#twin peaks: post contemporary
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Yet Something is Different by L. Gray
Indigo Boys #2, zine pg. 31-47.
PDF pg. 21-29
Content warnings: mild violence, sexual content
#twin peaks#trucoop#dale cooper#harry truman#fanzine#happy twin peaks day!!!!!#may 1995#twin peaks: post contemporary
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Do you have any werewolf movie, book, or any form of media recommendations?
For movies, my go-tos are always going to be Dog Soldiers, Ginger Snaps and its sequel (remember: 1 and 2 are the only movies that exist, there was no 3), and A Company of Wolves. There's at least one semi-recent one I still need to watch that looks like it should slot in there fairly well, but overall those are going to be somewhere at the top of my list.
There's a TV show called Wolf Lake that also caught my attention, largely because I was looking through werewolf media that might share some of the elements I'm using in my own stories. With this one, I noticed there was a lot of overlap, and managed to nab it off a torrent since it, sadly, doesn't really exist anywhere else.
I wasn't wrong; there's a lot of overlap in terms of how my own EAC/its satellite functions and how the show's town functions overall, but there's enough definite differences that I didn't feel the need to change anything. It's got a very 90210 teen drama vibe to it in a lot of places when it's not being Werewolf Twin Peaks (not a bad thing, necessarily), but it's got a solid premise, and an interesting take on werewolves that I still think about quite a bit. It's a genuine shame it got cancelled; I would've liked to see where it went.
There's also a cute/sad??/maybe? IF by KittyHorrorShow called Wolfgirls in Love I remember really enjoying. It's been years though, so I don't know what CWs to offer. Click at your own risk!
Books-- I admittedly cashed out on those when it became evident that most of the field was littered with weird misogyny and, of late, the dull-ass knuckledragging Alpha Male bullshit that is hyper-prevalent throughout the paranormal romance genre. I need to read my contemporaries for sure, though, so I'm open to any ownvoices sapphic books in the comments! (ESPECIALLY if they're offered as audiobooks!!!)
EDIT: I have a shitlist I can absolutely complain about wrt TV at some point. And more than a few pointed comments about paranormal romance. But those are different posts entirely.
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I think BCS works fairly well as a post-“second golden age of TV”/“prestige drama” style show... unlike the violent catharsis of breaking bad with gus/tuco/the neonazis, violence in BCS only seems to drive home a hollowness. Lalo dies, and Gus can relax his guard a bit, but he realizes that he’s stuck forever in a dangerous life that he can’t possibly share with anyone in any meaningful way. Nacho dies, and it means nothing to anyone except for his father who loved and will grieve for him, and Mike, to whom it proves his hypocrisy utterly. Howard dies for no good reason. Werner dies for a perfectly logical reason that tarnishes everyone involved.
Breaking Bad was sort of satirizing Walter White’s incredible main character syndrome, where he gets his cancer diagnosis and decides he’s going to “make everything right” in his life, but it still follows a lot of the trends of its contemporaries. Tuco dies when he’s at his most dangerous. Gus dies at the height of his feud with Walt. The neonazis are slaughtered in a final act of violent repentance. Walt himself dies shortly thereafter. There’s a suggestion of narrative justice behind all the violence, like matters are resolved or at least transformed. Like, realistically Walt would have died a dozen times, even with Saul’s help, but the narrative saves that for last - as an act of closure. And there’s always a logic of narrative justice to who dies
I can’t help but think about Twin Peaks: The Return again, where the antagonist is killed by a random guy with a stupid green glove. Like a piss-take on the idea of violence resolving the complex problems BOB represented. Better Call Saul hits on a similar note, reflecting how it also is in conversation with the genre that shaped it. Violence in Better Call Saul never solves anything; it might stop a threat, but it doesn’t do anything about the fundamentally dangerous lives the characters lead, and the aftermath of violence is less catharsis and more people taking an inventory of the damage and sweeping up the rubble.
When Walter confessed to Skylar, killed the Neonazis, and freed Jesse, he did penance and redeemed himself - if not by any sane ethical framework, then narratively, owning his actions and undoing some of his harm. When Jimmy came to that Albequerque courtroom to engineer the perfect audience for his confession (the people he hurt, the legal system he wants to make a monkey of one last time, the ex-wife he wants nothing more than to be seen by again), he isn’t narratively redeeming himself at all. The wildly varying prison sentences waved around him are laughably disconnected from the harm his actions caused (especially the final one, 81 years, condemning him to effectively die in prison, doing society arguably less good than had he never been caught), and while his confession crucially has him confronting grief he’s been bottling for years, it otherwise doesn’t serve to make anything right, or undo any harm. It gets the attention of the woman he loves, and that’s it.
I think one of the reasons the final seasons of Game of Thrones were so unpopular was not that the deaths were “random” compared to the “logic” earlier seasons, but that the way the consequences characters faced was openly dictated by the narrative ruined the illusion the much better written early seasons worked to create to hide that fact. Like, Ned didn’t die because he was a naive politician, he died because the narrative needed to decisively set the stakes for the rest of the story. Joffrey didn’t die because some mass of mistakes finally outweighed his being-alive momentum on a cosmic scale; he died to demonstrate that the story is willing to kill off both protagonists and antagonists, because the audience would cheer to see the little prick choke, and because it was necessary to move the plot forward.
Like, when the later seasons make it obvious that Jaime doesn’t die in a suicidal charge on a dragon because there’s still another season and a half of audience interest to wring out of his character, or when Cersei survives doing nothing until the last episode because there’s no good narrative tension in killing her now, all that is doing is gracelessly making obvious what better writers work hard to conceal - that all narratives are contrivances and all “logic”, consequence”, and “realism” in a story is sleight of hand. And I think there’s an ugly sort of artistically compelling meat in that - in a formerly beloved show ending just a bit too long after the era that shaped it itself ended, and accidentally showing the man behind the curtain of that entire artistic era.
#and like. I guess to draw it back to my original point in this tangent.#it's just funny to me that a show that otherwise tried to like think a bit more critically about how its predecessors justified the#plot armor of its protagonist. like down to how jimmy is written. Mike gets that exact same treatment once again#bcs spoilers
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Thoughts on The X-Files as it turns 30 Years Old
I have not written much about The X-Files here because I have not revisited it in many years. The last time I rewatched any episodes was way back in 2015, after the revival was announced. I had no intention of watching the revival, but I wanted to see how the series had aged. My reactions were kind of mixed. I didn’t continue to rewatch it was that I didn’t feel the spark that I got from it watching during the original airing. The show’s influence is such that there has always been something regularly on air that has been doing what a contemporary version of TXF should do, and doing it without the show’s baggage. And these later shows have all been unique programs that stand on their own. Only now there really is one show that does that I watch that fits this description, Evil. Do to world changing circumstances, including the COVID pandemic and the WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes, it does not air that regularly. So I find myself looking to who is posting about TXF now. What do they think? Do the things that made me not want to watch the revival bother them? How do they relate to the context in which it was made? How is that different for people who did watch it during the original run and bring hindsight vs. those who were too young or not born? What does any of this have to do with a potential reboot?
Much More Under the Cut
I remember TXF becoming uncool. It’s bizarre to me that it has any cultural presence because being disenchanted with it as it lost it’s cool was so painful. That said, I was a teenager at this time, so my emotions around it were stronger than they would be if I watched at another time of life. I am certain of this because of how much I hated the original series finale, and how I have been fine with a lot of controversial series finales since then.
Speaking of endings, these days discussions of television are too focused on ending. The idea that for most of the existence of television, shows were just supposed to go on until they became too expensive to produce and/or lost their audience seems to have vanished from people’s comprehension. This is a result of more television becoming more serialized and with short seasons. When an episode doesn’t work as something self contained, it has to lead to something. While it aired, TXF was celebrated for helping television become more serialized, making bigger, more epic stories. Now when it’s celebrated it’s for some wonderful self contained episodes, the kind they don’t make anymore. Even in 2015, when I had Person of Interest and Grimm satisfying the sci-fi/fantasy procedural itch for me I could see that.
I know that there is too much tv for anyone to watch in one life time, but many the shows that TXF was compared to in it’s original airing seem notably absent in comparative discussions now. For instance, it was nominated for Outstanding Drama Series in 1995, 1996, 1997, and 1998. The other series nominated those years were NYPD Blue, Chicago Hope, E.R., Law & Order, and The Practice. While there is good reason to see TXF as more closely related to Twin Peaks or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, those fellow nominees provide some necessary context about how TV was made, in particular the alternating goals of making something for the syndication market and making something edgy that could elevate the medium. Also notable, most these shows went through a lot of cast changes over the years. It makes more sense that TXF would try to do that kind of transition in seasons 8 and 9 when you think of the series they considered their peers.
Also worth considering earlier shows it was compared to, but the producers would likely discourage the comparison. I am thinking of Moonlighting and Remington Steele. At the time TXF aired people still talked about the “Moonlighting curse” as if it was just a given that once the couple on a show where the male and female leads solved mysteries while maintaining a will they/won’t they flirtation, would fail as soon as they got together. TXF writers were divided on whether or not it was a will they/won’t they, and definitely didn’t want to invite comparison to shows that had huge nosedives in popularity during their run. But in a lot of ways that was unfair to the earlier series. It denies how clever, inventive and experimental they could be. It also ignores how much behind the scenes strife contributed to on screen failings, especially on Moonlighting, where that has been better publicized. (And occasionally become newsworthy again such as when creator Glen Gordon Caron was fired from his job as the show runner of Bull.) I think there are episodes of Remington Steele and Moonlighting that are worth watching on there own just to get what the big deal was. But as always, how to bring knowledge of some behind the scenes study to it, is a difficult question to answer.
Another show people associated with TXF probably didn’t want to be associated with is Touched by an Angel. But for a while they both aired on Sunday nights and I know I watched it and TXF back to back a few times. A parental figure would have turned on 60 Minutes, and the ads for TBAA could be very intriguing. Then I’d watch the episode and be underwhelmed, especially because of the deus ex machina resolutions. So I didn’t make it a regular thing. But still as cases of the week that played on the news of the times with supernatural notes, they made an interesting case study.
I also sampled a few episodes of JAG: Judge Advocate General, a different CBS show that was frequently compared to TXF. The comparison had a sort of precursor to today’s periodic “why don’t publications write about shows people actually watch?” flair ups. It often had better ratings than TXF and a lot in common structurally, but had an older audience who was less likely to seek out writing about their show. It had a huge affect on the development of CBS procedurals from the late 1990s on, which is one of the areas where you can (arguably) see a lot of TXF’s influence.
I recently came across a post saying that David Duchovny wanted TXF to move to Los Angeles to facilitate his movie career. This is not true, he wanted to move to LA because he was with Téa Leoni at the time and she was staring in The Naked Truth, a sitcom that was shot in LA. The show was about a news photographer forced to work at a tabloid after an ugly divorce. It lasted three seasons, the first on ABC, the other two on NBC where it was essentially noted to death over two seasons. I am not surprised that it doesn’t have much hold on the cultural memory, but Duchovny was always open about this being his motivation so I am kind of surprised that it has been erased from TXF historic memory.
Speaking of Duchovny and LA, the current season of the podcast, You Must Remember This, focus mostly on erotic films of the 1990s, but also included an episode about erotic TV from the era that focused on The Red Shoe Diaries, an anthology series in which Duchovny’s played a character named Jake, who was essentially the framing device. I didn’t quite appreciate that for the first four seasons of TXF he was flying to LA on weekends to shoot his parts in TRSD back-to-back. Between that and Gillian Anderson having a very young child at the time, it’s no wonder they developed reputations as cold and standoff-ish. It sounds exhausting.
Other places I have come across TXF referenced lately:
finally reading Bruce Campbell’s memoire Hail to the Chin in which he declare that it is best to be a guest star in one of the first seasons of a show, mentions that his late in the series stint on TXF the whole cast and crew was tired of it;
learning that there is a show on the History Channel called The Proof is Out There;
the Only Murders in the Building episode where Mable flashed back to watching the show with her father near the end of his life;
Maureen Ryan in her Burn It Down reminisced about visiting TXF set in Vancouver as her first trip to a TV set, saying two important people were awful to her, one of whom gave her nightmares;
Some how the show coming up in a lunch conversation at work.
Jennette McCurdy mentioning in I'm Glad My Mom Died that her first job as an extra was on TXF
Ryan’s book is as good a place as any to segue into discussing the show’s legacy via former writers and producers. It’s worth noting that Chris Carter has been unable to get another series off the ground. While TXF ran he tried to launch three other shows, Millennium, Harsh Realm and The Lone Gunmen, and only one of them got to a full season. There was an Amazon pilot that didn’t go anywhere. Frank Spotnitz was the writer with the second most credited episodes of the series and most high profile gig since was the not well received Amazon adaptation of The Man in The High Castle. Kim Manners’ time with Supernatural is something of an anomaly, in that it feels directly related to TXF and ran a much longer period of time. (I’ve only seen one season of Supernatural. It was fine, but I was late to the show, felt I’d never catch up and gave up.) Glen Morgan and James Wong wrote some of my favorite episodes, but between them they have the Final Destination film franchise, some one season series and American Horror Story, which is more attributed to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk than Wong. (I’ve never watched AHS.) Darin Morgan was something of a special star on the show, his episodes being singled out for awards and fan favorites. But he never got this kind of response to any of his subsequent work, including on Fringe where he was a consulting producer early on. The most high profile shows that feature alumni from TXF are the ones that feel most like they were made for a era of television that wanted to distance itself from the procedural aspects of TXF. Among the most famous are Breaking Bad created by Vince Giligan and its spinoff, Better Call Saul, which he co-created with a non-TXF alumn, Peter Gould. Also notable is Homeland, whose creators Alex Gansa and Howard Gordon worked on early seasons of TXF. Most of the shows that I think of as sharing a lot with TXF in the outline for, don’t have much of a direct connection to the series alumni in writers/producers/directors.
Earlier this year I briefly wrote about how I liked seeing both William B. Davis and Nicholas Lea in Continuum. While thinking of that series as a successor to TXF is interesting, I don’t generally think of the cast’s later roles as directly related to the show. Maybe this is because I watch so little of what they’ve done since. The greatest impression any of them is Anderson in Sex Education and Bleak House, both of which were pretty far away from TXF.
When news came out that Chris Carter was working with Ryan Coogler on a potential reboot I decided I did not know enough of Coogler’s work to say if he’d be a good fit, or have any idea what his take on the subject matter would be. But I am familiar with Disney, TXF current owner, and in particular there current “milk all recognizable IP for ever and ever” ethos, so the probability of a reboot seemed inevitable. I mostly hoped the new crew would take the title and try to create something very different under it. Then the WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes started and nothing seemed inevitable about a reboot. Hollywood as it’s been known, feels like its ending. All I can say is that I hate the idea of TXF being made with AI, or for that matter, scabs.
When I did my rewatch back in 2015, the episodes included “War of the Coprophagens” and “Syzegy”, episodes that are both are partially about mass hysteria. They’re comedic, but I didn’t find them funny. I thought this is probably something that didn’t age well. In the nineties, just pointing and laughing and people getting upset over stupid stuff sort of felt like enough to defang the danger. By now that seems hopelessly naive.
I know how people are now more willing to say that the plots of “Small Potatoes” and “Post Modern Prometheus” treat serial rapists as sympathetic outsiders, and rape as something to be brushed aside. Neither were part of my 2015 rewatch.
Some of my disenchantment during the original run was that while I was watching I was also becoming more aware of the movies that influenced the show. I hated how Fight the Future made the black oil alien possession turn into something that would claw its way out of the host body, reminiscent of the Alien franchises’s xenomorph. I also hated all of the Mulder and Scully as a couple teases from episodes like “The Rain King”, “The Ghost Who Stole Christmas”, “Arcadia”, et al because it was too much like things I was seeing in romcoms that I didn’t like. (I can’t remember any specific examples of these romcoms while writing this.) Any specificity as to what it meant to Mulder and Scully’s and their relationships at that moment was lost on me.
I might as well admit, during the shows original run I was a NoRomo. I did not tune in to TXF hoping for Mulder and Scully’s relationship to become romantic, and I kind of hated when episodes explicitly flirted with the possibility. I tuned in because I wanted to have first hand knowledge of what it was like to watch my generations version of The Twilight Zone. (In retrospect, I don’t think its a good comparison.) As the relationship now feels like what people think of when they think of TXF, I have wondered if the show now only appeals to those on the shipper side of the debate. I was really surprised while listening to Not Another X-Files Podcast Podcast when one of the hosts of the TXF Preservation Society admitted to not being a shipper on an episode.
Similar to what I said about being fine with many controversial series finales, I am also fine with many controversial television series couplings. As long as the writing is direct, I don’t really care if the actors have chemistry or if the show “needs” to pair these characters. To the extent that what relationships on screen one likes reflects on what one wants to have in real life, I really want people to be direct with me, and make me comfortable being direct with them.
A few years ago started wondering if it would have been more emotionally healthy if I spent the years I watched TXF watching Beverly Hills, 90210 instead. I started wondering this while coincidentally coming across of couple of personal essays that reflected warmly on watching BH90210 and how it affected the writers at impressionable ages. As someone who doesn’t exactly reflect warmly on TXF, and has a hard time putting how I feel about things into words, I was kind of jealous. I know there was some overlap in the audiences. There isn’t a “If you were a teen in the 1990s you either watched BH90210 or TXF and it affected you in this way…” But coming across those essays does have something to do with why I am writing this now.
Around that time I also started worrying about how TXF’s popularity lead to today’s age of dangerous conspiracy theories. Before I gave up on the site formally known as Twitter, I’d occasionally look at who was still discussing it online with the fear that it’s been used by right wingers looking for ways to justify their persecution complexes. I didn’t find much. There was something of peak in these posts around the time Trump announced that the FBI had been searching for documents at Mar a Lago. This past decade has been wild as far as guessing how things will be read along partisan lines. If anything the posts were mostly about nostalgia and it’s appeal as a brand.
Given that I’m so uncomfortable with that potential aspect of the show’s legacy, a how did I end up watching so many shows that in some way are direct successors to the show? And the answer is, mostly not consciously. I was reluctant to start Fringe and Evil because from the outset their premises looked too much like TXF, though ultimately they’ve gone in directions TXF would never. I still want something that can excite me, and has hints of the epic. And I am going to seek it in vaguely familiar formats.
#The X-Files#TFX#xf30th#Evil Paramount+#Evil CBS#Series finales#Peak TV#person of interest#Grimm#1990s tv#1990s television#Outstanding Drama Series Emmy Nominees#david duchovny#gillian anderson#Chriss Carter#The Red Shoe Diaries#You Must Remember This#YMRT#bruce campbell#Maureen Ryan#Mo Ryan#Frank Spotnitz#Kim Manners#James Wong#Glen Morgan#Darrin Morgan#vince gilligan#Alex Gansa#Howard Gordon#Fringe
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A Word about Podcasters and YouTubers
Is there a collective name for what a subsegment of podcasting and YouTube does: breaking down and critiquing objects within the collective consciousness, whether it be media/art, current events, history, sociological phenomena, or whatever? It would make for a more concise title since there’s a lot in common between the approach podcasts about TV shows and that of Youtubers who specialize in talking about operation Barbarossa or twitter drama that is closer than you would think.
The other day I was trying to get into the Twin Peaks podcast “Blue Rose Task Force,” which is rough because there's not a lot of ground I haven’t seen covered, but the guy is at least fairly thorough, and is valuable in his willingness to bring in production details and be rigorous about keeping the facts straight while speculating. He began to talk about a scene that is pivotal for me, that of Dale Cooper opening the Fleshworld Magazine found in Laura Palmer’s post office box which crystallizes some less than admirable current running through his character as well as any “Coop had an edge” example from the early episodes. In my mind, this is all communicated by the smile that creeps over his face as he opens the magazine, which is that of a 15-year-old boy being naughty within the context of a professional’s investigation of probable rape and definite murder occurring within the magazine’s world of coercion and exploitation. I’m not saying that the podcaster did not on some level acknowledge this, but he chose to focus on Cooper being “bad” by not respecting Laura’s agency in her attempt to explore her sexuality. I know this person has seen Fire Walk with Me and this struck me as odd but the attitude towards it is “hey, this was the 90s, people were backwards then,” adding to the frustration but at least showing some theory of mind. The text of the universe does not support this read, sure, but more notably overfitting to a contemporary template is the reason why the error was made and is an assertion of supremacy of current moral fashion over full understanding. Yes, I realize judgmental close reading is, like, some people’s jobs, but it is a bigger issue when it’s just micro plastics in the ground water.
This reminded me of other reactions I’ve had recently, one of which was to Broey Deschanel’s breakdown of the movie Spring Breakers, which gets right a lot more than it gets wrong, but which talks about indy sleaze in a way that does not reference the 1970s, polaroid aesthetics, Abercrombie and Fitch ads of the 80s, Courtney Love and the bruised knees/torn dress 90s indy chick costume, or basically anything before the 2000s. I googled, and they appear to be 25 years old, so we’re literally speaking of the time period that they remember. The confidence of their assertions is born of formal film study: take what you know, add rigorous theory, and come to an understanding, but there seems to be a blind spot as to the background of the thing she’s dissecting over the course of the writer/director’s lifetime. This is at least better than some other examples that I’ve seen, including the above podcast, in that it at least acknowledges the idea that we’re not on some linear track to a better world, but in a transgressive cycle where things get regurgitated back to us.
I have the most consistent trouble with Sarah Z videos, where everything that goes back more than 10 years seems to be through a speculative filter bubble that is wildly ahistorical. This is not helped by her approach, which we need a name for (similar to “cool aunt”) of fansplainers that are a little older than the people they’re talking to and are full of good-natured certainty about their cultural developmental model (that seems to have been learned like lore on Live Journal) and are enthusiastic to get a mugged beverage, cross their legs, and guru 4U. This involves both a view of broader culture that is only actually applicable to very niche spaces and a mapping of these patterns back on events they were not present for. This comes out a bit off sometimes, screaming wrong at others, and patronizing always.
I think I first noticed this about a decade ago this back when some first generation podcast did an episode on the AIDS ribbon and my wife was too annoyed to let me continue playing it in the car because they were conveying cultural attitudes from, say, 1982–3 and acting like these are the attitudes that were present in just about everyone at the turn of the 90s as well as mischaracterizing what it was like to watch the news, go to school, and have talks with your parents/kids in the late 80s. They entirely missed the bit where “anyone can get AIDS, stop fuckling” was the major message from 1984ish and misrepresented how seriously the medical establishment took it. I was blowing it off because, on some level, and realized this was an activist narrative, and it was about how everyone banding together overcame unilateral hostility, but it was too much for her and I finished it later.
I’m not saying the opinion of someone who “lived through it” is necessarily completely accurate, but there’s a sense in which there are a whole host of cultural evolution narratives (this is probably generational, most of the people I’m talking about are late millennials or edge Zoomers) that don’t seem to have been formed by talking to anybody who was alive at the time the shifts took place. I don’t have confidence in what to attribute this to. There’s obviously a component of availability of predigested narratives that have been selected out for fitness not truth. There’s also the way in which I have found (from my kids) that there has been a drop off in caring about history enough to have people discuss it and beat it around between their friends. It’s probably mostly the fact that the memeification of the past gets tailored to the relevant fragment of a splintered epistemological field.
We’ve lost a spine narrative in the culture that everyone can quasi-agree to such that the developmental idea of the past, whether 100% true or not, as something that can be loosely agreed upon by a plurality with varying levels of first-hand knowledge and argued about from the edges. Maybe we need to develop in this moment a more fundamental practice of hermeneutics, were we aware of our cultural perceptual limitations and try to be aware of what was understood at the time to find a “horizon of meaning” by lining up the viewpoints. Ultimately, this is probably not really an issue of the moment, just one I am aware of because I spend too much time listening to podcasts and watching YouTube videos of interesting smart people who haven’t accreted enough perspective simply because I was a dumbass at that age, why would I expect them not to be just because they have the internet.
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Arrowounds — In the Octopus Pond (Lost Tribe Sound)
In The Octopus Pond by ARROWOUNDS
Ryan Chamberlain’s new album as Arrowounds, In the Octopus Pond, begins with the sound of running water reflecting off the walls of a cave, immediately setting the scene. On this immersive opener, “Phosphene Silver Abyss,” a kick-drum pulse soon fades in, accompanied by tambourine that shimmers between the stereo channels, followed by delicately plucked acoustic guitar and modulated bass — but even when all the elements have been introduced, the sound of water is still prominent in the mix. This approach to incorporating field recordings creates a bizarre and entrancing effect, comparable to early 4AD artists such as Dif Juz, and more contemporary post-rock and ambient albums by The World On Higher Downs and Svartbag. The sounds and how they’re treated go a long way towards mustering a unique, shadowy atmosphere, which is sustained throughout the album’s 45 minutes, with each of the six tracks running into one another.
“Tree of Disciples” prominently features field recordings of a nocturnal forest, plus pedalled guitar tones and eerie backmasked percussion, immediately conjuring the mournful, sylvan setting of Twin Peaks. On “Blue Entombed,” Chamberlain evokes prime Bark Psychosis with hard-hitting brushed drums, glowering bass, and some gorgeous, resonant guitar chords. “Oil Swimmer” opens the second half of the record with a subtly evolving palette of sounds, juxtaposing high, keening tones with growling, almost prog-metal bass. “Spectral Colours of Science” is the album’s most ambient stretch, the rhythmic pulse kept low in the mix like a distant heartbeat, the track’s heavily effected guitars blending together in an ecstatic blur. Closer “Winding Serpent Dance” offers some of the album’s most beautiful moments, its shimmering tones falling gracefully down to earth in an elegant melodic arc, carried along by a gently puttering rhythm track and more thickly modulated bass.
Though there are plenty of precedents for what Chamberlain is doing here, there’s a cohesive vision to this record that proves intoxicating. In the Octopus Pond truly comes into its own when listened to as a whole, on headphones, at night. Dive in and drift away.
Tim Clarke
#arrowounds#in the octopus pond#lost tribe#tim clarke#albumreview#dusted magazine#ryan chamberlain#post rock#ambient#4AD
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Hey There Reader,
As I move further and further into Twain's bibliography, growth of the author and changes in perspective were bound to be noticed. This week's reading, The Tragedy of Puddn'head Wilson, works well as a transitional text for Twain, indicating a more mature view of what once was an idyllic fictionalized version of his home town. Puddn'head follows the eponymous Mr. Wilson, as well as a white and black child switched at birth by the slave mother of one, and a pair of twins from Italy, who all become embroiled in a murder mystery that eventually reveals the lineage of the switched children. There is certainly a lot going on in the novel, from musings on the role of people in Twain's contemporary society, to the powers of technological innovation, to ironic fascinations with people that don't meet some standard of the antebellum south. But what I would like to focus on is the way Twain uses a more mature view of this "quaint" setting to further drive home the messaging of his satire.
In previous novels, Twain often writes what he knows. The town of Hannibal, Missouri, where Twain grew up, acts as inspiration from the fictional 'burgs his character's inhabit. Puddn'head is no different, but where it shows personal growth within the author is the way those towns are described. Most of his stories take place around the same time, right at the end of, or just post, slavery's emancipation. There's no doubt that slavery exists in most of his stories, as the characters within feature slave owners, or slaves themselves. Roxy in Puddn'head is that character here, but while stories like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer would paint St. Petersburg as the American Dream with subtextual evidence supporting the idea that dream is not for all, Puddn'head places that messaging more up-front.
"To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and made her a Negro. She was a slave, and salable as such. Her child was thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of law and custom a Negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his white comrade, but even the father of the white child was able to tell the children apart--little as he had commerce with them--by their clothes: for the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace, while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached to its knees, and no jewelry." (29)
This application of a practice known as the "one-drop" rule, meant that despite the appearance of Roxy and her child Chambers, both would be subject to their lives having ownership outside of their control. This is still that same kind of place Twain used to write of, with the white-washed fences, and childlike wonder and adventure prevailing, but as Twain matures into the anti-establishment disruptor he will eventually write as, so too does this town. It bears a message that the systems so many, of the time, abided by whole-heartedly, were subject to immense folly as the "rules" they followed contained such obvious holes, that it shouldn't take an accomplished satirist to point out. Further, if it is so troubling to discern between what is supposedly superior as to have to depend on culturally imposed artifacts, what then if those artifacts change, or like in Puddn'head, are deliberately swapped?
Stories like The Adventure of Huckleberry Finn react to morals of a place and questions whether they are truly the ethical peaks they claim to be, while Puddn'head lays out the disparities in society as a flat interpretation. It says that a person's own reflections on their surroundings are built by a prejudice they need to move past, and while this story was published post-emancipation, it argues that the mindset of the once idyllic Dawson's Landing, or St. Petersburg, or the real life Hannibal, are not so, and it's entirely on the people that live there to change that.
-SM
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REG DEARDEN’S SUPERCHARGED VINCENT
1949 VINCENT BLACK LIGHTNING
FRAME NO. RC4436
ENGINE NO. F10AB/1C/2536
Sold for £ 221,500 (US$ 304,687) inc. premium
Following a glorious era throughout the 1920s period very few British motorcycles were mechanically capable of contesting the rarefied world of Record Breaking. Since WWII the most frequent choice of machine for the Blue Riband of Motorcycling has been Vincent’s 1000cc Black Lightning. Vincent is undoubtedly revered as Britain’s most cherished medium-volume manufacturer but, having begun in 1928, and started manufacture at Stevenage (Herts), regularly producing several hundred machines each year, it was to universal disappointment the firm ceased trading in 1955. However, when arguably at their peak during the late 1940s, the American rider Rollie Free – formidable former Indian racer, and renowned for his hatred of Harleys – gained the World Speed Record at Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah, USA, for Un-Streamlined Machines on Fuel. This was achieved in September 1947 on a much-modified version of the 50-degree ohv vee twin. The Vincent was owned by John Edgar and, by arrangement, had been especially prepared at the factory. Famously, those last few mph of the Record attempt had proven elusive until Free stripped down to his bathing trunks, whereupon, he thundered through the traps at the magic two-way average speed of 150.31 mph. This important Record saw Vincent’s contemporary advertising proclaim they made the World’s Fastest Standard Motorcycle. And, very soon there after, the firm were prompted to introduce the Black Lightning model, incorporating a similar engine specification to that of the Edgar/Free prototype. Priced in excess of £400 it was easily Britain’s most expensive motorcycle. Is it any surprise, perhaps, but barely 30 examples were ever produced and sold. Today, a Black Lightning is categorically acclaimed as the Holy Grail of post war motorcycles.
By its very nature Record Breaking is traditionally the most demanding of arenas. The roll call of contestants with a realistic chance of success has never extended beyond the resourceful few. However in 1949 The Motor Cycle, Britain’s leading 2-wheel publication, offered a Trophy, plus a generous £500 prize [more than the price of a new ’Lightning] for the first successful all-British attempt on the absolute World Speed Record, for which full streamlining was clearly a necessary requirement. The Record had been held since 1937 by BMW at 173.54 mph. Inspired by the Blue Un’s offer Reg Dearden, a popular high profile m/c dealer at Chorlton-cum-Hardy [Manchester], purchased a Black Lightning direct from the factory, expressly for the purpose. There was a widely held belief in those days that the guarantee for reaching these targeted speeds was most easily achieved by the fitment of a supercharger. In early 1950, therefore, Reg returned the bike to Stevenage for the retro fitting of a purpose-built Shorrocks ’charger, together with the necessary but complex “plumbing” system, which was fed via an outsize S.U. carburetor and float chamber. Other mandatory tasks included an extension of the gearbox and engine main shafts, the making of a special clutch contained by specially cast alloy casings, fabrication of a dramatically re-shaped ex Grey Flash fuel tank and, in order to correctly install the supercharger within the chassis, the main frame, engine plates, and swinging arm were strengthened-and-lengthened” by about 6 inches. The work was undertaken under the personal supervision of Phil Vincent, MD, with advice and assistance from George Brown and various other luminaries constantly involved at the Stevenage factory. Press reports of the time quote Dearden’s subsequent claims to the effect that every individual part on the bike was virtually now “one-off”, simultaneously admitting in a rueful mode how the work had cost him several thousand pounds! The work in fact proved such a massive undertaking that it took the factory until mid-July to complete.
Public appearances of the Vincent, thereafter, were infrequent, inasmuch the next reported sighting of the now supercharged Vincent was as part of a spectacular display in a branch of Kings of Oxford, whose 20-odd shops were owned by Stan Hailwood [Mike’s father], an old friend of Dearden. Reg himself, meanwhile, was enjoying a close relationship with Norton over an arrangement that entailed the entering and supporting of a posse of promising young riders to compete in the Isle of Man TT and elsewhere, riding the Bracebridge Street machines. At any one time Dearden had at least 20 Manx Norton competitors “on his books”, a program that continued for many seasons, undoubtedly consuming an immense amount of time and concentration on his part. It is probably this reason, along with the news in 1951 that NSU had now upped the Speed Record to 180.29 mph, which caused the modified Vincent to lay dormant until 1953, when it was briefly announced in the technical press that the intended rider for the Record attempt – presumably at Bonneville – would be Les Graham [father of Stuart]. Les was already 500cc World Champion, and had been assisted by Dearden in his early career. Sadly, he was fatally injured in the 1953 Senior TT, causing yet another delay and a possible reduction in enthusiasm for the Record Breaking project. Even so there are some recorded instances of the bike in use. It was timed at Pendine Sands at 150 mph, but ran its bottom end. Following this setback it was further modified at the Stevenage factory, whose tester briefly rode the machine, fitted with silencers, on the public highway. Reg, too, apparently tried a series of straight-line Burn Outs, using “slave” tyres. And, in a letter to Classic Bike dated April 1992, Ireland’s Vincent agent, Harry Lindsey confirms how he too once rode the bike on an undisclosed aerodrome strip, although his all too brief “blast” was swiftly curtailed due to engine shaft failure.
The setting by NSU, in 1956, of a new Speed record at Bonneville, at 211.40 mph, seemed somehow to rekindle Dearden’s interest, for it was reported he would now fly the bike to the Salt Flats – although no rider was specified – in his own Cessna airplane, for one last serious attempt. Yet again it came to nought when the CAA refused to certify the aircraft concerned for this particular mode of transportation! The Vincent thus stayed unused and neglected at Dearden’s premises over the next decade, until it was eventually sold to Eric Biddle, a publican friend, in 1970. Biddle never used the machine, but sold it on to Michael Manning, a scientist, who lived in Pennsylvania, USA. In 1977 Manning took the Supercharged Vincent to a Vincent Owners Club Rally in Canada, where it was ridden over a short distance but, after returning to his home in Philadelphia, it again remained in storage until acquired in 1987 by the present owner, a passionate collector and user of Vincents, from Texas.
The vendor’s association with the Stevenage product is a profound and lifelong relationship. As a true aficionado he knows instinctively if a Vincent needs restoring, or when sympathetic preservation is the better route. In the case of the Dearden Vincent he’s applied the latter philosophy. After his purchase, and following a gentle re-commission, he was struck by the machine’s obvious originality. Considered alongside its minimal Running Time, over a period of sixty years, this originality creates something that is utterly unrivalled. During the last 20 years the vendor confirms that the bike has been run on several occasions. The resultant racket emitted by those huge open pipes, he claims, resembles no other. In 1999 the well-known UK photojournalist Mick Duckworth sampled the Vincent on a remote Texas highway for a 7-page feature in Classic Bike. The generous terrain allowed Mick sufficient space, and enough time, for familiarization. After reaching a speed close to 100 mph in bottom he bravely engaged second gear…at which point he suddenly remembered exactly what a precious artefact he was astride. The test ride concluded happily, however, with the owner stating, “You’ve probably ridden this Vincent further than anyone in living memory!”
The historic Black Lightning reposes in all its visual potential, slightly oily, yet with its original HT leads and the OE Avon tyres first fitted at Stevenage so long ago; even the rims’ black factory paint remains in place. Original low usage Black Lightnings are rare, supercharged ’Lightnings rarer still. This one is unique
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ToT letter 2021
I am laughingpineapple on AO3
Hello dear author! I hope you’ll have fun with our match. Feel free to draw from general or fandom-specific likes, past letters, and/or follow your heart.
Art likes: characters doing something, even something very simple, illustrating a moment rather than abstractly posing. I also enjoy seeing them wear different clothes, getting a feel of what their fashion sense is like beyond their canon outfit(s). Or dressing them up for some outlandish AU!
Likes: worldbuilding, slice of life (especially if the event the fic focuses on is made up but canon-specific), missing moments, 5+1 and similar formats, bonding and emotional support/intimacy, physical intimacy, lingering touches, loyalty, casefic, surrealism, magical realism, established relationships, future fic, hurt/comfort or just comfort from the ample canon hurt, throwing characters into non-canon environments, banter, functional relationships between dysfunctional individuals, unexplained mysteries, bittersweet moods, journal/epistolary fic, dreams and memories and identities, canon-adjacent tropey plots, outsider POV, UST, resolved UST, exploration of secondary bits of canon, leaning on the uniqueness of the canon setting/mood, found families, characters reuniting after a long and/or harrowing time, friends-to-lovers, road trips, maps, mutual pining, cuddling, wintry moods, the feeling of flannel and other fabrics, ridiculous concepts played straight, sensory details, sickfic, places being haunted, people being haunted, the mystery of the woods, small hopes in bleak worlds, electricity, places that don’t quite add up, mismatched memories, caves and deep places, distant city lights at night, emphasis on non-human traits of non-human characters (gen-wise, but also a hearty yes xeno for applicable ships), emphasis on inhuman traits of characters who were human once and have sort of shed it all behind
DNW: non-canonical rape, non-canonical children, focus on children, unrequested ships (background established canon couples are okay, mentions of parents are okay!), canon retellings
All requests are for both fic and art!
Death Crown: Death, trick
(I haven't played the DLC yet so, alas, no demons, or no spoilers for the demons, at least) I am absolutely charmed by the overall mood of this game and would like to see something more in that vein! Anything! Got more sacred (or unholy?) geometrical architecture for Death to interact with, maybe in greater detail than just wrecking it? What else feels like a contemporary take on a Bosch painting? Can Death get lost?
Ghost Trick: Jowd, Cabanela, trick, treat
Anything focused on Cabanela being an unstoppable force (confident, untiring, sparkling, stubborn, dexterous, loyal to the bitter end, legs) and/or Jowd being an immovable object (sarcastic, strong, depressed, self-deprecating but knowing he's hot stuff, also stubborn, clever but an emotional dumbass, round). Figuring out stuff? Something in the new timeline is linked to the old timeline? Coat? Dancing? Scarves? Halloween costumes?
I like Cabanela/Jowd and Cabanela/Alma/Jowd and Cabanela/Alma in scenarios where Jowd isn't around and Alma/Jowd in general (REALLY like all these, okay. like this is the one request where I'd love the most self-indulgent shippy takes as well), and dig Lynne/Memry. Yomiel/fianSissel and Emma/JM also cool!
Hylics: any, trick, treat
(I have only played the first game so far so please no overt spoilers for Hylics 2. Feel free to include stuff from it but... stealthily, I guess?) This is an "anything that feels somewhat like canon, please" sort of request! Love the mood, love the cast, love the little added details in their menu screen. Those can be prompts? Or the oddball stats? How do ToT's trick and treat freeforms apply to Hylics' overall... hylicsness, what would those guys think constitutes a "creepy" moment or a "fluffy" one?
Not into ships for this one, however I WILL say that Dedusmuln has all the proverbial curves in the right places. mostly their face.
Kentucky Route Zero: Weaver
Math, debt, the liminal state of almost being a ghost, seeing the world with a strange clarity... just anything Weaver, please! How'd she make her way to the town? What was it like for her to be working on Xanadu for a time? What about the community broadcast! Does she have an opinion on Carrington's oeuvre? You know... things... stuff. Weaver things. and stuff.
I love the whole cast and Weaver... wove... her story through most of them so feel free to bring in whomever. Not interested in ships here though.
Paradise Killer: Lady Love Dies, trick
A post-canon glimpse of life on '''''perfect''''' 25? That's not QUITE enough class consciousness to make the whole thing work, you guys. What does 'normal' life feel like to LD now? After following Henry's case and talking to Shinji so much, can she see that it's doomed to fail again, and then what? What IS Island 25 like, anyway? (what comes after Island 25, even?)
I liked the choice of canon romances - if it has to be just one I'd prefer it to be Crimson, but I'd also be interested in seeing what a V or triad with Doom Jazz would look like. They're all so chill about stuff
Pyre: Volfred, trick, treat
Pragmatic idealist, charismatic and bad at people, pacifist, activist, physiologically incapable of shutting up for a hot second, what's there not to love... I am very into either of the following: C. Volfred Sandalwood has a fantastic day; C. Volfred Sandalwood has a terrible no good day. Everything is great! Pre-exile antiestablishmentarian antics, maybe with Bertrude? Political gambits? The very physical dangers of the Downside which may or may not catch a scholar by surprise (who saves him?)? Tree problems? Meeting Oralech for the first time and Volfred thinks he himself is hot stuff but out of the two, Oralech is clearly the VIP? Feeling like he should live up to Lu Sclorian's legacy but he feels much closer to other Scribes (and what does Lu have to say about it, one way or another?)? The thrilling intimacy of Reading? The thrilling intimacy of lowercase reading also, maybe reading old manuscripts found in the Downside?
I very much ship him with Tariq and/or Oralech. The only canon ship I like is Hedwyn/Fikani. I also like Soliam/Gol, Bertrude/Pamitha and Celeste/Jodariel. Love all the Nightwings + Dalbert (+Deluge...?); love to dunk on Manley, Brighton and Lendel (I don't enjoy flat-out bashing, more like... I enjoy the way they are portrayed as horrible gremlins in canon and if they turn up in fic I'm not interested in more positive portrayals)
Signs of the Sojourner: Rhea, Elias, trick, treat
Once again pretty much an "anything in the style of canon" request. I love this setting, its themes and all the little lives that fill it. I am interested in a wide range of postcanon scenarios and love the whole cast - does Rhea come back to $town any number of years down the line and find $character? How'd their storyline end up in the medium-long term? What the hell is up with the Stranger (seriously, three runs and I never managed to speak with them, I have no idea)? What's life like for Elias back home, or in a new home if they can't keep the store, or if Rhea landed the Oscar ending or whatever (just, please, not dead Rhea. I love that ending but can't stand to consider what it'd do to Elias)? Or does he join the caravan just once? Who did Rhea grow to really like and can't wait to see every time? Any ghost stories or creepy encounters on the caravan's route? Does Thunder help?
I'm neutral on ships here - good with Rhea&Elias, good with background Rhea/Elias but I wouldn't like a romantic focus.
Totally Normal Wizard Apprentice: apprentice, wizard, master, trick, treat
(conflict of interest disclaimer, I illustrated this but didn't write nor nominate it) What awaits the apprentice outside the wizard's tower? It sounds like a pretty wild moon out there, I loved all the worldbuilding hints of the bigger setting. Does the wizard keep track of the apprentice, with her telescope or otherwise, and how does she take care of her ruined parlor? Was this all some sort of 5d chess on the master's part, and if so to what end? And what kind of otherworldly patience does this man possess, anyway, to handle the apprentice on a daily basis?
Twin Peaks: Margaret, Diane, Lucy, Tammy, trick, treat
(bass-boosted ethereal whooshing) For tricks, I would like to see any of these characters face the woods, the mystery of the woods, and/or a new symbol of your liking. Or: Margaret in the city, Diane and the moon, Lucy and the color blue, Tammy incognito.
For treats, a happy meeting. I love the whole cast and I'm always thrilled by gonzo "&" pairings, bring in whomever! Coffee and pie? The Bookhouse Boys? A kinder aspect of the woods?
Fandom-specific notes: love s3, love the books too. I like Lucy/Andy, Margaret/Sam fwiw, and rarepairs Tammy/Cynthia and Diane/Constance. Please no Fireman's-house-is-the-white-lodge, no Twin Perfect, no Judy-was-destroyed (nor is destroyable).
Arcade Spirits: Percy, Teo, treat
More than anything, I love the sense of group and camaraderie among the arcade's staff and regulars, and I'd love to see some more of it. I picked Percy and Teo 'cause they're my faves but anyone you may want to add, up to and including Sue, is very very welcome. Is there any aspect of gaming that feels like it could be adapted to this strange world of contemporary arcades? Cosplay shenanigans for everyone courtesy of Ashley? Any other activity that could show how Percy and/or Teo get along with the others, like they were all forming little groups during the beach chapter? It's such a feel-good canon, any feel-good situation would be great!
My Ari is with Percy but I'm not really interested in shipping here. All sorts of friendships though!
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twin peaks web rings
#are they all dead links? perhaps. do i still love them? yes#twin peaks: post contemporary#twin peaks
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Moby - “Bodyrock”
Crossing All Over! Volume 10
1999
Big Beat
You all know who Moby is. He’s one of the most successful, talented, and eclectic electronic music producers of his generation. He’s the American who made big beat and sample-laden dance tracks achieve popularity in the US at the turn of the century. He’s an electronic music chameleon; he’s techno, he’s downtempo, he’s big beat, he’s ambient, and he’s even punk and alternative rock. He’s had a long, storied career, with plenty of hits and questionable decisions that have resulted in some really high highs and equally really low lows.
By the time Moby released his fifth album, Play, which ended up becoming considered by many critics to be one of the greatest albums ever recorded in the history of music, he thought it was his final album. Just four years prior, he had released the critically acclaimed Everything Is Wrong, which Spin named its album of the year. He ended up selling a respectable 250,000 copies of the record worldwide, but for the amount of praise it received, and for being on a major label (Elektra), it was a mediocre showing. From jump, that appeared to be Moby’s curse, as it was for most electronic talents: good music, but bad sales; a niche market conquered, but little else beyond that.
Whatever likability Moby had accrued since the UK success of his 1991 techno track, “Go,” which sampled music from Twin Peaks, nearly disintegrated into thin air with the release of his fourth album, 1996′s Animal Rights, which saw him ditching dance music for a blend of alternative rock, hardcore punk, and ambient music. Fans and critics both hated this turn and washed their hands of him almost entirely. It appeared that everyone was just about done with Moby, and that Moby was just about done with himself. Animal Rights turned out to be an album that brought him within an inch of career suicide.
But by 1999, he had decided to go back to dance and electronic music and the result was Play. However, no one seemed to want to give Play any play at all. Moby shopped it to a number of big record labels, but at that point he was regarded as a has-been; a guy who’d run out of good fortune because of his uncompromising strong will and his insufferable need to be an artist. But Richard Branson’s V2 label, which was only three years old at the time, decided to take a chance on it.
From a quote in Rolling Stone:
First show that I did on the tour for Play was in the basement of the Virgin Megastore in Union Square. Literally playing music while people were waiting in line buying CDs. Maybe forty people came.
Most of the critics adored Play and saw it as a work of contemporary creative genius; a real mover-of-the-sticks kind of album. No one, at least no American, had ever made an album quite like it before. It was uptempo, it was downtempo, it had blues samples, it had breakbeats, it was more than danceable, and it was also quite emotional and vulnerable. It was an amalgamation of a lot of different things, and it was a beautiful representative mess of the post-modern, recently-formed digital age, which, at the time, appeared to be bringing the world closer together than it had ever been before, at least from a cultural standpoint. It was music that had a little something for just about everyone. But that was what initially appeared to have ben its fatal flaw, too. See, Play didn’t fit into any pre-defined, carefully crafted, easily marketable categories; It wasn’t rock, it wasn’t pop, it wasn’t hip hop, and it wasn’t R&B. So radio and MTV passed on every song. The album certainly had no home in America, and it didn’t sell all that well in the UK either.
So Moby decided to sell the album out, literally. He licensed every single song off of Play for commercials, TV, movies, and video games, which were all industries that were more receptive to the varied sounds of the album. People would be exposed to Play through other indirect and less conventional means. And with every track licensed and songs appearing in nearly every medium that had audio, except for radio and MTV, Play, almost a year after its release, started to finally gain some commercial traction.
Here’s an illuminating Moby quote from that same Rolling Stone article:
Almost a year after it came out in 2000 I was opening up for Bush on an MTV Campus Invasion Tour. It was degrading for the most part. Their audience had less than no interest in me. February in 2000, I was in Minnesota, I was depressed and my manager called me to tell me that Play was number one in the UK, and had beat out Santana's Supernatural. I was like, :But the record came out 10 months ago.” That's when I knew, all of a sudden, that things were different. Then it was number one in France, in Australia, in Germany—it just kept piling on. [...] The week Play was released, it sold, worldwide around 6,000 copies. Eleven months after Play was released, it was selling 150,000 copies a week. I was on tour constantly, drunk pretty much the entire time and it was just a blur. And then all of a sudden movie stars started coming to my concerts and I started getting invited to fancy parties and suddenly the journalists who wouldn't return my publicist's calls were talking about doing cover stories. It was a really odd phenomenon.
Play only peaked at #38 on the Billboard 200, but it sold two million copies in the States alone. It was on charts across the world for several fucking years. And it finally brought dance music to the American mainstream.
There were two songs that almost didn’t make it onto Play though: “Porcelain,” which Moby hated, and “Bodyrock,” which Moby’s two managers hated. His managers complained that “Bodyrock” was a total ripoff of Fatboy Slim, which...fair..., and that it was tacky. But Moby wanted to keep it on there. He had sampled a classic hip hop song by Spoonie Gee and the Treacherous Three for it called “Love Rap,” which held sentimental value for him, and is the only vocal sample on the song (”Non-stop y’all, to the beat y’all, the body rock y’all...”).
At the top of this post, I called Moby an electronic music chameleon, and “Bodyrock” is the song that saw him almost seamlessly morphing into a god of the big beat sound, somehow briefly placing himself among the ranks of The Prodigy, The Chemical Brothers, and of course, the aforementioned Fatboy Slim. And he managed to do it with just one fucking song. For “Bodyrock,” Moby basically took all the things that got those three big beat acts constantly lumped into the same category, as well as all the things that made them stand apart from each other, and then he mortared-and-pestled it all to death, reducing it all into a fine powder that he could re-arrange and re-apply into his own stunning creation.
“Bodyrock” is a song that’s layered wonderfully and fuses sounds from many different instruments and genres to make something that’s intense as hell, especially for a mainstream audience, but still highly enjoyable. It’s a perfect fusion of rock, hip hop, and dance music, all packaged together into one, solidly cranking song.
Moby starts with the drum-and-vocal sample from Spoonie Gee and The Treacherous Three and then adds two layers of guitars, one with an acidified, throttling, crunchy funkiness, a la Fatboy Slim, that’s inspired by Gang of Four’s 1981 track, “What We All Want,” and one with a thin and whining kind of wah that’s also a bit funky, and which later on becomes an integral part of the chorus. Then Moby infuses the track with some hardness, with heavy drums and bass, as well as hand-claps. Rapper Nikki D, who released an album on Def Jam in 1991, then proceeds to appear out of nowhere for the chorus, pretty clearly trying to sound like MC Lyte’s nearly-forgotten 1996 jam, “Cold Rock a Party”. And along with Ms. D comes the most important piece of the recipe, the bow and ribbon that ties the whole song together, the streaming and high-pitched cinematic strings, which replace the Gang of Four-styled guitar, and are underlaid with a rumbling, motoring, thick bassline that also plays along to the string melody itself.
Two unique and brief pieces then come later on, one that sounds like a combination of clean and dirty aquatics, with a brief, pleasant keyboard melody that sounds submerged in water, but still near the surface, and a swampy and swishy, mud-in-your-galoshes type of rhythm beneath it. Then, before the song’s final push, the other brief piece appears, which sounds like those frequencies you might hear from a hearing test machine, laced with Nikki D’s vocals, the drum break from Spoonie Gee and The Treacherous Three, and some bounding bass.
To close out the masterpiece, Moby lets the chorus ride, and then adds the “Love Rap” vocal back in. You’d think playing two vocals concurrently would clash and make the song unlistenable at that point, but somehow, they don’t. They happen to work really well, and when played together along with everything else, they yield the most intense and enjoyable part of the song.
Play ended up having a total of twelve music videos and a quarter of them were for “Bodyrock”. The first two have a similar theme of British guys, all of whom except for one are white, dancing terribly, but also passionately:
youtube
The second one features a car explosion at the end!:
youtube
And the third one, which has a Run-D.M.C. cameo (!), shows Moby donning special sunglasses that allow him to see talented dancers everywhere:
youtube
Even almost a year after Play was released, it appeared that it was going to be Moby’s swan song and the death of his career. But the decision to license changed all of that, and if ever there was some kind of universal music award for “comeback artist of the year,” Moby would have absolutely won that thing. But in the immortal words of LL Cool J, “don’t call it a comeback,” because while the original best hope for Play was to return to the similar sales and critical appeal of Everything Is Wrong, it managed to far exceed that wishful and shortsighted forecast. Moby was comeback artist of the year and damn near MVP also. It was a wild, totally unexpected, and fantastic turn of events for his career and wellbeing. He almost stopped making music, but now he can’t stop making music. He released an album just this year.
I wholeheartedly agree with the critics who list Play as one of the greatest albums ever made. Not only is it fucking tremendous on its own, but It marked a much-needed turning point for Moby’s career, which undoubtedly kept him going, and still keeps him going today. And one of the many amazing songs on that album that makes Play what it is, is that consummate, brief bit of big beat greatness, that banger of a cut that almost didn’t make it onto the album, the one and only “Bodyrock”; a song that still manages to bop as hard as it did when it originally came out 20-plus years ago.
#big beat#big beat music#dance#dance music#electronic#electronic music#music#90s#90s music#90's#90's music#90s big beat#90's big beat#90s dance#90's dance#90s dance music#90's dance music#90s electronic#90's electronic#90s electronic music#90's electronic music
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Oh sorry i just saw your response but oh to be clear I didn't mean like the trend of explicit sex scenes JUST in black sails i was just reminded BECAUSE you're talking about black sails and usually i see you talking about like, mash and that cop show ksjdfhks and idk i think cheers and stuff like that lol... I was also thinking because I recently watched mash and the vibe of like... not just explicit sex but more explicit things in general lmao in a post Game of Thrones world is like... not my
afave or like cup of tea or whatever. Not that it's inherently bad or doesn't have a place in tv or sometimes even serve a purpose but like... it feels like ti's so common now. but yes also idk I've been reading ur commentary trying to decide if I should give black sails another try b/c my main memory from trying to watch was max's assault which was very upsetting :/ altho I heard that doesn't happen again. I just wondered as someone who seems to have a wealth of knowledge in like... old sitcoms
and that seems to be your comfort zone for like comfort watching stuff (or idk maybe I'm wrong? Do you have any fave more modern shows? Latley I've been thinking a lot about the shift from older television esp with the shift from stuff like laugh tracks and staging that mirrors a theater production with an audience/plays. So that it feels more interactive and also communal, made to be watched together. To things that are much more explicit and intensified with the bad & good that brings fhdskjdh
Also sorry this is incredibly long I just find it interesting to see how people feel about or perceive the shift in television. But yes I am enjoy the gay stuff, and women getting to say fuck more is nice :)
MASH the cop show (starsky and hutch) and cheers does truly sum it up sdjfsdjkjklssjkdljkl; i think that i definitely lean more towards older tv on the whole, just given i don’t have cable and it also tends to fall in line with a lot of media i like!! i definitely get the feeling of older television utilizing different performance conventions in order to evoke the feeling of a more communal watching experience, as opposed to slicker more stylized shows produced by streaming platforms that often feel like you’re meant to binge watch them in one sitting alone in a room by yourself. to me, black sails is a show that resists that impulse, and while it doesn’t exactly feel interactive, the way that it’s engaging with the art of storytelling (both in world and on the whole as a program) seems to push back against that; or, at least, given it went on the air in 2013, doesn’t fall into it the way newer programs often do. also irt to max’s assault, it’s something that i skipped through and it apparently never happens again on the show; i was sent this guide in advance of me watching the show, which definitely helped me know when to skip things/avoid triggering material
in terms of contemporary tv (either still airing or went off the air in the 2010s) that i’ve seen and enjoyed, faves include twin peaks: the return, TURN, mad men, it’s always sunny in philadelphia, copper, the newsroom, chewing gum, doctor who, lovecraft country, grace and frankie, bojack horseman, the get down, i may destroy you, and i’m sure many other shows that i’ve watched and liked and am now forgetting as i try to list these lmao; all of these have various warnings and caveats with my recommending them so i definitely recommend researching before you check them out!!
#black sails spoilers //#long post //#assault mention //#hope any of this is comprehensible lol#anon
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Fantastika Journal, Volume 4, Issue 1, edited by Kerry Dodd, July 2020. Cover art by Sinjin Li, info and free download: fantastikajournal.com.
“Fantastika” – a term appropriated from a range of Slavonic languages by John Clute — embraces the genres of Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror, but can also include Alternate History, Gothic, Steampunk, Young Adult Dystopic Fiction, or any other radically imaginative narrative space. The goal of Fantastika Journal and its annual conference is to bring together academics and independent researchers who share an interest in this diverse range of fields with the aim of opening up new dialogues, productive controversies and collaborations. We invite articles examining all mediums and disciplines which concern the Fantastika genres. This special issue is based off the fifth Fantastika conference — After Fantastika — which investigated how definitions of time are negotiated within Fantastika literature, exploring not only the conception of its potential rigidity but also how its prospective malleability offers an avenue through which orthodox systems of thought may be reconfigured. By interrogating the principal attributes of this concept alongside its centrality to human thought, this issue considers how Fantastika may offer an alternate lens through which to examine the past, present, and future of time itself.
EDITORIAL
After Bowie: Apocalypse, Television and Worlds to Come – Andrew Tate
ARTICLES
In the Ruins of Time: The Eerie in the Films of Jia Zhangke – Sarah Dodd
The Time Machine and the Child: Imperialism, Utopianism, and H. G. Wells – Katie Stone
“Turn[ing] dreams into reality”: Individual Autonomy and the Psychology of Sehnsucht in Two Time Travel Narratives by Alfred Bester – Molly Cobb
Dystopian Surveillance and the Legacy of Cold War Experimentation in Joyce Carol Oates’s Hazards of Time Travel (2018) – Nicolas Stavris
“THE ONLYES POWER IS NO POWER”: Disrupting Phallocentrism in the Post-Apocalyptic Space of Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker (1980) – Sarah France
“Then when are we? It's like I'm trapped in a dream or a memory from a life long ago”: A Cognitive Analysis of Temporal Disorientation and Reorientation in the First Season of HBO’s Westworld – Zoe Wible
Rewriting Myth and Genre Boundaries: Narrative Modalities in The Book of All Hours by Hal Duncan – Alexander Popov
NON-FICTION REVIEWS
Science Fiction Circuits of the South and East (2018) edited by Anindita Banerjee and Sonia Fritzsche – Review by Llew Watkins
The Evolution of African Fantasy and Science Fiction (2018) edited by Francesca T. Barbini – Review by Esthie Hugo
We Don’t Go Back: A Watcher’s Guide to Folk Horror (2018) by Howard David Ingham – Review by Marita Arvaniti
Witchcraft the Basics (2018) by Marion Gibson – Review by Fiona Wells-Lakeland
Gaming the System: Deconstructing Video Games, Game Studies, and Virtual Worlds (2018) by David J. Gunkel – Review by Charlotte Gislam
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (2018) – Review by John Sharples
Children’s Literature and Imaginative Geography (2018) by Wilfrid Laurier – Review by Chris Hussey
Sleeping with the Lights on: An Unsettling Story of Horror (2018) by Darryl Jones – Review by Charlotte Gough
Posthumanism in Fantastic Fiction (2018) edited by Anna edited by Anna Kérchy – Review by Beáta Gubacsi
Old Futures: Speculative Fiction and Queer Possibility (2018) by Alexis Lothian – Review by Chase Ledin
The Theological Turn in Contemporary Gothic Fiction (2018) by Simon Marsden – Review by Eleanor Beal
Reified Life: Speculative Capital and the Ahuman Condition (2018) by Paul J. Narkunas – Review by Peter Cullen Bryan
Mind Style and Cognitive Grammar: Language and Worldview in Speculative Fiction (2018) by Louise Nuttall – Review by Rahel Oppliger
None of this is Normal: The Fiction of Jeff VanderMeer (2018) by Benjamin J. Robertson – Review by Kerry Dodd
The Last Utopians: Four Late 19th Century Visionaries and their Legacy (2018) by Michael Robertson – Review by Peter J. Maurits
Once and Future Antiquities in Science Fiction and Fantasy (2019) edited by Brett M. Rogers and Benjamin Eldon Stevens – Review by Juliette Harrisson
Bodyminds Reimagined: (Dis)ability, race, and gender in Black Women’s Speculative Fiction (2018) – Review by Polly Atkin
Modern Dystopian Fiction and Political Thought: Narratives of World Politics (2018) by Adam Stock – Review by Ben Horn
CONFERENCE REPORTS
Reimagining the Gothic 2018 (October 26-27, 2018) – Conference Report by Luke Turley
Transitions 8 (November 10, 2018) – Conference Report by Paul Fisher Davies
Looking into the Upside Down: Investigating Stranger Things – Conference Report by Rose Butler
Tales of Terror (March 21-22, 2019) – Conference Report by Oliver Rendle
Glitches and Ghosts (April 17, 2019) – Conference Report by Vicki Williams
Glasgow International Fantasy Conversations (May, 23-24, 2019) – Conference Report by Benjamin Miller
Gothic Spectacle and Spectatorship (June, 1, 2019) – Conference Report by Brontё Schiltz
Current Research in Speculative Fiction 2019 (June 6, 2019) – Conference Report by Phoenix Alexander
Legacies of Ursula K. Le Guin: Science, Fiction and Ethics for the Anthropocene (June 18-21, 2019) – Conference Report by Heloise Thomas
Folk Horror in the 21st Century (September 5-6, 2019) – Conference Report by Miranda Corcoran
FICTION REVIEWS
Modern Monsters and Occult Borderlands: William Hope Hodgson. A Review of The Weird Tales of William Hope Hodgson (2019) – Review by Emily Alder
From the Depths. A Review of From The Depths; And Other Strange Tales of the Sea (2018) – Review by Daniel Pietersen
‘Shun the Frumious Bandersnatch!’: Charlie Brooker, Free Will and MK Ultra Walk Into A Bar. A Review of Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (2018) – Review by Shannon Rollins
The Power of the Everyday Utopia: Becky Chambers’ Record of a Spaceborn Few. A Review of Record of a Spaceborn Few (2018) – Reviewed by Ruth Booth
Another Green World. A Review of A Brilliant Void: A Selection of Classic Irish Science Fiction (2019) – Reviewed by Richard Howard
Burn Them All? Game of Thrones Season Eight. A Review of Game of Thrones Season Eight (2019) – Reviewed by T Evans
Making New Tracks in African Fantasy. A Review of Black Leopard, Red Wolf (2019) – Reviewed by Kaja Franck
Impossible Creations for the Gothically Minded. A Review of The Curious Creations of Christine McConnell (2018) – Reviewed by Rachel Mizsei Ward
In a Broken Dream: The Home for Wayward Children Series. A Review of Down Among the Sticks and Bones (2017), Beneath the Sugar Sky (2018) and In an Absent Dream (2019) – Reviewed by Alison Baker
Blackfish City: A Place Without a Map. A Review of Blackfish City (2018) – Reviewed by Lobke Minter
Diné Legend Comes to Life in Rebecca Roanhorse’s Trail of Lightning. A Review of Trail of Lightning (2018) – Reviewed by Madelyn Marie Schoonover
Aquaman; or Flash Gordon of the Sea. – A Review of Aquaman (2018) – Reviewed by Stuart Spear
The Tower of Parable. A Review of The Writer’s Block (2019) – Reviewed by Timothy J. Jarvis
#magazine#journal#literary journal#fantastika#weird essay#horror essay#weird reviews#horror reviews#weird studies#horror studies#gothic studies
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From Bakeneko to Bakemonogatari: The Secret History of Catgirls
It’s a question society has asked for ages: what came first, the cat or the girl?
The catgirl is one of the most resilient images in anime today. However, even the term “catgirl” is a little vague. Close your eyes and try to imagine what that word actually means. Did you think of a girl, but with cat ears? Did she have a tail? Does she have a verbal tic? Was she — by some mystical, scientific, or by some other supernatural occurrence — able to transform into an actual cat? If you said yes or no to any of those questions, are we still talking about the same kind of “catgirl”?
The answer is no one really knows. But that hasn’t stopped people from trying to investigate the origins of this immensely popular character type. Does such a thing as "the first catgirl" truly even exist?
Black Hanekawa as she appears in Nekomonogatari
What We Talk About When We Talk About Catgirls
Broadly speaking, characters with animal ears are described as kemonomimi, which literally means animal ears. What about catgirl etymology? As expected, characters with cat ears are described as nekomimi, aka cat ears. The term nekomusume (cat girl or daughter, literally) has also been used, which is also notably the name of the character Neko-Musume from Shigeru Mizuki’s popular 1960s supernatural manga GeGeGe no Kitarō. Ralph F. McCarthy, the first to translate Kitarō in a bilingual edition published by Kodansha in 2002, localized this name as “Catchick.” This is all to say, the invented euphemism “catgirl” is just one of many used to describe the same thing: a cat-like girl who may or may not claw your eyes out with a mischievous smirk.
Mizuki's Neko-Musume is based on the bakeneko, an evil cat spirit who is sometimes able to change between human and feline form. Folklorist Matthew Meyer describes bakeneko as beginning their lives as regular house cats, but later accumulating more human-like traits as they mature. In many stories, they are depicted as lapping up the blood of murder victims, thereby granting them supernatural powers. Of course, they aren’t to be mistaken with nekomata — twin-tailed cat spirits, like Yōkai Watch’s Jibanyan. Much like the rest of Mizuki’s yōkai characters inspired by Japan’s supernatural folklore, Mizuki’s bakeneko are the byproduct of creative license. Neko-Musume doesn’t have cat ears like we might expect them today, but technically she fits the bill for a supernatural entity. Like modern-day big-eyed catgirls, your mileage may vary.
Detail from Utagawa Kuniyoshi's nekozuka print
Utagawa Kuniyoshi, a woodblock artist born in 1798, is well-known for his many cat-centric prints. One of his most renowned projects was a series of prints depicting the 1827 kabuki drama, Traveling Alone to the Fifty-three Stations. In 1852, Kuniyoshi printed a depiction of actor Onoe Kikugorō III as one of the play’s most memorable characters, the nekozuka, a cat monster living in Okazaki assuming the form of a human woman. Kuniyoshi draws this specter with two very noticeable cat ears — a statement that this is a suspicious supernatural entity. This same motif reoccurs in other Kuniyoshi works, noticeably a woodblock triptych depicting the same actor as a cat creature. Again, those notorious ears appear.
Onoe Kikugorō III illustrated by artist Utagawa Kuniyoshi
Is Kuniyoshi’s flair for fantastic flourish the missing link? The secret origin of all catgirls who ever dared meow in the modern age? Well, it’s a little more complicated than that.
Will the Real Catgirls Please Stand Up?
The bakeneko is but just one entry in Japanese folklore’s long love affair with cats. In contemporary media, the concept of a cat-influenced woman is seen in many horror films. In an entry on bakeneko for The Encyclopedia of Japanese Horror Films, scholar Michael Crandol writes: "Bakeneko tales were the single most popular subject of Japanese horror films from the dawn of cinema through the 1960s, with more than sixty such pictures released by 1970.” With films as early as 1938’s The Ghost Cat and The Mysterious Shamisen, to post-war modern classics like 1968’s Kuroneko, the bakeneko sub-genre in Japanese horror is a testament to its ubiquity. Not to mention the allure of mysterious intrigue.
Kaneto Shindo's Kuroneko asks the universal question: will my cat eat me when I die?
From this perspective, the origins of catgirls seem quite hairy. In fact, looking solely through the lens of the traditional bakeneko narrative is extremely limiting. Surely they all aren’t evil women possessed by vengeful spirits? So what else?
In May 2019, independent cartoonist Keiichi Tanaka posted a thread on Twitter asking about the possible origins of the catgirl design proper:
猫耳の元祖って『綿の国星』？
人間の顔で頭の上に猫の耳、このデザインってそれ以前にあった？
— はぁとふる倍国土 (@keiichisennsei) May 16, 2019
Among the replies included Osamu Tezuka’s character Hecate, a shape-shifting young witch who transforms into a half-humanoid, half-cat creature from the 1950s manga Princess Knight. Others mention Kuniyoshi’s cat-eared nekozuka woodblock prints, alongside the introduction of the classic Playboy Bunny costume in Japan. At first, it seems like Yumiko Ōshima’s manga Star of Cottonland may be the point of origin, but perhaps it’s not so easy to pin down. Did Tezuka, like so many innovations in early anime and manga, do it first? Are catgirls perhaps an underappreciated relic of the Edō period? What about classic '80s shōjo manga?
Feline magic in Tezuka's Princess Knight
Like many great debates in art history, the conclusion is ambiguous. Some might say Kuniyoshi unintentionally invented “catgirls” in the 19th century. Others may say Tezuka refined the concept, but Ōshima popularized the idea of cat ears on cute girls. If we examine catgirls strictly through the lens of anime and manga, the ambiguity and debate regarding "origins" become less of a fuzzy headache. Rather, we can re-frame the question: What works possibly helped catgirls bloom into the anime and manga-centric phenomenon we know and love today?
Chibi Neko, a cat who believes she is a girl
Ōshima’s Star of Cottonland was serialized in shōjo magazine LaLa from 1978 to 1987. The protagonist, Chibi Neko, is a kitten who views herself as a little girl. Because of this, the story is illustrated from her perspective and depicts her as human, with the caveat of having cat ears. In her 1995 book, Phänomen Manga: Comic-Kultur in Japan, scholar Jaqueline Berndt points to Ōshima being the possible originator of this now massively popular trope. In 1984, Star of Cottonland was adapted into OVA by Mushi Production, the animation studio famously known for adapting many of Tezuka’s major works.
Meanwhile, another OVA debuted in 1984: Bagi, the Monster of Mighty Nature. This was an original production written by Tezuka himself in response to gene recombination research approval by the Japanese government. Most famously, it featured an anthropomorphic feline woman named Bagi, who is undeniably more cat than girl. Bagi attempts to gain vengeance on humanity while simultaneously forging a troubled relationship with the action-hero male protagonist. While the Star of Cottonland OVA saw a limited home release, Bagi was broadcasted via the Nippon Television Network as a TV special.
Twin cyberpunk catgirls from Masamune's Dominion
Star of Cottonland and Bagi couldn’t be more thematically different, nonetheless, they both depend on catgirls for their worldbuilding. Masamune Shirow’s 1985 science-fiction manga, Dominion, follows a similar trend with its portrayal of android catgirls in a gritty cyberpunk setting. Adapted into a 1988 OVA series, Dominion: Tank Police features two puma twins, Anna and Uni, catgirls created as sentient love dolls. With their wild hair and overtly sexualized design, they undoubtedly have more in common with Tezuka’s violent Bagi than Ōshima’s initial cat-eared girls. They are, for lack of a better word, an otaku’s modern catgirl with their feral bloodthirst intact.
A Catgirl for All Seasons
A feature from Kadokawa’s Davinci News’ anime department titled "We Investigated ‘Why Are Nekomimi Girls So Cute’” draws attention to the 2013 Fall anime season. Namely, ear and tail-equipped characters from Outbreak Company and Nekomonogatari. What’s the appeal of animal-eared girls, where did they come from, and why are they so seemingly trendy now? Again, Kuniyoshi’s fearsome kabuki portraits are mentioned, however with an important caveat: Kuniyoshi's cat ears were meant to strike fear, not inspire charm. The same could be said for the post-war boom in bakeneko films and their scream queen actresses. The article’s author even suggests that the prominence of the Playboy Bunny outfit, with its appeal to the uppercrust of society and cute tail, might’ve also added to a flourishing nekomimi cosplay craze. At some point, the strangeness of the concept became secondary to cute novelty.
Koyomi confronts the Sawari Neko possessing Hanekawa
This observation points out an important contemporary trend: ornamental catgirls, aka eyecandy, verus catgirls with a narrative purpose. Peak catgirl is somehow balancing both acts. Characters like Bakemonogatari’s Tsubasa Hanekawa — a high schooler who is possessed by the Sawari Neko spirit — unintentionally create the night-prowling, cat-eared alter-ego named “Black Hanekawa.” Black Hanekawa may perhaps be the modern mash-up of bakeneko tradition and otaku catgirl-ness we've long awaited. She speaks in cat-puns, obviously not human, and is most importantly a fearsome supernatural nuance. But on the flip-side, Black Hanekawa is everything we expect from the otaku’s catgirl: ears on top of her head, an eccentric personality, and a desire to exaggerate those feline quirks whenever possible for cuteness' sake.
ฅ(*ΦωΦ*)ฅ
The modern catgirl’s sensibility is to be a girl first, cat second. While hints of this archetype is seen in Shirow’s 1980s catgirl love androids, early 2000s series like Di Gi Charat and Tokyo Mew Mew have only further pushed this specific everyday flavor of catgirl agenda. Especially considering the infectious prevalence of mascot characters like Dejiko, a chibified catgirl with lucky cat bells on character goods stores across Akihabara. It’s no wonder they’ve effectively lost all their unncanniness. But besides the cultural context — there’s no real reason why cat ears just can’t be cute in themselves.
Dejiko and company promoting a GAMERS character goods store in Akihabara
Nowadays, you don’t have to look very hard to find a cat-eared character. Series like Re:Zero famously feature characters like Felix, whose cat-like qualities are part of the lore. Nintendo series like Fire Emblem have even newly added a “beast” race of animal-eared characters. Not to mention the massive popularity of franchises like Strike Witches and Kemono Friends in recent years, catgirls undoubtedly draw massively passionate fanbases. No matter where they came from, catgirls in all shapes and sizes, clawed, and de-clawed, have never stopped turning heads. The nyapocalypse is here to stay, fur-real.
Do you have a favorite catgirl of all time? Let us knyaow in the comments below!
Blake P. is a weekly columnist for Crunchyroll Features. He thinks Cats (the musical) deserves a proper anime adaptation. His twitter is @_dispossessed. His bylines include Fanbyte, VRV, Unwinnable, and more.
Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!
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Brian Jarvis, Monsters Inc.: Serial killers and consumer culture, 3 Crime Media Cult 326 (2007)
Abstract
Serial killing has become big business. Over the past 15 years, popular culture has been flooded by true-life crime stories, biographies, best-selling fiction, video games and television documentaries devoted to this subject. Cinema is the cultural space in which this phenomenon is perhaps most conspicuous. The Internet Movie Database (imdb.com) lists over 800 films featuring serial killers and most of the contributions to this sub-genre have been made since 1990. This article examines seminal examples of serial killer fiction and film including Thomas Harris’s Hannibal Lecter novels and their cinematic adaptations, Bret Easton Ellis and Mary Harron’s American Psycho (1991 and 2000) and David Fincher’s Se7en (1995). The main contention is that the commodification of violence in popular culture is structurally integrated with the violence of commodification itself. Starting with the rather obvious ways in which violent crime is marketed as a spectacle to be consumed, this article then attempts to uncover less transparent links between the normal desires which circulate within consumer society and monstrous violence. In ‘Monsters Inc.’, the serial killer is unmasked as a gothic double of the serial consumer.
But the notion of the monster is rather difficult to deal with, to get a hold on, to stabilize . . . monstrosity may reveal or make one aware of what normality is. (Derrida, 1995: 386)
In his Theses on the Philosophy of History, Walter Benjamin (1999a) memorably proclaimed that ‘there is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism’ (p. 248). In contemporary US culture Benjamin’s chilling axiom is turned on its head: it seems there is now no act of barbarism which fails to become a document of civilization. Serial killing, to take one important example of this trend, has become big business within the culture industry. In his cult documentary, Collectors (2000), Julian Hobbs both explores and contributes to the explosive proliferation of art and artefacts associated with serial killers. Hobbs investigates the burgeoning market for ‘murderabilia’ and follows enthusiasts in this field who avidly build collections which mirror the serial killer’s own modus operandi of collecting fetish objects.
Murderabilia ranges from serial killer art (paintings, drawings, sculpture, letters, poetry), to body parts (a lock of hair or nail clippings) from crime scene materials to kitsch merchandising that includes serial killer T-Shirts, calendars, trading cards, board games, Halloween masks and even action figures of ‘superstars’ like Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy. Although it might be tempting to dismiss this phenomenon as the sick hobby of a deviant minority, murderabilia is merely the hardcore version of a mainstream obsession with the serial killer. Following negative publicity, trading in murderabilia was banned on eBay in 2001. However, it is still possible to purchase a vast array of legitimate serial killer merchandise online and elsewhere. A keyword search for ‘serial killer’ at Amazon, for example, produces hundreds of links to gruesome biographies, true-life crime stories and best-selling fiction by Thomas Harris, Patricia Cornwall, Caleb Carr and others. A search for ‘Jack the Ripper’ uncovers 248 books, 24 DVDs, 15 links to popular music, a video game and a 10’ action figure. The Jack the Ripper video game invites players to solve the Whitechapel murders, but a large number of its competitors profit by encouraging ‘recreational killing’. In some of the most commercially successful video games, one’s cyber-self may be a detective, a soldier or a Jedi Knight, but the raw materials of fantasy are constant: an endless series of killings.
In Christopher Priest’s novel, The Extremes (1998), FBI agent Teresa Simons becomes dangerously addicted to a Virtual Reality (VR) training programme which recreates infamous serial killings. It might be argued that other elements in Priest’s novel are ‘re- creations’: the focus on a female FBI agent seems indebted to the Silence of the Lambs and the VR game, known as ‘ExEx’ (Extreme Experience), recalls the SID 6.7 software in Virtuosity (1995). In Brett Leonard’s science fiction film, SID 6.7 is a computer pro- gramme which synthesizes the personalities of 183 serial killers and mass murderers including Ted Bundy, Vlad the Impaler, Jeffrey Dahmer, the Marquis de Sade and Adolf Hitler. Somewhat inevitably, SID (short for Sadistic, Intelligent and Dangerous) escapes virtuality and is hunted down by a detective played by Denzel Washington. Shortly after he starred in Virtuosity, Washington appeared in a supernatural serial killer film (Fallen, 1998) and a forensic serial killer film (The Bone Collector, 1999). Three serial killer films in four years is less a signature of Washington’s star persona than a symptom of the recent growth spurt experienced by this sub-genre. The Internet Movie Database (imdb.com) lists over 800 films featuring serial killers and most of them have been made in the past 15 years. Serial killer cinema has many faces: there are serial killer crime dramas (Manhunter, 1986; Se7en, 1995; Hannibal, 2001; Saw, 2004), supernatural serial killers (Halloween, 1978; Friday the 13th, 1980; Nightmare on Elm Street, 1984), serial killer science fiction (Virtuosity, 1995; Jason X, 2001), serial killer road movies (Kalifornia, 1993; Natural Born Killers, 1994), true-life crime dramas (Ted Bundy, 2002; Monster, 2003), documentaries (John Wayne Gacy: Buried Secrets (1996) and Aileen Wuornos: The Selling of a Serial Killer (1994)), post-modern pastiche (Scream, 1996; I Know What You Did Last Summer, 1997) and even serial killer comedies (So I Married an Axe Murderer, 1993; Serial Mom, 1994; Scary Movie, 2000). The expansion of this diverse sub-genre is facilitated by the fact that films about serial killing often appear as part of a series (Saw 1, Saw 2, Saw 3). The serial killer has also become a staple ingredient in TV cop shows (like CSI and Law and Order) and cult series (for example, Twin Peaks, The X-Files and Millennium).
According to Robert Conrath (1996: 156), ‘when Jeffrey Dahmer’s house of carnage was discovered in Milwaukee in 1991, television rights to his story were being negotiated within the hour’. Over the next few years, Dahmer was the subject of numerous documentaries (including An American Nightmare (1993) and The Monster Within (1996)), films (The Secret Life (1993) and Dahmer (2002)), several biographies and Joyce Carol Oates’s fictionalized Zombie (1996), a comic strip (by Derf, a cartoonist and coincidentally Dahmer’s childhood acquaintance) and a concept album by a heavy metal band called Macabre. The extensive media coverage of Dahmer’s exploits in 1991 coincided with the release of Jonathan Demme’s Silence of the Lambs (which won the Best Picture Oscar and grossed US$272,700,000 in worldwide box-office) as well as the controversial and commercially successful Bret Easton Ellis novel, American Psycho (1991). Since the early 1990s, the translation of serial killer shock value into surplus value has become an increasingly profitable venture. This market both reflects and produces an apparently insatiable desire for images and stories of serial killing in a gothic hall of mirrors. According to case histories and psychological profiles, serial killers themselves are often avid consumers of films and books about serial killing. At the same time, the fictional monstrous murderers in popular culture, from Norman Bates to Hannibal Lecter, are often modelled on historical figures. In this context, Philip Jenkins (1994) proposes that, at least in the popular imaginary, the distinction between historical serial killers and their cinematic counterparts is dis- solving. In fact, even the label of ‘serial killer’ indirectly belongs to cinema. This term was coined by Robert Ressler, an FBI agent who named the killers he pursued after the ‘serial adventures’ he watched as a child in US cinemas. In his study of serial killers, Mark Seltzer (1998: 129) has offered a compelling critique of the virtualization of violence: ‘fascination with scenes of a spectacularized bodily violence is inseparable from the binding of violence to scene, spectacle, and representation’. The engine which drives this process is primarily economic. The commodification of violence is inseparable from the violence of commodification. In this article I wish to build on the rather obvious ways in which violent crime is marketed as a spectacle to be consumed towards the less transparent links that exist between consumerism itself and violence. A range of serial killer texts will be examined with the aim of uncovering unexpected intimacies between monstrous violence and the normal desires that circulate within consumer society. The serial killer will be unmasked as a gothic double of the serial consumer.
JUST DO IT: Killers, Consumers and Violence
Most people could confidently identify a serial killer, but definitions are more elusive. How many murders does it take to make a serial killer? Do these homicides need to involve a specific MO, in particular locations and within a prescribed time frame? Do serial killers have a characteristic relationship to their victim? Do they have to be motivated by sexual fantasy rather than material gain? And how exactly do serial killers differ from mass murderers and spree killers? There are competing definitions of the serial killer inside and outside the academic world. I have neither the space nor the skill to offer an authoritative classification, and so for the purpose of this article my working definition will of necessity be expansive. My focal point here will be fictional representations of the serial killer in film and fiction, but I will include reference to historical counterparts and supernatural metaphors (specifically, the vampire and zombie as figurative practitioners of serial homicide). The number of murders committed, the individual MOs, the timing and setting of the crimes, the connection to the victim and the motivation will be wildly divergent, but, in each instance, I hope to reveal covert affinities between the ‘monstrous’ serial killer and the ‘normal’ consumer.
While precise defintions prove elusive, the clichés are unavoidable. One of the most conspicuous commonplaces in the popular discourses of serial killing concerns the terrifying normality of the murderer. Rather than appearing monstrously different, the serial killer displays a likeness that disturbs the dominant culture. The violence of consumerism is similarly hidden beneath a façade of healthy normality. The glossy phantasmagoria of youth and beauty, freedom and pleasure, obscures widespread devastation and suffering. Etymology is instructive in this regard: to ‘consume’ is to devour and destroy, to waste and obliterate. With this definition in mind, Baudrillard (1998: 43) has traced a provocative genealogy between contemporary capitalism and tribal potlatch: ‘consumerism may go so far as consumation, pure and simple destruction’. The consumation of contemporary consumer capitalism assumes multiple forms: pollution, waste and the ravaging of non-renewable resources, bio-diversity and endangered species; the slaughter of animals for food, clothing and medicine; countless acts of violence against the consumer’s body that range from spectacular accidents to slow tortures and poisonings. At the national level the consumer economy produces radical inequalities that encourage violent crime. At the international level, consumer capitalism depends heavily on a ‘new slavery’ for millions in the developing world who are incarcerated in dangerous factories and sweatshops and subjected to the repetitive violence of Fordist production. In his autobiography, My Life and Work, Henry Ford calculated that the manufacture of a Model T required 7882 distinct operations but only 949 of these required ‘able-bodied’ workers: ‘670 could be filled by legless men, 2,637 by one-legged men, two by armless men, 715 by one-armed and ten by blind men’ (cited in Seltzer, 1998: 69). Third-world workers trapped in this Fordist fantasy to serve the needs of first-world consumers undergo dismemberments (figurative and sometimes literal) which echo the violent tortures practised by serial killers in post-Fordist cinema. And the violence of consumerism is not restricted to the factories and sweatshops. In The Anatomy of Resource Wars, Michael Renner (2002) explores links between first-world shopping malls and third-world war zones. Insatiable consumer demand fuels conflicts over resources in the developing world – from tropical forests to diamonds and coltan deposits (a mineral used in the manufacture of mobile phones and other electronic devices). Renner estimates that these conflicts have displaced over 20 million people and raised at least US$12 billion per year for rebels, warlords and totalitarian governments: ‘most consumers don’t know that a number of common purchases bear the invisible imprint of violence’ (p. 53). Recent conflicts in the Gulf are fuelled by the needs of western car cultures. In the 20th century the development of a consumer economy was twice kick-started by global war and the roots of 19th-century consumerism were terminally entangled in colonialism and slavery.
The violence of consumerism is structural and universal rather than being an incidental and localized side effect of the system. For many in the over-developed world this violence remains largely unseen, or, when visible, apparently unconnected to consumerism. In cultural representations of the serial killer, however, consumerism and violence are often extravagantly integrated. In fact, the leading ‘brand names’ in the genre are typically depicted as über-consumers. In Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho (1991), the eponymous Patrick Bateman embodies a merger between ultra- violence and compulsive consumerism. A catalogue of obscene and barbaric atrocities (serial murder, rape and torture) is interwoven with endless shopping lists of designer clothes and fashionable furniture, beauty products and audiovisual equipment, videos and CDs alongside multiple purchases at restaurants, gyms, health spas, concerts and clubs. As James Annesley (1998: 16) notes, ‘In American Psycho the word “consume” is used in all of its possible meanings: purchasing, eating and destroying’. Each brand of consumption is described in the same flat, affectless tone to underscore Bateman’s perception of everything in the world as a series of consumables arranged for his delectation.
Patrick Bateman thus represents a gothic projection of consumer pathology. In this respect, although his name echoes Norman Bates from Hitchcock’s Psycho, Bateman can be seen as a Yuppie analogue to the aristocratic Hannibal Lecter. Both killers coolly collect and consume body parts and can boast an intimate familiarity with fashionable commodities. In Silence of the Lambs, Red Dragon and Hannibal, Lecter offers a connoisseur’s commentary on designer suits and Gucci shoes (a present for Clarice), handbags, perfume and aftershave. Lecter himself has become a voguish icon in millennial popular culture although his name alludes to mid-19th-century French verse. Baudelaire’s ‘Au Lecteur’ (1998 : 5) concludes with the following apostrophe:
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat, Hypocrite lecteur, – mon semblable, – mon frère!
[You know him, reader, that fastidious monster,
You hypocritical reader, – my double, – my brother!]
If we follow Harris’s allusion, Lecter can be read, like Bateman, as the dark double of the monstrous consumer. The serial killer’s perverse charisma might be attributed in part to their function as allegorical embodiments of consumer drives and desires. According to this reading, the serial killer’s cannibalism is less a barbaric transgression of the norm and more a Neitzschean distillation of reification (in its simplest terms the tendency, central to consumerism, to treat people as objects and objects as people).
In Silence of the Lambs, the casting of serial killer as predatory über-consumer is underscored by animal and insect imagery. Clarice Starling is haunted by traumatic childhood memories of witnessing the hidden violence of animal slaughter. Dr Lecter diagnoses her devotion to the law as an attempt to silence the ‘screaming of the lambs’. Perhaps Lecter’s cannibalism might be diagnosed as an alternate response to that ‘screaming’, one which reverses power relations by putting consumers on the menu. Alongside the lambs, moths are a second key symbol that hint at the widespread though often invisible violence of consumerism:
Some [moths] are [destructive], a lot are, but they live in all kinds of ways. Just like we do . . . The old definition of moth was ‘anything that gradually, silently eats, consumes, or wastes any other thing.’ It was a verb for destruction too . . . Is this what you do all the time – hunt Buffalo Bill? . . . Do you ever go out for cheeseburgers and beer or the amusing house wine? (Harris, 1990: 102)
The second serial killer in Silence of the Lambs is similarly doubled with the consumer and associated with animal imagery. While Lecter hunts for food, the predatory Buffalo Bill hunts for clothing. After the chase, Buffalo Bill deprives his prey of subjectivity and treats them like livestock: victims are penned, fed and then flayed for their skins. The nickname given to Jame Gumb by the media is suggestive. As a professional hunter, Buffalo Bill Cody was one of those responsible for reducing the bison population in North America from approximately 60 million to around 300 by 1893. After the near extinction of his prey, Buffalo Bill moved from animal slaughter to entertainment with his travelling ‘Wild West’ show. Thomas Harris’s ‘Buffalo Bill’, with his own serial killer trade marks, combines an identical mixture of hunting, slaughter and flaying with spectacle and entertainment. Buffalo Bill, alongside Francis Dolarhyde (the name of the killer in Harris’s Red Dragon again links money, skins and a doppelganger monster, Stevenson’s Mr Hyde) and above all the iconic Hannibal Lecter, have established Harris as a brand market leader in the commodification of serial killing.
The roots of the brand – the repeated logo or symbol that identifies a product – lie in cattle ranching. At the first crime scene in David Fincher’s Se7en, a morbidly obese murder victim is discovered after being forced to eat himself to death. (This MO is repeated in Brett Leonard’s Feed (2005) when a serial killer force-feeds obese women and broadcasts their demise on the Internet). When the detectives in Se7en investigate the crime scene they discover the word ‘Gluttony’ scrawled in grease behind the victim’s refrigerator beside a neat pile of cans with the ‘Campbell’s Soup’ brand clearly visible. The repetition of the Campbell’s brand of course alludes to Warhol’s series of paintings on the subject of consumer seriality. If, like the detectives in Se7en, we are prepared to ‘look behind’ objects in serial killer texts we may discover further clues to the hidden violence of serial consumerism.
Discover A New You: Killers, Consumers, and the Dream of ‘Becoming’
His product should already have changed its skin and stripped off its original form . . . a capitalist in larval form . . . His emergence as a butterfly must, and yet must not, take place in the sphere of circulation, (Marx, 1990: 204, 269)
Although the serial killer in David Fincher’s Se7en justifies his murders with pseudo-religious rhetoric, the victims he chooses also exemplify some of the capital vices and anxieties exploited by consumerism: the ‘Gluttony’ victim is guilty of over-eating; the ‘Pride’ victim is a fashion model guilty of acute narcissism; the ‘Sloth’ victim, according to Richard Dyer (1999: 40), is a case study in the dangers of under-exercising; the ‘Lust’ victim embodies a hardcore version of mainstream desires and fetishes. By foregrounding ‘sins’ that are central to consumerism and by naming the murderer ‘John Doe’, Se7en hints at the hyper-normality of serial killer pathology. Key aspects of consumer sensibility intersect with the trademark features of serial killer psychology: anxious and aggressive narcissism, the compulsive collection of fetish objects and fantasies of self-transformation.
In Silence of the Lambs, the epiphanic moment in Starling’s search for Jame Gumb comes in the bedroom of the killer’s first victim: Frederika Bimmel. As a Point Of View (POV) shot surveys the dead woman’s possessions the spectator sees the following: a romantic novel (entitled Silken Threads) beside a diet book, wallpaper with a butterfly motif, a tailor’s dummy and paper diamonds in the closet. Starling intuitively connects the paper diamonds to the cuts made by Gumb in the bodies of his victims. The spect- ator, however, might make additional connections. Demme’s mise-en-scene offers a symbolic suturing of the normal girl’s bedroom and the serial killer’s lair. Both spaces house dreams of romantic metamorphosis driven by self-dissatisfaction: the moths in Gumb’s basement are linked to the Silken Threads and butterflies in Bimmel’s bedroom while the diet book suggests the young woman shared the serial killer’s anxiety about body image. Clarice Starling, the young woman figuratively donning the traditional male garb of law enforcement (a woman trying to make it in a man’s world) is perhaps too preoccupied with tracking down a man who wants to wear a ‘woman suit’ to pursue these leads. Silence of the Lambs extravagantly foregrounds the importance of gender to subject formation. At the start of the film we are introduced to Clarice Starling in androgynous sweaty sportswear while training on an obstacle course. When the spectator subsequently arrives at the serial killer’s house, we see Jame Gumb sewing, pampering his poodle and parading before the camera like a catwalk model.
Jame may be symbolically feminized, but in Demme’s film, as in Harris’ novels, Se7en, American Psycho and the vast majority of serial killer texts, the murderer is biologically male. There are variations in the statistics (roughly between 88–95%), but the vast majority of serial killers are male (Vronsky, 2004). From a feminist perspective it could be argued that serial killing is not so much a radical departure from normal codes of civilized behaviour as it is an intensification of hegemonic masculine ideals. For the serial killer the murder is a means to an end and that end intersects in places with socially sanctioned definitions of masculine identity in institutions such as the military, many working places and the sports industry. The serial killer is driven by the desire to achieve mastery, virility and control: his objective is to dominate and possess the body and the mind of his victims. According to the binary logic of patriarchy, the killer/victim dyad produces a polarization of gender norms: the killer embodies an über-masculinity while the victim who is dominated, opened and entered personifies a hyper-femininity (irrespective of biology). The gendered power relations of serial homicide climax but do not end with the act of murder. Post-mortem the murderer will often take fetish objects from his victim. These totems function as testimony to his continuing domination of a dead body which exhibits an extreme form of the passivity which patriarchy seeks to assign to the feminine.
While serial killing is both literally and symbolically a male affair, the paradigmatic consumer is of course female. According to patriarchal folklore men are the primary producers and unenthusiastic shoppers while most women are devoted consumers and typically figure in the family as the person with overall responsibility for decision making with regard to most domestic purchases. Brett Leonard’s Feed (2005) might be mentioned here as a particularly pure example of this stereotypical dichotomy between the male serial murderer and the female consumer (the victims in the film are ‘Gainers’ who are fed to death). However, since the 1980s and throughout the period which has seen a dramatic rise in serial killer art, the consumer sphere has witnessed a withering of gender polarities. From the late 19th and for much of the 20thcentury, women were the primary target of advertising, particularly in the fields of beauty and fashion. The female consumer was relentlessly bombarded by images and messages in magazines, on billboards, and then through radio, cinema and TV, that encouraged physical self-obsession. Beneath the patina of positivity, this bomb- ardment aimed to promote an anxious policing of the female body – how the body looked and felt, what went over, into and came out of it. The covert imperative of this advertising was to manufacture that sense of inadequacy and self-dissatisfaction which is the essential psychological prerequisite for luxury purchases. Since the 1980s, the beauty and fashion industries, recognizing the potential of a relatively untapped market, began to target the male consumer in a similar manner. Subsequently, there has been a massive worldwide increase in sales of male fashion accessories, cosmetics and related products.
In the context of this erosion of gender polarities within consumer culture, it is noticeable that representations of the serial killer often involve androgyny and gender crisis. The killer is typically feminized by association with consumer subjectivity. He is obsessed with different forms of consumption and collecting and driven by dreams of ‘becoming’ (the key phrase in Harris’ Red Dragon), of radically refiguring his appear- ance and thus his identity. The killer’s violence might be read both as complicity with and rebellion against feminization through a reassertion of primitive masculinity. According to Baudrillard (1996: 69), in consumer culture there is a ‘general tendency to feminize objects . . . All objects . . . become women in order to be bought’. The feminization of the commodity is structurally integrated with the commodification of the feminine and the serial killer aims to assert mastery over both spheres. The violence of serial homicide might even be diagnosed as a nostalgic mode of production (of corpses and fetish objects) for the anxious male subject.
In Silence of the Lambs, Lecter offers the following diagnosis of Gumb’s pathology: ‘He’s tried to be a lot of things . . . [But] he’s not anything, really, just a sort of total lack that he wants to fill’ (Harris, 1990: 159, 165). The killer is driven by a profound sense of lack to ‘covet’ (Lecter’s term) what he sees everyday and then to hunt for the new skin that would enable a radical self-transformation. In this respect Gumb constitutes a psychotic off-shoot of normal consumer psychology: his violent response to lack is deviant, but the desires which move him are mainstream. Gumb succumbs to mass media fantasy and advertising which have trained him to feel incomplete and anxious while promising magical metamorphoses on consumption of the ideal (feminized) commodity. The dreams of the serial killer and the serial consumer converge: reinvent- ing the self through bodily transformation and transcendence. Buffalo Bill, we might say, is merely fleshing out the advertising fantasy of a ‘new you’. This is the same dream of ‘becoming’ pursued by Francis Dollarhyde in Red Dragon/Manhunter. It is also the dream of Patrick Bateman, known by his acquaintances as ‘total GQ’ (Ellis, 1991: 90) but who, like Jame Gumb, experiences himself as ‘total lack’: ‘There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory . . . I simply am not there’ (pp. 376–7). Bateman attempts to fill the void with an endless procession of commodities and logos: designer clothes and cuisine, male grooming products and technological gadgets, Versace, Manolo Blahnik, Giorgio Armani. Bateman is a cut-up (like his victims) of commodity signs. He talks in the language of advertising and incessantly imagines himself in commercials, sit-coms, chat shows, action movies and porn films. Bateman’s ultra-violence gives physical expression to the acute feelings of anxiety and incompletion which accompany the consumer society’s unachievable fantasy of perfect bodies living perfect lives.
Silence of the Lambs similarly articulates the complex integration of violence, fantasy, gender identity and consumer subjectivity. The first clue that Lecter gives to Starling is the cryptic, ‘Look deep within yourself’. Subsequently, Starling discovers that ‘Your Self’ is in fact a storage facility in downtown Baltimore. Closer investigation uncovers a dead body in a car crammed alongside hoarded possessions. Forcing her way into ‘Your Self’, Starling discovers a decapitated man’s head placed on top of a mannequin wearing a dress. This tableau captures the dark underside of consumer psychology: erotics, fetishism, fantasy and death. The victim’s cross-dressing signifies the same yearning for self-transformation witnessed in Buffalo Bill and Frederika Bimmel. For the killer, the victim and the consumer, fantasy is the exoskeleton of the commodity. The murder, the dressing-up, the purchase; each is driven by dreams of metamorphosis. Consumption, Baudrillard (1998: 31) reminds us, ‘is governed by a form of magical thinking’. Numerous case studies have concluded that serial killers are prone to hyperactive fantasy lives (see Seltzer, 1998; Vronsky, 2004). It would be a mistake to dismiss these fantasies as merely the overture to violence; rather, the violence is a means of sustaining the fantasy. By the same token, the practice and pathology of serial consumerism are driven by fantasies that cannot be fulfilled and so are compulsively repeated. We consume not products, but dream-images from a collective phantasmagoria.
These fantasies are fuelled by capitalism’s official art form: advertising. Perhaps in part the serial killer’s crime is taking the promises of advertising too literally – acting out the fantasy of a world ready-made for our consumption. The serial killer is both a millennial vogue and perhaps the ultimate fashion victim. Every aspect of Patrick Bateman’s lifestyle – clothing, diet, gadgetry, interior design and leisure time – is dictated by fashion. In his basement, Jame Gumb adopts glamour poses before a camera and struts like a catwalk model. The Death’s Head moths in his garment sweatshop symbolically suture the fashion industry with fetishism, hidden suffering and death. In his critique of the French arcades, the first cathedrals of consumer capital and forerunners of the department store and mall, Benjamin (1999b: 62–3) argued that fashion stands in opposition to the organic. It couples the living body to the inorganic world. To the living, it defends the rights of the corpse . . . fashion has opened the business of dialectical exchange between women and ware – between carnal pleasure and corpse . . . For fashion was never anything other than the parody of the motley cadaver, provocation of death through the woman.
EXQUISITE CORPSE: Killers, Consumers, and Mannequins
The sexual impulse-excitations are exceptionally plastic. (Freud, 1981: 389)
According to Benjamin (1999b), a key fetish object in the phantasmagorical arcades was the mannequin:
the fashion mannequin is a token from the realm of the dead . . . the model for imitation . . . Just as the much-admired mannequin has detachable parts, so fashion encourages the fetishist fragmentation of the living body . . . the woman mimics the mannequin and enters history as a dead object. (p. 78)
One of Benjamin’s German contemporaries, Hans Bellmer, explored the deathly sensuality of the mannequin through the lens of surrealist photography. Eroticized dolls were dressed in veils and underwear or covered in flowers. The mannequin was shot both as whole and dismembered, sometimes posed coyly and at other times torturously convoluted and bound in a perverse meeting of the shop window and the S&M dungeon.
In the 80s and 90s, the photographer Cindy Sherman developed a more explicit and grisly mode of mannequin pornography. In her ‘Disaster’, ‘Fairy Tale’ and ‘Sex’ series, Sherman deploys dolls and prosthetic body parts in tableau that combine eroticism, violence and abjection. Sherman’s photographs recall Lacan’s (1989) work on ‘imagos of the fragmented body’:
These are the images of castration, mutilation, dismemberment, dislocation, evisceration, devouring, bursting open of the body . . . One has only to listen to children aged between two and five playing, alone or together, to know that the pulling off of the head and the ripping open of the belly are themes that occur spontaneously to their imagination, and that this is corroborated by the experience of the doll torn to pieces. (p. 179)
Imagos of the deconstructed body are everywhere in the infantile fantasies of consumer culture: perfect legs, perfect breasts, perfect hair, perfect teeth, bodies endlessly dismembered in the ceaseless strafing of advertising imagery. Sherman’s photography foregrounds the rhetoric of advertising: the dissection of the body by fashion, fitness and beauty industries into fragmentary fetishes. At the same time these images stage a spectacular return of the repressed for those anxieties (about filth, aging, illness and death) covertly fuelled by consumerism’s representational regime.
In 1997, Sherman attempted to import her ‘imagos of the fragmented body’ into the mainstream in the film Office Killer. Dorine Douglas, a female serial killer, murders her co-workers at Constant Consumer magazine and takes the corpses home to her cellar where she plays with them as life-size dolls. Douglas’s hobby echoes Jeffrey Dahmer’s confession that his ‘experimentation’ with the human form began with the theft of a mannequin from a store: ‘I just went through various sexual fantasies with it, pretending it was a real person, pretending that I was having sex with it, masturbating, and undressing it’ (cited in Tithecott, 1999: 46). The mannequin enjoys a peculiar prominence in serial killer texts. In Maniac (1980), Frank Zito scalps his victims and places his trophies on the fashion mannequins that decorate his apartment. In Demme’s Silence of the Lambs, Benjamin Raspail’s decapitated head is placed on a shop dummy and mannequins are conspicuous in Jame Gumb’s garment sweatshop. Similarly, in Ed Gein (2000), the eponymous killer’s ‘woman suit’ is draped over a mannequin in his workshop. The climactic scenes in the serial killer road movie Kalifornia (1993) take place in mock suburban dwellings (part of a nuclear test site) occupied exclusively by mannequins. In House of Wax (2005) the serial killer trans- forms his victims into living dolls by encasing them in wax and a similar MO is evident in The Cell where the killer bleaches his female victim’s bodies in imitation of the dolls he played with as a child.
Although mannequins are less conspicuous in Ellis’s American Psycho (1991) than in Glamorama (in which they function as a key motif signifying the millennial merger of fashion with terrorism), they still perform a crucial symbolic function. Mannequins epitomize the ideal of 80s body fascism: tall, youthful, slim, impervious to wrinkles, scars and blemishes, untouched by illness and aging. Bateman’s obsession with the designer clothing worn by others in his social circle underlines their status (and his own) as mobile mannequins. Bateman’s fetishistic fascination with ‘hard bodies’ – both the muscular torso built in the gym and the stiff and frozen body parts he collects – similarly attests to the prevalence of a mannequin ideal in contemporary consumer culture. In ironic affirmation of this aesthetic, the film adaptation of Ellis’s novel was accompanied by the marketing of an ‘American Psycho Action Figure’ – an 18’ inch mini-mannequin equipped with fake Armani suit and knife.
In pursuit of the hegemonic fantasy of the hard body, in the gym and in his daily fitness regime, Bateman remorselessly punishes himself. The über-consumer is narcissistically fixated on his abdominal muscles, his face, his skin tone, how his body is adorned, what goes into it (dietary obsessions) and comes out (especially blood). The violence that Bateman inflicts on his victims appears as an extension of his own masochistic self-objectification:
Shirtless, I scrutinize my image in the mirror above the sinks in the locker room at Xclusive. My arm muscles burn, my stomach is as taut as possible, my chest steel, pectorals granite hard, my eyes white as ice. In my locker in the locker room at Xclusive lie three vaginas I recently sliced out of various women I’ve attacked in the past week. Two are washed off, one isn’t. There’s a barrette clipped to one of them, a blue ribbon from Hermès tied around my favourite. (Ellis, 1991: 370)
In Bateman’s locker we witness the gender confusion of the male killer and the latent violence of consumer body culture writ large. Bateman’s attempt to transform himself into an anthropomorphosized phallus is partly offset by the accessories (a hair clasp and ribbon) and pathologies gendered ‘feminine’ by patriarchy (vanity and masochism). According to Baudrillard (1998: 129), the consumer is ultimately encouraged to consume themselves: ‘in the consumer package, there is one object finer, more precious and more dazzling than any other . . . That object is the BODY’. For Patrick Bateman, serial killing is a mode of extreme make-over: a refashioning of bodies, including his own, into trophies. In Demme’s Se7en, John Doe’s body terrorism (force-feeding a fat man, cutting off a female model’s nose) mirrors, albeit in grotesque distortions, the mania of millennial consumer society. Similarly, the serial killers in Thomas Harris are fixated on bodily transformation: Buffalo Bill attempts to put him- self inside a new body while Lecter puts others’ bodies inside himself. The horrific practices of these fictional killers find their everyday analogue in the slow serial torture of the consumer’s body by capital: the injections and invasions of cosmetic surgery, the poisonings, pollutions and detoxifications, the over-consumption and dieting, the leisure rituals and compulsive exercise.
In an early scene from Mary Harron’s adaptation of American Psycho we witness Patrick Bateman’s morning exercise and beauty regime: crunches and push-ups are followed by ‘deep-pore cleanser lotion . . . water-activated gel cleanser . . . honey- almond body scrub’. As Bateman admires himself in the bathroom mirror his face is sheathed in a ‘herbal mint facial masque’ that lends the skin a mannequin sheen. When Bateman peels off his synthetic second skin the gesture echoes the gothic facials practised in Silence of the Lambs. Lecter, who, at their first meeting, identifies Clarice by her skin cream, escapes his captors by performing an improvised plastic surgery – he removes a guard’s face and places it over his own. This act is the prelude to a subsequent ‘official’ plastic surgery performed to disguise his identity. Jame Gumb’s needlepoint with human flesh might be traced back to Norman Bates’s taxidermy. Robert Bloch’s Psycho (1959) (the inspiration for Hitchcock’s movie) was loosely based on Ed Gein’s flaying and preserving of human flesh. Gein’s ghost also haunts the exploits of the Sawyer family in the series of Texas Chainsaw films: throughout the original (1973), the sequels (1986, 1990), the Next Generation (1994), the remake (2003), and the Beginning (2006) flesh is flayed, cut, tanned, sewed, worn, displayed and consumed. Mark Seltzer (1998) has noted the prevalence of ‘skin games’ in serial killer cinema and fiction. Beneath these ‘games’ we might catch glimpses of a profound skin disease promoted by the mannequin aesthetics of the beauty industry. As Judith Halberstam (1995: 163) has commented, ‘We wear modern monsters like skin, they are us, they are on us and in us’.
OBEY YOUR THIRST: Compulsive Seriality
The circulation of money is the constant and monotonous repetition of the same process . . . the endless series . . . the series of its [the commodity’s] representations never comes to an end. (Marx, 1990: 156, 210–11)
The structure of repetition which is the economy of death. (Blau, 1987: 70)
Baudrillard (1998) proposes that the models and mannequins conspicuous in consumer culture are ‘simultaneously [a] negation of the flesh and the exaltation of fashion’ (p. 141). Conversely, it might be argued that contemporary consumerism entails a massive extension and eroticisation of epidermises. The bioeconomics of consumerism involves ceaseless and intimate miscegenation between capital, commodity and the corporeal. This results in both an objectification of the body and a somatization of the commodity. In his Critique of Commodity Aesthetics, Haug (1986) explores ‘the generalized sexualization of commodities . . . the commodity’s skin and body’ as it penetrates the ‘pores of human sensuality’ (pp. 42, 76). The passion for commodities, their pursuit and possession by consumers might be diagnosed as a socially-sanctioned fetishism. The collection of shoes and the collection of human feet of course involve radically different fetishistic (not to mention ethical) intensities, but these activities share psychodynamic similarities.
For Baudrillard (1996: 87) there is a ‘manifest connection between collecting and sexuality . . . it constitutes a regression to the anal stage, which is characterised by accumulation, orderliness, aggressive retention’. Case studies suggest that serial killers are often devoted collectors (see Vronsky, 2004). Their histories typically begin with killing and collecting dead animals and when they progress to human prey the murder is accompanied by the taking of a trophy. In Collectors, Julian Hobbs offers an uncomfortable analogy between this trophy-taking, the hoarding practised by the cult followers of serial killers and the collection of images by the documentary film-maker. This practice is similarly conspicuous in fictional representations of the serial killer from Norman Bates’s collection of stuffed birds, to his namesake, Patrick Bateman, who compulsively collects (and seemingly without distinction) clothes, gadgets, music CDs, body parts and serial killer biographies: ‘Bateman reads these biographies all the time: Ted Bundy and Son of Sam and Fatal Vision and Charlie Manson. All of them’ (Ellis, 1991: 92). In Silence of the Lambs, Gumb collects flayed flesh while the more refined (at least while incarcerated) Lecter ‘collect[s] church collapses, recreationally’ alongside fine art prints (Harris, 1990: 21). The killer in Kiss the Girls (1997), like Jame Gumb, collects his victims and hordes them underground. Similarly, in The Cell, the killer locks his victims in underground storage before using them to build a collection of human dolls. Although the killer in The Bone Collector is only interested in accumulating skeletal fragments, his activities similarly require subterranean investigations. Digging beneath the psychological surface of the collector and his system of ‘sequestered objects’, Baudrillard (1996) detects a ‘powerful anal-sadistic impulse’:
The system may even enter a destructive phase, implying the self-destruction of the subject. Maurice Rheims evokes the ritualised ‘execution’ of objects – a kind of suicide based on the impossibility of ever circumscribing death. It is not rare . . . for the subject eventually to destroy the sequestered object or being out of a feeling that he can never completely rid himself of the adversity of the world, and of his own sexuality. (pp. 98–9)
Irrespective of the object, ‘what you really collect is always yourself’ (Baudrillard, 1996: 91). Serial killing, like consumerism, is driven by a sense of lack. Psychological profiles of serial killers typically diagnose the cause of the subject’s compulsive behaviour as a profound sense of incompletion (see Seltzer, 1998). Although of a different order, comparable dynamics are evident in what Haug (1986) calls the ‘commodity-craving’ of consumer sensibility. Estimates vary (from 1 to 25%) but an increasing number of studies agree that compulsive shopping is a recognizable and burgeoning problem (Hartson and Koran, 2002). American Psycho offers an extended parallelism between compulsive consumerism and compulsive violence. Attempting to describe the sensations he experiences after his first documented attack Bateman relies on consumerist tropes: ‘I feel ravenous, pumped up, as if I’d just worked out . . . or just embraced the first line of cocaine, inhaled the first puff of a fine cigar, sipped the first glass of Cristal. I’m starving and need something to eat’ (Ellis, 1991: 132).
Ellis juxtaposes exhaustive catalogues of commodities with exhaustive catalogues of sexual violence and proposes that the frenzy of consumer desire climaxes, for Bateman, not with fulfillment, but increasing boredom and acute anxiety.
In Serial Killers, Mark Seltzer (1998: 64) proposes that
The question of serial killing cannot be separated from the general forms of seriality, collection and counting conspicuous in consumer society . . . and the forms of fetishism – the collecting of things and representations, persons and person-things like bodies – that traverse it.
Every aspect of Bateman’s existence is structured by the compulsively circular logics of capitalist reproduction. Bateman (Norman Bates’s yuppie double) has seen the film Body Double 37 times. When he is not watching Body Double over and over, Bateman compulsively consumes other examples of serialized mass culture: daily episodes and reruns of The Patty Winters Show (a parodic double of the Oprah Winfrey Show); restaurant reviews and fashion tips in weekly magazines; crime stories in the newspapers and on TV, endlessly repeated video footage of plane crashes. On a shopping expedition, Bateman finds himself mesmerized while ‘looking at the rows, the endless rows of ties’ (Ellis, 1991: 296). On the run from the police he is similarly paralysed by rows of luxury cars (BMW 3, 5, 7 series, Jaguar, Lexus) and thus unable to choose a getaway vehicle. Bateman collects clothes in series (matching suits, shirts, shoes), beauty products, music CDs, varieties of mineral water, recipes and menus. Despite the advertising promises of unique purchases that offer instant fulfilment, there are no singular only serial objects in consumer society and ‘each commodity fills one gap while opening up another: each commodity and sale entails a further one’ (Haug, 1986: 91).
The pullulation of serial objects is accompanied by the expansion of serialized spaces. Throughout American Psycho, Bateman is continually lost and unable to distinguish between identical office buildings, restaurants, nightclubs and apartment buildings. This confusing interchangeability extends to people. Although clothing is instantly recognizable (everyone identifies everyone else by labels) people repeatedly misidentify each other. Thus, American Psycho underscores Jeffrey Nealon’s (1998: 112) disturbing contention that, in contemporary consumer society, ‘identity, for both commodity and human, is an effect rather than a cause of serial iteration’. The killer in Se7en, the anonymously named John Doe, attempts to build a distinctive identity by performing a series of grisly murders. At the first crime scene, as noted earlier, Doe’s arrangement of Campbell’s soup cans clearly alludes to Warhol’s work on the seriality and compulsive repetition of consumerism. Manhunter (1986), the first of the Hannibal Lecter films, makes a similar point in more comic fashion. A shot-reverse-shot sequence in a supermarket is littered with glaring continuity errors as father and son remain motionless while the products lined up in neat rows on the shelves behind them change (and the sequence ends with the detective framed by the cereals aisle). In Manhunter, Dollarhyde’s repetitive violence is partly inspired by Hannibal Lecter. This repetition is repeated in Red Dragon, the remake of Manhunter. Serial killers are often copycats and serial killer cinema repeats this trait: in Copycat the killer repeats famous murders and in Virtuosity a virtual criminal is manufactured from a serial killer database. Serial killer films themselves become series, spawning sequel after sequel. Although these narratives typically conclude with the murder of the killer, the audience is reassured that he will return in a vicious circle that begs the question: can seriality itself be killed?
DARK SATANIC MALLS: Killers, Consumers, and the Living Dead
We suffer not only from the living, but the dead. (Marx, 1990: 91)
[Bateman] moved like a zombie towards Bloomingdale’s. (Ellis, 1991: 179)
Serial representations of serial killers are often haunted by suggestions of the supernatural. In Silence of the Lambs, for example, one of Lecter’s guards nervously inquires whether he is ‘some kind of vampire’. This question echoes the nicknames given to serial killer Richard Trenton Chase (‘Dracula’ and the ‘Vampire Killer of Sacramento’). In Psycho Paths, Philip Simpson (2000) tracks the ways in which ‘fictional representations of contemporary serial killers obviously plunder the vampire narratives of the past century and a half’ (p. 4). Simpson also proposes that many of the supernatural monsters that have evolved from folklore (vampires, werewolves, zombies etc.) may have been inspired by historical serial killers avant la lettre. Historical and fictional serial killers are often traced through a supernatural stencil and in this concluding section, I shall consider the supernatural monsters of contemporary popular culture as metaphorical serial killers/consumers.
Since the 80s, cinema and video audiences have consumed a succession of successful horror franchises founded on supernatural serial killers: for example, Freddie in Nightmare on Elm Street (parts 1–8), Jason in Friday the 13th (parts 1–13) and Michael Myers in Halloween (parts 1–8). The popularity of this sub-genre has grown alongside the increased media coverage of serial killing and might be interpreted as a form of displaced engagement with the urgent reality of violent crime. Within this gallery of celebrity monsters the vampire continues to be a conspicuous presence. Dracula, for example, continues to appear in fiction and film, comics and cartoons, children’s culture (Count Quackula) and breakfast cereals (‘Count Chocula’). The publication of Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire in 1976 was the prelude to a renaissance in vampire film and fiction: Rice’s own highly successful Vampire Chronicles (including Tale of the Body Thief in which an angst-ridden vampire assuages his conscience by preying on serial killers) have been augmented by Blade and Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, Underworld and Van Helsing. These gothic incarnations of the predatory serial killer have never been so legion. In criticism of this oeuvre it has become almost compulsory to read vampirism as a metaphor for capitalism. This trend can be traced to Marx’s (1990) own penchant for vampiric tropes: ‘Capital is dead labour which, vampire-like, lives by sucking living labour, and lives the more, the more labour it sucks’ (p. 342). Perhaps Marx, an avid reader of horror fiction, was inspired here by the serialization, in 1847, of James Malcolm Ryner’s Varney the Vampire. Despite his aspirations to scientific objectivity, a gothic lexicon is employed repeatedly in Marx’s work: Capital is crowded with references to vampires, the Wallachian Boyar (a.k.a Vlad Tepes, the historical inspiration for Stoker’s Dracula), werewolves, witchcraft, spells, magic and the occult and Marx claimed repeatedly to have detected ‘necromancy’ at the heart of the commodity form. In the work of Walter Benjamin, similarly packed with gothic tropes, ‘necromancy’ elides with necrophilia. For Benjamin, the sensual engagement between consumers and the products of dead labour blurs the lines between lust (appetites) and leiche (the corpse). Precisely this disturbing entangle- ment of death and eroticism is at the core of the predatory vampire’s charisma. The vampire has fascinated consumers and Marxist critics alike – the latter as an allegorical embodiment of the monstrous and mesmerising energies of capital.
A far less seductive version of the living dead, one who has received relatively little critical attention alongside the aristocratic vampire, is the zombie. The MO of the zombie – cannibalism – is also practised by many historical and fictional serial killers. In fact, the consumption of human flesh, blood and organs is the most transgressive taboo performed by historical and fictional serial killers from Jeffry Dahmner (subject of Joyce Carol Oates’s Zombie) to Hannibal Lecter, from Armin Meiwes to Patrick Bateman and Leatherface. Cannibal studies has become a burgeoning field in contemporary critical theory and one of its most contentious assertions is that modern consumerism constitutes a mode of neocannibalism. For example, Crystal Bartolovich (1998) proposes that consumerism embodies the cultural logic of ‘late cannibalism’, Deborah Root (1996) detects a ‘cannibal culture’ in contemporary consumerism, art, popular culture and tourism while Dean MacCannell (1992) has similarly called for a reinterpretation of western tourism and other aspects of consumerism in terms of cannibalism. In a variety of fields, from ecology and tourism to sexuality and organ transplants, from business take-overs to pop culture intertextuality, critics in various disciplines have uncovered intricate intersections between cannibalist and consumerist modes of incorporation. Although contemporary capitalism is of course founded on a figurative rather than literal practice, with its relentless consumption of land and labour, resources and spectacles, cannibalism without necrophagy still mirrors the modes of desire and domination, the obsessive violence, wastefulness and irrational excesses that under- pinned classical cannibal practices. According to Deborah Root (1996: 3), one might detect in the endless hunger of late capitalism a ‘pervasive cannibal unconscious’.
The past few years have seen a dramatic upsurge in films that focus on flesh-eaters: Land of the Dead (2005) and Return of the Living Dead 5 (2005), Resident Evil (2002) and Resident Evil: Apocalypse (2004) (based on a hugely successful survival horror video game franchise), 28 Days Later (2002), Children of the Living Dead (2001) and Shaun of the Dead (2004). US popular culture began its colonization of Haitian folklore in 1932 with Bela Lugosi starring in White Zombie. The setting of Victor Halperin’s film on a Caribbean sugar plantation offered a suggestive analogy between zombification and slavery. Although most see the zombie as sheer superstition others have read it, like vampirism, as political metaphor. In his preface to Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, Jean-Paul Sartre used the metaphor of colonial subjects as zombies. On occasion zombification could be more than mere metaphor. In 1918, in Haiti, newspapers reported that most of the employees of the American sugar corporation who worked on the cane plantations were zombies. Conspiracy theorists proposed that US chemists had finally caught up with voodoo medicine and had started poisoning the workforce to produce docile and submissive labourers.
George Romero’s seminal zombie film, Dawn of the Dead (1978), overturned the tradition of offering zombies as symbols of oppressed colonial labour and instead offered a gothic caricature of consumers as the living dead. Dawn of the Dead is set largely in Monroeville, a shopping mall in Cleveland, some time after a zombie epidemic has swept the nation. Four human survivors seek refuge at the mall but their respite is interrupted by the arrival of hordes of zombies. One of the characters explains their presence thus: ‘some kind of instinct. Memory . . . of what they used to do. This was an important place in their lives . . . It’s not us they’re after, it’s the place. They remember that they want to be here’. The zombies seem like slapstick shoppers: they are hypnotized by the mannequins, they fall over on the escalators or into fountains while looking at glistening coins. Initially, the humans have no trouble in trapping and killing the zombie-shoppers using muzak, PA announcements and by posing in shop windows as consumable bait. Gradually, however, the threat increases and Romero progressively collapses the distance and differences between the human characters and the zombie mob.
How pertinent is Romero’s carnivalesque parody of mindless consumerism? In The Malling of America, William Kowinski (2002) describes the psychology of shopping in malls as a ‘zombie effect’. The architectural design of malls induces consumers to wander for hours in an endless pursuit of goods and services. In ‘Islands of the Living Dead: the Social Geography of McDonaldisation’, George Ritzer (2003) focuses on the devivifying influence of commodification. In accordance with a socioeconomic and psychological design perfected by McDonalds, the landscapes of consumerism are so structured, standardized and disciplined that the subjects moving through them are, he contests, simultaneously alive and dead. Ritzer borrows a phrase from Baudrillard to describe this as a world that resembles ‘the smile of a corpse in a funeral home’ (p. 127). Sometimes shoppers shuffle numbly by instinct between aisles and shops (like Romero zombies), but sometimes they can get nasty (like Romero zombies). Rhonda Lieberman (1993) and other analysts of shopping disorders have commented on increases in violence in consumer spaces: mall hysteria, sales frenzy and even full- blown riots. For example, when IKEA opened a new store in Edmonton, North London, in 2005, a riot involving 7000 people and multiple stabbings ensued (Oliver, 2005). The zombie desires to consume all the time and when it is prevented from consuming it becomes violent. An emergency broadcast in Romero’s Dawn of the Dead explains why the zombie plague has spread so quickly across the country. The living dead only consume around 5 per cent of their victims before moving on in search of the next meal. The violence, wastefulness and instinctive serial consumption of the zombie makes it, like the serial killer, a gothic projection of the commodifying fury of late capitalism. Monsters Inc. is a booming business. The spectacular increase in images and narratives of serial killing in millennial western culture, from the media coverage of historical homicide to the proliferation of fictional and supernatural fantasies of serial homicide, ultimately embodies the consumption of consumption in a necrocapitalist order.
References
Annesley, James (1998) Blank Fictions: Consumerism, Culture and the Contemporary American Novel. London: Pluto.
Bartolovich, Crystal (1998) ‘Consumerism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Cannibalism’, in Barker, Hulme and Iversen (eds) Cannibalism and the Colonial World, 204–37. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Baudelaire, Charles (1998) The Flowers of Evil. Oxford: Oxford World’s Classics. Baudrillard, Jean (1996) The System of Objects. London: Verso.
Baudrillard, Jean (1998) The Consumer Society: Myths and Structures. London: SAGE Publications.
Benjamin, Walter (1999a) Illuminations. London: Pimlico.
Benjamin, Walter (1999b) The Arcades Project. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Blau, Herbert (1987) The Eye of the Prey: Subversions of the Postmodern. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.
Burroughs, William (1965) ‘The Art of Fiction’, Paris Review 35: 1–37.
Conrath, Robert (1996) ‘Serial Heroes: A Sociocultural Probing into Excessive Consumption’, in John Dean and Jean-Paul Gabilliet (eds) European Readings of American Popular Culture, pp. 147–58. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press.
Derrida, Jacques (1995) Points . . .: Interviews, 1979–1994. Stanford, CT: Stanford University Press.
Dyer, Richard (1999) Se7en. London: BFI.
Easton Ellis, Bret (1991) American Psycho. London: Picador.
Fanon, Frantz (1963) The Wretched of the Earth. New York: Grove.
Freud, Sigmund (1981) Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Halberstam, Judith (1995) Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
Harris, Thomas (1990) Silence of the Lambs. London: Mandarin.
Hartson, H. J. and Koran, L. M (2002) ‘Impulsive Behaviour in a Consumer Culture’, International Journal of Psychiatry in Clinical Practice 6(2): 65–8.
Haug, W. F. (1986) Critique of Commodity Aesthetics: Appearance, Advertising and Sexuality in Capitalist Society. Cambridge: Polity.
Jenkins, Philip (1994) Using Murder: The Social Construction of Serial Homicide. New York: Aldine de Gruyter.
Kowinski, William (2002) The Malling of America. Philadelphia, PA: Xlibris.
Lacan, Jacques (1989) Ecrits: A Selection. London: Routledge.
Lieberman, Rhonda (1993) ‘Shopping Disorders’, in B. Massumi (ed.) The Politics of Everyday Fear, pp. 245–68. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
MacCannell, Dean (1992) Empty Meeting Grounds: Tourist Papers Vol. 1. London: Routledge.
Marx, Karl (1990) Capital: Volume 1. London: Penguin.
Nealon, Jeffrey T. (1998) Alterity Politics: Ethics and Performative Subjectivity. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
Oliver, Mark (2005) ‘Slowly but Steadily, Madness Descended’, Guardian, 10 February.
Priest, Christopher (1998) The Extremes. New York: Simon & Schuster.
Renner, Michael (2002) The Anatomy of Resource Wars. Washington, DC: Worldwatch Institute.
Ritzer, George (2003) ‘Islands of the Living Dead: The Social Geography of McDonaldization’, American Behavioral Scientist 47(2): 119–36.
Root, Deborah (1996) Cannibal Culture: Art, Appropriation and the Commodification of Difference. Boulder, CO: Westview.
Seltzer, Mark (1998) Serial Killers: Death and Life in America’s Wound Culture. London: Routledge.
Simpson, Philip (2000) Psycho Paths: Tracking the Serial Killer through Contemporary American Film and Fiction. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press.
Tithecott, Richard (1999) Of Men and Monsters: Jeffrey Dahmer and the Construction of the Serial Killer. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press.
Vronsky, Peter (2004) Serial Killers: The Methods and Madness of Monsters. New York: Berkley Books.
#deviance#commodification#Consumerism#popular culture#serial killers#violence#true crime#serial murder#hannibal lecter#spectacle#consumption#media consumption#murderabilia#violence of commodification#deviance studies
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The Last Light
There is a moment in David Lynch's Twin Peaks: The Return that on its incandescent surface could have been lifted, weightless, from the great post-war dream of materialist deliverance: The top on the convertible is down, the radio on; The Paris Sisters are singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky. Within the tapestry of this early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb eternally associated with Romance and Death (two conditions Spector knew all too well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris is a siren sound from the American Beyond. We could be hearing a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt. We don't know. We'll never know. Just as Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood keeps us guessing with the elusive murmur that “Sharon Tate will never die,” granting her a gaudy, wondrous L.A. to cavort in where it's 1969 forever and movie stars still matter, so we find ourselves in Tarantino’s version of paradise (complete with flame throwers to the face). In this oneiric echo chamber, momentarily shared by Lynch and Tarantino, Surrealism smiles down upon a vision of American blondness; muscle cars soaked in sunlight; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion; candy for the eye and ear.
David Lynch’s favorite film, to this day, remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Western Europe's sorcerer of confectionary delights, Federico Fellini; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. And here you have a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together and spun like ribbon candy: a blur of four-wheeled luxury from the New World, zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx.
Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speeds, Fellini was heard to lament that “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words in 1957 for the pages of Film Culture, was sittings in the literal passenger seat of the ideal metaphor of post-war ebullience in action: that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party); expert, 20th century precision guiding them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle. At those velocities, anything could make sense.
“What for you is the greatest human quality?”, Bluestone asks. Fellini responds, “Love of one’s fellows,” a period-appropriate oath that rings true to his brand of ecumenical solidarity.
“The greatest fault?”
“Egoism.”
Try, if you will, to imagine our more locally sourced egoists nodding along with Fellini in soulful agreement on that one. As a kind of compatriot of Edgar Allan Poe, David Lynch (and, to some extent, Tarantino) spawns from his abiding axiom that “The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetic topic in the world.” In Lynch’s hands, American television has become a brightly lit seance for Poe’s ethereal dead. Immortal creatures afflicted with the dream of physical existence, then afflicting the dreamers. Twin Peaks: The Return modifies Poe's axiomatic truth with great help from Amanda Seyfried's Becky and her pair of visionary's eyes, melting Spector's dark edifice of sugar in deathless, Sternbergian close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above for a sun to swallow her whole. We can only witness and internalize this shimmering ingenue trading places with Old Sol, as if the drugs she's consumed have entered our system and not hers.
Filmmakers like Fellini and Lynch celebrate bodily extremes in intriguing, if differing ways that should naturally gallop right beyond the pale but nevertheless become wholly, weirdly digestible. It is perhaps the innocent glee, even wonderment, of these artists in the vast variety of shapes the human body can assume; innocence which acts as a giant eraser for every awareness on our part of how physical representation in the age of political correctness is meant to function. Lynch is able to present the disabled as by turns childlike, mysterious or magical beings without ever worrying about lending them agency (The Elephant Man's John Merrick is a passive whipping boy for seemingly the whole of Victorian London) or the lie of adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks iteration includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken).
Fellini's dwarfs and grotesques, on the other hand, emerge from the struggle of a one-time Marc'Aurelio cartoonist willing one-dimensional images into three-dimensional embodiment. His big women, of course, are fetish figures. They always were. Gargantuan beauties, evidence of a sexual ideal formed in infancy: the big Italian mammissima, seen from below. As Fellini grew into a rather large adult himself, this ideal was simply re-scaled accordingly (even the icy mountain of Anita Ekberg takes on new implication). Goddesses all, they are, however, not meant for conventional movie stardom.
And what of Tarantino? Once Upon a Time's Margot Robbie IS the no-longer-doomed Sharon Tate as she watches herself on the big screen; enjoying a thrill that few have ever known so guilelessly that any half-baked charges of narcissism shrivel to nullity before they can escape a single throat. Here before us is an essential glimpse into the vanishing phenomenon of movie stardom itself, reflexive handwringing from the woke balconies notwithstanding. Tarantino has at last achieved something transcendental: even his grotesques — slack-jawed, gap-toothed, gormless members of the Manson Family conflated with more contemporary Identitarian cultists on the lookout for 'Lookism', knives unsheathed — are downright mythic. Robbie's Tate is a visage both generically perfect and possessed by the angels, every one of them a blond resident of LA County, sincere and unknowable as desert light.
The vampires, creatures of night slain by sunlight, infiltrated the movie theaters in the 1920s and never left. They sit next to us in the dark, having ceded the power to hypnotize us to the glowing screen itself. Photochemical vagaries invariably allow movie darkness to behave in impossible ways; as if the physical properties of film itself knew no rules, and thus invited us to accept its essential anarchy without question. Before us is a darkness that GLOWS.
A Black & White image flipped into negative can produce black fire, or the black sunlight which illuminated the Transylvanian forests of Nosferatu, through which a box-like carriage rattles at Mack Sennett speed. But with only the smallest underexposure, a little dupey degradation of the print, or even a little imagination (such collaboration is not discouraged), this liquid blackness will spread anywhere, everywhere; the most luminous pestilence known to creation. Be it in the laughing nightmare of Fleischer cartoons of old (Out of the Inkwell, indeed) or Jean Epstein's photogenie phantasmagoria, we're left to wonder. Is daylight burning out the corner of a building, or is it the blackness of the building which is eating into the sky? As with so many such questions, film permits us no answer. We are to simply watch as characters smudge, their shadows emanating out beyond themselves, pulsing and flickering with an obsidian internal flame.
By the time Jean Epstein adapted The Fall of the House of Usher in 1928, it could wisely be said that Poe had been already aggrandized through the mechanism of carbon-arc projection; which is but one way to say that the vision that once seemed unharnessable, had at last been industrialized. Dragooned. Pressed into an ever more modern service at a pace to be measured in frames-per-second. Artists like Epstein and Chomon were the first generation to wield an immense cultural and commercial instrument; at once abidingly real and totally incomprehensible. No medium of expression predating cinema could so thoroughly lift audiences from linear time, or could as convincingly, in the words of Jean Epstein, render death as a conscious state.
Transcendentalism barely scratches the surface here. A more apposite term — the one he nuances in his film theory, “photogenie” (a genesis out of light) — pulls transitory moments, otherwise escaping human perception, into focus. If Poe engrosses us in Romantic conceptions of death as a means to visionary truth, Epstein reveals that same supposedly “elusive” end in our earthly world of telephones, sports cars, Kodak cameras for the every-man and moderne manicures for up-to-the-minute dandies.
The Victorians were falling away. And with them a system of reality contained in narrow, overwrought performances. Withered technique as a means of reflecting Nature — or, to quote Balzac, the “conjugation of objects with light” — was displaced, uncrowned by Jean Delville’s Death (1890), which embodies an altogether different kind of virtuosity, one no Academy could ever comprehend. The charcoal drawing and ode to Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death yearns with a combination of verve and starkness toward a capital “G” Gloom destined to escape salons.
Coming of age in a series of shady elsewheres — the fairgrounds, nickelodeon parlors and movie palaces of an Edwardian America — nitrate and its twinkling mineral essence gave Poe's crepuscular light its time to shine and thereby illuminate the world. No longer held in the solitary confinement of a page of reproduced text or an image, however still, rendered in paint or ink. Poe's singularly tormented vision was finally written alchemically, in cinematographic rays beamed through silver salts; into moving images of such aggressive vitality as to blast every rational thing from one's mind.
All hail magic mirrors! Celestial mandalas! Giant eggs and butterfly women! Segundo de Chomón's The Red Spectre (1907) ruthlessly invades our eyes with a wraith-magician dissolving through his coffin lid in a red, hand-tinted, flame-flickering hell. His caped, skull-masked presence was to herald the manic new thespic truth that, from this moment forward, the art of acting is in how you respond to light, and how light responds to you. The Specter of Chomon's dark bauble is in every element Poe's Red Death — japing and performing tricks for us, his adoring fans and welcome guests, before announcing our doom — literary metaphor slammed against a literal backdrop of amber stalactites, pellucid as an ossuary.
Doctor Pretorius might have been musing on the history of cinema in 1935’s The Bride of Frankenstein when he said: “Sometimes I have wondered whether life wouldn't be much more amusing if we were all devils, no nonsense about angels and being good.”
by Daniel Riccuito, Tom Sutpen and David Cairns
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