: 24 years, Seven Tragedies: The Experience of Survivors and the Collective Trauma of an Entire Country”. RadioDoc Review, forthcoming 2024. Tiffe, Raechel, and Melody Hoffmann. “Taking Up Sonic Space: Feminized Vocality and Podcasting as Resistance.” Feminist Media Studies 17.1 (2017): 115-8. DOI: 10.1080/14680777.2017.1261464. Voutsina, Katerina, et al. Reporting on Traumatic Events: A Journalist’s Code of Conduct. iMedD, 2023. <https://lab.imedd.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/iMEdD_Trauma_Toolkit_for_Journalists_EN.pdf>.

Abstract:

Gurinder Chadha’s Bend It Like Beckham has shown to delighted audiences around the world. Released during the soccer World Cup (and just before it in Britain in case the Brits did poorly), the film capitalised on interest in the game with its good-humoured look at a young 18 year old’s passion for playing soccer. Where the film would seem to break new ground is that the 18 year old is not only a girl, but also of Indian Sikh background. In allowing Jess (Jasminder) to follow her sporting dreams to professionalism rather than the path her parents initially expect of her (university then marriage), the film stretches the boundaries of race, gender, and generation, allowing audiences the opportunity to identify with an atypical protagonist. The film won almost universal goodwill from critics and audiences alike, however Jess’ success seems to be predicated on the assumption that the audience will only accept a British Indian girl’s love of soccer if any taint of lesbianism is expelled from the film. Girls’ team sport has not much of a public following, yet Beckham topped the British charts for weeks, was voted viewers’ favourite in the Sydney Film Festival, and screened for months in Australian cinemas and elsewhere around the world. While Beckham’s name may have helped draw the crowds, a summary of the subject matter might be expected to have turned them away, rather than dragged them in. When Chandra was attempting to raise finance for the film, the response was invariably, “Soccer? Girl Soccer? Indian girl soccer? – no way!” (Urban) While it is true that positioning an audience to side with a protagonist can result in the most unexpected identifications, women’s sport often attracts either uneasiness or indifference rather than delight and acceptance. By having one set of fears allayed, an audience can often be induced to identify with a cause they might otherwise feel ambivalent about. If Jess is shown to conventionally love a man, then her love of soccer is rendered so much more acceptable. While the reception of women’s sport in the West has come a long way from the alarm which greeted its inception in the late nineteenth century, it still poses something of a conundrum in the public sphere. The first women’s professional soccer match, played in London in 1895, was treated with scorn by the press. In the early 1920s in Britain, men’s clubs stalled the development of women’s soccer (which consisted of about 150 clubs) when they refused to let women use their pitches. Currently women’s soccer is on the rise, especially in the US, but the press in particular often find it, and other non-traditional female games, difficult to report without resorting to tactics designed to allay readers’ (and possibly reporters’) fears. These fears revolve around the contradictions between the public role of sport and dominant cultural constructions of femininity. Such contradictions have been summarised as being between “femininity or ‘musculinity’” (Hargreaves 145). Ultimately, traditional femininity is seen to be in opposition to athleticism and the sportswoman is often involved in a complex negotiation between the two conflicting requirements. When the sportswoman’s appearance, behaviour, and especially her relationships uphold traditional femininity, her athleticism is not seen as problematic. On the other hand, when she fails to sufficiently ‘feminise’ herself, or even if she plays a sport considered ‘masculine’, her credentials as a woman may be called into question. The most devastating allegation to be levelled at the sportswoman is still that sport has made her butch. To be butch is to have failed to adequately perform femininity, and is generally also taken to indicate lesbianism. Even women who do little to conform to traditional measures of femininity may be redeemed in the press and in commentary by reference to their husbands, boyfriends and children. Lesbians present a different problem for sports writers and commentators; while many sportswomen are in fact lesbian, the public is generally shielded from this. Despite the fact that gay issues are being represented more and more in popular culture, in sport it is still a taboo for both men and women. In Bend It Like Beckham, the whole plot of the film depends on negotiating that taboo in as convincing a way as possible. In order to make possible a narrative of a girl’s self-fulfilment through soccer for mainstream audiences, it is necessary for the film to make the lesbian in soccer invisible at the same time. The filmmaker goes to great lengths to do this. The most obvious device is the romance plot, staple of popular film in almost any genre. Joe is the love interest of both girls in the heterosexual plot as, conversely, he is the plot device which separates them, in a potential lesbian plot. As the coach of the girls’ team, he does not detract in any way from either girl’s goal of playing professional sport. In order to satisfy parental characters and audience alike, he is necessary as the affirmation of Jess’ (and Jules’) heterosexuality. But the film goes further than simply making the central female characters straight. In order to expunge the image of the lesbian sportswoman, every scene depicting the team in conversation or relaxing features a performance of heterosexuality. This is done either through their locker room conversations about who is shagging whom and who fancies whom, or by their dress and demeanour at the club in Germany. There is such an underlying anxiety about lesbianism in the film that not a single representation of it is allowed to occur, despite how unrealistic this might be in women’s sport. It is not that Chadha is not prepared to deal with the issue; her last film, What’s Cooking, positively featured a lesbian couple among other couplings and family groups. However, obviously, the spectre of the lesbian is so great in women’s sport that it is necessary to omit it entirely in order to represent women’s participation in sport as a positive thing. This is done, above all, by affirming the girls’ femininity, and most of all their heterosexuality. Although Jules’ mother Paula is the butt of much of the film’s humour – the extraordinary variations in her cleavage provide a running sight gag throughout the film – she is also the voice of the audience’s fears about the direction of the girls’ relationship: “There’s a reason why Sporty Spice is the only one of them without a fella”. Despite the audience being let in on the truth about the girls’ apparent heterosexuality much earlier than Paula is, they are similarly set up to anticipate that these soccer-mad girls, with their posters of either Beckham or butch sportswomen on their walls, will gradually fall in love with each other over the course of the film. But as Jules tells her mother: “Just because I wear trackies and play sport, doesn’t make me a lesbian”. Paula’s response – “I’ve got nothing against it. I was cheering for Martina Navratilova as much as the next person” – hides the fact that she does have something against lesbianism. Finally her joy at the revelation that the girls are both keen on Joe rather than each other is mirrored in the audience’s laughter at her, laughter which to some extent could be interpreted as reflecting their own relief. While Paula is almost as self-conscious about Jess’ Indian heritage as she is about lesbianism, the film is more comfortable about racial diversity than it is about lesbianism. It’s not even gayness as such that is troubling. Jess’ friend Tony tells her of his attraction to men – “no, Jess, I really like Beckham” – and this is portrayed affectionately, despite the viewer’s knowledge that life for him may involve more difficult negotiations than Jess will have to make. The real focus of the film is on choices for women and establishing sport as a valid one of these. Jess’ soccer final is given equal footing with Pinky’s wedding, and the cuts between both occasions construct them as similarly fulfilling events for both sisters. The film is not concerned with undermining Pinky’s choices of marriage and motherhood either, although both Jess’ and Jules’ mothers are represented as conservative and limiting forces in their lives, much more so than their fathers. Bend It Like Beckham cannot, in the end, be ‘bent’ because it is so busy exorcising the spectre of the lesbian in sport. Establishing an Indian sporting female subjectivity comes at the cost of rejecting any potential lesbian subjectivity, let alone lesbian love. If Jess is to love sport, then she must love her man as well. In order to present a palatable narrative of female fulfilment in sport, Jess and Jules have to be pretty and feminine as well as athletic, and most of all, they have to be straight. Works Cited Hargreaves, Jennifer. Sporting Females: Critical Issues in the History and Sociology of Women’s Sports. London: Routledge, 1994. Urban, Andrew L. “Bending Forward.” Urbancinefile October 3, 2002. http://www.urbancinefile.com 04/10/02. Links http://www.urbancinefile.com Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Treagus, Mandy. "Not Bent At All" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.6 (2002). Dn Month Year < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/beckham.php>. APA Style Treagus, M., (2002, Nov 20). Not Bent At All. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 5,(6). Retrieved Month Dn, Year, from http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/beckham.html