Archive for the ‘Popular Culture’ Category

The Protection of the Uninitiated

Thursday, March 12th, 2009

I don’t have much to add to various reactions to the Watchmen film. To put it simply, I enjoyed it far more than I expected to, especially after I found 300 impossible to enjoy as simple dumb fun because it’s dumbness went beyond being simple.

The one thing I have noticed in reading a lot of Watchmen-knowledgeable reviews and commentaries, though, is the presence in those reviews of significant others who had not read the graphic novel back then or now. These accompanying viewers are reported in many cases, to the considerable surprise of their escorts, to have liked the film. I’ll add to that: my wife, with minimal comic book knowledge and no prior reading of the graphic novel, was actually way more enthusiastic than I was (and I thought it was a pretty decent film).

This reaction makes me mindful of the way that geeks married to or dating or related to non-geeks tend to deal with their cultural obsessions in the presence of those others. Gently? Carefully? The decision to expose a normal to a geek experience is often done tremulously and uncertainly.

The strangest reaction of all, however, is not, “I don’t get it”. It’s, “That was GREAT”, where the positive reaction doesn’t involve an embrace of the total cultural penumbra around the work or experience but just the work itself. (Bob Rehak has a great description of all the talk and viewing and buzz that precedes the arrival of a pop cultural work, calling it the “cometary halo”.)

The reason that’s the most uncomfortable experience at all is that it raises sharp questions about geekery itself. Is this film or show or book great in and of itself? Do you need any metatextual knowledge to like it? Is the metatextual knowledge actually screwing with my ability to enjoy the experience myself? Immediately after the film, I’m fielding questions about Silk Spectre I and Hollis Mason and Mothman and the missing Squid and so on. This is gleeful on one hand, and on the other, how discomforting to know that you don’t need to know any of it to have a great time seeing the film.

Of course, this goes for all cultural criticism in some measure, not just geek popular culture. What’s missed if you read and love a 19th Century novel or a Shakespeare play and that’s the alpha and omega of your experience? Maybe nothing at all: maybe that’s the sign of the greatest hope that a cultural critic could ever have, that someone can come to that culture without having their hands held and yet have questions afterwards that you can step in to answer. But it worries a bit that you’re the one reserved, holding back, fretting about the problem of transmedial adaptation or about whether the change in the ending matters or whether the film’s literalism is a good thing or a bad thing.

On the other hand: geek and non-geek agreement that Malin Akerman did a pretty crappy acting job as Silk Spectre II, while Jackie Earle Haley and Patrick Wilson were damn great as Rorschach and Nite Owl II, and Jeffrey Dean Morgan as the Comedian was also impressive.

Oh the Humanities

Wednesday, February 25th, 2009

Patricia Cohen has an odd article in the Arts section of the New York Times today titled, “In Tough Times, Humanities Must Justify Their Worth”. It seems odd to me because in substantial measure, you could have published a similar article any time in the last five years. The economic collapse is putting enormous pressure on universities, so I agree this gives the “crisis of the humanities” a new urgency. If the fiscal problems of higher education and the larger economic needs of American society are really combining to push for a change in the character of the academic humanities, that might shift the long-stalemated debate about their future and push us towards some new consensus. It’s equally likely that well-ground axes will continue to be whittled down to the nub and nothing much will happen. Or maybe, if the pressure of crisis forces leaders to make poorly considered short-term decisions, the humanities will be cut with little rhyme or reason.

Grant for argument’s sake that the humanities must make a more focused, philosophically coherent case that they deserve some substantial proportion of the resources of higher education. (Not forgetting, in the meantime, that in terms of overhead beyond salaries, the humanities are generally a good bargain.) Similarly, let’s concede that this new view will accept that the humanities must justify that budgeting in terms of the delivery of unique or precious value to society as a whole.

I think if this is true, it sidelines two consistent positions in the existing struggle over the humanities.

First, the argument that the humanities must return to a narrowly composed canon of classic literary, artistic and philosophical works because their job is to preserve and reinforce cultural and intellectual traditions which are necessary to preserve national or civilizational coherence. The conservative argument for this perspective is often made against a vision of ongoing, constant moral and social decay, or in the context of a “clash of civilizations” in which unity is seen as a precondition of victory over an external enemy. If you’re coming from that perspective, I doubt new circumstances are likely to change your view of things. Still, it seems to me that the economic and social crisis of the moment is pretty difficult to portray as moral decay (unless you’re willing to focus that image on either a narrow class of plutocratic elites or on the financial choices of ordinary people, either one of which is a pretty tough place for cultural conservatives to find themselves in) or as a civilizational struggle for supremacy. In this respect, arguing that lavishing resources on the humanities in order to preserve and strengthen a patriotic dedication to a highly circumscribed core of classic cultural and philosophical works sounds as decadent and economically superfluous as doling out millions of dollars to commission a follow-up to “Piss Christ”.

Equally, however, if you concede that economic circumstances force the humanities to explain anew why they’re valuable to universities and to the wider society, I think the default reliance on disciplinary justifications for continued support are just as dead. Many humanistic disciplines have long privileged tautological arguments about the value of research and teaching: what they do is important because the discipline deems it important. A good project is a project which advances the work of the discipline. In particular, if you concede some new resource limitations or imperatives, I think the humanities mostly have to give up the disciplinary proposition that what we do is primarily discovery, that we research subjects and information which are unknown and turn them into knowledge. I don’t think that aping of science has ever served the humanities well, but it serves us especially poorly if we really do have to justify ourselves in some new fashion.

I’m not saying that in scholarly history (for one example) that everything is known. There are so many archives that haven’t been read in whole or in part, so many documents open for new interpretation, so many interviews to collect. Just as there are new literary works created all the time, new expressive work to be seen and critiqued, there are also old works to be read in fresh ways. Mostly, however, the mission of the humanities is not to discover the unknown, but to explain and explore the meaning of history, of culture, of human life within the universe, to students and the wider society. The mission of the humanities in this perspective would be not to know new things, but to explain why what we know matters, to think about what we should do with what we know. That doesn’t require constantly moving towards the unknown: most of that project comes out of what we already know.

The main point here being that if we accept a new urgency to our circumstances, it’s no longer good enough to say that a project or a faculty position need to be supported because they advance the needs of history or philosophy or literary criticism as disciplines.

So what does work? Basically, I think you can take your pick between the two teachers of the play The History Boys, or work out some hybrid compromise between them.

One teacher, Hector, would answer is that the purpose of the humanities is to make better humans, to teach wisdom, to explore deep truths, to cultivate wonder and possibility. A society that could not afford the humanities, in this view, would be spiritually impoverished, emotionally stunted, bereft of any hope of genuine progress, whatever its material condition. In the play, Hector is open to any work or idea that accomplishes this end, though I think it’s fair to say that this general view would turn first to work and ideas that form the core of traditional canons, accepting that there is some kind of quality or greatness in some work that makes it most suited for exploring truth and beauty.

Alan Bennett obviously prefers Hector’s sensibility to that of his rival, Irwin. So I’ll build a more favorable idea from Irwin’s preference for teaching his students how to beat the system, how to use education to work games of status and aspiration. Less cynically, you could argue on behalf of the utility of the humanities, that the humanities are where we learn how to reason and persuade, how to speak many languages and rhetorics, how and why culture and the world has meaning to human beings, how past experience determines our present lives and offers lessons about our future. A student of the humanities should know what stories and pictures and performances are powerful or evocative and why they are, will know how to weave that knowledge into their own speech and action. Even in a world wracked by recession, there will be many professions where those competencies and skills are as necessary as scientific or technical skill in other jobs, and that even in more technical fields, a strong command of humanistic skills might distinguish an adaptable leader from a person only capable of performing a single task.

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I don’t think those justifications for humanistic knowledge and teaching are incompatible with each other. I think either or both make long-running arguments about high and low art, classic canons and popular culture largely irrelevant, but that both views require a continuing investment in ideas about quality or integrity in expressive and philosophical expression. (e.g., in either view, Shakespeare is still more important to study than Gilligan’s Island, at the very least because Shakespeare’s work is a denser target of opportunity, a richer ‘teaching case’ whose quality either lends itself to human wisdom or to better skills development.)

If we accept the premise that in these times, some new justification for humanistic knowledge is required (and that premise itself can certainly be questioned), and that either or both of these approaches offer that justification, then much of the scholarly output of humanistic academics and at least some of their course offerings need some redirection. That’s a subject for a future post.

The Star Wars of 3D?

Monday, February 9th, 2009

Ok, that’s a bit strong as a description of the film Coraline. But there were moments seeing it this weekend where I flashed back to that first viewing of Star Wars in 1977, to that moment where the Imperial Star Destroyer came in from the top of the screen, and you realized that all the films you’d ever seen with “special effects” were basically nothing like this film, even though you recognized some aspect of the technology or the style or the genre as preceding that moment of amazement.

Even without the 3D, Coraline is a great film both visually and in terms of its storytelling. Think twice about taking younger kids: my 8-year old was freaking out in parts, and she’s a fairly sophisticated consumer of fantastic imagery and fairy-tale narratives. There were a lot of people in the audience with younger kids still, and you could hear a wave of whimpering fearfulness at some points in the last half of the film. Still, I’d agree with A.O. Scott in the New York Times: this is a good kind of unsettling, scary story for kids, that opens up some potent issues in really good and imaginative ways. As I said to my daughter afterwards, the film is partly about the disturbing moment in childhood where you begin to recognize that your parents have weaknesses and that not everything in the world exists for your own benefit, a moment that comes at different times in different kinds of childhoods. I think I’m going to write a bit about the film over at Terra Nova, because I also think it has some smart things to say about virtual worlds and imaginary play.

However, back to the 3D for a minute: this is the first film I’ve ever seen where the 3D really seems not at all a gimmick, but a sustained part of the aesthetic, something that adds not just literal layers to the visuals but layers to the storytelling, to the experience of seeing and thinking about the film. If you can see it in a 3D theater, do so.

The Embarassment of Paratext, the Insufficiency of Culture

Sunday, February 8th, 2009

It’s a little thing, but let me make it into something slightly bigger. In the Sunday Week in Review section of the New York Times today, there’s a brief item about road signs warning of zombies ahead.

The item mentions a few of the recent reports of zombie road signs. And then it says, “Authorities were puzzled over how pranksters could have reprogrammed the road signs”, and then “the choice of imaginary danger may reflect the hard economic times…last fall, data posted by the science fiction blog io9.com suggested that the number of zombie-themed movies released tends to spike in period of national trauma.”

Authorities are puzzled? Really? I hope not, given that you can find the instructions for reprogramming road signs on a popular website. A website mentioned in at least one of the news stories the Times was evidently drawing from. And, oh, a website mentioned by some of the authorities that other reporters have interviewed about this story.

As far as zombie-themed movies being a cultural indicator of economic stress, on one level, that’s just the usual silliness of lifestyle journalism at work, in which it is impossible to write about anything without proclaiming it to be: a) a trend and b) a trend which is part of some metatrend, some big change in the way we are. It’s as wrong an explanation as the claim “authorities are puzzled” is. The history of zombies in popular culture doesn’t offer that kind of neat correspondence, but moreover, on some level, it needs no explanation other than itself. The tropes of zombie films and games refer first and last to themselves and their shared history. Any individual zombie-themed work may have other referents, other messages, other commentaries. But if you want to know why this “choice of imaginary danger”, it’s probably sufficient just to know first the subcultural worlds that the pranksters themselves travel through and second to know that the tropes of zombie apocalypse have achieved a kind of cultural critical mass through iteration. When a theme or genre of entertainment becomes stable enough to be parodied (Shaun of the Dead), it is also sufficiently distributed in the culture at large to be a referent in everyday life. If you wanted to know why kids in the 1950s played cowboy-and-indian, at one level you didn’t any explanation other than Western films and television programs.

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Of course, there is always more to say about the content of expressive culture. Cowboy-and-indian or zombie, any theme or story or genre, has deeper roots, deeper meanings. But lifestyle journalism is often at best the Cliff Notes version of that kind of culture-reading. It reads the trends so you don’t have to, it serves up the zeitgeist on a platter so that people in Hollywood have some new patter to throw into their next pitch, so that the national narrative gets a few additional pieces of flair. It’s culture as the entrails of a cow, to be read by augurers who already know what to tell the emperor.

Part of what’s going on in the Times article, though, is also a performance of respectability, an attempt to construct what it is that serious people know and think. Serious people aren’t supposed to have paratextual knowledge of zombie tropes or of the practice of pranksters. So a practice which is in some sense quite easy to explain (both the how and the why) gets an alchemical makeover and becomes baffling in its how and something other than itself in its why, becomes a safely familiar reference to respectable news.

I’m not saying that most readers of the Times know that there’s a website that tells you how to prank roadsigns, or that they’re aficionadoes of zombie movies, or even that they have an implicit paratextual knowledge of zombie tropes. I am saying that you can’t write a little news item in the New York Times that recounts the zombie sign story in those terms, that accepts technological prankstering as a cultural form, that nods to the history of the zombie genre and treats Night of the Living Dead and Dead Rising and Shaun of the Dead as sources of cultural practice in their own right.

There are a lot of reasons why print journalism is tottering on the edge of the abyss, but this is one small piece of the problem. Benedict Anderson’s famous analysis of print capitalism in Imagined Communities argues that the mass distribution of newspapers in the 19th Century was an important instrument in creating national identities, that national readerships felt connected by a sense of simultaneity, that a fellow national was reading the same paper and being addressed by it similarly despite the physical or situational distance between the two readers. But now serious journalism in the United States often has a far more cramped view of its imagined audience, and that’s not merely a matter of targeting a market segment or mapping yourself to a social class. It’s about trying to be the kind of adult who could always be heard speaking in the background of Peanuts cartoons, to be in all things so very grown-up and serious. It’s not just that this is a limiting ambition in its own right, but also that the default version of seriousness that informs a lot of print journalism and television punditry is at best a cobwebbed artifact, a different kind of zombie.

Patrick McGoohan RIP

Thursday, January 15th, 2009

Patrick McGoohan was one of my family’s favorite actors when I was growing up, and time hasn’t dimmed my affection for his work. (We once planned to stay in Portmerion, where The Prisoner was filmed, and couldn’t because there was a devastating fire at the hotel several nights before we were supposed to stay there.)

Whether he was the star, as in Secret Agent Man, The Prisoner or The Scarecrow of Romney Marsh, or a supporting player, as in his two great guest appearances in Columbo or his appearance in the film Braveheart, he always seemed to punch a hole through the action through the sheer intensity of his presence. He was like a form of human dark matter: intellect and will and discipline burned down to some alchemical base. When he showed up in the film Silver Streak as the villain, he so obviously outclassed Richard Pryor, Jill Clayburgh and Gene Wilder (as actors and characters) that I found myself rooting for him instead.

Here’s a couple of clips of McGoohan worth watching.

Awesome little clip from a 1957 film that also features Sean Connery. (This is what YouTube was meant for!) Watch McGoohan’s body language and measured silences as he plays out a basically stock trope (top-dog enforcing his role) if you want a good sense of how he conveyed intellect–he tells you from the very first moment you see him that this character isn’t acting out of adrenaline, but calculation.

This 1977 interview with McGoohan about The Prisoner is really compelling–you can see how much his screen presence is an extension of his personality and thinking.

Here’s a trailer for The Prisoner. I’m not sure if this actually a network trailer for the show from its original U.S. airing, but the announcer definitely seems to be from another universe altogether than the show itself.

Lots of good clips out there from Secret Agent Man. Easy to see why it drew audiences: McGoohan played John Drake as the anti-Bond in all sort of compelling ways.

My A-Z

Wednesday, December 17th, 2008

Bob Rehak tagged me with a fun meme: name a favorite movie for every letter of the alphabet.

Adventures of Robin Hood

My favorite Errol Flynn title, though my favorite character in it is actually Basil Rathbone’s Guy de Gisborne. Plausibly I could list Alien and Aliens. But I’m not a big fan of the entire aesthetic of horror, so much as I admire Alien as a film, I’ve never enjoyed watching it that much. Aliens is a really good genre film. I’m oddly fond of The Adventures of Baron Munchausen for all its flaws. But Robin Hood tops it easily for me.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

Bonnie & Clyde, Bringing Up Baby, The Big Sleep, Bridge on the River Kwai, Blade Runner are all plausible runner-ups. This is a tough letter.

Casablanca

This was the hardest letter. Citizen Kane, Chinatown, A Christmas Story are all films I could easily name instead. Casino Royale is inching into this company, though it would be better off with a different first letter. I suppose Casablanca is the bloody obvious pick, but I do love it.

Duck Soup

Dr. Strangelove would be my other “D” movie. I’m kind of fond of Deep Impact for some reason but it doesn’t quite make this level of goodness.

The Empire Strikes Back

It doesn’t matter how thoroughly Lucas craps on his franchise, I still love this film.

Fitzcarraldo

A favorite of my father’s. Les Blank’s documentary about the film is maybe even more compelling than the film itself. A Fistful of Dollars also comes to mind for this letter. I found Flirting With Disaster very funny as well.

The Godfather Part 2

I’m not actually that fond of films about the mob (so no nod for Goodfellas, etc. here) but this one is in another league. However, I could easily jump to Bob’s pick for G, Groundhog Day. I have an odd fondness for Gladiator, which I don’t think is that great a film at the end of the day. Goldfinger is my favorite Bond film after Casino Royale.

High Noon

I could also name The Hustler here.

The Iron Giant

Still actually my favorite Brad Bird film, much as I like all of his work. The Incredibles competes for this letter, certainly. I also love the Peter Falk and Alan Arkin version of The In-Laws.

Jaws

I guess. I can’t think of many J films. Jaws certainly holds up as a work of entertainment, even though some of the schtick in it now seems so familiar from long exposure to Spielberg’s works. I enjoyed Jean de Florette but it’s not exactly in the same weight-class as the others on my list. The 1953 version of Julius Caesar had some good performances and a great score.

Kung Fu Hustle

One of the greatest films ever. But until it came out, my pick for this letter would have been To Kill a Mockingbird, which I also still love very much.

Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

Of the three, I thought the first was the best. I like LA Confidential, but it’s kind of the poor man’s Chinatown Lawrence of Arabia is a favorite, and I probably would have named that before the Jackson films.

Maltese Falcon

Just about my favorite film ever, but it’s hard to pass by Monty Python and the Holy Grail without a nod. I’m also very fond of The Man Who Would Be King. Manhattan is about the only Woody Allen movie that really holds up strongly for me, but not nearly strongly enough to get on a personal favorites list. This summer’s Mongol kind of elbowed its way into my estimation for this letter.

My Neighbor Totoro

My favorite of Miyazaki’s films. Night of the Hunter is a great film, and I’m very fond of Paul Newman’s performance in Nobody’s Fool.

Once Upon a Time in the West

Henry Fonda is just great in this film. I love One False Move as well. Office Space might make it except for the weak second half of the film.One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest would be on a lot of people’s lists, but I actually think it’s over-rated.

The Princess Bride

This is a tough letter simply because I’d also like to pick Patton. But Princess Bride is easily in my personal top ten. Pitch Black is a bit of a dark horse contender, if you’ll forgive the phrase.

The Quiet Man

Winner by default, I guess. It’s an enjoyable enough film.

Raiders of the Lost Ark

I enjoy Rashomon (at this point, you can scarcely talk about narrative without someone mentioning it) but I wouldn’t put it in my top personal films. Still, I could be persuaded to knock off Raiders, which I don’t think has aged as gracefully as Jaws or Empire Strikes Back. Raging Bull is a great film but I don’t enjoy repeated viewings of it much. I haven’t seen Raising Arizona in ages, but I might be able to move that to the top. Reservoir Dogs is a great film in its own terms, but I really don’t care for Tarantino’s whole aesthetic.

Seven Samurai

Another family favorite. I can think of a lot of “S” titles that I really enjoy but maybe none that I’d put in the same weight class as Seven Samurai. I notice that the top IMDB film is The Shawshank Redemption, which I’ve actually never seen.

The Third Man, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Tunes of Glory

The letter T is for torment. I don’t know how to choose between these three films, so I won’t: they’re all equally important to me. Toy Story and its sequel are favorites but can’t stack up against these others. Twelve Monkeys is a fascinating movie but I don’t really enjoy it on repeated viewings too much. Time Bandits, as long as I’m thinking of Gilliam, is also a fun movie, but again, not in this company.

Unforgiven

What, did you think I was going to choose Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend? I can’t even think of any other U films, and I liked Unforgiven a good deal, so it gets the nod.

I have no V.

V for Vendetta wasn’t awful, but no way is it a favorite. And I like Newman in The Verdict but the film as a whole is only okay. Vertigo is a good Hitchcock, but Hitchcock’s entire oeuvre leaves me kind of cold in terms of personal taste. Maybe I’ll think of a V movie later.

White Heat

But I like The Wizard of Oz as well. I didn’t used to so much as a kid because I’d get hung up on its lack of correspondence with the book. The 1953 War of the Worlds is a favorite, in part because my grade-school library used to have a filmstrip version of it tucked in with the educational stuff and I could get away with viewing it repeatedly when we had library time. “Six days, you said…the same time it took to create it”.

X-Men 2

Oh, if I have to have an X, X-Men 2, but it’s a pretty mediocre film.

Young Frankenstein

I’m ready to pull this one off my favorites list, though. I watched it again just recently and I find a lot of it doesn’t work very well any more. You kind of had to be 13 at a moment in the general history of the US in which neo-vaudevillean innuendo about breasts and erections was somehow hilarious and daring all at once. I don’t really like Yojimbo, and a few of the awesome set-pieces in You Only Live Twice are spoiled by the craptacular ridiculousness of Sean Connery pretending to be Japanese. Y Tu Mama Tambien is great, but it would be kind of cheating to list it under Y, I think. I remember liking the Turkish film Yol, but it’s been ages since I saw it.

(The Mask of) Zorro

Cheating! But I do love this film. If I have to stick to an honest Z, I have no idea. I don’t like Zentropa, Zelig is a one-joke film, and Zardoz is horrifically bad if in a fantastically enjoyable kind of way. Zulu and Zulu Dawn are pretty weaksauce as films.

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I’ll pass the meme along to: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Laura at 11D, Laura at Geeky Mom, and Jason Mittell.

A Sale of Two Doorstops

Monday, December 15th, 2008

Recently, mindful of a long flight home, I went looking to the local bookstore to see if there was anything new that I hadn’t read. I looked at some fantasy titles, but most of them had the kind of blurbs that I’ve previously described as a huge turn-off.

I finally settled with some trepidation on two books. One by David Anthony Durham called Acacia: The War With the Mein, the other by R. Scott Bakker called The Darkness That Comes Before.

With Acacia, the title made me think that maybe the book would have an African connection, and the set-up seemed a bit more interesting than orphan-commoner-actually-prince must-find-magic-McGuffin to defeat Dark-Lord. The blurb seemed to me to promise a kind of empire vs. provinces narrative with some kind of moral twist.

Well, that much is correct. I am thinking that this is what somewhat derivative fantasies patterned on George Martin rather than Tolkien are likely to look like (Acacia: Game of Thrones :: Sword of Shannara : Lord of the Rings). More political intrigue, a darker moral world with many shades of grey, a grimmer arc of character development.

Acacia is not terrible, as far as these things go. But it sure could be a lot better than it is, and most of the problem comes down to the basics of the prose. And that in turn maybe comes down to a bad combination of missing editorial input plus the genre-fueled need to bloat fantasy stories up to 600+ pages as if the heft of a paperback is what establishes it as a part of the genre.

The problem with Acacia is a problem that a lot of genre fantasy has: it too often reads like the detailed notes of a Dungeons & Dragons’ gamemaster about his campaign world rather than as a work of narrative fiction. The tedious (but accurate) old dictum to “show, not tell” is violated with astonishing aggressiveness within the first hundred pages, but not in any consistent or deliberate fashion. You know you’re in trouble when the king’s chief advisor Thaddeus murders a messenger who carries vital news and following a description of the act, Durham continues, “Thaddeus was not entirely the loyal servant of the king that he seemed” (and more still along those lines following). No shit, Sherlock. Of the many things that could go unsaid in the novel, this is only the beginning. Almost any of them–the lengthy expositional asides about the cultures, practices or peoples in the novel, the omniscient descriptions of characters and actions that suddenly erupt out of (a great many) viewpoint characters, could be unsaid or said minimally to vastly greater effect. As a sparce, fast-moving narrative that concentrated on its plot, it wouldn’t be half-bad. As a diagrammatic and pointlessly long act of world-creation, it’s clumsy and tedious at many points.

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Bakker’s novel The Darkness That Comes Before is in a completely different league. It reminds me of work by Frank Herbert and David Zindell: big, brawny, intellectual and philosophical speculative fiction that’s very savvy about the historical and spiritual referents it means to invoke. Rather like Herbert and Zindell, Bakker goes increasingly wrong as his series continues in the second two books of the series, where his intellectual ambitions give way to pretentious bloat. (Zindell’s latest work is especially frustrating in this way, as his protagonists become more and more a kind of spiritual Mary Sue.) But the first book is pretty gutsy and original stuff. In terms of pure craft, it’s also way more attractive than Acacia, because Bakker lets much of the characterization and situation develop within the action of the story, without omniscient interventions from an obsessive ethnographic observer. The male protagonists are fully-realized adults with rich narrative dilemmas drawn out of Bakker’s readings of human history rather than minor variations on stock genre figures. Bakker also tries very hard to develop two female characters in a distinctive way. I give him credit for trying, but by the second novel in the series, I think he falls pretty short.

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In either case, however, I feel like an editor whose main objective was to push back on divergent tendencies towards overwriting would have done either author a great if rather different service. In Durham’s case, it might have saved his book from being just another “fantasy epic” recognizable by its girth and formulaic construction, might have let a relatively interesting narrative emerge from underneath the clumsy exposition. In Bakker’s case, an editor might have pushed him to take the pretention and repetition of the later two books down a notch, to have reproduced some of the sparser and often beautiful prose of the first book in fuller measure.

I have no idea if this has anything to do with the more general view that this kind of editorial influence has largely vanished from fiction as a whole. Genre and speculative fiction often didn’t benefit from that kind of attention in the past, Patrick Nielsen Hayden’s keen eye notwithstanding. But it is frustrating when you can quickly see that shedding one or two hundred pages would make a book at the least far more entertaining (in the case of Acacia) or might move it into the category of undisputed masterpiece (in the case of Bakker’s series).

Bruce Wayne Is the Black Glove

Friday, December 5th, 2008

Busy week and I’ve been kind of feeling a bit bleak about blogging lately, so excuse the quiet. I think I’m going to completely geek out in my next couple of entries, so if you’re waiting for some African or academic material, keep waiting. (There are things building up in my ought-to-write category on those topics, so lightning may strike at any time.)

This entry is going to be the maximally geeky one, on Grant Morrison’s Batman run. You still have time to turn away if your eyes compulsively rolled at that prospect.

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I like Grant Morrison’s work, but I am not a blind worshipper at the temple of the God of All Comics. His run on Batman has had some strong moments and some weak moments, quite aside from the uneven artwork. But all the talk on the intarwebs this week has been about the conclusion of the “RIP” storyline. A lot of readers expected big, clear revelations about the antagonist(s) who have been driving the story, and many feel that Morrison let them down. (Or, for the conspiracy-minded, it was DC editorial that changed Morrison’s original ending.)

I think people didn’t read the issue very carefully in that case, because I thought Morrison was crystal-clear about the identity of the Black Glove, the mysterious enemy that has been hounding Batman for most of Morrison’s run on the title. The problem is that too many people are obsessed with the red herring character of Dr. Simon Hurt: the debate over whether he’s really Thomas Wayne, or a minor actor, or the Devil Himself is a distraction.

There’s been speculation throughout the storyline that the villain behind the scenes is none other than Bruce Wayne himself. Batman #681 pretty much comes out and says, “Yup, that’s it”. Here’s the evidence.

First, before we get to this issue, what do we know about The Black Glove in general? Who are various members of the Club of Villains who associate with The Black Glove? What do we know about them? We know that the one characteristic they share is that they are obscenely wealthy and powerful, and that most have a fetishistic second identity or obsession of some kind. Bruce Wayne would fit in smoothly with them in that respect.

Right at the start, Morrison reminds us: “Batman thinks of everything”. This fits with what we know about Morrison’s take on Batman: that he’s the supremely skilled meta-tactician who outthinks all of his enemies. This is reinforced throughout this story in Morrison’s portrayal of the Joker: the Joker is frustrated because Batman always “builds a box” around him, reimposes order on his pure chaos. So think about it: what would Batman do if he became aware that by becoming Batman, he had opened himself up to evil and madness? That Batman himself was the “something, in the dark, inside”, the “scar on my consciousness”? “Children sometimes develop cover personalities to protect themselves”: that’s not something that Simon Hurt has done to Bruce Wayne, that is what Batman is. Batman himself is the attack on Bruce Wayne’s mind. But Batman thinks of everything: how will he defeat Batman?

Simple: he’s got to restore Bruce Wayne as the real person. Morrison, I think, is attacking the heart of the modern interpretation of the character, that Batman is the real person, Bruce Wayne the mask, that Batman lives at the edge of madness, that Batman is irreparably dark. That’s the point of exploring the crazy-ass Silver Age stories: it’s what Bruce Wayne hallucinated when in sensory deprivation to try and escape Batman.

Look at the conclusion of #681: it’s Bruce Wayne without the mask who goes after Simon Hurt. It’s Bruce Wayne writing the “final entry in the Black Casebook”, who now knows that in making Batman, he “opened up to some pure source of evil”, to the “limits of reason”. When we hear from inside the helicopter the whisper, “The Black Glove always wins”, what do we see next? The black glove on Batman’s fist smashing into the helicopter window.

There’s no mystery about why the trigger phase for Batman’s madness was a garbling of “Zorro in Arkham”: because that’s the moment where Bruce Wayne learned, seconds before his parent’s death, that the romantic figure of Zorro was also someone who would be institutionalized for madness.

So this is what “rest in peace” in the title means. Not that Bruce Wayne would die. Instead, maybe the prospect he’s on the edge of becoming a different, more serene, more at rest kind of Batman. Maybe a Batman who doesn’t have to be grim and dark all the time, but who can have wacky adventures and smile and meet imps from the Fifth Dimension. Maybe a version of the character who is really Bruce Wayne, with Batman his mask.

Or maybe Batman thinks of everything, and Bruce Wayne always loses. That will have to wait for when, or if, Morrison gets to do more on the title, or whether later writers pick up what he’s done with the character and use it to inaugurate yet another turn on the wheel, to offer us a version of Batman who isn’t just awash in blood and madness.

At Last

Tuesday, September 2nd, 2008

Ok, so “Hare We Go” is not on DVD.

But. Finally.

Disney is releasing a DVD edition of The Scarecrow of Romney Marsh. Easily my favorite thing ever on the Wonderful World of Disney when I was a kid.

Speaking of which, my daughter watched the old version of The Shaggy Dog and The Shaggy D.A. recently. (She likes the new version with Tim Allen, so she was curious.)

We also watched a bit of The Million-Dollar Duck, which I vaguely remember liking when I was a kid. It was terribly slow-paced, actually. Also the view of science in it is really hilarious: the head scientist who is doing learning experiments with mazes wants the duck out of it because it does so poorly at the experiment. (The head scientist is also something of over-the-top Jewish stereotype.) Then the duck wanders onto a conveyor belt where scientists are zapping a wide variety of objects with intense radiation, for no particular reason. The duck gets zapped, but they’re all totally nonplussed about it and Dick Jones’ character happily walks out with an almost-certainly radioactive duck under his arms. But that was Disney’s characteristic take on science at that point: a boundless production of wonders but also a hive of eccentricity.

Anyway, it made me wonder. I know the cultural studies literature on Disney, Disneyland and Disney films and TV somewhat well, but has anybody done a really detailed analysis of the 1960s-1970s live action films as a whole body of work? These are the films that conventional wisdom held were killing off the studio, to which it initially made fumbling responses in films like The Black Hole. I know individual stuff like the Davy Crockett films has drawn considerable attention, but there’s a kind of interesting feel to all of the films when you see them in close proximity to one another. There was an ensemble cast that reappeared constantly in these films (Dick Jones, Sandy Duncan, Kurt Russell, Keenan Wynn, Joe Flynn, Dick Van Patten, Kurt Russell, Tim Conway, Jo Anne Worley, etc.). The whole package is kind of like an alternative sitcom world, a sort of TV-on-the-movie-screen.

It’s a-Flat Like Your Head

Tuesday, September 2nd, 2008

When I first taught my course The Production of History at Swarthmore, I wanted to show the Bugs Bunny cartoon “Hare We Go”, in which Bugs Bunny helps and then antagonizes Christopher Columbus on his first voyage. I was thinking about the cartoon today because it’s not going to be in the last of Warner Brothers’ Golden Collections of Looney Tunes material, which frustrates the hell out of me. I think I’ve mentioned the cartoon in every iteration of the course and never been able to show it. It’s a great example of how popular consciousness of historical events is often formed from a kind of ubiquitous cultural substrate.

The cartoon reproduces the old story of Columbus trying unsuccessfully to convince potential backers of his voyage that the world is round and Isabella hocking her jewels to finance his trip. (In this version, Bugs helps him prove the world is round by throwing a baseball around the world: it returns covered in port-of-call stickers.) Historians know very well that most educated people as well as most sailors in early modern Europe were perfectly well aware that the world was round. In fact, Columbus really was kind of deluded, just not about the shape of the world, but its size. He thought it was much smaller than it actually was, and many sailors and savants were correct in their rough estimate of the size of the world. Hence, they were right that you’d die sailing westward to Asia, since they didn’t think there was anything in between.

But when you ask why people have heard otherwise, you can’t really zero in on any single text or source that is responsible for creating an alternative folk knowledge about Columbus and medieval European knowledge. Even when you can find a source like “Hare We Go”, it’s often whimsical, humorous, intended for children, fabulistic, and infused with a sense of reference to common sense knowledge about past events. It’s not that the cartoon teaches you about Columbus. It’s more like it’s one cypher key to a vast but diffuse cultural code that surrounds us all. No one reproduces it deliberately, and no harm or malice is intended in its reproduction. This is fairly close in some sense to what it meant by a meme, only without the weighty invocations of genetic-style mechanisms that the dedicated proponents of memetics always try to throw into the mix.

It seems to me that there are a great many things that people hold in everyday knowledge which are very similar, and sometimes they hold several stories or facts which contradict one another. I think it’s very rare to come across a work of knowledge that can single-handedly take such a story or understanding out of circulation, or make everyone mindful of the misconception the next time they encounter it. I’ve just started reading Tom Vanderbilt’s excellent book Traffic, and that strikes me as a an example of this rare kind of work. I know that by the third chapter, I’ve already had to reconsider some of my own deeply held mythologies about driving, human behavior and morality.

I’m curious: what other books can you think of where an author managed to permanently tag a commonly held belief or repeated story as a fable or myth for most who subsequently encountered it?