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Why We Need Wonder Woman Now

A few weeks ago, the blogs and news outlets that follow this kind of story got their hands on some casting script pages and character descriptions for the CW’s developing Wonder Woman project. From these very sketchy documents and the network’s superhero history, it looks like they’re going the fairly traditional route with Diana’s origin: Already mostly grown, Diana is a visitor from the Amazon’s island Themyscira to America, with Steve Trevor acting as a kind of guide to what appears to Diana as a mostly alien culture.  Most heartening is the idea that this take on Wonder Woman seems to hem much closer to the eponymous and excellent 2009 animated film than the atrocity that was the David E. Kelley pilot.  So why do I think this approach to her origins is so important?  For the same reason it worked so well–and so unexpectedly and complicatedly politically–in the 2009 version.  When Diana’s outsiderness is emphasized, she can point out the ludicrousness of certain aspects of contemporary culture’s gender politics.  After encountering a woman who asks Steve to move a desk for her to get her pen, she says, “Remarkable, the advanced brainwashing that has been perpetuated on the females of your culture. Raised from birth to believe they’re not strong enough to compete with the boys, and then as adults, taught to trade on their very femininity.”  Themyscira is a place literally removed from patriarchal power, which allows Diana to see the effects of such all the more clearly when she comes to America. Even when she feels she must adhere to the culture to hide her identity, she does so mockingly.

This is the kind of Wonder Woman we need, a feminist and a warrior, a superhero and a woman trying to live in this world.  Moreover, this seems like the kind of superhero the CW might actually be able to deliver.  With Arrow working at similarly complicated but worthwhile approaches to class warfare, the path seems marked for a more political Wonder Woman.

As some have pointed out, Arrow sometimes suffers from its approach, with class warfare attributed to a nefarious cabal of evildoers and Oliver Queen’s propensity for killing off underlings undercutting the institutional nature of class disparities.  But this dichotomy between the stated morals of the hero and the actions that seem to perpetuate that which he or she is trying to battle is part of the base mythology of superheroes. Superman’s “truth, justice, and the American Way” can toe the line of fascism. Heroes and their nemeses are often designed as two sides of the same coin: Captain America and Red Skull share their patriotism; Thor and Loki are both gods; and Batman and the Joker both use the power of theatricality and fear.  For Wonder Woman, her main nemesis has most often been her visual representation.  She is a woman warrior who can look like this: 

But more often looks like this in her media incarnations:

The balance of Wonder Woman as a feminist subject and as an object of desire is one she must strike in order to succeed.  The Lynda Carter version of Wonder Woman reflected this difficult balance as it aired during the height of “jiggle television” that was also the height of second wave feminism. Objectification is part of the CW take on superheroes (one need only count the astounding number of minutes Ollie’s been shirtless on Arrow), but it’s often countered by fairly decent character development to make these heroes rounded, complex individuals instead of one-dimensional symbolic ciphers. By emphasizing Diana’s outsider perspective, she can have it both ways: commenting on the ridiculousness of a culture that makes a habit of reducing a woman who lifts cars to a mere object of the male gaze without disrupting the unfortunate television and comic book standards that make that gaze the norm.

Finally, and perhaps more importantly for the “Why” of my title is the fact that Wonder Woman can be doubly mythic, tapping into both wider allegorical mythical figures because of her connection to the Greek pantheon while also standing as a mythic feminist icon, representing its changing politics and cultural place.  Wonder Woman can fight war by fighting War (Ares) or fear by fighting Phobos, but she can also wage war against sexism because she has so often been held up as a demigod of feminism, striding across the world and its entertainment media as a warrior for the feminist cause. She, like all good myths, is a woman out of time who can thus be of any time.  As female lawmakers are thrown out of their own legislatures for saying “vagina,” and women’s healthcare hearings feature panels of all men, her time is once again now.

Operation: Publication a success.

This is part of why the blog has been far less active over the last few months.

Check out my article in Networking Knowledgehttp://ojs.meccsa.org.uk/index.php/netknow/article/view/271

Any feedback is appreciated.  Hopefully more such post to come.

Updates

I know I’ve been away from the blog for a while. Finishing the first year of a PhD program while teaching two new courses will do that to a person. But I’m here to provide some links to some of the work I’ve been doing elsewhere.

On Antenna:

Mom Enough?: The Return of the Absentee Mother as Threat”
Looking at that TIME cover and the threat of returning/returned absentee mothers as potential threats on Alias, Grimm, and Revenge.

Recaps/Reactions to
-The Academy Awards
-The SAG Awards (Scorcese!)


My course syllabi (I taught History of Motion Pictures and History of American Television Genres last semester.)

I hope to get back to this blog this summer.

Once Upon A Time‘s Monomythic Fairy Tale

“I know the hero never believes at first. If he did, it wouldn’t be a very good story.”

Once Upon A Bad Photoshop Job

Diving back into this blog after a number of monumental changes in my life (new program, new city, new work), I’m going back to an old interest of mine: the durability of the monomyth. The monomyth, also known as the hero’s journey, was identified by Joseph Campbell as an underlying structure of the majority of Western folklore and myths. It follows the hero through the call to adventure, various trials, victory, and finally reintegration into society. I wrote my undergraduate thesis in part about the re-workings of this narrative structure in Jewish-American fiction, and part of my work on that project included looking at the variety of ways the hero’s journey structure has appeared in recent popular culture. The best example of this narrative is, of course, Star Wars. George Lucas directly attributes much of the film’s structure to Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With A Thousand Faces.  Star Wars succeeds–at least partially–because it wears its monomyth on its sleeve. While I appreciate the variety of cultural producers who have twisted and reworked the hero’s journey over the years, there’s value in the commitment to telling a familiar story well. Which brings me to Once Upon A Time.

Like, apparently, 12 million other American viewers, I tuned into Once Upon A Time‘s premiere two weeks ago. I was instantly enamored with the fairy-tales-in-our-world program, but I didn’t quite know why. I had thought I’d be constantly comparing the show to Bill Willingham’s brilliant comic series, Fables, and find it wanting, but while watching the pilot that thought rarely entered my mind. Perhaps it was the unbridled cheese, perhaps it was the fantasy, or perhaps it was the power of the Disney machine. I couldn’t pin the appeal down beyond it being a fun ride. Then I watched last Sunday’s episode in which the plot-device-in-child-form, Henry utters the quote that starts this post. He’s practically citing Campbell, referencing the Call to Adventure and more explicitly, the hero’s Refusal of the Call (here, only an initial refusal).

The (New) Hope

Once Upon A Time appears to be taking Campbell’s conception of the hero of myth and applying it to the world of fairy tales. In The Hero With A Thousand Faces Campbell writes:

The composite hero of the monomyth is a personage of exceptional gifts. . . . He and/or the world in which he finds himself suffers from a symbolical deficiency. In fairy tales this may be as slight as the lack of a certain golden ring, whereas in apocalyptic vision, the physical and spiritual life of the whole earth can be represented as fallen, or on the point of falling into ruin. Typically, the hero of the fairy tale achieves a domestic, microcosmic triumph, and the hero of myth a world-historical macrocosmic triumph. (37-8)

In Once Upon A Time, a story explicitly and wholly intent on fairy tales deficient in their own symbolic history, the fairy tale hero and the mythical hero are interestingly conflated. Emma Swann, the protagonist pictured above (with the Star-Wars-echoing designation of “The Hope”) is the child of Snow White and Prince Charming, destined to awake the town filled of fairy-tale figures from their ignorance of their own history. The macrocosm of the fairy-tale kingdom from where they came has been funneled into the microcosm of Storeybrook, Maine, the town Emma must save.  In her domestic achievement, she, supposedly, will save an entire world.  Her goal, in fact, is the reintegration of society itself (melding fairy-world and Storybrooke), and in doing so, reintegrating herself into the family she never knew she had (Snow White and Prince Charming).

With only two episodes aired so far, I can only speculate on the true influence of the monomythic structure on the show, but there certainly appears to be some intriguing affinities between the two.  Emma’s son, Henry, appears to be fulfilling dual roles as Caller to the hero and her supernatural guide (despite his key characteristic being that he is not in any fairy tales), telling her about her destiny and giving her the knowledge he believes she needs to fulfill her storybook role.  When Emma crossed the First Threshold by deciding to stay in Storybrooke, it is a moment of re-invigoration more than self-annihilation (marked by the town clock, symbol of the characters being stuck out of time, moving for the first time in memory).  The changes to the familiar structure are mild and necessary to keep the story fresh, but at its core, Once Upon A Time seems happy to embrace its fairy-tale hero’s journey.

Morality at Home and Morality at Work: Guilt and Repentance on The Good Wife

I admit to being a latecomer to The Good Wife.  I only began watching it a few weeks ago, succumbing to various recommendations, but I am all caught up and felt I had to write something about it. The Good Wife fills a space recently vacated by the original Law and Order by entertainingly and critically using “ripped from the headlines” episodic storytelling that is grounded in characters who exist in the tension between idealism and practicality.  But unlike Law and Order, The Good Wife revels in its melodramatic serial elements.  It recalls 19th century novels, particularly Austen and Dickens in a few ways: the constant presence of public scrutiny, the romantic tension between Alicia and Will (and especially the missed connection represented by the “lost” voicemail from the end of the first season, reminiscent of the miscommunications that undergird the romantic novels), and, perhaps most interestingly, the kind of semi-Victorian attention to guilt.  Guilt is not shame in this conceptualization, though they are linked.  I’m using guilt here to play not only on the legal elements of the show but also to confine the affect to the specific sphere of the Florrick family.  While Peter and Alicia might feel shame (or at least portray themselves in public as ashamed as required by the political machine) as a result of the press and public attention to Peter’s affair, guilt within the Florrick family is a little more slippery.

The reference to morality at home and morality at work in the title of this post is lifted from the second-season episode “Wrongful Termination.”  Michael J. Fox’s character, Louis Canning, an in-court antagonist to Alicia, describes her as feeling guilty about what she does in her job, particularly the moral compromises required of her as a high-powered lawyer.  He advocates moral compartmentalization while much of Alicia’s character arc over the two seasons occurs in the space between her (and others’) idea of herself as a moral person and the moral pragmatism required of her as both a lawyer and a politician’s wife.  And yet, as Suzanne Leonard wrote for Flow, Alicia is often afforded a degree of privacy that somewhat obscures the question of her morality.  She is shaped by the political world around her and is mostly reactive to it.  Attention to her morality (and her guilt) is elliptical.

Giving Angela Landsbury a run for her money in the category of playing hateful, manipulative, political matriarchs

Jackie Florrick: She may look harmless, but she can out-maneuver Eli Gold (while being less charming).

If Alicia does, as Canning claims, go home and feel guilty about her work, it seems in direct contrast to Peter and his mother, Jackie.  The show executes a fairly masterful work of sleight-of-hand in its jump from the initial press conference where Peter resigns from his post as State Attorney and admits to his adultery to six months later when Peter is in jail and Alicia has started her job.  It keeps the viewer from seeing his apologies, from seeing his expressions of guilt.  By the time the action of the series really begins, it’s six months later and any apologies seem rote instead of earnest.  Jackie tells Peter in “Boom,” “You are a good man. You want to blame yourself. But you apologized. You apologized again, and again. Anybody who wants another apology from you only wants you to be weak. So stop this. Stop this now. My son will not be made weak.”  It’s a moment that she is pitting herself against Alicia and her requirements and reminders of Peter’s guilt.

Apologies are easy; repentance is hard, and it’s repentance that Alicia seems to want.  Repentance requires acknowledgement of guilt from within then earnest attempts to atone; it requires humility and acknowledgement of one’s own weakness.  Jackie thinks only in terms of public scrutiny: Peter apologized publicly and went through the motions of a repentant politician, but–and this may be due to Chris Noth’s performance and intertextual persona–Peter never seemed all that guilty at home, particularly in his relationship with Alicia.  He accepted her requirements for his return home, including sleeping in separate rooms, but he often framed his self-reform in terms of never committing the same sin again.  This is a key element in religious repentance, yes, but it elides over the deeper issues in his personality and in their marriage that led to his affairs.  He goes through the steps of repentance, especially as mandated by Christianity, but I never got the sense that Peter feels guilty.  And Jackie serves as an absolving force, pushing Peter away from feelings of guilt and casting Alicia’s desire to see his guilt as completely ludicrous and cruel.  Jackie even sets herself against the possibility of Peter’s movement toward guilt and atonement when she tells the pastor from whom Peter seeks spiritual guidance, “You just say ‘God’ and you think you can make people feel bad about themselves. . . . You don’t know my son. This is a phase. You are a phase” (“Running”).  But I never saw Peter feeling bad about himself, in deference to neither God nor Alicia.

What's the verdict: Guilty or Not Guilty?

While Peter’s relationship with Pastor Isaiah folds into his political ambitions and maneuvering–it helps him shore up the black vote and provides a place for him to surreptitiously meet with political operatives during his house arrest–it is still a viable avenue toward atonement, especially with Alicia if it can help him to display guilt.  However, as the politics of his race for State Attorney heat up and the political benefits of the pastor fall by the wayside, Isaiah is essentially dismissed as spiritual advisor.  This occurs as Peter continues to cover-up an affair from his past that Alicia does not know about.  The cover-up and betrayal push Alicia over the edge, and she moves Peter out of the house.  Guilt would have Peter disclose all his past sins in order to seek atonement and Alicia’s forgiveness.  Such simultaneity is not coincidental, and I’m very interested to see how Peter is characterized next season regarding his affairs, his guilt, and his either continued or halted (and ostensibly completed) path of attempted redemption.  And I’m interested to see where Alicia’s morality goes and how her possible turning away from guilt could be liberating instead of morally isolating.  After the final betrayal, she is hardened but also perhaps more herself, and as she insists to Jackie, “I am this way.  Your son made me this way” (“In Sickness”).

Friday Feast: recipes from religious studies

[Edit: Well, this post seemed to actually turn people away from my blog.  Maybe someday I'll do something with this project, but it's unpopularity and my increasing tendency to travel on Fridays have led me to discontinue this proposed weekly posting.  No more Friday feasts unless actual food is involved.]

Welcome to the first “Friday Feast,” a bit of a departure from the regular topics I use this blog to explore.  There will be little to no television-related content in these posts, but it’s a fun little project I want to share.  Beginning today and continuing each Friday in May, I will be posting theoretical “recipes” from my religious studies cookbook.  These were originally the culmination of a graduate seminar in religious studies theory, methods, and history.  The cookbook traces many canonical thinkers and their theory or methods in religious studies.  This essentially represents the field’s intellectual history.  The recipes attempt to encapsulate some element of each thinker’s contribution to the field (when concepts are mixed with real food elements, there is an explanation), and the courses that I will focus on each week mark the general periodization of the field from the 15th century to the present (except for the “main course” which I reordered slightly to fit those thinkers I find foundational).  Each week I will also be posting without much commentary a menu grouping that seeks to make connections among the thinkers.

These postings will not take the place of television-related posts for this month, but I hope they will provide an interesting diversion each Friday

The How I Met Your Mother crew is excited about appetizers and hors d'oeuvres

Appetizers (15th-early 19th centuries)

Herbert of Cherbury-Common Notions crudités
Ingredients:
There is a Supreme God.
This Sovereign Deity ought to be worshipped.
Worship means genuine piety and morality and not hypocritical displays.
Sins can be forgiven.
There will be rewards and punishments in an after life.

Directions:
1.Combine ingredients on a platter to present the common denominator of all religions.
2. For variation: There is no variation; this is the universal religious foundation.

David Hume-Hopes and Fears Bruscetta
This recipe serves 6-10 people as the scientifically based origin of religion.  For most accurate results, use hope, fear, and other sentiments with unknown origins and causal processes. Bread base must be all-natural because religion is natural and non-rational; best if recipe used is from a polytheistic religion, as that is the original form of religion according to Hume. DO NOT SERVE WITH DIESTIC APPETIZERS.

Ingredients:
6-7 tomatoes, chopped precisely in repeatable half-inch cubes
2 cloves garlic, chopped precisely
6-8 basil leaves, minced
1 Tbsp pure fear
1 Tsp essence of hope
other sentiments to taste
All-natural bread base, toasted.

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees F
2. Combine tomatoes, garlic, and basil in a large bowl.  Soak in fears, hopes, and sentiments until completely infused and no longer discernible as separate from the tomatoes, garlic, and basil mixture.
3. Spread mix of sentimental tomatoes on the natural base.
4. Serve warm. Best with other attempts at scientific study of religion.

Friedrich Schleiermacher-Geful Three-Layer Pate 
This recipe best served to rationalists and intellectuals resistant to religion.  Shape pate in manner befitting its surroundings when served.

Ingredients:
3 medium onions, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound beef hearts (feeling), trimmed and chopped
1 pound lamb livers (God), trimmed and cubed
1 pound mixed cauliflower and zucchini (base), chopped
1 cup  affect, thirded
½ cup feeling, thirded
¾ cup Hegelian thought, thirded

Directions:
1. For each layer of consciousness in the pate (base, feeling, God):

  • a. Sautee one onion and one garlic until browned.
  • b. Add beef, lamb, or vegetables and cook through

2. Set each layer aside to cool.
3. Pulse each layer in food processor while contemplating the experience of the infinite and the feeling that you might experience from encountering it. (Note: this process will be subjective based on the affects and sentiments each cook will feel.)
4. Cook each layer with affect, feeling, and Hegelian thought.
5. Pour each cooked layer into lined mold in order of consciousness: base, feeling, God.
6. Chill at least 4 hours before serving to allow affect and feeling to infuse throughout.

Karl Marx-Vodka Tomatoes
To get the full effect of this opiate of the masses, use the strongest Russian vodka you can find and have it consecrated by a Russian Orthodox priest.  For best results, used tomatoes and basil grown in community garden.

Ingredients:
1 pound cherry tomatoes
1 bottle vodka
2 Tbsp fresh chopped basil
2 Tbsp Hegelian dialectic
3 Tsp Feurbachian projection, locus in society

Directions:
1. Blanche in water infused with Hegelian dialectic and Feuerbachian projection.  Peel tomatoes, maintaining influence of Hegel and Feuerbach.
2. Soak in vodka and basil until one taste would create the illusion of heaven at the price of material concerns.
3. Serve chilled and to the masses.

Variation for presentation: Serve over base of economic concerns and within the superstructure of social institutions.

Ludwig Feuerbach-Projection Cheese Puffs
While traditional cheese puffs may call for the diner to resemble the form of the cheese puff, this recipe works best when cheese puffs are formed in the shape of humankind.  Great appetizer for an anthropological or a humanist menu.  Do not serve any puffs that fall flat as they will no longer resemble projection theories.

Ingredients:
2 Tbsp Hegelian essence of God/humanity, reversed
1 cup milk
4 tablespoons unsalted butter (1/2 stick)
1/4 teaspoon salt
Dash cayenne pepper
1 cup all-purpose flour
3 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 1/2 cups grated Swiss cheese (Emmenthaler or Gruyere)
Course salt

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
2. Bring milk, butter, salt, and cayenne to boil in saucepan.  Remove from heat and mix in flour, stirring vigorously.
3. Transfer to food processor, add eggs, paprika, and cheese. Pulse until well mixed.
4. Form into shape of human on lined baking sheet.  Sprinkle with salt.
5. Bake for about 30 minutes until nicely puffed, forming base and projection layer separated by the air of psychological need.

Structures and Patterns Menu
(Those thinkers who look for patterns in religions that reveal underlying cultural structures)

Appetizer: Herbert of Cherbury-Common Notions crudités
First Course: James Frazer-Practical Magic Onion Soup
Main Course: Max Weber-Ideal Types T-bone Steak
Dessert: Harvey Whitehouse-Doctrinal and Imagistic (black and white) Cookies

Investigating Criminal Intent: Law and Order Outlier

Before Law and Order: Criminal Intent moved from NBC to USA Network in 2007, I had written off the variation, choosing instead Law and Order: Special Victim’s Unit as my version of choice.  I took notice of Criminal Intent as it shifted to cable, interested in seeing if it would change at all to fit the USA Network original programming brand.  With the abundance of Law and Order: CI reruns that still pervade cable’s daytime schedules, it was (and still is) surprisingly easy to get sucked into Groren and Eames’s investigations. However, as Criminal Intent prepares to return to USA for its tenth and final season this Sunday with the ballyhooed return of the original detective partnership of Goren and Eames, I find myself drawn to the show as an outlier of the Law and Order franchise.  It’s more “Law” than “Order,” going so far as to strike the lone Assistant District Attorney character after the fifth season to focus solely on the investigations and the (alternating) detective teams.  The removal of the courtroom element imbues the detectives with an almost preternatural ability to get confessions from their suspects, aligning the lead detectives, particularly Det. Bobby Goren, with exceptional (male) investigator brethren like Columbo, Sherlock Holmes, or Adrian Monk.

Columbo informs Law and Order: Criminal Intent‘s format and characterization.  The initial “twist” on the Law and Order formula that Criminal Intent advertised was the focus on the criminal in the opening scenes.  Early episodes hewed closer to the inverted detective story that Columbo popularized on television, some going as far as showing the criminal committing the murder, providing all the information the viewer needed to establish dramatic irony (see: season one, episode five, “Jones”).  The format connection between Columbo and Criminal Intent is “common knowledge” enough to be present in LO:CI‘s IMDb trivia page.  Most later episodes show only a few scenes establishing the victim and general circumstances of the murder, keeping the culprit hidden to maintain the tension of a “whodunit” narrative.

A byproduct of this later obfuscation of the murderer is that the skills of the investigating detectives appear heightened, making deductive and inductive leaps based solely on their skills and the information shared by viewer and detective.  This appears most often and explicitly regarding Det. Goren, a character who others repeatedly discuss as a genius.  Jeff Goldblum’s Det. Nichols similarly gained the mantle of “genius” during his tenure as a CI lead detective but less emphatically than Goren and more as code for “successful eccentric.”  The other alternating lead detective, Logan, was an import from the original Law and Order series and was characterized more as a stubborn but street-smart bruiser.  Goren’s shadow fell over both detectives because of his “genius” and ability to wrench confessions from his suspects.  Goren’s cerebral approach to detective work and D’Onofrio‘s performance of his awkward and lean-prone physicality also recall Columbo, particularly Peter Falk‘s portrayal of the eponymous detective as bumbling and physically askance. (Goran’s proclivity for leaning has even garnered a fan-made music video montage to “Lean Back.”)  Goren even occasionally drops the famous “Just one more thing . . .” Columbo catchphrase when questioning his suspects.

I have thus far only discussed the male detectives; this is because only the male detectives are positioned as the lead detectives (and thus lead characters) on Criminal Intent.  Though the characterization of the female detectives is strong–particularly with Eames’s multidimensionality–they are almost always primarily characterized in relation to their male partners.  Logan, Nichols, and Goren often take the active role in the investigation with their female partner forced into a reactive role.  Gender dynamics in the Law and Order franchise is deserving of much more attention than I can give here.  I point out this focus on male lead detectives and their exceptional skills to highlight the perhaps closer connection Criminal Intent has with that mode of detective storytelling than the bi-valent Law and Order formula.  Goren’s antecedents include Sherlock Holmes, Columbo, and Adrian Monk.  I have argued previously that this exceptional individual take on Law and Order helps Criminal Intent fit with USA Network’s brand, a brand based explicitly on characters and heavily influenced by Monk‘s success.  None of these detectives face the scrutiny of the courts within their narratives; their confessions only have to imply that they would lead to legal conviction.  This format allows for the detectives to be exceptional without facing the realism of paperwork, technicalities, and courtroom arguments.

Though Law and Order: Special Victims Unit also focuses on the detectives, their partnerships are part of a team unit that also includes a clear connection to the legal system though their prominent ADA characters.  Criminal Intent has been allowed to be an outlier to the formula–doing away with “Order” and focusing on an exceptional individual male detective– in part because it has been a network-outlier since its 2007 move from NBC and actually fits nicely into USA Network’s brand identity.

Fractured subjectivities in contemporary telefantasy

Science fiction and fantasy share a history of being able to probe existential questions because of the distance afforded by their displaced representations of reality. Their worlds are slightly skewed from our own, allowing for greater allegorical play and deeper investigation into the assumptions of our society.  From Star Trek‘s notoriously unsubtle metaphors for racism and geopolitics to Buffy‘s high school is hell framing, telefantasy (a broad term for the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres) provides room for questioning what the world means and –occasionally–what it means to be human. [Note: from here on there will be spoilers (Fringe and  Supernatural season 6 especially) as I trying to analyze what I see as a recent trend.] Recently, it’s been the last issue that has captured the cultural imaginary in telefantasy: Fringe is using alternate universes to delve into what makes a person unique (or not), Supernatural has spent the first half of its sixth season interrogating the assumed necessity of a soul, and a few years ago, Dollhouse and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles both blurred the lines between programable machines and humans. This trend is perhaps part of a larger cultural shift as we spend more and more of our time interfacing with and expressing ourselves through technology and is certainly worthy of a larger and deeper investigation.  Though I can’t discuss fractured or multiple subjectivities without invoking postmodernism, for now, I want to lay the groundwork for future attention by examining one element  of the inquiry into what it means to be human: characters who articulate their sense of human self through fractured subjectivities, including Fringe‘s Walter Bishop, Supernatural‘s Sam Winchester, Dollhouse‘s Echo, and T:SCC‘s Cameron.  In this, I am relying on the characters and the various ways they say “I’m me” as the basis for their human self.  I’m not launching my own existential investigation into what it means to be human (yet).

Walter’s Humanity vs. His Mind

Fringe’s season 2 episode, “Grey Matters,” reveals that part of what drove Walter Bishop mad enough to be committed for 12 years was a three-pronged lobotomy to remove the memories of how he crossed universes. Throughout the series, Walter has been a fan favorite, a character formed from the mercurial mix of childlike glee and wonder, astounding genius, and tragic melancholy.  He is a man who struggles to locate himself after losing his mind, but it is in “Grey Matters” that we find that metaphor to be literal.

However sympathetic Walter’s character is, the narrative includes the understanding that he was once the kind of man willing to dangerously experiment on children.  Until “Grey Matters” and later episodes that included Walter’s alternate universe self, we don’t see that man, only know of him.  Then Walter is reunited with the three tissue samples taken from his brain, and the arrogance and antipathy toward other humans are suddenly undeniably present.  For a moment, he could be a villainous mad scientist instead of a doddering one. After the parts of his brain die and lose their connection, Walter is our Walter again–a point buttressed when the alternate-reality Walter enters the narrative, characterized so closely to that glimpse of the villain–and somehow more human for the absence of certain parts of his mind.  As if their absence provides room for his soul.

Sam Winchester: Body or Soul

In contrast to Walter Bishop gaining a sense of humanity through the absence of parts of his mind–both physical and metaphorical–Sam Winchester in Supernatural‘s sixth season tries to articulate how he is himself even without his soul.  Soulless Sam undermines the Aristotelian conception of the soul as an essence inseparable from  both the body and the self, but he also seems simultaneously more alive than Sam-with-a-soul.  Part of this is the early characterizing of Sam as primarily empathetic, a trait that (d)evolved into near-constant angst as the circumstances surrounding his life got more dire and tragic.  But there also seems to be something liberating about the lack of soul.  (One could read Sam’s increased sexual drive in psychoanalytic terms, linking his lust to his libinal drive as a conception of the self.)  Moreover, other characters repeatedly discuss the possibility of Sam’s self being hampered or even destroyed by the joining of his soul to his body.  Below is the clearest example of the warnings weighing Sam’s soul against his human existence:

Soulless Sam forces the question of which self is more legitimate: a soul, no matter how warped or broken, or the body, memories, and activities that encompass the practicalities of living.

Of course, the key element in this debate on the show is those few personal relationships Sam has forged and kept in his lifetime, relationships which I have previously argued for their centrality to Supernatural. By the mid-season cliffhanger, “Appointment in Samarra,” it has become clear that the soul is necessary for meaningful human connection, for it is Sam’s decision to kill his surrogate father Bobby that makes Soulless Sam no longer acceptable–both within the narrative and for the viewers.  Despite this ultimate decision in the debate, it’s important to note that Soulless Sam was a viable character for almost half the season and one that garnered both fan and critical approval.  The fractured subjectivity of Soulless Sam–material Sam topside and Sam’s soul still stuck in Hell–was compelling and challenging, and has found some duration in the implementation of a psychic “wall” created by Death between Sam’s self and his memories of his soul’s time in Hell.

Technological Imprinting and Humanity on Dollhouse and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles

Though few people watched Dollhouse–or perhaps because of the reckless capacity gained from imminent cancellation–it became one of the strongest investigations into what it means to be human on recent television. In the show, Caroline agrees to give over five years of her life to the Dollhouse, a high-end corporate entity that creates temporary identities that are imprinted on “actives” to fulfill the wish-scenarios of their wealthy clients. It’s indentured servitude, human trafficking, prostitution, and identity theft all rolled into one, but by the second season, one active has become self-aware, maintaining all the memories of her imprints and a gestalt self with and beyond them: Echo. To create actives, the brain becomes analogous to a computer system; thus, Echo becomes a metaphor for the singularity, a self-aware computer program. By the series finale, Echo fully occupies the body that once belonged to Caroline and Caroline is an imprint in the body of a little girl. What was once–or could have been again–a united subject, Caroline and Echo in one, becomes a point of existential crisis. Echo must decide if she is strong enough to not be lost should her original self become incorporated. In the end, she chooses her composite self, Echo, over Caroline, refusing what would traditionally thought of as her true self in favor of her fractured and experiential self.

The pairing of Dollhouse with Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles invites us to compare Echo and Cameron, a terminator who over the course of two seasons seems to learn toward humanity. For both Echo and Cameron, their “programming” is overcome by their articulated sense of human self, though this sense of self is interestingly in contention with what would traditionally be thought of as their true selves and is for each character is applicable to different degrees. Cameron’s relationship with John Connor grows increasingly human throughout the series, with her proclaiming love for him–albeit as a probable survival tactic–at the beginning of the second season. She is learning emotions, or at least she is learning how to fake emotions. Her journey navigating between her nature as a cyborg and her seeming to learn how to be human is beautifully represented when Cameron discovers ballet and culminates in the episode “Allison from Palmdale.”

In that episode, Cameron glitches and loses all of her memory and identity as a terminator.  She is drawn to certain places and experiences memories of her human identity–before she became a terminator, an element of the mythos of the Terminator franchise that would take center stage in Terminator: Salvation–implying that there is always some element of humanity and the human self or soul that cannot be erased. Some form of essence remains despite the imposition of technology and programming. Humanity will out for both Cameron and Echo.

As I wrote earlier, it’s impossible to discuss fractured subjectivities without discussion postmodern theory. One of its tenets is challenging the idea of a unitary identity, instead turning to the ways the self is articulated in multiple ways. Multiple subjectivities undermine the meta-narrative of a pure self, and to an extent, that is what these telefantasy programs are doing.  They privilege the fractured self over the idea of the self before it was broken. Walter is a better human being for losing some of his grey matter, and Sam’s humanity can only survive through forced compartmentalization. Cameron and Echo both find humanity through but ultimately in opposition to memory of their past traditionally human and whole selves. The concept of the self and humanity is constantly being negotiated.

“You’re delusional!”: Patti Stanger and Tabatha Coffey as aggressive heralds of reality

I have never seen Moonstruck, but because of its pop-culture ubiquity, I know the few-second clip of Cher’s famous “Snap out of it!” slap.  Without knowing its context, I still understand it as an aggressive act in favor of reality, and it is this scene I most often think of when trying to explain why I find pleasure watching The Millionaire Matchmaker and Tabatha’s Salon Takeover.  Both programs share a core of bubble-bursting sometimes hidden under troubling gender and sexuality conventions and/or the trappings of the self-adjacent (love, business, etc. as a way of becoming a more whole individual) improvement reality genre.  The idea that these two women and the shows they carry act as heralds of reality within a reality show, of course, troubles the idea of a reality removed from artifice, but the reality that these women preach ties into the percieved reality of the audience.  That is, Patti and Tabatha derive their power and induce viewer pleasure by engaging the unheard voice of the audience.  They often say what I and the friends with whom I watch these shows are thinking or have articulated among ourselves.  The reality aggressively wielded by Patti and Tabatha calls for their self-deluded clients to “snap out of it!” and thus be better able to interact with their fellow human beings.

Patti in the early seasons, ready to pop any delusional client's bubble

The Millionaire Matchmaker: “Truly successful people have to be somewhat delusional”?

In its first episode of 2011, The Millionaire Matchmaker featured a “millionairess”–as Patti calls them–Robin, who provided the above quote.  Patti accused her of being delusional for believing that her behavior on her date: including getting visibly drunk, physically groping her date, and implying that she would buy him an expensive motorcycle in exchange for his continuing to date her.  While watching the date, I was shocked, not only by her behavior–she blatantly broke a number of Patti’s rules and guidelines–but also by the obviousness of her date’s gold-digging tendencies.  He repeatedly told the camera that he was not attracted to Robin but would continue seeing her because of her money.  Moreover, his reactions to her advances–and her physical body itself (she was plus-sized)–verged on disgusted.  Robin chose him for his looks alone, and he followed her for her money alone, with both laying bare their superficial conceptions of each other to an unexpected degree.  Yet Robin, who as the client was given more follow-up camera time, seemed totally oblivious to her own shallowness, maintaining that her date was an excellent step on the path to finding love.  This is where Patti began yelling.  After spending a great deal of time before Robin’s date coaching her on what she should seek in a partner and how to behave to find that person, Patti sees her words fall on self-styled deaf ears and proclaims that she has nothing else to do with Robin.  This is a typical narrative for Patti’s interactions with her clients this year and illustrates how I can derive pleasure from such shrillness and schadenfreude.

While Robin’s crimes are mostly against propriety and expectations–perhaps in that she is the most self-aware of the delusional clientele Patti has found in New York–Patti’s most notorious clients, the ones that I derived the most pleasure from witnessing their breakdowns or comeuppance, have been those that think they are great human beings but their interviews, interactions with Patti and her staff, and most clearly in their dates prove them to be completely deluded in this idea of themselves.  Clients have: run away screaming from a man 5-10 years older than she, called or insinuated that their dates were low-class, and even brought their fiends or assistants on dates with them.  Most often they are rude, inconsiderate, and condescending, and to see Patti verbally eviscerate them for their behavior provides pleasure.  We had to sit through their abominable behavior and have encountered people similarly removed from the minimal consideration of others, so when Patti tells them exactly what they did wrong and how horrible they are to others, it’s cathartic.  Although the “reality” that Patti’s tirades reinforce is only what is presented through the editing and chosen narrative for each episode, there is only so much “editing” can create, emphasizing some form of reality amidst the artifice.

Tabatha Coffey: styled to aggressive perfection

Tabatha’s Salon Takeover: “I think I’m a great boss/hairstylist/assistant.”

Where Patti’s verbal smacks to her deluded clients are loud and occasionally mean-spirited, Tabatha almost always keeps a cool demeanor and an acerbic approach to the salons she’s been contracted to help.  Her criticisms are authoratative because of her personal success as both a hairstylist and a salon owner and manager (an authority that is always present but never provided with evidence) and give her aggressive characteristics legitimacy.  (This is unlike Patti who consistently draws fire from [anti-]fans and clients for being unsuccessful in love herself.)  Tabatha’s show premiered years after The Millionaire Matchmaker, but they seem two sides to the same coin.  Tabatha constantly battles with her “clients” to get them to see their own strengths and–more importantly–weaknesses in hairstyling and management just as Patti does for her clients in the field of love, but Tabatha’s attempts involve a whole microeconomic system in the salon.  To take Tabatha’s advice to heart impacts the livelihoods of multiple people, so the pleasure derived from seeing her pop the delusional bubbles of those in the salons add an element of social uplift to the shadenfreude.  For both to occur, though, reality must be forced onto those who choose not to recognize the reality of their effect on the world.  They must see how the way they treat others negatively impacts their love lives or business prospects; it’s a painful but necessary realization for those who can see it.  But from the viewer’s perspective,  it’s a necessary slap to the head.

Is Glee (still) a melodrama?

 

"Why are we outside?" "Because Yentl sang this while outside." (no gaps here!)

 

A few weeks ago, my TV Theory and Criticism class watched Glee‘s second season premiere alongside two episodes of The Bold and the Beautiful in anticipation of a discussion of soap operas.  Instead of drawing comparisons between the two, the contrasts appeared more starkly than I had anticipated.  While the soaps made extensive use of dialogue and plot gaps, emphasizing reaction shots to convey emotions and plot progression, Glee seemed to be saying everything.  The soap opera may be the example par excellence of television melodrama, but Glee seems to be moving away from the elements of melodrama that made the first season (on a whole) interesting.

After last week’s Glee, with its explicit discussions of religion and atheism, it seems nothing was left unsaid.  On popular television, explicit religion is often reserved for didactic religious television such as 7th Heaven and Touched By An Angel.  There are exceptions, of course.  Battlestar Galactica perpetually dealt with explicit questions of faith and belief and atheism, but the degree of displacement afforded by science-fiction (particularly on BSG where monotheism was defamiliarized through its association with the Cylons) presents explicit religion as if it were implicit, requiring similar interpretive reading strategies.  As Horace Newcomb writes in “Religion on Television,” “Producers avoid the specifics of belief, the words of faith, and concrete images of the transcendent like the plague.  Such specificity could cost them audience.  In the meantime, we are given the deeply, powerfully embedded notions of the good that must come from  . . . somewhere.”

Religion, like may topics deemed too polemic for broadcast, often goes unsaid, conveyed instead through costuming or set dressing (i.e. a cross necklace or a menorah in the background in a TV apartment).  As with melodrama, there exists a “feeling that there is always more to tell than can be said” (Thomas Elsaesser, “Tales of Sound and Fury.”).  If melodrama corresponds with “a sublimation of dramatic conflict into decor, color, gesture, and composition of the frame,” as Thomas Elsaesser argues in “Tales of Sound and Fury,” then is Glee (still) a melodrama?

 

Finn, praying to Grilled Cheesus

 

Though one episode isn’t really enough to make a case either way, “Grilled Cheesus” is an exemplar of the trend seen thus far in Glee‘s second season: the text is consuming the subtext.  In Glee the subtext that would often be sublimated in melodrama often finds expression (though through some displacement still) in the musical sequences.  Last season, such sequences were mixed in their presentation: variation between integrated musical numbers (with the characters taking the stage or self-consciously performing the songs) and fantasy sequences (see: “Like A Virgin,” “Keep Me Hanging On”) with many songs sliding between the two modes of address.  This season, however, even the fantasy sequences are explained: in the Brittany Spears episode all of the fantasy songs resulted from a dentist’s disbursement of nitrous oxide.  And “Grilled Cheesus” is the first fully integrated musical episode of the show, according to Amanda Ann Klein at AntennaGlee is clearly moving away from the sublimation of action or emotion into fantasy song sequences.

Something is lost in the movement away from melodrama’s mode of expression, but in the instance of “Grilled Cheesus” and its primary subject matter: religion and atheism, perhaps it was necessary.  The episode pushed at the boundaries of explicit religion and–more uniquely–explicit atheism presented earnestly on television.  Kurt, as the voice of atheism for the show, needs to be explicit and steadfast in his non-belief to provide balance with the explicit beliefs of his Christian and Jewish peers.  Glee has always been somewhat socially didactic, calling for tolerance explicitly and implicitly, but “Grilled Cheesus” foregrounded that strain to confront the controversial topic of atheism.

 

Mercedes tries to comfort Kurt through the power of song (and God)

 

To a degree, this subject’s avoidance of subtext and sublimation worked.  Most clearly, it worked when it was exploring the limits of how people offer comfort.  Mercedes, Rachel, Quinn, and Finn cannot conceptualize offerings of comfort outside of their religions.  Mercedes, as Kurt’s closest friend, has the most trouble.  First, she sings “I Look To You,” saying that it’s about looking to God in times of darkness, and even tells Kurt after he rebuffs her attempt at religious comfort, “I feel like I don’t know how to be around you anymore.”  Mercedes connects with Kurt on many levels of friendship and understanding, but she never really sees how Kurt can find any comfort outside of God and religion.  Kurt’s continued resistance to religious forms of comfort and Mercedes repeated explicitly religious attempts  would not work a well as they do in creating tension if one or both were sublimated.

However, the erosion of subtext on Glee also makes the show less engaging for me as an active viewer.  I find less gaps in both narrative and character development to fill with my imagination or interpretation.  Like the choice of “Losing My Religion” and “One of Us,” the episode seemed much more literal than figurative, flattening out the story, songs, and characters.

I don’t know if Glee will continue to eat its own subtext or if, as is its wont, it will be consistent in its inconsistency, but I want to close with a comparison of one of the last scenes of “Grilled Cheesus” with one of the last scenes of Supernatural‘s “Swan Song.”  In both scenes, a two-person family unit is brought back from the brink by the phrase,  “I’m right here; I’m not going anywhere/going to leave you.”  Kurt tells his comatose father, Burt, this after saying that he loves him and that he believes in him.  In Supernatural, however, Dean tells this to his Lucifer-possessed brother, Sam, without saying anything else.  The phrase is not the punctuation to a sentiment; it is imbued with the sentiment through the sublimation of brotherly love into banal expression, presence, and most importantly an object, the family Impala.  Both scenes argue for humanism if not over then before religion, yet it is the horror show that expresses it through the melodramatic mode, not the supposed melodrama, Glee.