Leanne Franklin & Ravenel Richardson - CiteSeerX

Edited by

Leanne Franklin & Ravenel Richardson

The Many Forms of Fear, Horror and Terror

Series Editors Dr Robert Fisher Dr Nancy Billias

Advisory Board

Dr Alejandro Cervantes-Carson Dr Peter Mario Kreuter Professor Margaret Chatterjee Martin McGoldrick Dr Wayne Cristaudo Revd Stephen Morris Mira Crouch Professor John Parry Dr Phil Fitzsimmons Paul Reynolds Professor Asa Kasher Professor Peter Twohig Owen Kelly Professor S Ram Vemuri

Revd Dr Kenneth Wilson, O.B.E

An At the Interface research and publications project. http://www.inter-disciplinary.net/at-the-interface/

The Evil Hub ‘Fear, Horror and Terror’

At the Interface

The Many Forms of Fear, Horror and Terror

Edited by

Leanne Franklin and Ravenel Richardson

Inter-Disciplinary Press

Oxford, United Kingdom

© Inter-Disciplinary Press 2009 http://www.inter-disciplinary.net/publishing/id-press/ The Inter-Disciplinary Press is part of Inter-Disciplinary.Net – a global network for research and publishing. The Inter-Disciplinary Press aims to promote and encourage the kind of work which is collaborative, innovative, imaginative, and which provides an exemplar for inter-disciplinary and multi-disciplinary publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of Inter-Disciplinary Press. Inter-Disciplinary Press, Priory House, 149B Wroslyn Road, Freeland, Oxfordshire. OX29 8HR, United Kingdom. +44 (0)1993 882087 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 978-1-84888-013-9 First published in the United Kingdom in eBook format in 2009. First Edition.

Table of Contents

Preface ix Leanne Franklin and Ravenel Richardson

PART I Terrorist Attacks of 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7

Terrorism and Social Panic in British Fantastic Cinema 3 Raúl Álvarez Gómez

Hollywood Under Siege: The Entrenched As a Dramatic Role in the Wake of 9/11 13 Antonio Sánchez-Escalonilla

Monsters, Feérie Fear, Threaten Global And the Uncanny in the Cinema of M. Night Shyamalan 23 Gabriel Garcia Mingorance

Cinema and Social Trauma after Terrorist Attacks: The Spectatorship Perception. Approaching to the Spanish Case 35 Araceli Rodríguez Mateos

Drumming the Horror Away 47 Silvia Herreros de Tejada

PART II The Aesthetics of Fear, Horror, and Terror

‘Tuneful Tragedy’: Aesthetisation of Horror in A Song Of Ice And Fire by George R. R. Martin 61 Dagmara Zając

Run for Your Lives: Remembering the Ramsay Brothers 71 Kartik Nair

Apocalyptic Machines: Terror and Anti- Production in the Post-9/11 Splatter Film 81 Phoebe Fletcher

Fearful Irony: The Case of Being Dexter(ous) 93

Shona Hill and Shilinka Smith PART III Physiolocial and Psychological

Experiences of Fear

Fearing Fear: The Experience of Fright And Scares in the Early Southern Modern Netherlands 105 Sonja Deschrijver and Bhūmi Vanderheyden

‘The Horror of the Nurses’: Shell-shock And Stillbirth in H.D.’s Asphodel 117 Elizabeth Brunton

Inscribing the Traumatised Body: The Wartime Diaries of Marguerite Duras and Marie Vassiltchikov 127 Ravenel Richardson

The Id in the Basement 139 Michèle Huppert

PART IV Cultures of Fear, Horror, and Terror

And the World Became Rifty: The Context Of Terror in Mediaeval Society 149 Rainhard Bengez

Everyday Fear: Parenting and Childhood in A Culture of Fear 161 Leanne Franklin and John Cromby

Fearing the Addict: Hollywood’s Projection Of America’s Phobia of Drug Addicts 175 Bryan Brown

‘Bullet-Holes for Eyes’: The Lingering Image Of Horror in a 1920s Murder 187 Jo Chipperfield

What Killed Laura Palmer? David Lynch’s Twin Peaks as a Dissection Of American Fears 199 Anna Warso

Fear and Terror at the Intersection of The Personal and Civilisational: An Integral Analysis 207 L. Michael Spath

Fear, Horror, and Terror: Oxford, September 2009


This eBook records the proceedings of the 3rd Annual ‘Fear, Horror,

and Terror’ conference, which was held at Mansfield College, Oxford in September 2009. A group of academics from disparate subject areas, including literature, film studies, religious studies, social psychology, and psychoanalysis, came together to discuss fear, horror, and terror in its many forms. What emerged was a lively and informed view of the different ways our history, personal experiences, education, and forms of entertainment are shaped by these emotions. Global terrorism, in particular the terrorist attacks of 9/11, 7/7 and 3/11, was a prevalent theme throughout the conference, with an exploration of cinematic and literary representations of and responses to the attacks highlighting the impact these attacks have had on contemporary conceptualisations of fear, horror, and terror. The 9/11 and 7/7 attacks have drastically altered notions of both individual and political vulnerability and security in Britain and America, a shift that is reflected in contemporary cinema, as demonstrated by Raúl Álvarez Gómez, Antonio Sánchez-Escalonilla, Gabriel Garcia Mingorance. Araceli Rodríguez Mateos investigates the post 3/11 responses of young Spanish adults to the aformentioned cinematic representations of terror, while Silvia Herreros de Tejada discusses personal responses to the trauma of the Second World War and 9/11 in literature and film. Not all aspects of fear, horror, and terror are negative, and several papers at the conference explored the potential stimulation found within these emotions. Dagmara Zajac and Kartik Nair explore the thrill and potential humour in horrific spectacles, while Phoebe Fletcher, and Shona Hill and Shilinka Smith examine the wider cultural significance of audiences’ fascination with the aesthetics of fear, horror, and terror in contemporary film and television. Fear, horror, and terror are emotions, which are grounded in our evolutionary heritage, rooted deep in our animal psyche. As humans have evolved, the significance of these experiences has continually arisen within personal, social, and cultural contexts. The contributions of Sonja Deschrijver and Bhūmi Vanderheyden, Elizabeth Brunton, Ravenel Richardson, and Michèle Huppert explore the manifestations of fear, horror, and terror from a physiological and psychological point of view. The fears and taboos of every culture have much to reveal about the fault lines present within dominant power structures. Leanne Franklin and John Cromby, Bryan Brown, Jo Chipperfield, Anna Warso, and Michael

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Spath examine the origin and meaning of some of these cultural fears in their papers. We will now more fully introduce the contributions.

***** 1. Terrorist Attacks of 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7 There is no denying that fear, vulnerability and the nature of threat have been forever changed in light of the recent terrorist attacks in Britain (7/7), Spain (3/11), and the United States (9/11). These political and cultural anxieties have been examined through various cinematic genres. Raúl Álvarez Gómez demonstrates how films, such as Doomsday (2008), 28 Days Later (2002) and V for Vendetta (2005), draw on the social panic generated by the terrorist attacks of 9/11, 7/7 and 3/11. Firstly this is achieved by a replication of visual imagery while a deeper reflection is achieved by the reproduction of wider social themes, such as fear of the Other and a heightened sense of insecurity. Antonio Sánchez-Escalonilla analyses the changed sense of American vulnerability, discussing the origins and portrayal of the American cinematic archetype of the ‘entrenched’ character. Beginning with The Searchers (1956), moving on to Arlington Road (1999), and finally to the post-9/11 productions of Steven Spielberg, M. Night Shyamalan and Frank Darabont, it examines the fears the entrenched character reveals within American society, and how some contemporary directors are using their work as an allegorical social critique of the political and cultural repercussions of these fears.

Gabriel Garcia Mingorance’s paper examines the work of M. Night Shyamalan’s post-9/11 cinematic productions, Signs (2002), The Village (2004), Lady in the Water (2006), and The Happening (2008). Using the concepts of feérie fear and Freud’s uncanny he explores Shyamalan’s use of the supernatural in his films, contrasting Shyamalan’s portrayal of outside threats with those of other post-9/11 films such as such as Cloverfield (2008), The Day After Tomorrow (2004), and I Am Legend (2007). Looking at the impact of 3/11 on Spanish audiences, Araceli Rodríguez Mateos discusses the reluctance of Spanish audiences to witness fictional filmic depictions of the tragedy, particularly in reference to the 3/11 attacks in Madrid. She highlights the communicative power of cinema, the trauma of 3/11, and the socio-cultural grounding of films, in her descriptions of Spanish audiences who actively seek to prevent the deepening of psychological wounds that have not yet healed. Moving to the literary sphere, Silvia Herreros de Tejada’s work analyses Günter Grass’s post-WWII novel The Tin Drum (1959) and its cinematic adaptation (1979) alongside Jonathan Safran Foer’s post-9/11 novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (2005). Focusing on


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the coping strategies of the novels’ child protagonists, it interrogates the role of imagination and story-telling in overcoming traumatic experiences. 2. The Aesthetics of Fear, Horror, and Terror

The second section has a somewhat lighter note, examining audiences’ fascination with the frightful aesthetics of fear, horror, and terror. Dagmara Zając explores theatrical dimensions of fear and terror, with specific reference to the work of contemporary American author George R. R. Martin. She argues that Martin’s ongoing ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ epic series employs the Medieval tradition of horror as a spectacle. Moving to cinema, Kartik Nair discusses the Indian horror films of the Ramsay Brothers, which were critically derided but have remained beloved in popular memory for their campy, underground nature. Kartik uses Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of dialogism to analyse how one of the Ramsay Brothers’ films, Purana Mandir (‘Ancient Temple’, 1984), both draws from and speaks to themes from previous horror films, specifically the British Hammer films and independent American Horror films from the 1970’s and 1980’s. Returning to the previously discussed theme of post 9/11 cinema,

Phoebe Fletcher’s contribution draws from postmodern theorist Frederic Jameson’s concept of the ‘geopolitical aesthetic’ to analyse the implications of the staggering popularity of the post 9/11 Saw franchise (2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008) of splatter films. In particular, she examines how the films’ iconography of the abattoir, the rusting automobile, the torture machine and the deserted factory become metonymic markers that pervade the contemporary splatter, challenging teleological views of capitalist progress with dark images of the underside of the American Dream. We conclude with a discussion of the very popular television series Dexter, which is set apart from other crime series as the protagonist himself is a serial killer who murders killers who have evaded justice in the legal system. Shona Hill and Shilinka Smith study the use of irony in Dexter in an attempt to probe the boundaries of the body and blood to examine what makes the series enjoyably fearful. 3. Physiological and Psychological Experiences of Fear

Sonja Deschrijver and Bhūmi Vanderheyden present a compelling account of fear in sixteenth-century Early Modern Southern Netherlands. Using accounts found in archival legal documents, Sonja and Bhūmi frame the body as a porous entity as they argue that fear was considered contagious and physically harmfully, even fatal. Moving forward in time to the twentieth-century, Elizabeth Brunton uses H.D.’s semi-autobiographical novel Asphodel to explore stillbirth in modernist literature. Asphodel is set during the Great War, and Elizabeth thus uses the framework of ‘shell shock’ to explore tragic loss in the novel, arguing that the fear, horror, and terror

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experienced in the muddy trenches of 1914-1918 may not have been too far away from the life-threatening, dangerous and cruel arena of childbirth. War, women and the body also feature predominantly in Ravenel Richardson’s paper, which emphasises the role of the corporeal in women’s private writing. Specifically, she examines the importance of the role of the body in recounting traumatic memory in the WWII diaries of Marguerite Duras and Marie Vassiltchikov. Remaining in the twentieth- century, but turning to a psychoanalytic point of view, Michèle Huppert analyses Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), interrogating Alfred Hitchcock’s self-professed denial of the Freudian implications of his films. Building on theorist Slajov Zizek’s analysis of Hitchcock in The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema (2006), Huppert explores what Psycho reveals about the hidden desires and fears of the human psyche. 4. Cultures of Fear, Horror, and Terror Leanne Franklin and John Cromby examine the societal effects of the contemporary media’s emphasis on certain horrific crimes, such as the cases of Jamie Bulger, the Soham murders, and Maddie McCann. Using sociological theory and data obtained from focus groups, they display how the media’s saturation of the populace with these ‘worst case scenario’ stories has resulted in a disproportionate reaction of paranoia and distrust amongst the general public which is having an impact upon contemporary parenting and childhood. Bryan Brown also explores twentieth-century fears, but this time in Hollywood as he focuses in on a threat to the American Dream: the drug addict. Cinematic portrayals, such as Requiem for a Dream (2000) and Panic in the Needle Park (1971), draw on character types of the addict as drug-dealer, anarchic, or charismatic in order to reinforce the public image of the addict as a threat rather than a victim, which serves to strengthen public fear.

Moving from cinematic representations to the gritty reality of crime, Jo Chipperfield draws on Victorian scientific endeavours in visceral photography and a more modern obsession with ‘true crime’ as she explores the symbolic significance of the eye, both as an object of and witness to horror. In particular she draws on the gruesome case of PC George Gutteridge whose murder in a quiet English village in 1927 remains a source of mystery. Moving forward to contemporary entertainment, specifically television crime dramas, Anna Warso’s paper discusses two popular American television series, Veronica Mars and David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. Using sources as varied as Puritan ideology, Emersonian philosophy and the gothic and grotesque of Edgar Allan Poe, it examines how both crime fiction series address some of America’s most severe taboos through their investigations of the murders of young women. We close this eBook with Michael Spath’s work, which explores how worldviews, belief-systems, and


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psychological and cultural/political evolutionary patterns build upon and incorporate previous historical stages, and how each stage has resulted in differing experiences of fear, as well as varied manifestations of violence and terror. It discusses the contemporary context of fear and terror from within which global terrorists are operating, and offers a new ideological approach for responding to terror.

One of the most stimulating aspects of the 3rd Annual Conference on Fear, Horror, and Terror was the truly international and inter-disciplinary nature of the proceedings. Delegates came together from not only different disciplines but also radically different cultural experiences to explore topics that challenged the confines of their own research areas. We hope this volume will continue to engender the passionate discussions and ideas for development that began at the conference.

PART I

Terrorist Attacks of 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7

Terrorism and Social Panic in British Fantastic Cinema

Raúl Álvarez Gómez

Abstract From 2002 onwards, after the terrorist attacks of 9/11, 7/7 and 3/11, and after a somewhat listless period both in artistic terms and from the standpoint of international production and renown, the fantastic sub-genres, particularly horror and science fiction films, have gained importance in British cinema as vehicles for reflection on the social panic that these traumatic tragedies have produced. Key Words: Anarchy, dystopia, science fiction, social disintegration, social panic, terror, totalitarian states.

***** 1. The West in the Terrorists’ Sights

One of the prime objectives of terrorism is to spread terror and social panic beyond the attack victims’ private sphere. This purpose took on a new dimension after the terrible attacks of 9/11 (New York and Washington), 7/7 (London) and 3/11 (Madrid), because the terror caused by these assaults transcended their local character and became an international threat.

When these events took place, terrorism was not an exceptional phenomenon in any of the four cities. The IRA had struck London repeatedly for years, just as ETA had hit Madrid, and Washington and New York had dealt with Islamic terrorism on several occasions. But the attacks perpetrated by radical Islamic groups surpassed any of the previous ones on all levels.

In the first place, the number of victims was greater and their nature was different (most were civilians), in contrast to the usual targets of the non-Islamic terrorist groups that operate in the West, who are policemen, military officers, politicians or other representatives of established order.

In the second place, the nature and symbolic value of the settings chosen for the massacres were different. The Twin Towers and the Pentagon were the bastions of American financial and military power, while the London underground and bus services and the Madrid local trains embody the importance of public spaces in Western democracies.

And in the third place, the origin of the attacks, plotted and executed by radical Islamists linked to al-Qaeda, differed from the regional or local nature of other terrorist groups such as ETA or the IRA.

In the years following the attacks, these three determining factors helped define a landscape of alarm and social panic in the societies hit by tragedy that the cinema, as one of their main and most effective mass media,


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has echoed as a key to reflection through different genres. This article focuses on the British case, and examines a selection of six terror and science fiction films - three of each of these fantastic cinema sub-genres - that, either as independent productions or co-productions were made in Britain between 2002 and 2008.

The three terror films are Doomsday (Neil Marshall, 2008), 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle, 2002) and 28 Weeks Later (Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, 2007). The three science-fiction films are Code 46 (Michael Winterbottom, 2003), Children of Men (Alfonso Cuarón, 2006) and V for Vendetta (James McTeigue, 2005). As we shall see in detail further on, the six titles place the spectator in settings conditioned by great tragedies, ranging from the spread of a lethal virus in 28 Days Later to the establishment of a totalitarian state in V for Vendetta. Their characters move in a climate of social panic that gives the directors an opportunity to reflect on three cardinal themes: the reduction of individual liberties, the politics of the fear of Other and the feeling of insecurity. 2. Children of Hammer

Before analysing the dramatic proposals and the keys to reflection of the six films, we need to situate them in the history of British fantastic cinema, which David Pirie defined as ‘the only staple cinematic myth which Britain can properly claim as its own.’1

Our review begins in 1935 with the film that, according to Jack Hunter, can be considered the first Hammer Films production, entitled The Public Life of Henry the Ninth (Bernard Mainwaring). Although this title is neither thematically nor aesthetically a significant contribution to the genre that Hammer turned out during its years of existence, it does mark the official beginning of the activities of the production company that gave impetus to most of the horror and science-fiction films made in Great Britain between 1935 and 1979, the year in which The Lady Vanishes (Anthony Page) was produced. Hunter identifies the latter as the last film made by the studio before it went out of business.

During that period, Hammer Films, which in time would come to be popularly known as the House of Horror, produced a lengthy filmography that includes more than 200 features, numerous short subjects and television series. The production spanned a wide variety of themes, from stories of vampires, mummies and Frankenstein monsters to swashbucklers, black humour comedies, political thrillers, existential dramas and prehistoric adventures.

The most significant contribution from this artistic corpus to the fantastic genre, and particularly to its horror and science fiction sub-genres, was the abundance of vampire, mummy and Frankenstein monster films produced by Hammer during its golden years, from 1955 to 1965. Titles like


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The Quatermass Experiment (Val Guest, 1955), The Curse of Frankenstein (Terence Fisher, 1957), Dracula (Terence Fisher, 1958), The Revenge of Frankenstein (Terence Fisher, 1958) or The Mummy (Terence Fisher, 1959) consolidated the commercial success of Hammer Films and defined a style that had a notable influence on later generations of filmmakers.

Jonathan Rigby structures his description of the characteristics of that style, which he calls the ‘Hammer effect,’ around five thematic and aesthetic coordinates: the reinterpretation of the Universal Studios’ classic monsters (Dracula, Frankenstein and the Mummy), the recreation of the decadent atmosphere of a Gothic tale, the use of striking colours, the taste for the macabre and the recourse to the erotic. 2 The Hammer studios cultivated this style with declining success until the company closed its doors, enjoying its monopoly of the fantastic genre in Great Britain against other contemporary competitors such as Tigon British and Amicus Productions, whose films were clearly exploitations of the Hammer formula.

After Hammer’s demise, the first years of the 1980s saw, according to Ángel Sala, ‘a trickle of productions that unsuccessfully strove to shore up some crumbling edifices that somehow needed to be demolished.’3 Sala is obviously referring to the heritage and mythological weight of Hammer Films, whose style struggled to survive in typical B series products such as House of the Long Shadows (Pete Walker, 1982), The Monster Club (Roy Ward Baker, 1980) or The Doctor and the Devils (Freddie Francis, 1985).

The first signs that the Hammer formula was being superseded during those years were concentrated in the work of three men: Terry Gilliam, director of Brazil (1985), Neil Jordan, director of The Company of Wolves (1984) and Clive Barker, who directed Hellraiser (1987).

Their audacity pushed the fantastic genre into a new stage, consolidated in the following decade and characterized, according to Ángel Sala, by the ‘tendency to involve certain stylemes of the genre with moral or social reflection, that is, to make horror films from realistic and by no means traditional perspectives.’4 In this realm are films such as Shallow Grave (Danny Boyle, 1994) and Butterfly Kiss (Michael Winterbottom, 1994). These two directors are also responsible for two of the films under study here: 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle, 2002) and Code 46 (Michael Winterbottom, 2003).

Currently, and particularly since 2002, when 28 Days Later and My Little Eye (Mark Evans) were premiered, the British fantastic genre seems mostly to be moving along this path which, without relinquishing commercial appeal, advocates, in parallel, a discourse in the form of a social and political metaphor on a specific theme. Solidly embedded in this trend, the films examined in this article suggest three lines of reflection on the social panic generated after the terrorist attacks.


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3. The Reduction of Individual Liberties On 26 October 2001, the United States House of Representatives

and Senate enacted the Patriot Act, a legal text that extended the powers of State control against terrorism by expanding the surveillance capacity of its security agencies, such as the CIA and the FBI. The opponents of this Act, among which were organizations devoted to the defence of individual liberties such as the American Civil Liberties Union, argued that the measures envisaged in the Act could infringe the constitutional rights of American citizens. Jonathan Schell gave these complaints a name when he stated:

There is a name for a system of government that wages aggressive war, deceives its citizens, violates their rights, abuses power and breaks the law, rejects judicial and legislative checks on itself, claims power without limit, tortures prisoners and acts in secret. It is dictatorship. The Administration of George W. Bush is not a dictatorship, but it does manifest the characteristics of one in embryonic form.5

With these words, Schell, who in a way was updating the famous

Benjamin Franklin quotation on liberty – ‘They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither safety nor liberty’ - was also describing, probably without knowing it, the political and social context of the film V for Vendetta (James McTeigue, 2005), which develops the thesis of the reduction of individual liberties and its consequences for society in a futuristic story.

An adaptation of the graphic novel of the same title by Alan Moore and David Lloyd, the film places the spectator in an imaginary Great Britain dominated by the authoritarian regime of the Leader, a sort of dictator with Hitlerian airs who controls the nation through a complex system of security and surveillance. The Leader wields power in the style of Orwell’s Big Brother, by constantly repeating a slogan of fascist overtones: ‘Strength through unity and unity through faith.’

The citizenry is subjected to regular tracking and random monitoring of their private conversations, the security forces arrest any individual who is ‘different’ (immigrants, Muslims, homosexuals, etc.), and the media serve the propagandistic purposes of the government, which has decreed a curfew that impedes people’s free movement after 10pm. In exchange for a false state of order and peace, people have completely given up their liberties.

V, a masked hero inspired by the historical figure of the conspirator Guy Fawkes, who attempted to blow up the English Parliament on November 5th 1605, fights the architects of this system by trying to open the citizens’


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eyes and make them understand that they have renounced humankind’s most precious asset: freedom. He is aided in his plans by Evey, a young orphaned woman who shares V’s ideals and who, finally, sets off the explosives that destroy, this time successfully, the Parliament building.

What sets V and Evey apart from the rest of the characters is the fact that they have come to terms with their fears in order to live a full life. They have freed themselves of their masks in order to be themselves, and they do not fear the Leader's repression. With the bombing of the Parliament, they aim to awaken the rest of the society, triggering a sort of collective catharsis that will fulfil one of V’s most symbolic quotations: ‘People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people.’

Despite the extremism of its premise - it is difficult to conceive of a fascist Great Britain - the message of V for Vendetta maintains its validity with regard to the terrible consequences that could result from the constriction of individual liberties and constitutional rights in a society that decided to accept more control in exchange for purportedly greater security. 4. The Politics of the Fear of Other

The second key to reflection suggested by the films under study here, particularly Code 46 and Children of Men, is the exercise of politics based on the principle of fear of Other. What Other? The foreigner, the stranger, the different person, the peculiar person: in short, any individual or group that does not conform to the social, cultural and ethnic patterns that a society decides to accept.

In our case, due either to the discourse of governments or to the tendency of the press to generalize, the terrorist attacks raised a wave of fear, suspicion and xenophobia toward Muslim citizens in Western societies comparable to the agitation brought about by communism during the 1950s and 60s. In some way the pattern has repeated itself, and half a century after the ‘red terror’ and nuclear paranoia, the West has found a new enemy to defeat.

In Code 46, Michael Winterbottom transfers the fear of the foreigner to a future world where cities have become the only safe environment on earth. Only genetically suitable individuals may travel outside the country or to other urban communities after being granted a travel pass or safe-conduct. Moreover, there is a strict birth control policy that obligates parents to undergo a genetic test to neutralize possible incompatibilities. The spread of cloning, the separation of embryos, in vitro fertilization and artificial insemination are the reasons claimed by states to prohibit free sexual union. In point of fact, this practice hides a policy of selective reproduction through which nations aim to prevent mixing among different ethnic groups.

William, an insurance claims adjuster whose job is to uncover frauds in the issuance of travel passes, and María, an employee of the largest


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company that makes these passes, meet, fall in love and defy the system by fleeing together. Their relationship, clearly inspired by Aldous Huxley’s classic Brave New World, is considered improper by the authorities, who do not rest until they find the couple, separate them and erase William’s memories of María in order to reintegrate him in is aseptic world.

Code 46 puts the accent on the difficulty experienced by unsuitable individuals, foreigners, in entering cities and having the same opportunities as the others inhabitants. ‘We don’t live, we subsist,’ William's driver tells him with respect to the outside world. This reflection, moreover, alerts the spectator to the possible establishment of first- and second-class citizens according to racial or genetic criteria, a theme that the visionary Gattaca (Andrew Niccol, 1997) had already put forward.

In Children of Men, an adaptation of the novel of the same title by P.D. James, the fear of otherness is presented in a Great Britain dislocated by terrorism, immigration, hunger and inequalities. All this is enveloped in a pessimistic, bleak attitude toward the future of mankind caused by an epidemic of infertility that prevents women from conceiving. The story follows Theo, a former activist retrained as a bureaucrat who becomes the protector of the only pregnant woman on earth, an African girl in search of a safe place for herself and her baby.

Under this premise, Alfonso Cuarón develops a critical discourse on globalisation and capitalism that stresses the social disintegration that accompanies the fear of the foreign citizen and the policies of control and repression that can be brought to bear on that citizen. This critique reaches its high point in two scenes. The first takes place in London when Theo witnesses the eviction of immigrants from the building they inhabit. The victims are then locked up in cages. The second is set in a refugee camp, where Theo tries to save the mother and her baby in the midst of a pitched battle between the British army and masses of immigrants. Only the little one’s crying manages to silence the weapons.

In his assessment of the film, Slavoj Zizek asserts that ‘democracy today is no longer based on justice, equality and free participation by the citizen, but on segregation, the raising of walls and gated communities.’6 This opinion takes on meaning if we take note of the new geography of the world after the terrorist attacks, where we have witnessed the construction and reinforcement of walls, fences and other physical barriers between the United States and Mexico, Ceuta and Morocco, and Israel and the West Bank that try to impede the entry of illegal immigrants and possible attacks. 5. The Feeling of Insecurity

The terrorist attacks of 9/11, 7/7 and 3/11 demonstrated the West’s vulnerability in the face of a tactic of horror consisting of striking at any time and in any place, without the least inkling of a scruple with regard to the


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number or nature of the victims. Al-Qaeda's message was clear: the police, the army, the espionage services or the latest technological advances of the developed powers are useless before a man or group of men who are willing to die as they kill.

In Western societies this tactic generated a feeling of insecurity that resulted in an attitude of alertness and suspicion toward any sign that might suggest a new attack. In the United States, for example, many citizens were suspicious of any postal delivery because of the fear that the letter or parcel received might contain anthrax. And in London and Madrid, the underground, train and city bus services took a while to return to normality because of the feeling that new attacks could occur. It appeared that the State was incapable of ensuring peace and order within its own borders, and that chaos had got the upper hand over reason.

British fantastic cinema, especially in the horror sub-genre, has echoed this atmosphere of anxiety and hysteria in films such as 28 Days Later and its sequel, 28 Weeks Later, and Doomsday. The three films offer a similar setting characterized by the social panic generated by a virus epidemic that turns people into ferocious, bloodthirsty creatures that hunger for the taste of human flesh.

As Jesús Palacios points out, we are not dealing with the traditional zombie or ghoul of such classic titles as I Walked with a Zombie (Jacques Tourneur, 1943), White Zombie (Victor Halperin, 1932) or The Night of the Living Dead (George A. Romero, 1968), but with the manifestation of the ‘ancestral fear of oneself after death, of being but not being, of the supplantation of identity and personality, of the paradise of paranoia.’7

The hordes of the infected that pursue the protagonists of the films give no quarter, leaving in their wake an apocalyptic world where the State has ceased to function, or no longer exists, and the few survivors organise themselves in small communities.

It is typical that the three directors, in their recreation of those chaotic settings, have had recourse to images of deserted streets, charred vehicles and walls covered with photographs and messages dedicated to those who have disappeared. This iconography inevitably brings to mind the scenes of the attacks that the media distributed, and particularly the expressions of grief in the form of photos and farewell letters that thousands of Americans affixed to a fence near the World Trade Center. We find another clear aesthetic reference in the documentary film WTC The First 24 Hours (Étienne Sauret, 2002), which shows the state to which Ground Zero was reduced after the attacks on the Twin Towers. The smoke, the rain of ashes, the desolate streets, the buildings in ruins and the destroyed cars that appear in Sauret’s documentary could perfectly match the apocalyptic settings of the three films studied here.


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Like terrorism, film viruses do not distinguish nor discriminate among their victims: they attack without mercy and sow the threat of an anarchic world where the State is incapable of re-establishing order. Or when it does, as in the case of 28 Weeks Later, it is through the army’s excessive intervention.

6. Conclusions

In the post-9/11 context, British horror and science fiction cinema has proven to be an allegorical mirror of the main political and social consequences of the New York, Washington, London and Madrid attacks. The six films studied contain references to the tragedies on two levels. One of these is aesthetic, involving the recreation of images of terror, chaos and social panic that refer directly to the scenes of the attacks published by the mass media. The other level is dramatic, with the development of plots that can prompt reflection on the socio-political effects of the terrorist attacks.

This second level is interesting insofar as it establishes a dual reading for each film. As commercial films of the fantastic genre, they are attractive products for a certain audience segment, primarily the youngest of filmgoers who enjoy the action scenes and special effects. At the same time, other, more mature audiences can appreciate the critical reflection that engenders the message of each film. In our case, the main debating points are established around three themes: the reduction of individual liberties, the politics of the fear of Other and the feeling of insecurity.

This dual reading, which makes fantastic cinema a suitable medium for reflection, is not new. David J. Skal, Kim Newman and Mark Jancovich have already set out the theory that the fictions of horror and science fiction films have historically fulfilled the function of recreating the collective fears of their time. What merits highlighting here is the resurrection of that value in the context of British cinema, which, after the disappearance of the legendary Hammer Films, had not found a regular channel for the successful promotion of the fantastic genre. This is why there is revived meaning in the words that David Pirie dedicated to the Hammer Films scriptwriters and directors: ‘They had the courage to withstand the storm of reproaches and insults that fell on their heads as soon as they began to revive the themes that the cinema had presented until then in a carefully sweetened manner.’ 8

Notes

1 S Chibnall & J Petley, ‘The return of the repressed? British horror’s heritage and future’, in S Chibnall & J Petley (eds) British horror cinema, Routledge, New York, 2002, p. 8.


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2 J Rigby, English gothic. A century of horror cinema, Reynolds & Hearn, London, 2000, p. 238. 3 Sala, A., ‘Caída y reconstrucción del fantástico británico 1980-2003’. Quatermass, vol. 4, Astiberri, Bilbao, 2004, p. 84. 4 Ibid., p. 87. 5 J Schell, ‘The hidden State steps forward’, in The Nation, 1 September 2006, p. 23. 6 S Zikek, explains this in the documentary entitled ‘La posibilidad de la esperanza’, included in the DVD version of the film Children of Men, Universal Pictures, 2007. 7 J Palacios, Planeta zombi, Midons Editorial, Valencia, 1996, p. 12. 8 J A Pedrero Santos, Terror Cinema, Calamar Ediciones, Madrid, 2008, p. 24.

Bibliography Chibnall, S. & J. Petley (eds), British Horror Cinema. Routledge, New York, 2002. Corral, J. M., Hammer. La casa del terror. Calamar Ediciones, Madrid, 2003. Hunter, J., House of Horror. The complete Hammer Films Story. Creation Books, London, 2000. Jancovich, M. (ed), Horror. The film reader. Routledge, New York, 2002. Newman, K.(ed), Science Fiction/Horror. The British Film Institute, London, 2002. Palacios, J., Planeta zombi. Midons Editorial, Valencia, 1996. Pedrero Santos, J. A., Terror Cinema. Calamar Ediciones, Madrid, 2008 Pirie, D., A new heritage of horror. The English Gothic Cinema. I.B. Tauris & Co., London, 2007. Rigby, J., English gothic. A century of horror cinema. Reynolds & Hearn, London, 2000. Romero, J. G. (ed), Quatermass, vol. 4, Astiberri, Bilbao, 2004.


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Skal, D. J., The Monster Show: A cultural history of horror. Valdemar, Madrid, 2003. Raúl Álvarez Gómez is PhD in progress in Film Studies at Universidad Complutense (Madrid). My thesis is on Film and History, focused in the filmic representations of historical events. Member of the current research project at Universidad Rey Juan Carlos, ‘The Film Treatment of Social Panic After the 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7 Attacks (2001-2008).

Hollywood Under Siege: The Entrenched as a Dramatic Role in the Wake of 9/11

Antonio Sánchez-Escalonilla

Abstract Researchers of American society such as Stearns1 point out the panic of invasion and foreign threat as one of USA’s main sources of endemic fear. In the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, this fear has become even more intense before the population’s eyes: an atmosphere of threat that unavoidably turns to the exterior, showing the risks of xenophobia and entrenchment in certain sectors of North American society. The purpose of this work is to analyse the peculiar character of the entrenched in American fiction cinema after 9/11. The entrenched is a traditional figure in Hollywood landscapes from the times of early Western to the most recent trends in Science-Fiction, and now it has been revitalized as an exponent of the ordinary citizens who are under risk of mass destruction or lethal invasion. Key Words: American fear, entrenched character, film, terrorism, 9/11.

***** 1. Introduction On the south side of New York City, 500 feet away from Ground Zero, Wall Street extends like a breach through Manhattan, from Broadway to the East River. The name of this route, symbol of Western financial power, is due to the ancient wall that the Dutch settlers of New Amsterdam built in the 17th Century as a means of protection from the Native American tribes. Decades later, this same fear towards an indigenous attack would be inherited by the English dwellers that baptised the city as New York. However, the fatal attack against the city happened four centuries later, when that fortress protecting a few thousands of entrenched Europeans had been transformed not only into the heart of a metropolis of eight million people, but also into the summit of North American cultural splendour. Symptomatically, on September 11, 2001, an external threat had the power to demolish the defensive walls that had received global dimensions and seemed impregnable from the times of the Pilgrim Fathers to the G8 Era. The breakthrough of the United States towards the west coast was always associated to a social pathos of entrenchment behind the palisade-frontier. In the North American consciousness, the figures of the pioneer and the settler escorted the expansion throughout the most hostile and wild territories. From beginning to end, this territorial expansion always seemed to

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be linked to the need of protection from an external danger, and it finally forged an underlying form of terror within the national memory. In order to undertake our work on the entrenched archetype in cinema, we will first establish its historical and creative coordinates, accentuating the role of the Western genre in its cohesion. Here, we will be taking the film The Searchers (1956) as a reference point. Secondly, we will focus on the entrenched character that is treated as an anachronic phenomenon in late 20th Century American society, and on its relationship with conspiracy theories. We will be referring to Arlington Road (1999) to illustrate this segment. Finally, we will analyse the presence of the entrenched character in the wake of 9/11 in science-fiction and catastrophe films, through three prominent directors of mediatic impact on western audiences: Steven Spielberg, M. Night Shyamalan and Frank Darabont. 2. The Western Spirit: The Front Line as a Trench

With the invention of cinema, the Western genre reflected the conquest of the American territory as if it were a classic myth of foundation. The cinema took these historical facts and created a legendary epic upon them. As Place points out:

Philosophical views of American history are the intellectual background for the Western and its special significance for Americans, but more important to understanding the emotional impact of Westerns is the element of myth they contain. Myths are universal patterns of human experience.2 Among these universal patterns, the figure of the entrenched

character resisting heroically on hostile ground is outlined as one of the most representative dramatic archetypes in Western, the film genre where it appeared for the first time. Two classic titles like The Alamo (1960) and The Searchers make use of the settler archetype forced to endure on the borderlines. The first film narrates the heroic resistance of the North American citizens settled in Texas who declare the independence of this territory and rebel against the Mexican authorities. Unlike The Alamo, The Searchers is not based on historical facts, but it reflects the pioneer spirit on the other side of the Mississippi river after the Civil War. John Ford’s film displays the veteran Ethan Edwards and his group while they ride the territories of the West for ten years in order to rescue his niece Debbie from the hands of the Comanche, who slaughtered Edwards’ family.

The Searchers emphasizes the antithesis established between white colonists who inhabit fragile settlements and migrating Indians, owners of a vast territory. In the beginning of the film, Edwards’ family gathers at night


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and an atmosphere of terror invades the cabin after they notice the presence of Indians in the outside. The scream of one of the daughters, forced to remove an oil lamp from the window, introduces an ellipsis followed by Ethan’s discovery all the family’s corpses, except his two nieces. The scream expresses the status of the entrenched character in Western films in a graphic mode, reflecting a daily coexistence with death. Nevertheless, in spite of the dangers and terror, the script of The Searchers reflects the pioneer conscience as a carrier of a civilization cell. Place highlights this notion when he refers to the presence of Lars Jorgensen and his settler family on Texas land:

His wife expresses the populist, Fordian sentiments in her ‘Texican’ speech: that someday this country’s going to be a fine place, even if it needs their bones in the ground before that day comes. There is a sense of mission about settling the country.3

3. Spontaneous Defence and Inner Trench Throughout the 20th Century the social archetype of the entrenched seemed to derive towards an anachronistic figure, marked by the original principles of defence of property and of the foundational values of the country. However, in the new historical panorama, the dangers come from within the borders. The archetype’s new version presents a character connected with a gun culture and with the spontaneous movements of civil defence against an enemy within the scope of conspiracy theories who dwells in the very structure of the State. The proliferation of guns in North American civil society, supported by organizations such us the National Rifle Association, is due to this survival factor on hostile ground that marked the history of the country. On the other hand, the movements of popular defence have just already been consolidated through local militia during the fight for independence. The guns seem to be bonded to the traditional endemic fear within hostile surroundings, as Michael Moore maintains in his documentary Bowling for Colombine (2002). In spite of its anachronism, the figure of the armed settler who defends property and civilization is still alive in a certain social mentality. In the last twenty years, the United States has witnessed an increase of the old local militia in the middle states, where a protectionist feeling endures as well as a desire of building a purified society, free from the threats of the New World Order announced during the George H. W. Bush Administration. This feeling, characterized by segregationism and the isolation from State structures, often considered like depositors of a global totalitarian government, has revived the image of the home-entrenched settler in the countryside. An extreme case of this phenomenon took place in the beginning


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of the 1990’s, during the confrontation of the FBI and the members of the Branch Davidian sect in Waco, Texas, or in the shooting of federal agents against the family of the separatist Randy Weaver in Idaho.

Phenomena of popular defence such as the mentioned above seem to respond to a proliferation of conspiracy theories among groups such as the local militia and other patriotic cells, where religious fanaticism and racism often go together. Regarding the recent activity developed by militia movements, Fenster affirms that:

Militia members bought arms and trained themselves in military technique and strategy in order to fight what many saw as the rise of a centralized ‘one world’ government they believed sought to usurp traditional American sovereignty at the local, state and national levels.4 The citizen psychosis of civil insecurity, unprotection and

uncertainty were object of reflection in a film and TV trend that emerged during the last decade of the 20th Century. The audiovisual plots tried to explore the causes of the armed entrenchment and the violent reactions in the social scene, either coming from sleeping terrorist cells within the population, or from uncontrolled administration factions, a storyline favourite always built upon conspiracy theories5. Arlington Road tells the story of Faraday, a Washington scholar specialised in terrorism. Faraday confirms his suspicions about his neighbours, an ordinary wasp-like charming couple who in fact are two anti-system activists plotting to blow up an FBI centre. The script premise relied on a true event, the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing of the Federal Building by an American citizen who considered himself a victim of the State. At the same time, the film plot emphasizes the inefficiency of the institutions to guarantee domestic peace. 3. The Entrenched Archetype in the Wake of 9/11 The 9/11 attacks revealed the fragility of the American border. The images of the jet airliners crashing into the Twin Towers in Manhattan, broadcasted live and repeated endlessly, revived the worst nightmares of the American citizens, who built antinuclear shelters in their backyards during the 1950’s while their children practiced bomb drills at school during the Soviet threat. As a result of 9/11, the civil entrenched archetype received a renewed vitality. Freda highlights the importance of the concept border in the political speech as well as in a social conscience damaged by the attacks:

Borders are important in the analysis of 9/11’s impact, particularly the intersection of concrete and symbolic boundaries, representation and its referential stability. The


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ease with which the terrorists crossed the physical border of the country was intensely matched by the density of the symbolic-political boundary erected by official discourse in response.6 On the other hand, after the promulgation of the so-called Patriot

Act in October 2001, and the extraordinary laws against terror, some public opinion groups and institutions warned about the social dangers that could be derived from the shielding of the border (xenophobia and limitation of civil rights). In fact, after 9/11 a trend in Hollywood’s most popular genres determined to expose these dangers allegorically.

3.1 A Collective Version of the Archetype: John Wayne and The Spirit of America

The media compared New York’s and Washington’s national tragedies with the bombing of Pearl Harbour on 7 December 1941, but perhaps this date was not the most appropriate referent for a disaster that made the fears of the Cold War become true in a spectacular way.

After the attacks of Al Qaeda, President George W. Bush declared the war on terror and defined an axis of evil states, from Iraq to North Korea. At the same time, several Hollywood moguls were summoned to the White House in order to obtain a contribution from film industry to the national unity against terror. The main result was The Spirit of America (2005), a rapid-fire montage movie directed by Chuck Workman that consisted of a succession of the most famous heroes of American cinema, renowned for their honour and their vengeful spirit.

The film ended, symptomatically, with a picture of Ethan Edwards. In his analysis about Workman’s film, Faludi concludes that the hero of The Searchers was chosen as a patriotic icon for the war on terror because it stirred both the conscience and home values of the pioneer. ‘The attack on home soil’ - writes Faludi - ‘triggered a search for a guardian of the homestead, a manly man, to be sure, but one particularly suited to protecting and providing for the isolated American family in perilous situations.’7 After invoking the original myth of the resisting settler in The Searchers, the president began to work with a popular endorsement that in October 2001 exceeded its percentage in 35 points compared to the last coat before 9/11.

One month after the attacks, the Bush Administration took a series of emergency measures with the enactment of the Patriot Act. The American Civil Liberties Union immediately denounced the possible injury caused to foreign citizens: ‘The legislation includes clauses which could allow the mistreatment of immigrants, the suppression of criticism and investigation, and the surveillance of completely innocent citizens.’8 In short, the legal measures implied a shielding of the borders in order to cope with the external


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threat and a restriction of civil liberties in exchange for security. Somehow, the whole country remained entrenched from that moment on.

One of the first voices that questioned the new legal landscape came from Hollywood eight months later, with the release of the film Minority Report (2002). Its director, Steven Spielberg, shows a dystopian future where society lives thanks to a secure system that prevents crime at the expense of removing the presumption of innocence. The fear becomes controlled but the result is a secure society within its legal limits, suffocated and subjected to continuous monitoring. During the premiere of Minority Report, Spielberg stated:

I am willing to give up some of my personal freedoms in order to stop 9/11 from ever happening again. But the question is, Where do you draw the line? How much freedom are you willing to give up? That is what this movie is about.9

Two years later, Spielberg directed Terminal (2004) and offered a

metaphor of the legal reaction against the otherness, as a result of a latent fear triggered by the 11 September attacks. The film tells the surreal story of Viktor Navorski, citizen of the fictional Republic of Krakozhia, who arrives at the John F. Kennedy International Airport and the US Customs authorities deny him the entry into the United States to visit Manhattan. The film's striking sentence, ‘America is closed,’ is mentioned tenaciously by the second-in-command of customs, and this warning seems to echo the spirit of the first entrenched settlers.

In The Village (2004) Shyamalan presents an isolated community quite disconnected from the outside world, surrounded by a forest inhabited by ferocious creatures. The ruling council maintains a culture of fear among the inhabitants in order to safeguard their authority, ensuring security and protecting privacy. Terror holds the community together, although everything is based on legends. As the end of the movie reveals, the council of elders is composed by several heads of households who, after suffering violent experiences, decided to form an isolated community where they could live peacefully. While they have a relative stability and happiness, the creation of a secure society through the culture of terror is revealed untenable in the end.

Through three different genres (science-fiction, drama and thriller), Spielberg and Shyamalan offer after 9/11 a vision of a society entrenched within its borders, dominated by a culture of fear and alien terror obsession that has finally forged into an utter fear of otherness. In the case of Shyamalan’s The Village, the director also warns about the anachronism of this approach, which could make America return to the 17th Century.


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Accordingly, film critic Matthew Leyland alluded to the dilemma of the Elders and the destruction of the myth at the end of The Village:

The film’s most haunting aspect is its allegorical resonance. The community’s isolationist credo and vigilance against sneak-attack terror clearly invite parallels with post-9/11 America, climaxing in the elders’ troubling decision to continue promoting a fabricated fear of the others as the bedrock of their way of life.10

3.2 Individual Version of the Archetype: The Anachronistic Trench A second version of the archetype shows an isolated individual

confronting an external threat in plots of invasion and disaster. In cases such as War of the Worlds (2005) and The Happening (2008), two films where Spielberg and Shyamalan present their latest allegories on America after the attacks, the concept of entrenchment is not extended to the community, but is restricted to characters with a retrograde and unsociable profile, marked by paranoid distrust, superstition and aggressive tendency. This second version of the archetype shows the paradox of a character that, facing a collective threat, worsens the situation and becomes part of the problem because of paranoia and hysteria. This pattern is also used by Frank Darabont in The Mist (2007).

The individual version of the archetype provides reflections of a social nature while the collective version, as we have seen, allows for a political reading of the war on terror. At the same time, anachronism and the retreat to a Hobbesian community model seem to characterize the atmosphere that surrounds the individual entrenched at the time of disaster. In his adaptation of the H.G. Wells classic, Spielberg emphasizes the intention to depict the citizens of New York as victims of a war of invasion, when the country was actually waging a war in Iraq.11

Ray, the main character in the film, and his daughter take refuge in a basement where a sniper, Ogilvy, has been entrenched and shoots the aliens while he proclaims, in an extremist way, how history shows that America cannot be invaded. Spielberg presents Ogilvy as a victim of paranoia and fanaticism, and the circumstances of the invasion turn him into a lethal danger for father and daughter, prisoners in the same mousetrap.

Shyamalan, in turn, introduces several isolated characters similar to Ogilvy in The Happening. The film narrates the flight of a marred couple in the midst of the hysteria caused by the spreading of a toxin that causes mass suicides. During the flight, which takes place through the countryside of Pennsylvania, two teenagers in the group are shot dead by villagers entrenched in a farm in response to their request for refuge. The anonymous shooters, who commit the only explicit killing in the film, are connected to


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Mrs. Jones: an elderly woman unaware of the massive disaster, who has spent years completely away from the world. This second isolated character offers a shelter to the run away couple at her farm in the resolution of the plot. But the woman, insane, hostile and suffering from a strange superstitious misanthropy, ends her days as a victim of the suicide plague. Through these entrenched characters, Spielberg and Shyamalan suggest that unsociable attitudes of isolation against external danger suppose a worsening of the disaster itself. Darabont also uses this anachronistic pattern of the entrenched in order to build the character of Mrs. Carmody, the fanatical preacher in The Mist, who adds the factor of religious fanaticism. In this film, the inhabitants of a Northeastern village take refuge in a local supermarket and try to resist the attack of fantastic monsters, arisen from the unnatural mist, which covers the area. Darabont emphasizes the apocalyptic fanaticism of the preacher, who convinces the villagers that the attacks fulfil eschatological biblical prophecies, and encourages the entrenched characters to sacrifice two non-believers in order to save the village from the wrath of God. And also, the director points out the panic of divine punishment as one of the ancestral fears of the American people from their origins.12

4. Conclusion

Eight years after The Spirit of America, the figure of Ethan Edwards in The Searchers appears completely blurred in the filmic panorama related to the 9/11. Towards the latter years of the Bush-Cheney Administration, Hollywood designed a very different patriotic iconography and opted for political drama (Lions for Lambs (2007), Rendition (2007), Syriana (2005)), post-9/11 social portraits (Crash (2004), In the Valley of Elah (2007)), documentaries (Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004)), and military thrillers (Body of Lies (2008), The Kingdom (2007)). Something similar happened during the Vietnamese War with the popular rejection of The Green Berets (1968), an official film for military praise (also starring John Wayne) followed by the appearance of a new sub genre of war that become a platform for political and social analysis. In the same way, the Iraq War resulted in a Hollywood trend that questioned the army’s role as defender of the attacked homeland. In Bush's second term, this filmic tendency consolidated.

If criticism of the political management came explicitly through the genres of drama and war thrillers, it is suggestive that social criticism after 9/11 has sometimes received a bolder examination in an allegorical way, through genres of fiction and disaster approached by directors associated with blockbuster productions. Icons like the border and the entrenched character have served as valid instruments in fantasy and science fiction plots to warn of the dangers of turning national boundaries into trenches.

In short, fictional film after 9/11 has used the old archetype of the entrenched character to analyse the transformation of the home invasion fear


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into a form of cosmic fear: something like a formidable journey from the Panic Room (2002) to The Mist (2007). Meanwhile Hollywood has warned that the closure of borders, whether individual or collective, is not a solution to cope with the threats against American households, but rather a risk to national security and to historic identity.

Notes

1 P Stearnes, American Fear: The Causes and Consequences of High Anxiety, Londres, Routledge, 2006. 2 J A Place, The Westerns of John Ford, Secaucus, Citadel Press, 1974, p 4. 3 Ibid., pp. 170-171. 4 M Fenster, Conspiracy Theories. Secrecy and Power in American Culture, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2008, p. 54. 5 In the 1990’s, recreations like JFK and Waco: The Rules of Engagement, or thrillers such as Conspiracy Theory and Public Enemy reflected the interest of Hollywood in the phenomenon of civil disbelief before the authorities. Arlington Road, released with the eloquent subtitle ‘Your Paranoia is Real,’ proposes an extreme case of the violent reactions of a number of citizens who feel threatened by the state apparatus. 6 I Freda, ‘Survivors in the West Wing’, in WW Dixon (ed), Film and Television after 9/11, Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale, 2004 p. 239. 7 S Faludi, The Terror Dream. What 9/11 Revealed about America, London, Atlantic Books, 2007, p. 148. 8 American Civil Liberties Union, ACLU Responds to Senate Passage of Anti-Terrorism Bill, Ashcroft Speech, American Civil Liberties Union, 25 October 2001, retrieved on 14 November 2008. <http://www.aclu.org/natsec/gen/12464prs20011025.html> 9 R Lyman, ‘Spielberg Challenges the Big Fluff of Summer’, The New York Times, Arts and Leisure Desk, 16 June 2002, p. 3. 10 M Leyland, ‘The Village’. Sight&Sound, vol. 14, October 2004, pp. 69-70. 11 As the director explains, ‘This [the film] is partially about the American refugee experience because it’s certainly about Americans fleeing for their lives after being attacked for no reason, having no idea why they’re being attacked and who is attacking them.’ E Aames, Interview: Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg on War of the Worlds, Cinema Confidential, 28 June 2005, retrieved 18 November 2008, <www.cinecon.com/news.php?id=0506281> 12 P Stearns explains that racial fear and divine punishment are amongst the traditional fears of the American people.


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Bibliography

Aames, E., Interview: Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg on War of the Worlds, Cinema Confidential, 28 June 2005, retrieved on 18 November 2008, <www.cinecon.com/news.php?id=0506281> American Civil Liberties Union, ACLU Responds to Senate Passage of Anti-Terrorism Bill, Ashcroft Speech, in American Civil Liberties Union, 25 October 2001, retrieved on 14 November 2008. <http://www.aclu.org/natsec/gen/12464prs20011025.html> Faludi, S., The Terror Dream. What 9/11 Revealed about America. London, Atlantic Books, 2007. Fenster, M., Conspiracy Theories. Secrecy and Power in American Culture. University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2008. Freda, I., ‘Survivors in the West Wing’, in W.W. Dixon (ed), Film and Television after 9/11. Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale, IL, 2004, pp. 226-244. Leyland, M., ‘The Village’. Sight&Sound, vol. 14, 2004, pp. 69-70. Lyman, R., ‘Spielberg Challenges the Big Fluff of Summer’. The New York Times, Arts and Leisure Desk, 16 June 2002, p. 3. Place, J. A., The Westerns of John Ford. Secaucus, Citadel Press, 1974. Stearnes, P., American Fear: The Causes and Consequences of High Anxiety. Londres, Routledge, 2006. Antonio Sánchez-Escalonilla is Lecturer in Script Writing at University Rey Juan Carlos (Madrid, Spain). Interested in Film Narratives, he is currently coordinating a research on cinema and social trauma in the wake of the 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7 attacks in America and Europe.

Monsters, Feérie Fear, Threaten Global and the Uncanny in the Cinema of M. Night Shyamalan

Gabriel García Mingorance

Abstract ‘The link between man and the world is broken [...] Restoring our belief in the world-this is the power of modern cinema.’ In this paper we will analyse the four last works of the American Indian director and writer M. Night Shyamalan -Signs (2002), The Village (2004), Lady in the Water (2006) and The Happening (2008) - in order to classify the types of monsters and aliens chosen for these stories, and what kind of threat they represent. Through this classification of creatures and fears we will try to study the dramatic consequences that structure each screenplay, the evolution of the main characters, and internal conflicts. Finally, the conclusions will be shown in light of the post-9/11 social and political context. Key Words: 9/11, cinema, doppelganger, fantasy, feérie fear, Monsters, secondary belief, secondary world, Shyamalan, uncanny.

***** 1. Beyond the Hill: The Englishman Who Came Down Mountain

It is important to clarify what makes our study different from the point of view of a scholar of cinema. We will try to explain the main answers for the main questions given in some productions of fantasy cinema in order to overcome the consequences of 9/11.

First of all, we will justify why we have specifically chosen fantasy cinema for our investigation. The main reasons will reveal the most important mechanism that builds a story, which flees from absence into fantasy through the uncanny.

Second, we will show the importance of being a monster, and of course, the importance of being a scared human set against these creatures in fantasy stories. We have chosen four films, produced after 9/11, from the director M. Night Shyamalan which represent many collective fears channelled into one, called féerie fear: Signs (2002), The Village (2004), Lady in the Water (2006) and The Happening (2008). We will analyse what types of monsters are constructed across these films and why féerie fear is present in every film of Shyamalan.

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Later, then, we shall focus our study onto the humans, characters that fight against both féerie fear and monsters. This will give us some important information, which will help explain the relationship between man and the world, where the link between them is broken, as well as reality since 9/11, and how Shyamalan attempts to solve these ruptures within cinematic context. Finally, we will explain the political or sociological conclusions regarding his films.

We have chosen cinema because it is the most important visual spectacle, which represents many of our fears and desires. It can be argued that new technologies such as I-Net, videogames, virtual reality, and computers are beating cinema in commercial terms ($ per year, global audiences, impact, etc.). But, on the other hand, none can deny the special power of cinema to explain the world that we ‘believe’ or know, in detriment of the other media such as i-Net, videogames... At the moment, cinema has the main key of the spectator’s mind. This is an important variable explained by Christian Metz:

It will be said that literature, after all, is itself only made of replicas (written words, presenting absent objects). But at least it does not present them to us with all the really perceived detail that the screen does (giving more and taking as much, i.e. taking more). The unique position of the cinema lies in thus dual character of its signifier: unaccustomed perceptual wealth, but at the same time stamped with unreality to an unusual degree, and from the very outset. More than other arts, or in a more unique way, the cinema involves us in the imaginary: it drums up all perception, but to switch it immediately over into its own absence, which is nonetheless the only signifier present.1

Shyamalan, and most modern directors of fantasy cinema, such as Tim Burton, Guillermo del Toro, and Peter Jackson, use mainly dramatic tools provided by literature authors such as Lewis, Cärroll, Tolkien, Lovecraft, King, Le Guin, Wilde, De la Mare, and Maupassant. First, Tolkien, and many more scholars, concluded that fantasy stories had an important concept, which was hidden from the ancient times in fairy tales. As marvellous tales do, they offered impressive worlds, magical creatures and fantastic voyages. At present, Tolkien argues, fantasy tales contain the same poetic objects but distributed into secondary worlds and secondary times.2 These worlds (with their magical environment, monsters, etc.) emerge into reality of the story, our play place, and can be ‘over the horizon, up in the sky, under ice or in the kitchen.’3 Among others, writers of fantasy also build a secondary belief, which confirms a probable link between magical world


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and our reality.4 These secondary beliefs are ‘projections of the Weltanschauung, of the particular author’s models of the world, [...] products of creative imagination and as such a matter of belief.’5

Well, we can conclude that Tolkien and these scholars had climbed that Hill and seen the Promised Land. The question now arises that if we cannot believe in our world (abominable, and full of terror, plagued by death and destruction after 9/11), how can we accept the existence of elves and scrunts, aliens and fairies in our pool or in the backyard? Deleuze asserts:

The link between man and the world is broken. Henceforth, this link must become an object of belief: it is the impossible, which can only be restored within a faith. Belief is no longer addressed to a different or transformed world. Man is in the world as if in a pure optical and sound situation...Only belief in the world can reconnect man to what he sees and hears. The cinema must film, no the world, but belief in this world, our only link. The nature of cinematographic illusion has often been considered. Restoring our belief in the world -this is the power of the modern cinema.6 Threat could be one link which connects our world breaking down

the walls of our absence and letting us understand things that we cannot explain walking down across that mountain of confusion. Threat in fantasy cinema must be considered, threats such as a fear associated with the invisible (terrorism for example could be anywhere), and the impossible. In fairy tales threat was represented as a special trial accepted by the hero in order to complete his travel or quest, an example being the final fight against the antagonist. But in fantasy, threat is questioned (i.e. terrorism), in the everyday, producing fear, anxiety and absence. The main character confronts the danger by seeking an invisible monster. However, paraphrasing Campbell’s Hero with Thousand Faces, we got a Monster with Thousand Faces, uncanny and supernatural, that is unidentified until the end of the tale. Later, we will analyse the nature of this monster. But now, the main answer we can give is that a global threat acquires a new dimension in fantasy cinema, something we discussed previously: féerie fear. Restoring our belief in the world is the main objective of fantasy cinema, and maybe féerie fear is the principle dramatic tool to reach it. We argue that this is the case in Shyamalan’s films.

We conclude that like the Englishman Who Came Down Mountain, this study was indeed more complex and bigger than we had expected. So, we will focus our analysis onto the monsters that play into these dramatic


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tools, inhabitants from an Uncanny World that play into our reality and threaten our world. 2. The Monsters that We do not Want to See or Talk To

Féerie Fear or Threat drive along the plot in the fantasy genre. Occasionally we find it represented by monsters at the beginning of the story. On the other hand, we often find other kinds of clues about it. It is important to show the nature of the troubles or dangers without veiling the entire ‘trick.’ Penzoldt explains:

If the author separates the otherworldly from reality, the hidden fears that the ancient superstitions may assert themselves in everyday life are not aroused. It is only when the magic word fiction does not give us relief until the very end of the story; when thing seems form some time an intrinsic part of reality, that stark terror is born. When the author clearly shows us from the beginning that all his spooks, ghosts and goblins are merely fancy and imagination we have no reason to fear.7 Three concepts appear at this moment: the supernatural (féerie), the

atmosphere, and the monsters. We have called feérie fear the reaction towards supernatural

phenomenon which is channelled through specific dramatic tools in fantasy films (previously represented in fantasy literature). Mainly, we are talking about ‘tales of fear that play on our doubt whether what we maintain to be pure imagination is not, after all, reality,’ which revert complex situations that suggest the impossible, the weird, and the uncanny into reality.8 In opposition to the hero of myths or folktales, the protagonist of a fantasy story feels fear, doubt, and absence when he fights against the invisible monster, like an average human being. Ferreras told us that when facing the supernatural being, the hero is in the same situation as a defenceless boy, whose methods to know and to rationalise reality are so limited they are insufficient.9 At the same time, the hero has curiosity for unveiling the truth about the phenomenon. But now we have to ask the following questions: ‘How does fantasy writer, Shyamalan, build the mechanisms of story to lock up protagonist into the dramatic maelstrom? How can a hero win or discover the monster? What is the monster?’

The answer for the first question is complex. However, many authors talk about the atmosphere, especially Lovecraft, as a unique mechanism in fantastic themes which creates this fantastic effect associated with monsters. Lovecraft writes:


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There has to be a certain atmosphere and restlessness and inexplicable fear of unknown forces present, and there has to be a spying, expressed with appropriate seriousness and prodigy sense, of that conception, supremely terrible, of the human brain, that is one of the malignant and specific suspensions or abolitions of those immutable laws of the nature which constitutes our only safeguard against the attack of the chaos and the daemons of the unfathomed space. (translation G. Mingorance) 10

And of course, by extension, we can find invisible monsters, demons from outer space, forest beasts, scrunts and diseases hidden within our reality which are associated with that fear and atmosphere. Shyamalan, for example, uses the supernatural story to try to show us the path to engage most of our (irrational) fears, particularly after 9/11 when the world seems so dangerous and terrible.

In Signs (2002), an ex-priest and father of three children, Graham Hess (Mel Gibson), has to fight against aliens from deep space who are trying to conquest his farm and the rest of the world. The main dramatic question is Graham’s fight against the invisible monsters, who are downstairs behind the door (like in Hitchcock`s master film The Birds (1963)), a fight which includes his internal conflict of trying to recover lost faith. The only scene where we see the monsters (an alien) occurs when Graham remembers when his wife said ‘Swing hard’ to him before she died. Next, his son swings hard at the beast, forcing it out of the house and freeing his family from the attack of the aliens. Graham Hess seems to be in peace again, his faith restored in both God and world. This is the first of Shyamalan’s films produced after 9/11; it was shot at the same time The Twin Towers were attacked. The monsters in the film were aliens, like in Independence Day (1996), but are hidden in reality and only visible by signs. Graham Hess overcomes his fear by recognizing that the real alienation was in his mind.

In The Village (2004), Shyamalan tries to explain the existence of a little society, living in harmony with nature full of happiness, in the middle of the forest. All is not harmonious, however, as there are shadows beneath the village. These creatures protect the forest but also prevent anyone from getting out of the village. The harmony is in fact an illusion, as everyone in the village is afraid of the monsters in the forest. The villagers are afraid of the red robes of the monstrous figures and the warning bells which sound when the monsters breach the borders of the village. However, at the end of the film we learn that these monsters are, in fact, the village leaders wearing disguises. The monsters thus represent ourselves: hidden amongst leaders who present the fears which serve to tie us down and prevent us from leaving


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our safe environment, such as the Elders from the village who warn that criminals and terrorist spread madness all around the world.

In Lady in the Water (2006), Cleveland (Paul Giamatti), a Philadelphia apartment building's caretaker, finds a young woman named Story swimming in the apartment’s pool. Story (Bryce Dallas Howard) is a narf sent to our world. She is a character from bedtime stories, and she is being pursued by beasts. These monsters are called scrunts. They look like green dogs, but are invisible to the eyes of tenants and Cleveland. They are visible to humans only in the reflection of a mirror. So, we have another invisible monster. In one scene of the film, we see a fragment from Iraq war on a television showing the nightly news from CNN. The monsters in this case, the terrorists, are at war against us, as Story says in the film. They only want to destroy the narf, the pure fantasy. It is possible that Shyamalan’s scrunts represent enemies that can only be seen by using a mirror, such as in the Cochinos Bay incident in Red Code (1981) where the soldiers patrol the Cuban frontier by seeking the enemy through a looking glass. It is the same invisible enemy who fights in 2005-2006 when the Iraqi insurgents were at maximum activity bombing US troops as context and part of the film (on tv news). Usually mirrors are represented by a nexus from fantasy into our reality, linking both worlds and showing us what exists but is hidden from our eyes within our mind. Bettelheim asserts:

Tolkien affirms that the essential aspects of the story in a fairytale are fantasy, the overcoming of a deep despair, the flight of an enormous danger, and, mainly, lightening. When speaking of a happy ending, Tolkien accentuates the fact that it is something that we must find in all the stories of complete fairytales. It is a glad and sudden change… Because of the very fantastic or terrible nature of the adventures, the child, or the person, who hears them, takes a breath, his heart goes off, and he is almost on the verge of crying when the final change takes place. (translation G. Mingorance)11 However, they cannot affront this fear using rational elements and

take over these dangers because these monsters are like doppelgangers (also represented by a monstrous dog) who live in fantasy hidden within our world. The only way to defeat them, these feèrie beasts, is using magical elements from fairy tales, magic, hope and fantasy.

In The Happening (2008), previously and curiously called The Green Effect, Shyamalan show us how our life can change suddenly without any real reason. The plot begins in Central Park, New York City, where people inexplicably begin to commit mass suicide. First, they became


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disoriented and motionless, before resorting to the most convenient mean of killing themselves. Initially, the mass suicide was believed to be a bioterrorist attack, and the epidemic quickly spread across the north-eastern United States. It seems to be more of a weird story than a fantasy film, and up until the end we do not know the real reason behind these strange situations.

Elliot (Mark Wahlberg), a high school science teacher in Philadelphia, receives news of the epidemic at school and decides to leave the city by train with his wife, Alma Moore (Zooey Deschanel), travelling to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. While in the middle of the fields, the strange sickness pursues them. However, at the end of the film the sickness disappears; the outbreak seems to have abated as quickly as it began, just as a scientist predicted on a television show the previous day. Three months later, the lives of Elliot and Alma appear to be really happy. But Shyamalan tells us that the epidemic is only a warning like the first spot of a rash. And, of course, it begins again in Paris. So, the feèrie fear in this case is really clear, but the monster is not at all. We are told that a neurotoxin caused the deaths, but why? Is it launched through the air by the plants? Is it terrorist attack? Is it The End of The Times?

The use of feèrie fear as a dramatic tool (fantasy atmosphere, invisible monsters), and also the turning into the country fields (including a returning stance into the house of the witch, very similar to the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel), are presented in all films by Shyamalan. However, if we cannot see the monster at the end of the movie, it seems that the situation will repeat itself. And so, in the final scene, which is located in Paris, the neurotoxin again attacks the crowd. Therefore, if we do not see the monster, the situation will continue to repeat itself until we unveil the truth. If we identify it, or if the director shows us the nature of the danger, feèrie fear will end, and of course, the uncanny and undetermined shall also finish. 3. The Feèrie Effect

Finally, we can give some conclusions that are helpful in our investigation. First, there are some important variables that improve our relationship with the film. This makes the story very real and fantastic at the same time. This is the main link which engages our real fears and traumas with their fictional representation called feèrie fear. This is the power of fantasy illusion. Chareyre explains:

Finally, the great fantastic tool is the illusion of already seen. And, nevertheless, the illusion does not exist. It is solely that of the already seen. The illusion talks about the content. In fact, what we have seen is the fact that what we have seen was real. The illusion speaks to the impression of the real thing. In certain moments, without a doubt


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contingent, we feel that what we see exists. Immediately, this recalls a thing to us: exactly the same thing ahead but also in any place. To re-encounter a ghost is an illusion of already seen. (translation G. Mingorance)12

Second, the great terror after 9/11 is channelled into the production of many films based in disasters, such as Cloverfield (2008), The Day After Tomorrow (2004), and I Am Legend (2007). However, the main difference between these films and Shyamalan`s (and other films in the fantasy genre) is the representation of fear using invisible monsters and the uncanny, which represents the same terror, but in different way. It plays with our imagination, sending us something we have been missing. King explains:

The imagination is an eye, a wonderful third eye that floats free. In children, this eye sees with total clarity. As we grow older, its vision begins to fall… until the day when the guy at the door lets you enter the bar without asking you your age and then it is over. The work of the fantastic writer, or the writer of horror, is to make a temporary hole in that tunnel vision; providing a unique, powerful spectacle for that third eye. The work of the horror or fantasy writer is making you see, for a while, as a child again. (translation G. Mingorance)13 We can hear it beating like a lonely rhythm all night inside our

dreams. But suddenly we wake up, seeing The Twin Towers falling down, a macro-war against terrorism, a disaster, a global threat without a clearly visible face. We undoubtedly live in one of the most safe societies that has ever existed, but nowadays we are facing fears, terrors, that are very complex and hard to confront.14 In other words, we are alone against them, and we cannot identify them (nowadays we do not have secure assurances in our society to solve this trouble, because, we are grown ups, with no parents, religion or anything else near to save us). So, to solve this matter we experiment with it in cinema, especially in fantasy cinema, which disturbs us and makes us anxious for an hour and a half and then, finally, lightens to make us feel reassured like children clinging to their fathers to save them from the bogeyman and other terrible monsters. Weaver asserts:

The fact that in the conveyance of horror by a fairy tale the teller is fearless and the told is scared is significant because it provides the teller with opportunities to comfort the disturbed listener. The child, when scared, can cling to fearless mom or dad and be reassured of protection.


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Caretakers are there to ward off the bogeyman, should he ever come. In principle, the teller of fairy tales creates anxieties in the child and then promptly relieves these anxieties by their show of fearlessness. The disturbed seek and find comfort from the unperturbed.15 Aliens can be the main representation of our society’s alienation and

absence of faith and hope, forest beasts are our masquerade, scrunts our enemy fighting in the battlefield, and in the Happening, it is the ring that clangs the bell which shows us the danger in the everyday of the uncanny, without any risk.

Notes

1 C Metz, The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalysis and the Cinema, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1982, pp. 44-45. 2 J R R Tolkien, ‘Sobre los Cuentos de Hadas’, in Los monstruos y los críticos y otros ensayos, Minotauro, Barcelona, 1998, p. 162. 3 M Fisher, Intent Upon Reading, Hodder, Leicester, 1964, p.78. 4 J R R Tolkien, ‘Sobre los Cuentos de Hadas’, p. 171. 5 M Nikolajeva, ‘The Magic Space’ in The Magic Code. The use of magical patterns in fantasy for children, A.W. International, Stockholm, 1988, p. 35. 6 G Deleuze, ‘Cinema 2: The Time-Image’, in S Dillon (ed), The Solaris Effect. Art & Artifice in Contemporary American Film, University of Texas Press, Austin, 2006, p. 5. 7 P Penzoldt, The Supernatural in Fiction, P Nevill, London, 1952, p. 8. 8 P Penzoldt, op. cit, p. 9. 9 D Ferreras Savoye, Lo fantástico en la literatura y en el cine: de Edgar Poe a Freddy Kruger, Ediciones Vosa, Madrid, 1995, p. 196. 10 H P Lovecraft, El Horror sobrenatural en la literatura y otros escritos, Edaf, Madrid, 2002, p. 129. 11 B Bettelheim, Psicoanálisis de los cuentos de hadas, B.d. Bolsillo, Barcelona, 1999, p.153. 12 A. Chareyre, Le réel et le Fantastique, Atelier National de reproduction des théses, 1994, p.110. 13 S King, Danza Macabra, Valdemar, Madrid, 2006, p. 574. 14 R. Castel, La inseguridad social: ¿Qué es estar protegido?, Manantial, Buenos Aires, 2004. 15 D Zillmann, R Gibson, ‘Evolution of the Horror Genre’, in J B Weaver, R Tamborini (eds), Horror Films. Current Research on Audience Preferences And Reactions, LEA`S Communication Series, New Jersey, 1996, pp. 16-17.


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Bibliography

Allen, R., ‘Dream, Fantasy, and Projective Illusion’. in Projecting Illusion: Film Spectartorship and the Impression of Reality. C.U. Press Editor, New York, 1995, pp. 122-126. Alegre, S.M., Monstruos al final del milenio. A. Santos, Madrid, 2002. Annan, D., Cinema of Mystery and Fantasy. Lorrimer, Londres, 1984. Bettelheim, B., Psicoanálisis de los cuentos de hadas. B.D. Bolsillo, Barcelona, 1999, p.153. Calleja, S., Desdichados monstruos. La imagen deformante y grotesca de el otro. D.l. Torre, Madrid, 2005. Carroll, N., Filosofía del terror o paradojas del corazón. A.M. Libros., Madrid, 2005. Cavallaro, D., The Gothic Vision: Three Centuries of Horror, Terror and Fear. Continuum, London, 2002. Deleuze, G., Cinema 2: The Time-Image. Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 2001. Dillon, S., The Solaris Effect. Art & Artifice in Contemporary American Film. University of Texas Press, Austin, 2006. Eisner, L.H., La pantalla demoníaca. Cátedra, Madrid, 1988. Fernández V., ‘Las Fuerzas de la Naturaleza’. Dirigido, 2008, pp. 34-35. Ferreras Savoye, D., Lo fantástico en la literatura y en el cine: de Edgar Poe a Freddy Kruger. Ediciones Vosa, Madrid, 1995. Fisher, M., Intent Upon Reading. Hadder, Leicester, 1964. Francestcutti, P., La pantalla profética. Cuando las ficciones se convierten en realidad. Cátedra, Madrid, 2004. King, S., Danza Macabra. Valdemar, Madrid, 2006.


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Lenne, G., El cine fantástico y sus mitologías. Anagrama, Barcelona, 1974. Latorre Fortuño, J.M., Cine fantástico. Dirigido, Barcelona, 1990. Leutrat, J.-L., Vida de Fantasmas. Lo Fantástico en el Cine. Contraluz, Valencia, 1995. Lovecraft, H.P., El Horror sobrenatural en la literatura y otros escritos. Edaf, Madrid, 2002. ____., (1937) ‘Notes On Writing Weird Fiction.’. Malacandra, nº 14, 2006. Manlove, C.N., Modern Fantasy. C.U. Press, London, 1975. Mathews, R., Fantasy, The Liberation of Imagination. T.a. Francis, Routledge, London and New York, 2002. Metz, C., The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalisys and the Cinema. Indiana University Press, Bloomington,1982. Nikolajeva, M., The Magic Code. The use of magical patterns in fantasy for children. A.W. International, Stockholm, 1988. ____.,’Fairy Tale and Fantasy: From Archaic to Postmodern’. Marvels & Tales: Journal of Fairy-Tale Studies, nº 17, 2003, pp. 138–156. Palacios, J., ‘La ciudad de los miedos indecibles’. Imágenes del mal. Ensayos de cine, Filosofía y literatura sobre la maldad. Valdemar, Madrid, 2003, pp. 269-307. Penzoldt, P., The Supernatural in Fiction. P. Nevill, London, 1952. Prawer, S.S., Caligari`s children: The film as tale of terror. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1980. Salisbury, M., Tim Burton por Tim Burton. Alba Editorial, Barcelona, 2000. Telotte, J.P., Dreams of Darkness: Fantasy and the Films of Val Lewton. University of Illonois Press, Chicago, 1985. Todorov, T., Introducción a la literatura Fantástica. E. Coyoacán, Mexico, 2005.


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Tolkien, J. R. R., ‘Sobre los Cuentos de Hadas’ in Los monstruos y los críticos y otros ensayos. Minotauro, Barcelona, 1998, pp. 157-189. VV.AA, The End of Cinema as we know it. American Film in the Nineties. New York University Press, New York, 2001. VV.AA, Imágenes del Mal. Valdemar. Madrid, 2003. Weaver, J.B., Tamborini, R., Horror Films. Current Research on Audience Preferences And Reactions. LEA`S Communication Series, New Jersey, 1996. Gabriel García Mingorance is Scholar in Residence at the University Rey Juan Carlos investigating fantasy cinema and narrative patterns.

Cinema and Social Trauma after Terrorist Attacks: the Spectatorship Perception. Approaching to the Spanish Case

Araceli Rodríguez Mateos

Abstract If we consider the cinema as a communicative process, it is pertinent to examine the meanings that its audiences attribute to films in their sociocultural context. This article presents a qualitative study focused on the Spanish audience, with respect to the treatment given in films to the trauma and social fear arising after the New York, Madrid and London attacks. On one hand, it describes their reading of the Anglo-Saxon films that allude allegorically to those attacks and to their social consequences. On the other hand, it examines their assessment of the role that should be fulfilled by fictional cinema when it deals with the 3/11 tragedy. Key Words: 9/11 and 3/11 attacks, cinema, Spanish audiences, spectatorship, terrorism, trauma.

***** 1. Introduction

As a cultural product, the cinema expresses the traits of the society in which it is produced, and the changes that take place in it over time.1 It often does this unconsciously when these traits seep into the design of the film at the aesthetic, thematic or psychological level. In other cases, there is a will to reflect on man and his social reality in a given era. The result is, then, a critical view that can be expressed directly or allegorically. The direct approach is typical of documentary accounts and those fictional treatments that, by applying a realistic aesthetic, portray historic events, political, economic and social phenomena, or the idiosyncrasies of a group through its members’ daily life. But also certain genre films - above all, fantasy, science fiction, horror, disaster films, etc. - tend to treat those themes metaphorically.2

Consequently, the critical reading of the cinema that is made in Film Studies and Cultural Studies circles interprets films in the light of the sociopolitical framework in which they are produced, analysing their ideological meanings.3 Attention is necessarily focused on the message conveyed. However, if we consider the cinema as a communication process, it seems appropriate also to take into account, insofar as possible, the reception those films get in the cultural context in which they are received. We then encounter a question that is as interesting as it is complex to deal with: how spectators interpret those same films.

Cinema and Social Trauma after Terrorist Attacks

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Here research encounters inevitable limitations since, as Gubern wisely points out, every film has a polysemous message.4 Individual experience is essential and the spectator constructs the meaning on the basis of an interaction of textual, social and mental processes. When the viewer confronts the film a psychological process is triggered that is dominated by his or her cognitive skills and personal universe - experiences, education, interests, desires, etc. - at both the conscious and the unconscious levels. But it must not be forgotten that those subjective conditions are connected with the social and cultural sphere in which the spectator lives, which is the other determining factor in his or her reading of the message.5

The researcher who is interested in the spectator’s experience thus encounters psychological and sociological aspects whose assessment is complex and, above all, a methodological conflict.6 But from our communicative standpoint it seems more appropriate to work with the notions of the audience and audiences, in the sense of groups of spectators whose sociological similarities can lead to similar or interconnected readings, beyond their individual experience.7 Although this is also slippery ground, it is nonetheless useful to observe the reactions and shared opinions that a film arouses. In fact, academic critics can often be observed turning to diverse sources in search of indicative clues: from box office results to spectators’ comments published in reference media in the cinema domain, and including experiments involving the projection and discussion of films with students in classes, or experiences with showings in cinema forums. Outside this area, such considerations are also useful for the professional world. Producers, filmmakers and scriptwriters can test audiences’ tastes and common sensitivities, especially as regards the treatment of controversial topics and traumatic events.

In the awareness of the importance of audience reception, the research project in progress on the depiction in the cinema of the social fear following the 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7 terrorist attacks is pursuing an empirical exploration with different film audiences in Spain.8 The results offered here belong to the first step taken along this path: the development of a qualitative study of young people's perception and reaction to three basic aspects. First, to determine the interest in films that allude, directly or allegorically, to the terrorist attacks and their social consequences in terms of insecurity, fear and perception of threat. Although the films studied were almost all produced outside Spain - primarily in the United States and the United Kingdom - they have been distributed in the Spanish market with notable box office success. Second, to observe how they have interpreted some thematic and aesthetic approaches connected with these events, taking as a reference the disaster film sub-genre. Third, to know their assessment of the cinema as a valid medium to deal with the 3/11 attack.

Araceli Rodriguez Mateos

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To conduct the qualitative study, we have used the discussion group technique with eight participants, whose general profile is as follows: persons of both genders, young people between the ages of twenty and twenty-three, university students at various institutions in the Autonomous Community of Madrid, residents in Spain's capital or in suburban towns, and habitual filmgoers.9

In the general approach to the main theme, the participants expressed their perception of the current cinema. A general consensus is observed in the ludic function they attribute to the cinema. Young people participate in the consumer view of the films offered on the market: they seek entertainment, disconnection from routine and fun in the films they see. As an audience fundamentally of commercial cinema - understood as the cinema of popular genres aimed at general audiences - they observe that this cinema is not a vehicle for criticism or social reflection. They judge it to be strictly subjected to mercantile criteria, and therefore predictable in its narrative formulas. They associate the critical function with smaller budget films, which sometimes pass unnoticed by them. 2. Perception of Genre Films and Sociopolitical Allegory

One of the lines of investigation of the mentioned research project centres on some popular fictional genres as a territory for the allegorical connection with the Islamic terrorist attacks and their social consequences. At the aesthetic level, disaster and horror films, mainly, have taken their inspiration from the scenes of the attack on the World Trade Centre, or recreate chaotic scenes and atmospheres of anxiety and collective hysteria that are familiar to us. War of the Worlds (Steven Spielberg, 2005) and 28 Days Later… (Danny Boyle, 2002) are two of the clearest examples of this aesthetic. At the dramatic level, science fiction, fantasy and the thriller have reflected on the generalized feeling of fear, insecurity and danger that those attacks generated in the Western sociopolitical context. Undeniably, most of the allusions are aimed at the American reaction - national security policy, surveillance, reduction of civil rights, xenophobia, etc. But their metaphorical approach allows them to transcend this framework and create a universal discourse that enables other audiences to share in the experience. Children of Men (Alfonso Cuarón, 2006), The Village (M. Night Shyamalan, 2004), Minority Report (Steven Spielberg, 2002), The Dark Knight (Christopher Nolan, 2008) and The Mist (Frank Darabont, 2007) are also notable examples in this line.10

Precisely this will to go beyond borders, at the ideological and commercial level, induces one to think of how those films are perceived in societies outside the Anglo-Saxon production area but which share similar experiences and basic sociocultural traits. Apart from that, our discussion


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group made it quite clear that these films are a part of the cinema that Spanish young adults consume.

It must be pointed out here that this question was put to the group deliberately and openly, without inducing, conditioning or orienting the opinions expressed. From the reference fixed on the disaster sub-genre, a general assessment was made of the other popular genres. As it turned out, the participants saw no critical reflection in these films. Only two of them mentioned two titles, a thriller and a horror film, which they feel make reference to American politics: Body of Lies (Ridley Scott, 2008) and Day of the Dead (George A. Romero, 1985). This datum allows us to formulate a hypothesis: the young public makes a reading of these films in terms of their genre codes, without reaching the critical discourse that they express allegorically. In fact, their assessment is restricted to the aesthetic level - the special effects and the spectacular images - and the narrative tension that marks the action scenes.

Their submission to the rules of the genre is also evident when they are asked about the dominant values present in the cinema after 9/11. They see no important changes, only the repetition of stereotypes. They all criticize the Manichaean, simplistic depiction of the heroes and villains they see in most films. They perceive that the antagonists match the real enemies of the United States, thus assuming as a usual circumstance the fact that the cinema transmits that country's dominant social discourse. In this regard, one of the most outstanding changes has to do with the identity of the adversary in the films that portray conflicts between American interests and the others. Whereas during the Cold War period this role was reserved for the Russians, Communists, Chinese or North Vietnamese, after 9/11 it would be reserved for the ‘Arabs.’

There is also agreement in emphasizing the ethnocentrism of American films. The disasters, threats and attacks are always depicted on American soil; ‘the rest of the world does not exist.’ However, some see that this trait has been tempered recently in disaster films that, while focused on the United States, shift the action to other international scenes. War of the Worlds is one of the examples cited. It seems clear that their perception connects with the ideological discourse conveyed in the last decade regarding the need the country has to face the ‘real’ threats derived from international terrorism. But they have not established that relationship at the conscious, reflective level.

They feel that the films imperfectly reflect American multiculturalism. Excessive importance is given to Caucasian characters with respect to those of the other ethnic groups, whose appearance often seems to be for the sake of political correctness. War films are the main referent for that appraisal which, in all other respects, follows a stereotyped scheme in the casting of the roles assigned to the characters. The supporting or minor roles


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usually fall to representatives of minority groups. Few participants saw any changes in that regard, and they see those changes in a more plausible depiction of the interracial composition of the American army deployed in the war in Iraq. Nor do they allude here to the tensions and alerts that some films convey relative to the risk of xenophobia in Western societies after the terrorist attacks. Finally, we were surprised by their perception of a monolithic political, moral and social discourse in American films. This is not so much because they failed to notice the current of self-criticism that some films have conveyed after 9/11, but because their view has scarcely evolved from the cliché adopted in the United States propaganda documentaries after World War II.11 They consider that a self-complacent rhetoric predominates - above all in the war genre - where patriotism, seamless unity and feelings of pride and superiority characterize the American people. Nor do they point to major changes in the treatment in films of American institutions after 9/11. They only find isolated points of restrained self-criticism in some films that refer to the war in Iraq, such as Jarhead (Sam Mendes, 2005). 3. Cinema and Terrorism: The 3/11 Experience

In March 2004 Spain suffered the most massive terrorist attack of its history when bombs placed on Madrid commuter trains exploded, killing 192 people and injuring 1,858. Five years have passed and still no fictional film has been produced about those events. The main hypothesis that the members of our research group are working with is that the audience is not yet prepared for this sort of depiction. Observing the angry reaction of some American spectators when trailers were shown of United 93 (Paul Greengrass, 2006), film that recreated the flight hijacked and crashed into the Pennsylvania countryside, we realized that time had not cushioned the social sensitivity around this subject.12 Moreover, the cinema was touching on a sort of collective trauma. This concept is complex, and we deal with it as such. We understand that, beyond the victims and witnesses of the attacks, who usually suffer a psychological trauma as the result of their direct experience, the society that becomes a witness thanks to the audiovisual media also experiences a certain indirect trauma of a collective type. We are not referring to the purely psychological symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), but to a perception and a common mental state with regard to the tragedy.13

We reiterate that this difficulty seems to be faced by fictional cinema, not by documentary films. The American audience had been watching television documentaries on the 9/11 attacks practically from the month following their occurrence, and remembered the events in their successive annual tributes. Some documentaries have also been made in Spain about 3/11, and, as we indicate below, they do not seem to arouse


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rejection. To dig more deeply into this question, we asked ourselves the following question: does the audience believe that the cinema is a suitable medium to deal with the 3/11 attack? The opinions of our young adults, who lived that event when they were 15 to 18 years old, are highly revealing.

In general terms, the cinema that recreates terrorist attacks strikes them as ‘morbid.’ It attracts them, both because of its narrative and dramatic tension and due to the knowledge that it provides to them about a real event that they may not have known. It is important to state that only under these criteria, and above all the first, did they mention the film World Trade Centre (Oliver Stone, 2006). They neither questioned its appropriateness, nor expressed qualms about seeing it: they judged it to be just another product of what they call ‘action.’ It should be mentioned in passing that they were not enthusiastic about it; they found it wearisome. We must not forget that their young ages at the time the attack occurred - between 12 and 15 years - determined the way in which they assumed it. But their opinion reveals that Spanish viewers have a psychologically and emotionally distant position with regard to what happened in the United States, although they also experienced those events live through the audiovisual media. As an audience for these recreations on film, they behave differently from the American public, becoming involved in the story mainly through the conventions of the genre - the young men place the Oliver Stone film in the disaster category. Once again it would be confirmed that the critical reading of the same film differs according to the sociocultural contexts in which it is produced.14

The posture changed when reference was made to the hypothetical making, in the near future, of a fictional film recounting what happened on 3/11. Their rejection was unanimous and, at first, categorical, although later some of the young people tempered their position. One of the main impediments is the temporal and physical closeness of the events, since it conditions their assimilation process (‘perhaps in twenty years. Now I consider it too soon, too soon’). It must be emphasized that, five years after the bombing of the trains, the feelings, emotions and images that the tragedy aroused remain very present among Madrid's university youths, who were, at that time, adolescents. They are still moved; they still feel affected when they remember it (‘right now we are touching on the subject and my hair is standing on end,’ ‘it’s a very painful subject,’ ‘what a bad time I had,’ ‘not a day goes by that you don't think about it’).

It is probable that the event made an indelible mark on them at a critical time in their life cycle and their socialization process, that they internalised it as their first great tragedy experienced close up, a tragedy in which they realize they could have participated (9/11 was there, it was New York, you knew the area, but it was very far away, but 3/11 was here, it was near your house, you take the train...). In any case, their sensitivity indicates the mental state of Spanish society regarding this subject. They are distrustful


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at the prospect of a film treatment of the events, that ‘could be deeply offensive’ and, above all, judge it unnecessary both for them and for the victims. They all agree that they do not wish to relive the emotion and the unpleasant sensations that the memory of the event brings back to them. Therefore the showing of a film on the attack would arouse rejection (‘I know I would have a bad time of it’) or they would not attend (‘To go and cry? To go and have a bad time?’).

Another impediment that some participants mention more discretely is of a moral nature: they do not consider the exploitation of the tragedy by the commercial cinema correct (‘there’s always someone who’s going to make a profit from pain’).

Curiously, these prejudices are expressed about the fictional treatment, not about the documentary films that have dealt with the event. If the possibility is raised in the future, they believe a generation must pass before this fictional depiction is confronted, although they are convinced that it will be done sooner and that ‘it will be seen’. They all agree that such a film would have to be respectful so as not to hurt sensibilities, and very careful not to distort the events. There would thus be no room for speculation, only ‘the substantiated facts.’ They also feel that the story should be handled as an investigation aimed at understanding the attacks, and not just a recreation of them. The attacks should be given a discreet treatment in the overall film (‘without shots of trains in flames and people suffering’). Their insistence on these views clearly reveals their categorical refusal to see images of the tragedy and to relive it - with its pain - in a crude way.

What aroused disagreement were the ideological perspectives of the 3/11 attack and of its ‘political background’. Here the generational discourse that had predominated during most of the conversation gave way. The young people aligned themselves with the various conflicting social discourses on the subject (‘Why was it? Why did it happen?’ or ‘Who is to blame for all this?’), when the time came to determine the contents that should be included and excluded in a possible future film. Even the question of where the film would have to end was controversial, whether it should include the trial held in 2007, since some consider it provisional and inconclusive in the clarification of the events. We find this debate also representative of the ideological perception of the events by Spanish society. 4. Conclusions

Considering the caveats given at the beginning of this article, we believe the results of the qualitative study are significant and highly useful, both for the research project in the making and for academic reflection. The notable convergence in the opinions expressed and the absence of self-references due to ideology and to the participants' own interests make them a


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reference group of the way in which the young Spanish audience perceives commercial cinema.

In general terms, we have observed that this type of audience has a different interpretation from the academic critics' analyses with regard to Anglo-Saxon films that deal allegorically with Islamic terrorism and its consequences for Western societies. Their reading is oriented mainly by the conventions of each film genre, without an awareness of the underlying ideological dimension.

Concerning the film treatment of 3/11, the group makes plain its psychological and ideological disposition, which we believe could be extrapolated to the rest of the Spanish audiences, independently of other sociological variables. The first evidence is the fact that the terrorist attack in Madrid inflicted a deep wound on Spanish society, which it has not cauterised. Its handling in fictional cinema thus appears to be delicate and problematic. There are two impediments derived from this social sensitivity. The first has to do with the film interpretation of the events: it is feared that they will be trivialized, made the object of ideological manipulation and the vehicle of an inadvertent insult to the pain suffered by the victims and their families. Here it seems appropriate to make a distinction in generational terms. It is quite probable that the rejection expressed by this young public is due to its perception of the cinema as a primarily ludic instrument dominated by mercantile criteria. Other publics probably have a more favourable attitude toward the possibility that the cinema will deal with the tragedy, and will assess its expressive and communicative potential. This is related with the second impediment that arose: the categorical rejection of an explicit, unvarnished treatment of the attacks. Again, the young people immediately expressed their fear of that narrative option, perhaps because they are used to the audiovisual exploitation of violence in the films they consume. In any case, we believe that this rejection would be common in the other Spanish audiences, and that it connects with the collective trauma. Spectators do not wish to relive the experience as indirect witnesses they underwent when they saw the dramatic images broadcast during and after the tragedy. This fact brings up an interesting reflection within the framework of the potential of the cinema as a trauma transmitter, since in this case it would act on spectators who were previously traumatized through other images.

Notes 1 P Sorlin, Cines europeos, sociedades europeas, Paidós Comunicación, Barcelona, 1996.


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2 I am grateful to Douglas Kellner, who shared his reflection on this subject with me through the galley proofs of his book, which will soon be published. D Kellner, Cinema Wars. Hollywood Film and Politics in the Bush-Cheney Era, Blackwell, Oxford, 2010, pp. 9-10. 3 My use of the term ideology here follows the interpretation that Pierre Sorlin gave it in the context of cinema: the presence of slogans, statements, judgments that circulate in a society. P Sorlin, ‘¿Público o públicos? Cómo plantear la cuestión’ in Pelaz and J.C. Rueda (eds), Ver Cine. Los públicos cinematográficos en el siglo XX, J-V, Rialp, Madrid, 2002, p. 23. 4 R Gubern, ‘Una experiencia de antropología cinematográfica’ in Pelaz and Rueda (eds), op. cit., p. 32. 5 M Aaron, Spectatorship. The Power of Looking on, Wallflower Press, London, 2007, pp. 3-5. 6 Aaron points to the battle between the unconscious processes of psychoanalysis and the social processes of cultural studies. Aaron, op. cit., p. 5. 7 Sorlin distinguishes the ‘spectator’ from the ‘audience’, placing the emphasis on the fact that the former’s motivations and tastes must not be confused with the characteristics of a group. To determine the ‘audiences’ that comprise a general audience, he works with different variables: from age and sex to the cultural context, social class, place of residence, etc. P Sorlin, ‘¿Público o públicos? Cómo plantear la cuestión’, pp. 26-29. 8 Research Project ‘The Film Treatment of Social Panic After the 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7 Attacks (2001-2008)’. Reference: URJC-CM-2008-CSH-3710. Head researcher: Antonio Sánchez-Escalonilla. Universidad Rey Juan Carlos (Madrid). 9 The session took place at the Universidad Rey Juan Carlos, Communication Sciences Department (Fuenlabrada Campus), Madrid, on May 20, 2009. The moderator was Jordi M. Monferrer, professor of sociology and expert in this sort of qualitative studies. In addition, he is the author or the basic report used for this article. The individual profiles of the participants comprehend four men and four women, of whom three are students of Advertising and Public Relations, three of Journalism and two of Political Science and Law. 10 Antonio Sánchez-Escalonilla and Raúl Álvarez are the main researchers working on this subject. 11 C Springer, ‘Documentales propagandísticos de Estados Unidos en la Segunda Guerra Mundial y en la Guerra de Vietnam’. Archivos de la Filmoteca, vol. 55, 2007, pp. 80-97. 12 P Harris & A O’Keeffe, ‘Hollywood Salutes 9/11 all American Heroes’, in The Observer, Sunday 9 April, 2006, retrieved 30 January 2009, <http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2006/apr/09/september11.film>.


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13 Our use of these concepts is inspired by the work of Joshua Hirsch on cinema and trauma. J Hirsh, ‘Posttraumatic cinema and the Holocaust documentary’, Film & History, vol. 32, 2002, pp. 9-21. 14 Gubern alerts us precisely to the need for more empirical studies on the conditions of reception of the same film in different cultural contexts. Gubern, op. cit., p. 34.

Bibliography Aaron, M., Spectatorship. The Power of Looking on. Wallflower Press, London, 2007. Gubern, R., ‘Una experiencia de antropología cinematográfica’ in J-V Pelaz, and J.C. Rueda (eds), Ver Cine. Los públicos cinematográficos en el siglo XX, Rialp, Madrid, 2002, pp. 32-34. Harris, P., & O’Keeffe, A., ‘Hollywood Salutes 9/11 all American Heroes’, in The Observer, Sunday 9 April, 2006, retrieved 30 January 2009, <http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2006/apr/09/september11.film>. Hirsh, J., ‘Posttraumatic cinema and the Holocaust documentary’. Film & History, vol. 32, 2002, pp. 9-21. Kellner, D., Cinema Wars. Hollywood Film and Politics in the Bush-Cheney Era. Blackwell, Oxford, 2010. Sorlin, P., Cines europeos, sociedades europeas. Paidós Comunicación, Barcelona, 1996. ---., ‘¿Público o públicos? Cómo plantear la cuestión’ in J-V Pelaz and J.C. Rueda (eds), Ver Cine. Los públicos cinematográficos en el siglo XX, Rialp, Madrid, 2002, pp. 23-31. Springer, C., ‘Documentales propagandísticos de Estados Unidos en la Segunda Guerra Mundial y en la Guerra de Vietnam’. Archivos de la Filmoteca, vol. 55, 2007, pp. 80-97.


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Araceli Rodríguez Mateos is Lecturer in Film Studies at the Universidad Rey Juan Carlos. Her research and writing is on History of documentary film, as well as Film and History. Within the Research Project ‘The Film Treatment of Social Panic After the 9/11, 3/11 and 7/7 Attacks (2001-2008)’, she is working on the social perception of the filmic discourse.

Drumming the Horror Away

Silvia Herreros de Tejada

Abstract In 1953, Oskar Matzerath decides to remain a child forever and play his tin drum: the best way to escape from the horrors of World War II. Fifty years later, another Oskar - Oskar Schell - plays the tambourine while he walks around New York looking for the soul of his dead father, killed in the terrorist attacks of 9/11. Günter Grass’ 3-year-old Oskar (The Tin Drum, 1959; film directed by Volker Schlöndorff, 1979) necessarily turns to make-believe in order to reject a world where the Black Witch (his maxim for death) is extending her wings by means of war. Jonathan Safran Foer’s 9-year-old Oskar (Extremely Loud and Incredible Close, 2005; film in pre-production, 2009) has to put his fears in order every morning so as to be able to continue living. Without his imagination, he might not be able to reconcile with a horrible world in which you can die any day, just by chance, just because you happened to be in the wrong place. How do the Oskars, as children, manage to escape from the horror and fear of war and terrorism? Can their imaginations really save them from the Black Witch’s paws? Key Words: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Günter Grass, Jonathan Safran Foer, make-believe, September 11 terrorist attacks, story-telling, The Tin Drum, World War II.

***** 1. Introduction: I Play the Drum / I Shake the Tambourine: The Game of Life

A few years after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, a small number of novelists started to dare to address the matter.1 One of them, American Jewish writer Jonathan Safran Foer took the challenge and put in an additional twist, since he decided to model his protagonist, nine year-old Oskar Schell, on a famous and bewildering eternal child: Gunter Grass’s Oskar Matzerath from The Tin Drum (1959). What’s more, in Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Foer also intended to mirror New York’s tragedy with the Polish bombings during World War II, and other historical precursors of devastating magnitude. A journey of self-knowledge and search of identity that would try to analyse, once again, what one can do when faced not only to individual and collective trauma, but also to individual and collective guilt.

Walter A. Davis2 believes that certain images of catastrophe correspond to the anxieties that define the psychotic register of the individual


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psyche: falling endlessly, collapsing within oneself, claustrophobia, the loss of orientation, ceaseless suffering… But something more is required for an event to create trauma in the collective consciousness. Images from the present must speak to memories that are buried deep in the chronicles of humanity: things forgotten, ungrieved, vehemently denied; things in the past that have never really been confronted and worked through; nightmares for which there can never be enough mourning, such as the holocaust and the massive destruction created by World War II. By building his novel around Grass’s vision of that terror, Foer echoes the patterns that inevitably seem to repeat themselves and focuses the angst in a more benevolent boy than the one that played the tin drum among German debris.

Grass and Foer pose some of the biggest dilemmas of life in children; their grief adopting the shape of a self-defence game, probably the only thing that can ‘save’ them in what Rosemary Jackson would call a ‘quest for signification amidst our contemporary chaos of signs.’3 Both The Tin Drum and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close share, in Günter Grass’s words when he refers to his own novel, a ‘realistic precision and its pursuit of fantasy as part of reality.’4 Unable to accept reality as it is, Oskar Matzerath and Oskar Schell turn to fantasy and create another world of their own, where they try to rebuild themselves in order to be able to confront the traumatic events that have injured their lives forever. The purpose of this article is to study how imagination, make-believe and storytelling work in the lives of these characters to help them escape from the horror of World War II and the terrorist attacks of September 11. The boys create their own truths in what will become their game of life. As Tolkien would say, they become story-makers (in the sense that the Oskars conceive a story out of their lives) and prove to be successful sub-creators. Inside their secondary world, what they relate is ‘true,’ for it accords with their laws. However, the moment disbelief arises, the spell can break and the magic fail.5

In The Tin Drum, the first words Oskar hears when he comes out of the womb prove to be enough so as to end his illusions towards the not yet begun journey of existence.6 His life is predicted, his presumed father assuming that his new- born son will take over the store when he becomes an adult. His mother, nevertheless, does not forget that Oskar is to be a child first and promises to get him a tin drum for his third birthday. In the three years in which Oskar grows up normally, he has time to observe the unhappiness of his mother, the loneliness of adulthood, the brutality of a devastating war, the lack of understanding. So he decides to stop growing up and the power of his imagination grants him the wish of remaining an eternal child that will not have to be touched by tragedy. In Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Oskar Schell is completely unable to lead a normal, happy life a year after his father’s death in the twin towers. He is a fast witted kid who shakes his tambourine non-stop, writes


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letters to scientists like Stephen Hawking, learns The Beatles songs by heart, only wears white clothes in order to be spotted in case of emergency and gives himself bruises when he misses his father very badly. Oskar used to ask his Dad infinite questions about the meaning of the world, but he never thought he would die ‘the most horrible death that anyone could ever invent.’7 When he finds a key, absolutely unidentified except for the word ‘Black’ written on the envelope containing it, Oskar decides to seek out every New Yorker bearing that surname. His life, thus, becoming a fantasy pseudo-detective adventure in which he intends to discover some enigma about his father that will maybe match his own and terrible secret: ‘a hole in the middle of me that every happy thing fell into.’8 Therefore, in some way, the Oskars create a paracosm: a place that mitigates their anguish, provides an escape from the world they are not comfortable in and that serves affective purposes by generating a sense of personal control and power. In other words, the power that the realm of imagination can bestow upon the human being or as, Eric S. Rabkin states, that parallel world which necessarily reflects the primary world from which one comes.9 Thus, Oskar Schell ‘investigates’ through the New York boroughs his father used to tell him about and Oskar Matzerath becomes a musician that drives people even crazier. In their particular game of life, in which they need to escape from reality in order to bear it, the German Oskar plays the tin drum and the American one (of German descent) shakes an irritating tambourine wherever he goes. The musical instruments are symbols of identity (making noise is equivalent to being alive) and establish the first rule of their game: wherever they go, drum and tambourine go too. Convinced that the soul of his father will emerge somehow if he finds the lock that matches the key, Oskar Schell spends eight months visiting every person named Black and really believing he is getting close. He annoys adults with his tambourine, questions, and especially with his grief but they, in turn, strongly exasperate him. Everyone in New York seems to be extremely sad, and in Oskar’s mythmaking concept he is basically the only person who has the right to be so. In a cruel and childish sort of way, he stresses several times: ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to be crying.’10 Oskar believes that within his own tragedy, he is living an extraordinary and hazardous adventure, but he is far from the truth... As the psychologists Opie and Opie suggest, if the action of the game is the child’s own making, he is ready and even anxious to sample the perils of which this world has plenty. Within the security of the game, he makes acquaintance with insecurity, is able to rationalise absurdities, reconcile himself to not getting his own way, and assimilate reality and act heroically without really being in danger.11 Foer’s protagonist truly learns these things in the accomplishment of his game, but what he does not know is that the first woman he meets, Abby Black, rings Oskar’s mother telling her


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about the child’s expectations and she, in turn, phones every Black in the city warning them about her son’s upcoming visit. Oskar was always safe, but he has invented plenty of perils that he narrates in his fantastic story. Escapism and games, Kathryn Hume believes, ‘flatter us and make us strong.’12 The Oskars’ lives are a game where they play the drum and shake the tambourine to reaffirm and prove their existence. Something they also do by reporting their lives as a story: the story they want to tell and, eventually, to believe. 2. Autobiography and Storytelling: Life as Fiction

Oskar Matzerath and Oskar Schell tell their stories with their own and very particular voices. First person narrators are usually considered to be unreliable, but in this case study they prove to be even more than that. Thus, The Tin Drum’s opening line warns the reader so as what to believe: ‘Granted: I’m an inmate in a mental institution,’13 although he soon suggests that it’s the world outside who is insane, not him; and later we learn that he has pretended to kill someone in order to be shut away. Nevertheless, the first confession throws doubt on everything that the reader is going to be told.

Oskar Schell, on the other hand, announces the following: Even after a year, I still had an extremely difficult time doing certain things, like taking showers, for some reason, and getting into elevators, obviously. There was a lot of stuff that made me panicky, like suspension bridges, germs, airplanes, fireworks, Arab people on the subway (…) It was worst at night. I started inventing things, and then I couldn’t stop (…).14

So why should we believe there is truth in his tale? How do we

know that this book is not just another invention? And why should we trust Oskar Matzerath as well, if he seems to be a complete and dwarfish madman? Perhaps because even though The Tin Drum and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close are presented as the autobiographies of Oskar Matzerath and Oskar Schell, they are also the biographies of their families. Thus, the former’s grandparents were from Kashubia (a people who were neither Pole nor German) and later moved to Danzig, the first city invaded by Germany in the war. On the other hand, the latter Oskar’s paternal family originally came from Dresden, where the terrible firebombing occurred, and they keep a secret nearly as important to them as the one the child carries in his heart.

Marianne Hirsch uses the term ‘post memory’15 to describe the relationship of children of survivors of trauma to the experiences of their parents, experiences that they remember only as the stories and images with


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which they grew up, but that are so powerful and important that they constitute memories in their own right. Post memory also draws on the functions of projection and creation for children who grow up dominated by narratives that preceded their birth and whose own stories are displaced by the stories of the previous generation.

These novels contain the real stories of the Oskars’ previous generations, and the fairy-tales (to call it some way) of their own lives. Normally, an essential trait of fairy tale heroes is their lack of complexity (which is definitely not the case) but there are certain elements of the genre that contribute to the stories they are telling about their lives when they become narrators… And narrators are free to fictionalise as they wish, because every single story, although invented, has some truth within. The characters turn out to be aware of the fiction that lies in every truth and become storytellers, as another therapeutic insight towards the horror and dreariness of existence.

The playing of the drum brings Oskar Matzerath the distorted memories he narrates. By calling them ‘some fairy-tale’16 he describes the symbolic meaning of his words. The fairy-tale tells of non-existent worlds and of non-existent people. Oskar tries to believe that his life has been a fictitious story, repeatedly referring to himself as gnome, Tom Thumb, pigmy, Lilliputian: a myth-like figure who constantly escapes from the paws of the Black Witch (his fairy-tale name for death). Also, he tells of the horrific events of the Second World War as if they too were a fiction:

There was once a drummer, his name was Oskar, and they took away his toy merchant. (...) There was once a toy merchant, his name was Markus, and he took all the toys in the world away with him out of this world. There was once a musician, his name was Meyn, and if he isn’t dead he is still alive, once again playing the trumpet too beautifully for words.17 According to Bruno Bettelheim, fairy-tales pose the dilemma of

wishing to live eternally by occasionally concluding like Oskar does, ‘if he isn’t dead he is still alive.’ A wish-fulfilment that immortality might be possible: an ending that marks the end of innocence in the world. ‘They lived happily ever after’ as another common ending seems to allude to the same kind of anxiety. In fact, in the books we are dealing with, the fairy-tale element persists in both the stories they tell and in the totality of the works themselves. Fairy-tales take existential anxieties and address them directly: the need to be loved and the fear that one is thought worthless; the love of life and the fear of death; the limits to our existence, the wish for eternal life.18


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However, fairy-tales return the reader to reality in a reassuring manner, and offer optimistic solutions, something which is not exactly done in either of these novels. The Tin Drum and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close explore the limits of our existence in rather tragic settings, where there is really nothing one can do but dream and imagine. And even within the world of dream, the tragedy persists.

The fairy-tale elements in Oskar Schell’s story differ, again, from Matzerath’s sinister (albeit beautiful) atmosphere. Foer’s character is obsessed with the possibility of an alternative reality, more with the ‘what was, what could have been, what one can try, what might be’ than with ‘what is.’ A concept that Dorothy and Jerome Singer19 define as a touchstone of the miracle of human experience: imagination. Whether in adults it takes the form of reconstructing one’s past (for memory, as most cognitive research demonstrates, is rarely simply a vivid re-experiencing of actual events), or daydreaming, imagination liberates us from the tyranny of this place, these chores, these people. In his novel, Foer offers both the adult and child relationship with imagination and storytelling. Oskar’s narrative is intertwined with the un-posted letters from an unidentified ‘Thomas’ who speaks of wartime Germany and a horrific precursor of the 9/11 atrocity, the firebombing of Dresden, as if it were a poem. And Oskar himself, unaware that this man is his paternal grandfather, weaves a poem out of his own grief in the end of the story, imagining the world going backwards, so that his father, the man falling from the tower, seems to be floating up through the sky. Oskar invents the things his father would be doing if the world went backwards and ends his list of ‘what would have been’ with a heartbreaking ‘we would have been safe.’20 An alternate reality that would eliminate the idea of death lurking within the child Oskar forever…

Our protagonists may not be conscious of the workings of their minds, but in telling their lives as fairy-tales, both Oskars dream of the impossible: to exceed the limits of our existence, to achieve eternal life. 3. The Quest for Immortality: ‘Here’s the Black Wicked Witch.’21

The problems of existence (chaos, frustration, resentment, the constant presence of death) suggested by the analysed works relate, to a great extent, to the Existentialist perspectives, which dominated most of the 20th century.22 Here, Man is confronted with diverse possibilities among which he may choose and on the basis of which he can project his life. The human being is thrown into the world and abandoned to a whirling flow of things in between which he must dwell, falling into what Heidegger considers to be an ‘inauthentic existence:’ a situation that leads the human being to believe that there are several alternatives from which one may choose.


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Thus, Oskar Schell really believes things might have been different if he had made another selection of choices and that’s why he’s obsessed with his ‘what if’ backward theory. In the ‘worst day’ his father rang the house phone and left several messages in the answering machine. In one of them, he seemed to know that Oskar was there, but he couldn’t pick up: ‘I just couldn’t. Are you there? He asked eleven times.’23

What would have happened if he had made another choice? If he had picked up the phone? Would his father still be alive, maybe? Would Oskar feel better towards it all? Why didn’t he do it? Didn’t he want to face the truth of what was about to happen? Oskar needs to be forgiven. He needs some kind of redemption, and perhaps that’s why he wants to be scientist Stephen Hawking’s protégé. Hawking, together with other experts, such as Hugh Everett, developed what is known as the Many-Worlds Interpretation, an analysis of quantum mechanics, which basically relates to the fact that everything that can happen, is happening (or happened, or will happen) in another universe.24 In this way, every choice a person makes results in two or more universes: one for each possible option. Oskar imagines what would have been of his life if he had gone for another choice, a torture hard to bear for a nine-year old. But Oskar finds his redemption when Hawking finally writes him back and says: ‘What if you never stop inventing? Maybe you’re not inventing at all.’ 25,26 In other words, he suggests there are other universes where the 9/11 tragedy did not happen, where his father is alive, and Oskar is a happy and normal child.

One of Grass’s descriptions of his Oskar is: ‘He don’t know how to live and he don’t know how to die.’27 Oskar never had any illusion about life (and therefore rejected it) but nevertheless always feared death (and tried to discard it by not growing up). The war surrounding him breathes death and it becomes a feature too common to refuse, a part of daily life but still external to him. He feels guilty about the deaths of his mother and two fathers but in his myth making imagination, he tends to believe that he, like the drum, is immortal, never facing real life and consequently, never facing death at all. But although one invents one’s own story, there is always an ultimate fate that hovers above the human being: The Black Witch and its many faces. There are always world wars, terrorist attacks and Black Witches despite secondary worlds. 4. Conclusions: ‘Poland’s Lost But Not Forever’

For Oskar, the half-adult half-child in The Tin Drum, Poland is a metaphor for the illusions of childhood, innocence and purity. 28 Through the beating of his drum he brings the memories of times past, summoning not only an atmosphere of a never-ending war, but also one of lamentation and mourning: ‘I, meanwhile, conjure up Poland on my drum. And this is what I


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drum: Poland’s lost, but not forever, all’s lost, but not forever, Poland’s not lost forever.’29 This is what he wishes, that his childhood was not lost forever. But it is, and it can only be brought back through memory, through the beating of the drum. The war killed Markus, the Jewish toy merchant, who wished ‘to banish all the toys from the world’ because the Germans destroyed them, an action (i.e., the Second World War) after which the human being would lose innocence forever and nothing would ever be the same.30

Fifty years after this loss, Oskar Schell suffers the atrocious terrorist attacks of September 11, but throughout Foer’s novel there is an essence of redemption, or resignation (at least for its main character), because the past always casts a glow of understanding on the present. Thus, Grass’s novel is angry and fearsome, while its follower casts a fickle light upon tragedy: these things happen in the present and in the past, in fantasy and reality, and there must be a way of dealing with them, in this universe and in parallel ones. Foer’s character is somewhat ‘saved’ by magic and fantasy; whereas for Grass’s, disbelief arises and the spell is broken.

One of our Oskars declares: ‘I wanted happiness. I wanted to be boundlessly happy,’ while the other affirms ‘I want to stop inventing. If I could know how he died, exactly how he died, I wouldn’t have to invent . . .’

31,32 In fantasy, there is a possibility that toys will never be destroyed again, nor towers will fall one day just like that. But in reality, these things might be repeated. In any case, as we have seen, reality is not always necessarily the same as truth, and the important thing, as Tolkien says, is that:

Children are meant (…) to proceed on the appointed journey: that journey upon which it is certainly not better to travel hopefully than to arrive, though we must travel hopefully if we are to arrive.33

Hope must be there, and whenever in panic, one can drum the horror away, playing, chanting, storytelling and crying ‘This is me, I am still here.’

Notes

1 Apart from Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel, the other two titles regarding 9/11 little time after are Ian Mc Ewan’s Saturday (2005) and Frederic Beigbeder’s Windows on the World (2003). 2 W A Davis, ‘Death’s Dream Kingdom: The American Psyche after 9-11’, Journal for the Psychoanalysis of Culture and Society, vol. 8, no. 1, 2007, pp. 127-132.


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3 R Jackson, Fantasy: The Literature of Subversion, Methuen, London, 1981, p. 170. 4 K Miles, Gunter Grass, Vision Press Ltd., London, 1975, p. 132. 5 J R R Tolkien, The Tolkien Reader, Ballantine Books, New York, 1966, p. 37. 6 The Tin Drum is also a 1979 film written by Günter Grass, Jean- Claude Carrière, Franz Seitz and Volker Schlöndroff (also the director). It won the Oscar for the Best Foreign Language Film of 1980 and was jointly awarded the 1979 Palme d’Or at Cannes, along with Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. 7 J S Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Penguin, London, 2006, p. 201. 8 ibid., p. 71. 9 E S Rabkin, The Fantastic in Literature, Princeton University Press, New Jersey, 1976, p. 143. 10 Foer, op. cit., p. 96. 11 DG & JL Singer, The House of Make-Believe, Harvard University Press, Cambridge: MA, 1990, pp. 125-26. 12 K Hume, Fantasy and Mimesis. Responses to Reality in Western Literature, Methuen, London, 1984, p. 126. 13 Grass, op. cit., p.11. 14 Foer, op. cit., p. 36. 15 M Hirsch, ‘Projected Memory: Holocaust Photographs in Personal and Public Fantasy’, in M Bal, J Crewe & L Spitzer (eds), Acts of Memory: Cultural Recall in the Present, University Press of New England, Hanover, 1999, p. 51. 16 Grass, op. cit., p.11. 17 ibid., p. 200. 18 B Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment, The Meaning and Importance of Fairy-Tales, Vintage, New York, 1977, pp. 7-14. 19 Singer & Singer, op. cit., pp. 19, 20. 20 Foer, op. cit., p. 326. 21 Grass, op. cit., p. 580. 22 Philosophical references are from R Kearney, ed., Continental Philosophy in the 20th Century, Routledge, London, 1994. 23 Foer, op. cit., p. 301. 24 For more information on the Many-Worlds Interpretation, see M Kaku, Hyperspace, Oxford University Press, London, 1995. 25 Sue Vice warns of a problem that accrues to Holocaust fiction (with which we can compare Foer’s novels): by its very nature, she notes, much of mainstream fiction seeks resolution, and with resolution may come


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sentimentality and a false redemption. This could be the case of Oskar Schell’s forgiveness, but since he is a child, it works. Cf. S Vice, Holocaust Fiction, Routledge, London and New York, 2005, p. 5. 26 Foer, op. cit., p. 305. 27 Grass, op. cit., p. 355. 28 Grass, op. cit., p. 103. 29 ibid., p. 103. 30 ibid., p. 200. 31 ibid., p. 434. 32 Foer, op. cit., p. 257. 33 Tolkien, op. cit., p. 44.

Bibliography Bettelheim, B., The Uses of Enchantment, The Meaning and Importance of Fairy-Tales. Vintage, New York, 1977. Davis, W. A., ‘Death’s Dream Kingdom: The American Psyche After 9-11’. Journal for the Psychoanalysis of Culture and Society, vol. 8, no. 1, 2007, pp. 127-132. Foer, J. S., Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Penguin, London, 2006. Grass, G., The Tin Drum. Penguin, New York, 1961. Hirsch, M., ‘Projected Memory: Holocaust Photographs in Personal and Public Fantasy’, in M. Bal, J. Crewe & L. Spitzer (eds), Acts of Memory: Cultural Recall in the Present. UP of New England, Hanover, 1999. Hume, K., Fantasy and Mimesis. Responses to Reality in Western Literature. Methuen, London, 1984. Jackson, R., Fantasy: The Literature of Subversion. Methuen, London, 1981. Kaku, M., Hyperspace. Oxford University Press, London, 1995. Kearney, R., (ed), Continental Philosophy in the 20th Century. Routledge, London, 1994. Lawson, M., ‘Guile by the mile’, The Guardian, 8 June 2002, retrieved on 12 July 2008,


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<http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2002/jun/08/featuresreviews.guardianreview28>. Miles, K., Gunter Grass. Vision Press Ltd., London, 1975. Rabkin, E. S., The Fantastic in Literature. Princeton University Press, New Jersey, 1976. Singer, D.G. & J. L. Singer, The House of Make-Believe. Harvard UP, Cambridge, MA, 1990. Tolkien, J. R. R., The Tolkien Reader. Ballantine Books, New York, 1966. Vice, S., Holocaust Fiction. Routledge, London and New York, 2005. Silvia Herreros de Tejada is the author of Todos Crecen Menos Peter (Everyone grows up except Peter), recently awarded with the Caja Madrid Non-Fiction Prize. She is writing her PhD on the literary and filmic adaptations of J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan and teaches scriptwriting at Centro Universitario Villanueva and ECAM in Madrid, Spain.

PART II

The Aesthetics of Fear, Horror, and Terror

‘Tuneful Tragedy’: Aesthetisation of Horror in A Song Of Ice And Fire by George R. R. Martin

Dagmara Zając

Abstract In the world of George R. R. Martin, horror seems ubiquitous. Hatred, aggression, violence and death are ever-present themes in his best-selling epic saga. The paper aims at presenting horror as a source of aesthetic stimulation in Martin’s novels. First of all, it may be argued that the language and imagery of Ice and Fire’s horrifying descriptions can be traced back to the nightmarish violence of medieval drama. The conventions first used in Corpus Christi plays were developed to create a special moment of simultaneous attraction and revulsion, of acknowledgement and denial; this particular moment provides an important key to understanding the representation of horror in Martin’s fiction. The Ice and Fire series prove that fear may be delightful even in its terrible aspects, connected with transgressing the moral order of the universe. In the fantasy world of George R. R. Martin, literary expression of terror becomes, as if by definition, an aesthetic expression: a representation already theatricalised and framed. The spectacle of violence depicted in A Song of Ice and Fire thus becomes appalling and appealing at the same time. Key Words: A Song of Ice and Fire, aesthetisation, violence, medieval drama, violence.

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Mereen was as large as Astapor and Yunkai combined. Like her sister cities she was built of brick […]. Behind [the walls], huge against the sky, could be seen the top of the Great Pyramid, a monstrous thing eight hundred feet tall with a towering bronze harpy at its top. ‘The harpy is a craven thing,’ Daario Naharis said when he saw it. ‘She has a woman’s heart and a chicken’s legs. Small wonder her sons hide behind their walls.’ But the hero did not hide. He rode out the city gates, armoured in scales of copper and jet and mounted upon a white charger whose striped pink-and-white barding matched the silk cloak flowing from the hero’s shoulders. […] Back and forth he rode beneath the walls of multicoloured bricks, challenging the besiegers to send a champion forth to meet him in single combat. […] The

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pink-and-white hero taunted the besiegers for an hour, mocking their manhood, mothers, wives, and gods. Meereen’s defenders cheered him on from the city walls. ‘His name is Oznak zo Pahl,’ Brown Ben Plumm told her when he arrived for the war council. […]

They watched Oznak zo Pahl dismount […], undo his robes, pull out his manhood, and direct a stream of urine in the general direction of the olive grove where Dany’s gold pavilion stood among the burnt trees. He was still pissing when Daario Naharis rode up, arakh in hand. ‘Shall I cut that off for you and stuff it down his mouth, Your Grace?’ […] ‘It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.’ She was growing angry, however. If I ignore this any longer, my own people will think me weak. […] ‘This challenge must be met,’ Arstan said again. […] ‘It will be.’ Dany said, as the hero tucked his penis away again. ‘Tell Strong Belwas I have need of him.’ […] A thrum of excitement went through the siege lines when Belwas was seen plodding toward the city, and from the walls and towers of Meereen came shouts and jeers. Oznak zo Pahl mounted up again, and waited, his striped lance held upright. […] ‘A chivalrous man would dismount,’ said Arstan. […] Oznak zo Pahl lowered his lance and charged. Belwas stopped with legs spread wide. In one hand was his small round shield, in the other the curved arakh. […] He stood in the horse’s path, his vest stretched tight across his broad back. Oznak’s lance was leveled at the centre of his chest. Its bright steel point winked in the sunlight. He’s going to be impaled, she thought. And quick as the blink of an eye the horseman was beyond him, wheeling, raising the lance. Belwas made no move to strike at him. The Meereenese on the walls screamed even louder. ‘What is he doing?’ Dany demanded. ‘Giving the mob a show,’ ser Jorah said.1

The world of A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin is a

dark world, filled with dread and despair. In this compelling saga of fantasy middle ages, horror takes multiple forms as the reader has many an opportunity to be scared. There are times when the source of the novels’ disturbing atmosphere is just a vague mention of some ancient, forgotten power, dark and malevolent, as distant as the Shadow Lands. Most times,

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however, this source is quite real and tangible: it is human violence, in its many forms and aspects. To come back to the duellists:

Steel sang against steel, too fast for Dany to follow the blows. It could not have been a dozen heartbeats before Belwas’s chest was awash in blood from a slice below his breast, and Oznak zo Pahl had an arakh planted right between his ram’s horns. The eunuch wrenched the blade loose and parted the hero’s head from his body with three savage blows to the neck. He held it up high for the Meereenese to see, then flung it toward the city gates and let it bounce and roll across the sand. ‘So much for the hero of Meereen,’ said Daario, laughing.2

In A Song of Ice and Fire, violence is inflicted for various reasons.

As a reviewer for Sunday Times rightly points out, Martin’s wars are as multifaceted as they are ambiguous:

as are the men and women who wage them and the gods who watch them and chortle, and somehow that makes them mean more. A Feast for Crows isn't pretty elves against gnarly orcs. It's men and women slugging it out in the muck, for money and power and lust and love.3

There are times when honour seems to be involved, as in the example quoted above. At other times, characters resort to violence in order to protect their love ones. Still, as often as not, a gruesome death is nothing but honourable, a sacrifice made proves futile, and, as another reviewer points out, ‘the wrong people die.’4 What is more, in A Song of Ice and Fire there is no sense of higher purpose behind horror: unlike Tolkien, Martin refuses to embrace a vision of the world as a Manichaean struggle between Good and Evil. Why does the reader enjoy the novels, since the author’s approach is obviously anti-escapist? What makes the blind hatred, aggression and violence of Ice and Fire appalling and appealing at the same time? I want to argue that in order to answer this question, one needs to analyze Martin’s strategies of making horror the source of aesthetic stimulation. I believe that he achieves this goal by staging the gruesome and the horrible in the form of a spectacle, while using the conventions that bring to mind the nightmarish violence of medieval drama. In the Medieval era, a great deal of graphic violence was presented onstage. Unlike the extant early Greek theatre that would place scenes of death and physical violence offstage, the horror was enacted in full view of the spectators. For instance, The Death of Herod within the Ludus Coventriae

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involves a detailed portrayal of the Massacre of the Innocents, including blood effects and dismembered bodies. In Corpus Christi plays as well as Passion Plays, gruesome scenes of the flogging and crucifixion of Christ occurred on stage. Also familiar are the graphic scenes of violence in the Shakespearean and Jacobean theatres. The Revenger’s Tragedy, for instance, attributed to Cyril Tourneur, is a portrayal of lust and ambition in an Italian court. A young man is driven to avenge a lover’s death, which was caused by the villainy of a powerful older man; the avenger schemes to effect his revenge, and he finally succeeds in a bloodbath that costs him his own life as well. Nevertheless, I believe that what needs to be emphasized is not the form and content of the plays, but the relation that form and content bears to reality. In her Medieval Theater of Cruelty: Rhetoric, Memory, Violence, Jody Enders analyzes in detail the fluid boundaries among drama, rhetoric, and violence. She argues that medieval religious theatre came to include the representation of physical suffering as a crucial means by which to ‘reveal its own truths.’5 Enders believes that much of that theatre

not only was violent but that, at some level, it had to be violent because it was unable to escape the conceptual and philological similarities among creative invention, dramatic catharsis, and human suffering that emerged from the rhetorical treatments of torture (which circulated in the classical, medieval, and early Renaissance educational systems).6

In other words, the medieval understanding of torture and punishment both enabled and encouraged the dramatic depiction of violence, as a means of coercing theatre audiences into accepting the various ‘truths’ enacted didactically in mysteries, miracles, and even farces. ‘The spectacularity of violence was embedded in the very language of the law, and the violence of law was expressed in the theatre.’7 This spectacular nature of violence is vividly described by Glynne William Gladstone Wickham:

Realism was carried into actuality in the Middle Ages: the gruesome, pitiful and awe-inspiring rituals of public execution. Raised scaffold, gibbet, hangman (or masked hangman with axe) magistrate, priest-confessor and convicted felon combined to proclaim the process of justice (at least as interpreted by mortals at the time) to the world at large in an outward figuration that was at once emblematic and realistic. The presence of a public audience

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provoked from the sacrificial victim the customary scaffold speech which, whatever its content and however it was delivered, was automatically endowed by its frightening finality and a violent theatricality. The burning of heretics was carried out no less publicly and with even greater ceremony. Such spectacles inevitably made a vivid impression on the public imagination: and just as the spectre of Death summoning Pope, emperor, merchant and peasant alike in the wake of plague and pestilence found its outward expression in art and literature, so the scaffold with all its grisly rites entered the drama as a scene calculated to arouse terror and pity in the highest degree or, in the wake of a rare last-minute reprieve, a corresponding joy in the hearts and minds of the beholders.8

Still, public executions and other sorts of physical punishment were not the only forms of medieval violence. There were also duels, similarly theatricalised, and often equally gruesome. In A Great Effusion of Blood?: Interpreting Medieval Violence, Oren Falk describes the duel as a staged event which bears uncanny resemblance to a theatrical performance:

Such acts (of which the duel is only one specialized instance) form an idiom of social exchange, performed before an audience who are to a great extent the interpreters, enunciators, and indeed authors of unfolding events. Bystanders, in a very real sense, come first; only when this pivotal role has been manned can other, secondary participants in the violence - viz. the combatants themselves - assume their positions. We ought to be thinking not of witnesses to a fight, then, but of fighters to a witness.9

In the Middle Ages, horror was indeed a spectacle to be watched upon by an audience. Moreover, for some reason the audience reacted as if the horror had been aesthetically pleasing. I believe that a similar moment of simultaneous attraction and revulsion is created in George Martin’s novels: it is a moment in which ‘the theatricality of violence and the violence of theatricality are coterminous.’10 Moreover, I am convinced that the medieval tradition of making violence into a spectacle is not continued in horror writing per se, or in gore cinema, but in the horrible as depicted in fantasy epics, such as those written by George Martin. Let us consider yet another passage from A Song of Ice and Fire:

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The sounds of drums and horns swirled up into the night. Half-clothed women spun and danced on the low tables, amid joints of meat and platters piled high with plums and dates and pomegranates. Many of the men were drunk on clotted mare’s milk, yet Dany knew no arakhs would clash tonight, not here in the sacred city, where blades and bloodshed were forbidden. […] Suddenly Doreah was tugging her elbow. ‘My lady,’ the handmaid whispered urgently, ‘your brother…’ Dany looked down the length of the long, roofless hall and there he was, striding toward her. From the lurch in his step, she could tell at once that Viserys had found his wine…and something that passed for courage. He was wearing his scarlet silks, soiled and travel-stained. His cloak and gloves were black velvet, faded from the sun. […] A longsword swung from his belt in a leather scabbard. The Dothraki eyed the sword as he passed; Dany heard curses and threats and angry mutterings rising all around her, like a tide. The music died away in a nervous stammering of drums. […]

Her brother drew his sword. ‘There she is,’ he said, smiling. He stalked toward her, slashing at the air as if to cut a path through a wall of enemies, though no one tried to bar his way. ‘The blade…you must not,’ she begged him. ‘Please, Viserys. It is forbidden. Put down the sword and come share my cushions.’ […] ‘Do as she tells you, fool,’ Ser Jorah shouted, ‘before you get us all killed.’ Viserys laughed. ‘They can’t kill us. They can’t shed blood here in the sacred city…but I can.’ He laid the point of his sword between Daenerys’s breasts and slid it downward, over the curve of her belly. ‘I want what I came for,’ he told her. ‘I want the crown he promised me. He bought you, but he never paid for you. Tell him I want what I bargained for, or I’m taking you back. […] He can keep his bloody foal. I’ll cut the bastard out and leave it for him.’ […] Viserys was weeping, she saw; weeping and laughing, both at the same time, this man who had once been her brother. […] Khal Drogo spoke a few brusque sentences in Dothraki, and she knew he understood. […] ‘What did he say?’ the man who had been her brother asked her, flinching. […] Daenerys had gone cold all over. ‘He says you shall have a splendid golden crown that men shall

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tremble to behold.’ […] Khal Drogo unfastened his belt. The medallions were pure gold, massive and ornate, each one as large as a man’s hand. He shouted a command. Cook slaves pulled a heavy iron stew pot from the fire pit, dumped the stew onto the ground, and returned the pot to the flames. Drogo tossed in the belt and watched without expression as the medallions turned red and began to lose their shape. […] Viserys began to scream the high, wordless scream of the coward facing death. He kicked and twisted, whimpered like a dog and wept like a child, but the Dotkraki held him tight between them. Ser Jorah had made his way to Dany’s side. […] ‘Turn away, my princess, I beg you.’ ‘No.’ She folded her arms across the swell of her belly, protectively. […] When the gold was half-melted and starting to run, Drogo reached into the flames, snatched out the pot. ‘Crown!’ he roared. ‘Here. A crown for Cart King!’ And upended the pot over the head of the man who had been her brother. The sound Viserys Targaryen made when that hideous iron helmet covered his face was like nothing human. His feet hammered a frantic beat against the dirt floor, slowed, stopped. Thick globs of molten gold dripped down onto his chest, setting the scarlet silk to smouldering…yet no drop of blood was spilled.11

The horror of the scene makes it no less fascinating in reception.

Both quoted passages prove that for the author, form was equally important as the content itself. The setting of both scenes is so vivid and meticulous that it could be easily made into a theatrical exposition. We even get the description of clothing, portrayed by Martin in painstaking detail. What is more, it would simply not do to have Viserys strangled by an assassin in his sleep: he had to be crowned with melted gold, in the middle of a feast. All that - and more - in order to ‘give the crowd a show.’ A grim spectacle indeed.

To conclude: even as George Martin has ‘set himself the task of stripping fantasy of its romanticism once and for all’ by upping the ante of violence and horror in his fantasy world soiled with blood and mud, the readers still find his novels aesthetically pleasing.12 In this paper, I have attempted to present the author’s strategy that enabled him to make horror the source of aesthetic stimulation. It consists mainly in presenting the horrible and the gruesome as a grandiose spectacle of Burke’s ‘gloomy pomp.’ As such, the violence of The Ice and Fire saga may be perceived as a

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continuation of the medieval tradition of horror dramatized, theatricalised, and staged.

Notes 1 G R R Martin, A Storm of Swords, Harper Collins Publishers, London, 2003, p. 214-218. 2 ibid., p. 219. 3 L Grossman, ‘The American Tolkien’, in Time, Sunday, 13 November 2005, retrieved on 20 April 2009, <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1129596,00.html> 4 T M Wagner, ‘A Storm of Swords’, in SF Reviews, 2003, retrieved on 15 April 2009, <http://www.sfreviews.net/stormofswords.html> 5 J Enders, Medieval Theater of Cruelty: Rhetoric, Memory, Violence, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY, 1999, p. 5. 6 ibid. 7 ibid., p. 4. 8 GW Gladstone Wickham, The Medieval Theatre, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1987, p. 168-9. 9 O Falk, ‘Bystanders and Hearsayers First: Reassessing the Role of the Audience in Dueling,’ in M D Meyerson, D Theiry & O Falk (eds), ‘A Great Effusion of Blood?: Interpreting Medieval Violence MD Meyerson, University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 2004, p. 99. 10 Enders, p. 4. 11 G R R Martin, A Game of Thrones, Bantam Dell, New York, 2005, p. 497-500. 12 Wagner, op. cit.

Bibliography Falk, O., ‘Bystanders and Hearsayers First: Reassessing the Role of the Audience in Dueling’ in M. D. Meyerson, D. Theiry & O. Falk (eds), ‘A Great Effusion of Blood?: Interpreting Medieval Violence. University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 2004, p. 99. Enders, J., Medieval Theater of Cruelty: Rhetoric, Memory, Violence. Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY, 1999. Gladstone Wickham, G. W., The Medieval Theatre. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1987.

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Grossman, L., ‘The American Tolkien’, in Time. Sunday, 13 November 2005, retrieved on 20 April 2009, <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1129596,00.html> Kant, I., Critique of Judgement. Cosimo Inc., New York, 2007. Knox, I., The Aesthetic Theories of Kant, Hegel and Schopenhauer. Humanities Press, New York, 1958. Martin, G. R. R., A Storm of Swords. Harper Collins Publishers, London, 2003. ____., A Game of Thrones. Bantam Dell, New York, 2005. Wagner, T. M., ‘A Storm of Swords’, in SF Reviews. 2003, retrieved on 15 April 2009, <http://www.sfreviews.net/stormofswords.html> Dagmara Zając is a doctoral student at the Jagiellonian University in Kraków, Poland. Her primary research interest is the development of American Gothic/horror fiction.

Run for Your Lives: Remembering the Ramsay Brothers

Kartik Nair

Abstract There is a derelict history of genre cinema in Bollywood, overshadowed by the all-inclusive, cross-genre format of the mainstream: a fertile run of films which began in the early 1970’s and played itself out at the box office by the late 1980’s. These were the horror films of the seven Ramsay brothers, films that were pure schlock to a generation of viewers, treated from the start as B-movies that did A-movie business. Mostly predictable in their transgressions, the Ramsay films are conventional genre work, down to the details of pubescent girls, adolescent anarchy, and haunted houses. The Ramsays are observant students of Hammer, Bava, Argento. The 1970’s and 1980’s are further marked by the rise of John Carpenter, Wes Craven, and Tobe Hooper. As a consistent, intelligible poetics, the Ramsays provide an early and altogether parallel working example of Bombay Cinema globalising before the watershed 1990’s. My paper writes this spectral story. Like their pet demons and vampires, the Ramsays were seen as unwelcome intruders in the movie industry’s onward march to bourgeois respectability. Yet, they have persisted in popular memory, haunting our sense of the movies in the form of a beloved and campy underground. Key Words: Bombay Cinema, dialogism, genre, Mikhail Bakhtin, Ramsay Brothers.


After years of apprenticeship, the seven sons of a minor film producer persuade him to finance an all-out horror film. Raised on movie sets and at matinee shows of Dracula (1931) and The Mummy (1932), the sons train themselves as filmmakers. The result is Do Gaz Zameen Ke Neechey (‘Beneath Two Yards of Earth’; 1972), a huge breakout hit that quickly recoups its money and sets cash registers ringing across India. So begins the meteoric rise of the seven Ramsay Brothers, to date remembered as pioneers of cinematic horror in Bombay, sponsoring a fertile run of films that began in the early 1970’s and played itself out at the box office by late 1980’s. Like their pet demons and vampires, however, the Ramsays were seen as unwelcome intruders, botching the movie industry’s onward march to bourgeois respectability. They were the unacknowledged house-guests of India’s biggest movie industry for two decades: they had legs at the box

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office and legions of fans, but are consigned to oblivion in most official histories of Bombay Cinema. Yet, they have persisted in popular memory, haunting our sense of the movies in the form of a beloved and campy underground. In his Historical Dictionary of Horror Cinema, Peter Hutchings has described the Ramsay Brothers as the ‘closest thing to horror specialists that Indian cinema ever had,’ with productions that ‘inserted songs and dance numbers into stories that drew upon both Indian mythology and Western horror conventions.’1 Willemen and Rajyadaksha represent the Ramsays as ‘mixing conventional horror plots with mythological overtones and various other genres (e.g. adventure films, action thrillers, and romances).’2 Cleve observes the brothers ‘add[ing] scary monsters to the mix of Bollywood’ while ensuring that ‘all those other elements remained.’3 Finally, over at cinemastrikesback.com, Jeff provides a brief on the Ramsay films:

Like most Indian horror movies, Ramsay Brothers films do not closely resemble what most people think of as a horror movie, in that they simply add an additional horror ‘track’ to the traditional Bollywood formula. Thus, viewers of a Ramsay movie should be prepared for a lot of other elements that may or may not have any connection to the movie’s central supernatural plot - singing, dancing, melodrama, and alleged ‘comedy.’4

All four accounts envision the Ramsay family gathered around a steaming cauldron, throwing whatever they could find into it. All four accounts are inflationary to the extent that they give the Ramsays the credit (or the calumny) for ‘mixing’ heterogeneous matter together. All four, then, may broadly be said to subscribe to the view that the Brothers produced their cinema by ‘simply’ super-adding a horror track to a pre-existing formula. This formulation brackets at least three questions: 1) What is this horror ‘track’ that is added? 2) What is the said pre-existing ‘formula?’ 3) How can any such addition be done ‘simply?’ In order to answer these questions, this paper focuses on the film Purana Mandir (‘Ancient Temple’, 1984, Shyam and Tulsi Ramsay). I shall be using Purana Mandir as exemplary of the Ramsay corpus, not least because the film is recognized as their ur-text on account of its enduring popularity and exceptional commercial returns. It is my aim to work through some of the problems around identifying the genre form of a Ramsay Brothers film. In other words, I ask the question ‘What is horror, really?’ I am inspired particularly by Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of dialogism, which stresses the irreducible relationality of utterances and genres - their open-endedness, their addressivity, and their plurality of voice. Dialogism sees

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language, and all material life, as shared territory on which meaning is generated inter-personally, multi-vocally, collectively. Positioning its object as a playful and phenomenal presence, dialogism suggests that ‘every text forms an intersection of textual surfaces,’ enabling us to observe how all utterances may be ‘tissues of anonymous formulae embedded in language.’5 At any given point - and I shall cite only a few - Purana Mandir may be viewed as a congeries of utterances, a vast contact zone in which volumes of material are shaped across a concrete and situated surface. 2. The Case of Purana Mandir

In the prologue to the principle action of Purana Mandir, which is set in the long long ago, the indefatigable monster Samri terrorizes the sultanate of a local Raja. He regularly disrobes ‘naujawaan, shaadi-shuda’ (young, married) women, kills children, and disinters corpses to eat them. When he kills the Raja’s daughter, a royal decree is passed, ordering the capture and decapitation of the monster. Before he is thus executed, however, Samri makes a vow to return to life once again, and curses the King’s female heirs with horrible deaths incurred in childbirth. On advice from a panditji (royal priest), Samri’s head is locked up in a box with the god Shiva’s trishul (trident) keeping vigil over it, and then walled in behind a portrait in the Raja’s haveli. Cut to the present day, and the city. The latest descendant in the line of the Raja has an only child - the attractive Suman, an attractive girl of college-going age. Suman is in love with the strapping Sanjay, and the two can barely keep their hands off one another. This sets alarm-bells ringing in Suman’s father’s head, who has not forgotten the curse that will strike his daughter should she have a child of her own. When he fails to break up the relationship, the distraught father reveals the curse that has followed their family all the way down centuries from their rural haveli (mansion). Convinced that the curse is nothing they can’t overcome or explain, Sanjay and Suman leave the city to return to the haveli where it all began. They are accompanied on their adventure by another couple. At the haveli, the foursome encounter the ominous locals and house-help, sparking sub-plots of varying dramatic interest and relevance that all snowball into a final act wherein many are killed, Sanjay and Suman overpower Samri, the monster is burnt at the stake, the curse is lifted, and the couple is married with the blessing of Suman’s father. As I hope to demonstrate, if Purana Mandir illustrates anything at all, it is that that horror is hardly a ready-made, invulnerable category; that the Bombay format is no stable or impervious ‘formula’; and finally, that both are constantly in a state of being re-worked, in dialogue. By no measure would this be achieved ‘simply’ - instead, dialogism involves the dynamic calibration of languages as they grind off one another, transforming one

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another, and themselves, in the process. There is a particularly instructive instance located at the heart of the film, in the shraap (curse) that plagues the Raja’s line. As a narrative device, it is utterly unexceptional (an obstacle is created and then overcome), but the provenance of this device is far more interesting, a telltale sign of hybridity. In countless American slasher films of the 1970’s and early 1980’s, such as Friday the 13th (1980) , Prom Night (1980), and Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), sexual intercourse outside marriage is strictly prohibited, and trespassers invoke certain death at the hands of a knife/axe/machete/spear/impaling rod/electrocuting hotwire/scorching tongs. In each film, we witness the bodies of young men and women enjoying sex away from the surveillance of their parents, in an un-policed and semi-rural environment where adolescent anarchy prevails. In each film, we witness the bodies of young men and women being yanked back under surveillance, disciplined once again through torture. These grisly moments imbue the slasher film with the air of a parable or cautionary tale to warn against teenage, illicit sex, cinematically converting it into taboo via an experience of Ripper-like horror. Such repressive censoriousness means almost nothing in Bombay Cinema, where it would be impossible to write a film in which teenagers are shown experiencing sex, torture, or death, whether little or big. Graphic sex and frontal nudity are already taboo, anathema for an idiom that relegates them to a notional, invisible privacy somewhere beyond the end credits. No knives or axes are needed to temper sexual appetites in Bombay; there is already a series of tacit codes in place to make sure no one gets frisky. Institutionalised censorship is only one of these codes; consider equally the ever-present, extended family keeping watchful eyes within the diegetic world, so that most un-policed and parentless worlds are more likely figured as dream locales than nightmare situations. In Purana Mandir, the curse of death is activated at childbirth: as a definite consequence of sex, but within the confines of legitimate, productive and monitored sexuality. Hence, the shraap emerges in the rapprochement of conventions of American horror and Bombay cinema - a kind of handshake in which both hands pocket something - and meaning emerges in the interstice. Further, the shraap also functions within the dominant syntax of monstrosity/sexuality popularised in a lot of Hammer films, such as The Brides of Dracula (1960), and The Curse of the Werewolf (1961), and serves as the means whereby the urban is displaced in favour of the backwoods. After the fashion of much horror from the American independent phase, especially The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), but also more generally with films like Deliverance (1972), this relocation provides the setting for a primitive ordeal from which a young woman or man, or a heterosexual couple, escapes back to the order of the city. However, the exigencies of

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Bombay Cinema require Suman’s father to be witness to Sanjay’s physical agency and masculine prowess in subduing the monster and re-establishing harmony where there was once chaos. Therefore, in an unprecedented move for a horror film, Purana Mandir ends not with the bruised dyad but a happy trio: boy, girl, and girl’s father. ‘I’m really proud of you, my son,’ he sniffs. The purana mandir, or ancient temple, of horror literally modulates into the mandir of the marriage ceremony as Sanjay and Suman are wedded and ‘The End’ is hurriedly ushered in. Dialogism thus allows us to envision the artistic horizon as a surfeit of omnivorous appetites and sweaty copulations, so that genres may be understood as ‘accumulating forms of seeing and interpreting the world throughout the centuries of their life.’6 This is a provocative and fecund idea of genre, and it goes a long way in helping us make sense of how we make sense of things in Purana Mandir. I’m especially attracted to it since I have been unable to read a strand of the film: its invocation of what one can broadly call ‘religious iconography’. Nothing within the exposition ever indicates that Samri is a threat to the religious order or is the negative image of godhead. Yet, trident, temple, and a show-stopping devotional song are in attendance at his defeat, but all for very cloudy reasons. The climactic battle with Samri is choreographed with a maximum of gravitas: Suman in a white sari, Sanjay leaping down in slow motion, preternatural winds whipping the leaves into a storm, drums and conches on the soundtrack. In all the clamour of victory, no one pauses to ask why it is that Shiva’s trishul exercises such power over Samri. Why it really strikes the viewer as odd, though, is that it doesn’t seem so odd after all. Genres are drawn from utterances familiar, faraway, or forgotten; these are the ambient languages of horror that have been shored up over decades, if not centuries. The inexplicable and inordinately voluble discourse of religion in Purana Mandir asks that the writer and the reader of the text silently draw on the timeless ‘forms of seeing’ that have accrued to horror: traditions of rakshasas (demons), Transylvania, and satanic horror (each with its own prop of trident, garlic, and Christ’s cross). Meaning making is thus an intractably elusive activity, a pact between parties, an almost invisible transaction. ‘To put it more crudely,’ writes Robert Stam, ‘any text which has slept with another text has also slept with all the texts that the other text has slept with.’7. Not only has Purana Mandir then slept with Halloween (1978), but it has also slept with Argento’s giallo films. This becomes obvious when one examines the citations in Purana Mandir. The frenetic camera movement of some sequences bears resemblance to innovative camera-work done on Evil Dead (1981); the portrait with the moving eyes, and the baroque, taxidermically-inclined space of the haveli recall The Haunting (1963) or any number of Hammer films; the extremely tight composition into which something (a cat, a crazy woman) suddenly emerges to scare the living

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daylights out of us suggests Halloween; the coffin and horse-drawn carriage are straight out of numerous Stoker adaptations; the apparitions of Samri’s face on the walls of the Thakur’s residence might bring to mind The Poltergeist (1982); there are point-of-view shots that are akin to shots from Black Christmas (1974), as well as the Romero-style gait of a possessed man-servant. The list is only indicative; what is important, however, is not whether we can inventory the film exhaustively, but the contextual actualisation of cinematic language when it migrates. Inescapable here is the clunkiness of the Ramsay Brothers, who with their limited budgets and talents only occasionally realized their citations; for the most part, these moments of ‘horror’ play out as incompetent hack-jobs and incomplete masteries. The Ramsays bring an attitude of ham-handedness to camera-work, prosthetics, and technological form. As a casualty, conventions of horror are forced into visibility by the yawning gap between aspiration and accomplishment, causing moments of unintentional hilarity, such as when the make-up looks a little baked, or the camera doesn’t move nearly fast enough, or when the cat looks less like it’s jumping into the frame and more like it’s being thrown into it by a spot-boy. Globally circulating signs of horror are embarrassingly reduced to an inchoate and fractured generic language that cannot conceal its own manufactured-ness. 3. Conclusion For a long time, my own sense of the Rasmay Brothers was that they made films, as Jeff argues, by ‘simply adding a horror track’ to a pre-existing ‘formula.’8 A viewing of Purana Mandir makes it apparent that Jeff is bracketing at least three questions: (1) What is the horror track? (2) What is the pre-existing formula? (3) How can any such operation be carried out ‘simply’? In answering these questions, I have drawn on Bakhtin’s concept of dialogism. This paper has sought to de-stabilize notions of what both horror is and what Bombay Cinema’s ‘formula’ is. I have not tried to disprove the existence of genres or generic formations; rather, I have suggested that these genres are loaded with instability and not invulnerable or impervious to change. In the dialogic encounter, the languages of horror and those of Bombay cinema - already hybrid to the point of being over-determined - speak to one another in a process of exchange and mutual modification, sounding one another, and themselves, out in the acoustic chamber that is Purana Mandir.

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Notes 1 P Hutchings, Historical Dictionary of Horror Cinema, The Scarecrow Press, Inc., Lanham, Toronto & Plymouth, 2008, p. 207. 2 A Rajyadaksha & P Willemen, Encyclopaedia of Indian Cinema, BFI & Oxford University Press, Oxford & New York, 2004, p. 564. 3 B Cleve, The Horror of Bollywood, The Brooklyn Rail, 2007, retrieved 10 May 2009, <http://www.brooklynrail.org/2007/07/film/the-horror-of-bollywood >. 4 J, Ramsay Brothers Horror, Cinema Strikes Back, 2006, retrieved 11 May 2009, <http://www.cinemastrikesback.com/?p=1221>. Emphasis mine. 5 R Stam, ‘Text and Intertext’ in R Stam & T Miller (eds), Film and Theory: An Anthology, Blackwell, Massachusetts & Oxford, 2005, p 153. 6 M M Bakhtin, ‘Response to a Question from the Novy Mir Editorial Staff’ in C Emerson and M Holquist (eds), Speech Genres & Other Late Essays, trans. Vern McGhee, University of Texas Press, Austin, 1992, p. 5. 7 R Stam, op. cit., p. 153. 8 J, op. cit.

Bibliography Altman, R., ‘A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre’ in B. K. Grant (ed), Film Genre Reader. University of Texas Press, Austin, 1986, pp. 26–40. Bakhtin, M., ‘Epic and Novel’ in M. Holquist (ed), The Dialogic Imagination, trans. C. Emerson and M. Holquist. University of Texas Press, Austin, 1986, pp. 3–40. Bakhtin, M., ‘Response to a Question from the Novy Mir Editorial Staff’, ‘The Problem of Speech Genres’, and ‘The Problem of the Text’ in C. Emerson and M Holquist (eds), Speech Genres & Other Late Essays, trans. Vern McGhee. University of Texas Press, Austin, 1992, p. 1–9, 60–102, 103–131. Berry, S., ‘Genre’ in R Stam and T Miller (eds), A Companion to Film Theory. Blackwell, Massachusetts and Oxford, 2004, p. 25–44. Chatterjee, S., ‘Genres: Genres and Narrative Forms’ in Gulzar, G. Nihalani and S. Chatterjee (eds), Encyclopedia of Hindi Cinema. Thomson Press, Noida, 2003, pp. 267–270.

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Cleve, B., The Horror of Bollywood. The Brooklyn Rail, 2007, retrieved 10 May 2009, <http://www.brooklynrail.org/2007/07/film/the-horror-of-bollywood>. Clover, C., Men, Women and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, 1992. Creed, B., The Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. Routledge, London and New York, 1993. Holquist, M., ‘Introduction’ in Michael Holquist (ed), The Dialogic Imagination, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. University of Texas Press, Austin, 1986, pp. xv–xxxiv. Hutchings, P., Historical Dictionary of Horror Cinema. The Scarecrow Press, Inc., Lanham, Toronto and Plymouth, 2008. Jankovich, M. ‘‘A Real Shocker’: Authenticity, Genre and the Struggle for Distinction’ in G. Turner (ed), The Film Cultures Reader. Routledge, London and New York, 2002, pp. 469–480. J., Ramsay Brothers Horror, Cinema Strikes Back, 2006, retrieved 11 May 2009, <http://www.cinemastrikesback.com/?p=1221>. Neale, S., ‘Questions of Genre’ in R. Stam and T. Miller (eds), Film and Theory: An Anthology. Blackwell, Massachusetts and Oxford, 2005, pp. 157–178. Rajyadaksha, A. and P. Willemen., Encyclopaedia of Indian Cinema. BFI and Oxford University Press, Oxford and New York, 2004. Sobchack, V., ‘Bringing it all back home: Family Economy and Generic Exchange’ in G. A. Waller (ed), American Horrors: Essays on the Modern American Horror Film. University of Illinois Press, Chicago and Urbana, 1987, pp. 175–194. Stam, R., ‘Russian Formalism and the Bakhtin School’, ‘The Advent of Structuralism’, ‘The Question of Film Language’, ‘Cinematic Specificity Revisited’, ‘From Text to Intertext’ in Film Theory: An Introduction.: Blackwell, Massachusetts and Oxford, 2000, pp. 47–55, 102–107, 107–119, 119–123, 201–212.

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Stam, R., ‘Text and Intertext’ in R. Stam and T. Miller (eds), Film and Theory: An Anthology. Blackwell, Massachusetts and Oxford, 2005, pp. 145–156. Stam, R., Subversive Pleasures: Bakhtin, Cultural Criticism, and Film. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore and London, 1992. Vasudevan, R., ‘‘The Politics of Address in a ‘Transitional Cinema’: A Case Study of Indian Popular Cinema’ in C. Gledhill and L. Williams (eds), Reinventing Film Studies. Arnold Publishers, London, 2000, pp. 130–164. Williams, L., ‘Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, and Excess’, Film Quarterly, vol. 44, no. 4, 1991, pp. 2–13. Kartik Nair is in the second year of his M. Phil. at the Department of Cinema Studies, JNU, New Delhi. His dissertation will focus on the horror films of the Ramsay Brothers. Kartik has a B.A. and an M.A. in English Literature from St Stephen’s College, New Delhi. In 2007, on a student research fellowship from CSDS-Sarai, he worked on the history of Appu Ghar, India’s first amusement park. In 2008, he produced a research paper titled ‘Hanging out at the Multiplex’ for the Public Service Broadcast Trust. He has also previously freelanced as a copy-editor with SAGE, written movie reviews for Campus 18, and served as an editor on the 9th Osian’s-Cinefan Film Festival Bulletin. Kartik currently serves on the editorial board of the online journal ‘Wide Screen.’

Apocalyptic Machines: Terror and Anti-Production in the Post-9/11 Splatter Film

Phoebe Fletcher

Abstract In the successful Saw franchise (2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008), a terminally ill, elderly man called Jigsaw and his accomplice torture ordinary Americans through a series of elaborate games to test their will to live. Forced to make decisions between excruciating pain and imminent death, Jigsaw’s victims are tortured mercilessly with machines that function as the intermediary for the distribution of vigilante justice. Part of a wave of ultraviolent splatter films that stormed the US box office following the 2003 occupation of Iraq, the sudden popularity of ‘torture porn’ was overwhelmingly read by critics as an unconscious response to the Global War on Terror.

The iconography of the abattoir, the rusting automobile, the torture machine and the deserted factory become metonymic markers that pervade the contemporary splatter, challenging teleological views of capitalist progress with dark images of the underside of the American Dream. Drawing from Fredric Jameson’s notion of the ‘geopolitical aesthetic’,1 I argue the unprecedented popularity of the splatter is founded in the way it functions as an avatar for debates on the increasing militarisation of US culture, presenting an example of the post-modern political that Jameson envisages in the shift from economy to commodity. Key Words: Jameson, Marxism, postmodernism, semiotics, Splatter film, Utopia.

*****

Man is nothing; he is, at most, the carcass of time2 1. Diabolus ex Machina In the ultraviolent Saw series, a serial killer called Jigsaw enacts a perverse form of social Darwinism through the use of a series of increasingly complex traps. A drug addict has a bear trap wired into her jaw, a tape recorder revealing that she has to retrieve the key from her dead cellmate’s stomach before the timer stops and her head explodes; a man who has made suicide attempts must find his way through intricate coils of razor wire to reach the door before the clock turns three. Another, a con artist, is smothered in flammable liquid and must use a candle to decipher the code that covers the walls in order to find a combination to the safe that provides the keys to his freedom before the candle burns out and he is incinerated. Made for a

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little over US$1.4 million by Australian film graduates James Wan and Leigh Whannell, Saw opened at number three at the US box office, becoming one of the most successful horror franchises in recent years, generating a total of six films since the series debuted in 2004.3 Saw belongs to an ultraviolent wave of films seen as driving a 78% rise in box office profits in the years from 2003 to 2006.4 Films such as House of 1000 Corpses (2003), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003), Dawn of the Dead (2005), Hostel (2005) and The Hills Have Eyes (2006) formed a radical departure from mainstream Hollywood fare, featuring extended displays of violence against the malefic backdrop of the destruction of symbols of American progress. With its iconography of the apocalypse, as represented by the torture machine, the fields of rusting 1950’s automobiles and the abattoir, these films were dubbed ‘torture porn’ in reference to their verisimilitude to images of torture and abuse emerging from Abu Ghraib.5 This coupling of the nihilistic with progressive politics warrants further investigation as it provides an example of how politics might function within the fragmentation of post-modern texts. Like the other films in this wave, Saw belongs to a previously marginalized sub genre of the horror film called the ‘splatter’. Emerging through the work of Herschell Gordon Lewis in the 1960s, as Michael Arnzen notes, the splatter film marks an abrupt rupture with the traditional conventions of horror and, more broadly, narrative structures across film and television. 6,7 Shifting emphasis from the delay of violence used to generate psychological suspense to its anticipation, the splatter film is promoted on its ability to shock the viewer through extended displays of brutality. This violence, achieved through laborious attention to detail in special effects, is left unresolved at the end of the narrative. In the splatter film violence is invoked indiscriminately without an attempt at ideological restoration. Social status or notions of moral order are unable to save the individual, representatives of the state are positioned as ineffective or complicit in its spread, and at the end of splatters the threat is left uncontained. Thus in Saw we follow the tragic demise of surgeon Lawrence Gordon, who is kidnapped by Jigsaw and told via tape recorder that he has until six o’clock to kill his fellow abductee or his wife and child will die. Instead of solving the problem, as conventional Hollywood narratives would dictate, Gordon fails to meet the deadline, shoots his companion in a non-fatal hit and then proceeds to saw off his own foot with a blunt hacksaw to escape his chattels before presumably bleeding to death in the hallway.8 As Gordon summarises in a statement that encapsulates the nihilism of splatter films, the serial killer ‘doesn’t want us to cut through his chains, he wants us to cut through our feet.’ Unlike the deus ex machina, or ‘act of God,’ that intervenes in many Classical Hollywood narratives to restore the moral order, the splatter introduces a ‘devil in the machine’ (diabolus ex machina) that overturns and complicates any attempt at resolution.9 It is this subversion of Classical Hollywood norms that

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positions the splatter horror as both radical and problematic, as without the guidance of an overall preferred reading of the text, subject positioning is rendered unstable. This instability of the narrative and subject positioning in the splatter has led to the genre being aligned with the perils of post-modern texts. Emerging as the platitude du jour in architecture during the 1970’s, ‘postmodernism’ has been associated with the collapse of unified political meaning into fragmented texts that evade stable ideological readings. As Jean-Francois Lyotard argues, postmodernism is the evolution of an aesthetic style that collapses the traditional metanarratives that structure our world.10 The splatter, then, is exemplary of the post-modern text. While it may be seen to include synecdoches that reference contemporary politics - such as the images of hooded victims being tortured in Hostel which hold clear verisimilitude to the photographs of prisoner abuse emerging from Abu Ghraib - these interpretations are ultimately rendered unstable through the way these films are promoted on the promise of this violence. It is this shift away from the narrativisation of violence towards its exploration through the image that has led many critics to argue that the splatter devolves any clear notion of political meaning into the body. For example, Linda Williams argues that the splatter genre is an example of a ‘body genre,’ which appeals to the spectator at a fundamentally visceral level that bypasses critical faculties in a post-modern cinema based on the sensation of the image.11 Although it is certainly true that much of the splatter’s logic is based upon the dissolution of unified subjectivity, the remarkable leverage these films gained post-9/11 as an avatar for discussing issues of the limitations and justifications of violence enacted by the state signals that such fragmentation does not necessarily equal the emptying of politics from the text. 2. On Utopia For Fredric Jameson, another key theorist associated with postmodernism, all texts are political expressions of social desire.12 Drawing from Louis Althusser’s landmark fusion of the psychoanalytical and Marxist veins of cultural studies, Jameson surmises that all texts carry discourses of their social, political and historical construction.13 Thus the text functions as a kind of mise-en-abyme, whereby individual protagonists stand in for broader social movements. Jameson provides a particularly useful methodological paradigm through which the splatter can be examined, as he argues that although political readings are complicated under post modernity, this fragmentation is not the result of a death of politics. Rather, following Althusser, Jameson argues that post modernity is the result of how the individual has been multiply interpolated or called into being as a subject by the fragmentation of consumption under the conditions of late capitalism.14 In his work The Geopolitical Aesthetic: Cinema and Space in the World System,


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he elaborates on the denouement of these ideological discourses, arguing that the social conditions that shape the text can be revealed through the process of ‘cognitive mapping,’ or situating a text in relationship to the world.15 In staking this claim, Jameson has a broader project of demonstrating how texts are always allegorical for the utterances of class struggle, expressing fantasies of new forms of social organization that do not yet exist. While this notion may seem radical, Jameson gives voice to a facet of the relationship between cultural texts and collective desire that has long been understood within these industries (take for example, The Production Code’s more than 30-year reign in stipulating what American audiences should not be exposed to).16 Through tracing the connections between individual and communal desire, he seeks to examine the role of Utopia as a form of collective narcissism, conveying discourses on the struggle of social groups that cannot be analysed effectively through the reductive myth making of psychoanalytical discourse.17 Utopia, for Jameson, is not a mythical place, but a benchmark that structures the direction of contemporary politics, existing as a horizon between the incumbent order and that of an idealized future.

How then, might we see the nihilistic anarchy of the splatter film as hinting at a kind of utopia? Jameson’s 2005 work Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions elaborates on the articulation of Utopia within the science fiction genre. A keen semiotician, Jameson traces four poles through within which Utopia might be articulated. I have mapped these onto a semiotic square so the relationship between these four terms can be seen (below). At the top, we have Utopia. Utopias, for Jameson, are concerned with the construction of a greater social good and therefore contain elements of socialism within their enunciation. Yet the figuration of a Utopian movement within texts is also accompanied by the expression of its binary opposite, the ‘anti-Utopia’. This form of expression is negative in the sense that it works from the assumption that humanity is too corrupt to ever realize a Utopian society.18 He provides the example of George Orwell’s Animal Farm (1945), which draws political allegories between its characters and communist politics to argue that we are too myopic to achieve this vision.19 A third term, and close relation to the anti-Utopia, is the ‘critical dystopia’. The critical dystopia is the text that warns of the dangers of Utopian visions, such as Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) or the films Minority Report (2002) or Demolition Man (1993), reminding us that the nature of communal living means we will never escape the disjunctions of class conflict.20 A fourth and final expression of Utopia is the ‘Apocalyptic’ text, which with its destruction of the old order promises the destruction of history itself. As Steven Goldsmith notes in his study of texts that exemplify this discourse, apocalyptic texts are an example of ‘autonomization,’ or the process through which texts appear to be separated

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from the social world from which they originate, a feature that these texts share in common with contemporary criticism on the political articulation of post-modern texts.21 Thus, for Jameson, the notion that a text is post-modern or nihilistic does not circumvent its ability to convey ideological messages about the world it is situated in. Rather, the expression of political discourses is always the result of ‘class utterances’ that are created through the conflict of different groups in society.22

3. Man/Machine

Viewed through this lens, the articulation of destruction and violence in splatter gives us hints on the way that these texts function as an avatar for the circulation of political discourse and why it becomes such a popular form after 2003. In situating splatter within this framework, the first point we can notice here is that the post-9/11 splatter film is clearly not Utopian or a critical dystopia in its articulation, in that splatter films are very clearly situated in contemporary politics rather than a future reality. Indeed, if the splatter films in this cycle are set in other historical periods it is generally just after the ‘now’ (as in 28 Days Later or Land of the Dead), or in the recent past (as in the remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre retention of the film’s original milieu of 18 August 1973). Conversely, while the open-ended narratives of hint towards a kind of apocalypse, the serial nature of these works positions the world as having stagnated within the process of this destitution and never reaching the level of destruction required for the introduction of a new order. Hence although the outbreak of a zombie virus threatens the destruction of humanity in Night of the Living Dead, in each of

UTOPIA

APOCALYPTIC CRITICAL DYSTOPIA

ANTI-UTOPIA


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the four subsequent sequels to this film we return to find vestiges of the way things were, pockets of people suspended in the battle against the world’s end. The world is shown as continuing on despite pockets of destruction, such as Leatherface’s ability to torture innocent people in the face of a futile police force.

The post-9/11 splatter cycle might then be seen as presenting an anti-Utopian discourse, in that through presenting the entropy and abolition of the current order it implies the need for the reconstitution of the whole. This logic is identifiable in the iconographic motifs of splatter and is one that is ultimately concerned with a critique of the subject under capitalism. Such abrogation occurs metaphorically at the level of the body (flesh being torn from bone) and narratalogically through the usurping of incumbent power structures in the text. Therefore in the zombie vein of the splatter we see the spectacular destruction of society straining under an assault from the mass, as in the devastation that punctuates the opening sequence of Zack Snyder’s 2005 remake of Dawn of the Dead or the uprising in solidarity of the zombies and the lower classes in Land of the Dead. In the latter film, this need for change is underscored for those in the know (or who watch the accompanying DVD commentary) by director George Romero’s instructions to Dennis Hopper that he base his Machiavellian portrayal of the head of a gated community on news tapes of then US Secretary of State Donald Rumsfeld. In the British-Spanish co-production 28 Weeks Later, this plea for change is registered through images of American soldiers repatriating citizens back in amongst a rage virus decimated Britain. The naming of the safe zone for civilians as the ‘Green Zone’ is a clear allegorical reference to the area of the same name around the Iraqi Parliament during the US-led occupation. This allegory to the Global War on Terror is registered all the more poignant when an outbreak of the virus means that the soldiers are ordered to shoot all civilians on sight as they cannot distinguish between those who are infected and those who are not.

This perversion of capitalist structures is brought to the fore in the serial killer and hillbilly veins of the genre. While the former presents the industrialization of death into a production line, as in the case of Hostel and the Saw series, the latter freezes production in time. In the Hostel series (2005, 2007), this equation of death with production is shown through the reversal that occurs in the narrative as our consumers become the consumed, traded by the Elite Hunting organization on the basis of their gender and nationality to wealthy bidders keen to experience what it feels like to murder. The Fordist organization of these killings, together with the crematorium that looms over the representation of Bratislava, carries connotations of the Holocaust. In the Saw series, the equation of labour with death is emphasized through the recurring motif of the clock, where ‘clocking out’ becomes a metaphor for expiration. In the hillbilly vein, the fields of empty, discarded

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1950s cars function in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and House of 1000 Corpses as both symbols of American progress and its decline, generating rifts between the inertia of rural backwaters and the urban centres; a dialectic that is reflected in the antagonism between urban and rural characters in the text. This notion of capitalism as alienating the worker is repeated in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning (2006) where the family are shown to have taken up cannibalism when the local meatworks closes down and The Hills Have Eyes, where the superhuman hillbillies are shown in the opening sequence to be the children of miners who refused to move when the US conducted nuclear tests on New Mexico. This destruction of the body is foregrounded in this vein of the genre through the iconography of the meat hook and the abattoir, which in its application to humans, violates the boundaries between man and animal threatens to reduce us all to mere pieces of meat. Rather than the weapons of penetration that are more properly situated within the gender dynamics of the slasher film, horror is generated through the dissolution and reconstruction of the body into a form unrecognisable, as in the jars of fingers and jaws Leatherface collects, or the half-man, half-animal skeletons that adorn his walls.23 The logic of the splatter film then is one of anomie or alienation, and it is this logic that places it in opposition to much of Hollywood cinema, which tends to focus on the individual’s status in a group. Like the egoic drives of the beasts in Animal Farm that prevent the necessary solidarity that leads to group transformation, splatter drives much of its tension from the extrapolation of a politics of individualism to its ultimate end. Violence in the splatter exposes the fragility of group bonds, collapsing societal structure into a Hobbesian war of all against all: bellum omnium contra omnes. Violence becomes the only option for deferring the threat and traditional methods of negotiation or mercy are rendered inadequate. Thus Gordon’s attempts at outwitting Jigsaw prove ineffective in Saw, Erin’s attempts at negotiating with Leatherface’s family in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre are in vain and there is no hope of negotiation with the zombies in Land of the Dead. When in groups, individual desires are frequently shown as overriding a concern for the collective and positioned as placing all in danger, seen in the example of Nicole’s attempt to rescue the dog she has become attached to in Dawn of Dead, a ploy that inadvertently lets the zombies into the sanctuary of the mall. All we are left with is the traumatized individual, who having prioritised their own survival is left alone in this world.

The sharp rise in the popularity of the splatter genre corresponded with a growing malaise in American culture. While initially the US-led occupation of Iraq received high levels of domestic support, this endorsement was seriously damaged with the release of images of torture and allegations of prisoner abuse at CIA rendition camps and American military prisons. By July 2006, President Bush’s position had weakened so much that polls


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reported that more than a third of Americans believed that federal agents had some involvement in planning and executing the attacks of 9/11 so that the Government could enter into war with Iraq.24 While this statistic demonstrates the remarkable influence that conspiracy theories have had in shaping politics through alternative news sources such as the internet, it is important to remember that this distrust was also founded in the release of conflicting narratives by the White House in the 9/11 enquiry and is part of a ‘paranoid style’ that has long shaped American politics.25 Under these circumstances, the anomie of the splatter might be seen as mirroring a broader social desire for the dissolution of the contemporary order to make way for the new.

Notes 1 F Jameson, The Geopolitical Aesthetic: Cinema and Space in the World System, Indiana University Press, Indiana, 1992. 2 F Engels & K Marx, The Poverty of Philosophy, International Publishers, New York, 1963 [1847], p. 110. 3 P Lauria, ‘Saw May Become the Most Successful Horror Franchise Ever’, New York Post, retrieved 5 November 2005, <http://www.nypost.com/seven/10242008/business/saw_may_become_best_horror_franchie_ever_135079.htm>. 4 D Lieberman, ‘Horror Genre Rises From the Dead – Again’, USA Today, 25 October 2006, retrieved 14 January 2007, <http://www.usatoday.com/money/media/2006-10-25-horror-usat_x.htm>. 5 ‘US Horror Films Boom Amid War and Terror’, The Dominion Post, May 4, 2005. 6 Herschell Gordon Lewis’ first film was Blood Feast in 1963. 7 M Arnzen, ‘Who’s Laughing Now? The postmodern splatter film’, Journal of Popular Film and Television, vol. 21, no. 4,1994, p. 178. 8 The notion that the repetition of genre formulas might be seen as intertwined with the articulation of ideology is one that has received serious investigation through since the work of Claude Levis Strauss on myth-making. See B Grant’s excellent overview Film Genre: from iconography to ideology, Wallflower, London & New York, 2007. 9 The term deus ex machina, meaning ‘God from the machine,’ refers to a plot device where a seemingly unlikely twist of fate resolves the loose ends in the narrative. 10 J-F Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: a report on knowledge, trans. G Bennington and B Massumi, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 1984.

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11 L Williams, When Women Look: a sequel, Senses of Cinema, 2001, retrieved 19 September 2007, <http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/01/15/horror_women.html>. 12 Jameson’s article ‘Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Conditions of Late Capitalism’ for the New Left Review is still seen as one of the seminal texts on this movement (vol. 146, 1984). 13 Louis Althusser, Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, trans. B Brewster, Monthly Review, New York, 2001, p.109. 14 See F Jameson, Archaeologies of the Future: the desire called Utopia and other science fictions, Verso, New York, 2005. 15 F Jameson 1992, op. cit. 16 The Production Code 1930 was introduced by the industry in order to pre-empt and circumvent Government censorship. It stipulated that no film could harm the morality of its viewers and it governed the content and form of Hollywood cinema from 1930 to 1968, when it was overturned in favour of a ratings-based model. 17 See F Jameson, ‘Imaginary and Symbolic in Lacan 1977’ in The Ideologies of Theory 1971- 1986: Volume I, University of Minnesota Press: Minneapolis, 1988, pp. 75-118. For Jameson, the contribution of psychoanalytic theory is useful in theorising how processes of the mode of production become reified within texts, but the ultimate object of analysis must always be history. 18 F Jameson 2005, op. cit., pp. 194-200. 19 G Orwell, Animal Farm, Harcourt, New York, 1946 [1945]. 20 G Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Penguin, London, 1990 [1949]. 21 S Goldsmith, Unbuilding Jerusalem: apocalypse and romantic representation, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1993, p. 5. 22 F Jameson, The Political Unconscious: narrative as a socially symbolic act, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1981, pp. 72-5. 23 See Carol Clover’s work Men, Women and Chainsaws: gender in the modern horror film for a lengthy discussion of phallic weaponry (BFI, London, 1992). 24 An August 2006 Scripps/Ohio University poll found that 36% of respondents believed that US federal agents played a role in the attacks. Of these 36%, 16% believed that the Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre were destroyed by controlled demolition and 12% stated the Pentagon had been hit by a missile rather a plane. See T Hargrove, ‘Third of Americans Suspect 9-11 Government Conspiracy’, Scripps News, August 2006, accessed 1 September 2006, < http://www.scrippsnews.com/911poll>.


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25 See F Jameson, The Geopolitical Aesthetic,1992 or R Hofstatder, The Paranoid Style in American Politics, and Other Essays, Knopf, New York, 1965.

Bibliography Althusser, A., Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, trans. B. Brewster, Monthly Review, New York, 2001. Arnzen, M.,’Who’s Laughing Now? The postmodern splatter film’. Journal of Popular Film and Television, vol. 21, no. 4, Winter 1994, pp. 176-184. Clover, C., Men, Women and Chainsaws: gender in the modern horror film. BFI, London, 1992. Engels, F., & K. Marx, The Poverty of Philosophy. International Publishers, New York, 1963 [1847]. Goldsmith, S., Unbuilding Jerusalem: apocalypse and romantic representation. Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1993. Grant, B. K., Film Genre: from iconography to ideology. Wallflower, London and New York, 2007. Hargrove, T., ‘Third of Americans Suspect 9-11 Government Conspiracy’, Scripps News, August 2006, accessed 1 September 2006, < http://www.scrippsnews.com/911poll>. Hofstatder, R., The Paranoid Style in American Politics, and Other Essays. Knopf, New York, 1965. Jameson, F., ‘Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Conditions of Late Capitalism’. New Left Review, vol. 146, 1984, pp. 53-92. ____, Archaeologies of the Future: the desire called Utopia and other science fictions, Verso, New York, 2005. ____., The Geopolitical Aesthetic: cinema and space in the world system. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1992.

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____., The Ideologies of Theory 1971- 1986: Volume I. University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 1988. ____., The Political Unconscious: narrative as a socially symbolic act. Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1981. Lauria P, ‘Saw May Become the Most Successful Horror Franchise Ever’, New York Post, retrieved 5 November 2005, <http://www.nypost.com/seven/10242008/business/saw_may_become_best_horror_franchie_ever_135079.htm>. Lévi-Strauss, C, Structural Anthropology, trans. C. Jacobson and B.G. Schoepf, Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1983. Phoebe Fletcher is from the Film, Television and Media Studies Department at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. Her thesis examines the role of splatter films in circulating political discourse after 9/11.

Fearful Irony: The Case of Being Dexter(ous).

Shona Hill and Shilinka Smith

Abstract Serial killers and bodily demise, whether fact or fiction, have become a favoured media theme. Yet audiences are increasingly difficult to shock in an age where body-horror websites, such as LiveLeak.com, portray images of death, body mutilation, and internal body organs. Therefore as society’s tolerance for, or fascination with, bodily demise wanes entertainment media need new ways to represent and create addictive fear in order to maintain its audience and economic viability. To achieve this fear we suggest the entertainment media are employing different rhetorical devices, such of visual irony. To explore this we use the television series Dexter as a case study to argue that there is a certain type of visual juxtaposition that cannot be safely ordered into expected categories in the presence of a constant series of visual ironies. This is despite the viewer’s attempts to assimilate and normalise the subject matter. We maintain that this creates a slow but creeping and unsettling fear, making the series Dexter addictive. To illustrate this, and with particular reference to blood and bodily boundaries, we use different images to analyse several expected categories which the series both confirms and challenges. Key Words: Blood, boundaries serial killer, television series, visual irony.


Since the early 1970s serial killers, whether fact or fiction, have become part of a growing ‘murderabilia industry’ and a favoured media theme of gothic fear and horror.1 To maintain this industry and to remain a viable source of popular culture, the representation of violence and the level of grisly bodily details of murder have risen. However in an environment where the graphic details of body horror appear on websites, such as LiveLeak.com, people’s tolerance for, or fascination with, bodily demise can start to wane.2 Accordingly the entertainment media need new permeations to maintain the addictive fear the serial killer genre has constructed. We argue that the television series Dexter is one permeation and the particular technique this series uses to arouse fear, excitement, horror, fascination and possibly terror, is visual irony. Therefore the purpose of this paper is to explore binary constructions around the image of the serial killer in order to make transparent that which is considered to be frightening and/or fascinating about the serial killer in an age that is increasingly difficult to shock.

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Using the concept of visual irony is not as straightforward as it might seem given that traditional definitions of irony have depended on linguistic formulations. For example, Thirlwall’s well-referenced definition notes that irony is the ‘sharp opposition’ between ‘the thought (the speaker) … evidently designs to express and that which his words properly signify.’3 One way to overcome this dependence on words for expression is to follow Jenkins who argues that ‘sociologists have long employed techniques of rhetorical analysis to address questions’ related to societal perceptions and popular culture.4 This approach means that the value of looking at irony is not in identifying its occurrence but rather in analysing the way in which it affects the spectator and whether or not the technique reveals insights into the unsettling effect the Dexter series has on its audience. 2. Definition of Visual Irony

Taking a sociological perspective, rather than a linguistic one then, we argue that if a picture can convey a meaning and the spectator knows that meaning, then the spectator can also be expected to know that the aim of the picture is to evoke an opposite meaning. An example of this opposition is seen in an image, which can be located on the internet.5 In this image blood is substituted for water in a fountain. This image does not rely on any pre-knowledge of the Dexter series for the spectator to be unsettled by it. Rather the image relies on pre-existing understandings of a division between purity and pollution such as the Pauline antithesis between blood and water.6 Scott articulates the impact of this type of division for the spectator when she claims that irony not only reveals ‘different and essentially incompatible ‘orders of existence’ within society but also ‘invit[es] us to question the worldview espoused by the dominant order.’7

Applying Scott’s concept of ‘orders of existence’ to the image of the fountain we can see that a representation of this sort would usually be associated with an ‘order of existence’ that exalts water as a symbol of never-ending life or the fountain of youth. Fountains, in which water sounds calming and tastes pleasant, are expected to be beautiful and decorative. This positive association between beauty, water and life is usually attributed to the life sustaining properties of water. In contrast, blood is constructed as the opposite ‘order of existence;’ blood is associated with death and drinking blood is taboo because it resurrects an association with vampiric and parasitic tendencies. At the same time this image reminds us that there are many similarities between blood and water. For example, blood is also necessary to maintain life just as much as water is. Too little blood, just as too little water will result in death. Furthermore, too much uncontained water, such as a raging river, can be just as deadly as too much blood flowing from the body. Uncontained blood and water are both dangerous and fearful, yet only blood has an automatic semiotic association with death.


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3. Application to the Series Dexter Having clarified what we mean by visual irony, this section will

apply Scott's concept of ‘orders of existence’ to the series Dexter. We argue that the Dexter series combines particular signs together in a narrative sequence that challenges and questions the dominant order that defines fear and fearless. For the spectator to make sense of these narratives they rely on pre-knowledge of the standard images and expectations of an investigative police thriller, in which science is used to prove guilt, against the menace of a serial killer genre. Juxtaposing these expectations is common for most detective genres that involve forensic science. What is unique in the Dexter series is that both perspectives are embodied in one character, a character named Dexter. Dexter’s dual role as serial killer and as forensic scientist creates the possibility for many of the images in this series to mean both that which is literally portrayed and also its opposite.

Given that the vast majority of people only every encounter the serial killer through media-ted images and narratives, serial killers can be, and most commonly are, constructed as the human embodiment of fear, horror and terror. To use Auerbach’s phrase, they come to be seen as ‘mutating vampires.’8Genres that use this type of motif to cultivate an attitude of fear range from documentaries to novels, to public policy and is present in the series, Dexter. This attitude of fear is also an ‘order of existence’ which is made up of interrelated fears that include, fear of crime, death, mental illness, demonic possession and a general sense of loosing control. The interrelatedness of these fears means that each can be presented as part of a known problem that requires a particular selection of responses to manage the sense of fear. For example, the modern construction of boundaries between the living body and the dead corpse reminds us that ‘irrespective of modern technological advances, death remains a biological inevitability and therefore [it is constructed as] a problem, which is ultimately outside of human control.’9 According to Berger this problem of death can be traced to the human investment in developing meaning in order to survive.10 In contemporary society processes of shared meaning systems are forged and stabilised against a concern about the precarious nature of everyday reality. These meanings become ‘certainties,’ which are given cultural significance. The prospect of death threatens these shared meaning systems and implies a ‘loss of the sense of self.’ Other threats to a sense of self, amplify this fear of death because they are constructed as part of the same problem. These include loss of property in the fear of crime, or loss of reasoning abilities and memory in the fear of insanity or demonic possession. Each of these fears amplify each other and when concentrated in the single sign of the serial killer, the terror and the evil they represent is displayed though other associated signs, such as pain, blood and cannibalism. By amplification the associations are reinforced and cause horror and terror at the sight of the

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serial killer and the bodies of victims. As a result the expectation of a ‘negative outcome’ is permanently created.11 The frightening aspect of this ‘order of existence’ is used politically, institutionally and ideologically to incite fear in order to control societal behaviour.

This control is then constructed as the opposite of fear in order to publicly demonstrate that contemporary society can manage the serial killer and by implication, fear of death, insanity and crime. This control is often achieved by scientific investigation and capturing the serial killer, means that the frightening narrative becomes safe because it not only opens the fearful subject for discussion, but also reinforces the dominant belief that those that conform to society’s dominant order have the ability to manage the serial killer. This opposition between serial killer as fearful and science as ‘saviour’ is based on the same meaning-system which separates life and death into binary opposites. That is, from within the philosophy of the Enlightenment and the classical schools of law and medicine these meaning systems created an ‘order of existence’ that assumed the appearance of an objective reality and a rationalist optimism. ‘Science and facts opposed metaphysics and speculation.’12 Based on positivism and empiricism, human beings could use observable and analysed facts to reveal structural causes in human experience. ‘Both empiricism and positivism tended to minimise the active elements in human consciousness.’13 Thus science was constructed as the transmitter of final, incontrovertible truth.14

In this way the scientific ‘saviour’ becomes an ‘order of existence’ that is epitomised in television series such as CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, or NCIS. These series bring together forensic science and the keen observation skills of police or military investigators. It is an ‘order of existence’ which has permeated many crime dramas in which solving the crime relies upon the forensic scientist and their finger print evidence and the medical and blood splatter specialists who critically evaluate not only the actual crime scene and photographic evidence but also the victim’s body. A reliance on science in these programmes means both the characters and the television series ‘generate and organise knowledge’ through ‘hi-tech gadgetry [which are considered scientific] instruments of discovery and discipline.’15 Accordingly ‘laboratory science supersedes self revelation.’16 This ensures that science is understood as our ‘saviour’ because as CSI type series repeatedly claim ‘the evidence doesn’t lie.’17 In this way this approach to crime ‘redefines both what it is to see and what there is to see.’18

In this scientific world of observation the key to determining guilt and saving the public from the mutating vampiric serial killer presents an ‘order of existence’ that is usually constructed as an opposite to the painful, uncertain, fearful world of the serial killer. However although these two opposing orders (the criminal and the saviour) are both necessary for justice they are on different sides of a binary opposition whereby one is


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hierarchically associated with good and safe and the other with evil and fearful. As a television series, Dexter can depend on this pre-knowledge, but because it builds a story over time, it can also build the pre-knowledge of the audience regarding these two ‘orders of existence.’ For example, unlike a still image, each programme within the series builds juxtaposing ‘orders of existence’ which when combined with the pre-knowledge of binary oppositions and the associations inherent in the signature music that accompanies the series, the spectator is both able to, and is taught to, read many of the images as a rhetorical irony which in turn creates an unsettling emotion of fear.

This means images such as those that are used to promote the series are better understood as visual irony when audiences are familiar with the developing story line. For example, in one image we see Dexter’s face, head and shoulders with his chin perched on his right hand.19 When one knows the story of Dexter, one knows that this is a picture of a serial killer. Yet his head and shoulders show no sign of the expected fearful ‘vampiric’ signs portrayed in a representation of a serial killer. His eyes are not dark or deadly and he has a rosy complexion. He is a literal picture of health, not insanity. Visually his is not a collective representation of evil and it is difficult to see anything in the image of his head and shoulders that would provoke fear. It is easy to see him as the scientific expert, revered for his ability to catch killers. In contrast however, the arm and hand, which supports Dexter’s chin in this image, is shown white and corpse-like. The lack of blood in his hand, suggests death - both death of the hand itself and also the death that this serial killer’s hands bring to the victims. While economists may wonder if this is a pun on the dead hand of instrumental reason, for others this dead hand invites us to question dominant ‘orders of existence.’

One ‘order’ to be questioned is the linking of science with ‘saviour’ and blood with death. In other words, it makes visible the constructed opposition around health and illness and faith and science. Dexter’s corpse-like hand can be seen as simultaneously associating him with, not only vampire death dealers, but also with the corpse of forensic science that should save us from serial killers. This image juxtaposes the fearful concept of the serial killer with the saviour of science, but the representation of Dexter’s dead hand is more reminiscent of the parasitic vampire not the scientific ‘saviour.’ Moreover, Dexter’s head is depicted as the healthy and normal image, despite the fact that his head contains his master-mind of serial killing that is able to plot his duplicitous life. But, is this ‘fusion of incompatibilities’ enough to make this image ironic?20

As has been noted irony requires not only juxtaposing two incompatible ‘orders of existence,’ but also doing so in a way that invites us to question the dominant order. In this image the ironic display of life and death invites us to question the mind/body split and the assumption of a

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singular human identity. In Enlightenment dualisms, mind and body are constructed as opposites, and the way that Descartes understood the body was as an ‘animated corpse, a functioning mechanism.’21 In other words, in essence the mind controls a dead body. Yet, the incomprehensibility of this picture invites us to question this way of thinking.

Despite the dominance of the mind/body split in constructing knowledge people do not usually consider their minds and bodies to be split between life and death. So although society is often constructed in binary opposites they are not usually represented in that way. Furthermore, in the Dexter series Dexter is portrayed as living a dual life. On the one hand he is seen as a pleasant, good, kind and caring forensic blood specialist - a team player bringing criminals to justice. On the other, he is a remorseless and relentless serial killer who brings pain, death and unsolved crime to his neighbourhood.

If Dexter was alive blood should flow to unite his head and hand, but in this image it does not. Likewise in the seriality of this series, science does not unite police and serial killer to bring his crimes to a safe end that would manage the fear of the death he brings. Instead this simple image, informed by the plot of the television series, is full of juxtapositions that are usually incompatible. In this series the character(s) of Dexter and his moral teacher and father, Harry Morgan, bring together the seeming incompatibility of serial killer and forensic scientist. This merging of saviour and killer constantly jars the audience’s expectations of good and bad, right and wrong, blood and life, which in turn encourages the questioning of dominant norms such as bodily boundaries and life and death.

The final example of visual irony to be explored in this paper is the title sequence from the series which can be found on YouTube under the title Morning Sequence.22 In this sequence the literal narrative is that of a man following the morning routine which includes dressing, shaving, preparing and eating breakfast - the meal that breaks the fast of the evening hours. Yet, with the spectator’s pre-knowledge that this man is Dexter, a serial killer and a forensic scientist, this preparation and use of mundane items can also be seen as methods and/or tools of the serial killer’s trade. That is while it may convey harmless morning preparations, it also denotes/conveys a story of life and death, grooming the body for life and grooming meat for eating. Some of this is symbolised in the associations of life and death. For example in the way eggs (life) are splashed with red tomato sauce (blood and death). Some of these associations are also literal. For example, as Dexter pulls his t-shirt against his face, suffocation is possible, until he releases it. The audience is invited to ask: is he a man preparing to face a morning of mundane work or is a man practising the ways he can kill someone. Some of these killing techniques he practices on himself, some on the dead meat he is cooking,


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reminding us of the meat of our bodies and cannibalism. This scene has ambiguity and fear in its construction but is that enough to make it ironic?

We argue it is. This sequence is more than ambiguous. The literal meaning that Dexter is cooking breakfast is very clear. We argue that the juxtaposition of these preparations with the techniques of death that are known from watching the series (and other crime genres) means audiences do not see these messages as merely unclear or multiple. We argue that these morning preparations and killing techniques are two incompatible ‘orders of existence.’ By combining these orders, this series invites the audience to question not only the difference between life and death but also what is predictable television and the role of law enforcement in society. Watching a sequence that turns our everyday lives into acts of killing and death is both fearful and stimulates a discussion of the meaning of fear in the modern age. Accordingly, our preference is to use the term visually ironic for this type of communication, so we are clear that the fear Dexter provokes is based on its challenge to the construction of opposites in the expected practices of representation. In effect, although Burke is said to have asserted that ‘evil triumphs when good men do nothing,’ the Dexter series asks, do we know the actions of a good man when we see them?23 5. Conclusion

In conclusion, Dexter is a series that builds two usually incompatible ‘orders of existence’ into to the actions of one man. This use of visual irony as a rhetorical device produces a fear that unsettles, but is rationally persuasive. In doing so it challenges taken for granted assumptions of life and death, opening for discussion the possibility that our ideologies of binary constructions are limiting our critical perspective. This creates an environment of irreducible ambiguity and we suggest creates an addictive fear that keeps viewers returning to its unfolding plot. In this way the series Dexter not only creates fear, but also discusses the foundations of fear rooted in binary oppositions. Simultaneously this ironic fear confirms the dominant ‘order of existence’ around the need to control serial killers because of the fear they provoke and it also subversively questions where the evil in society is located.

Notes

1 D Schmid, Natural Born Celebrities: Serial Killers in American Culture, Chicago University Press, Chicago, 2005, p. 1. 2 See S Tait, ‘Pornographies of Violence? Internet Spectatorship on Body Horror’. Critical Studies in Media Communication, vol. 25, no. 3, 2008, pp. 91-111.

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3 See C Thirlwall, ‘On the Irony of Sophocles’ in JJ Perowne, (ed), Remains: Literary and Theological 3, Daldy, Isbister & Co, London, 1878. 4 P Jenkins, Using Murder: The Social Construction of Homicide, Aldine deGruyter, New York, 1994, p. 4. 5R Latson, Red Fountain, Downtown Houston, TX (Showtime’s Dexter Promo)- High Shutter Speed, Flickr, 28 September 2007, retrieved 20 October 2009, <http://www.flickr.com/photos/montana_becky/1452017665/>. 6 M Douglas, Collected Works: Volume II Purity and Danger, Routledge, New York, 2002, p. 7. 7 B Scott, ‘Picturing Irony: The Subversive Power of Photography’. Visual Communication, vol. 3, no. 1, 2004, p. 34. 8 N Auerbach, Our Vampires, Ourselves, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1995, p. 1. 9 C Shilling, The Body and Social Theory, Sage Publications, London, 1993, p. 175. 10See P Berger, A Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion, Doubleday, New York, 1969. 11J M Barbalet, Emotion, Social Theory, and Social Structure: A Macrosociological Approach, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1998, p. 155. 12 A Swingewood, A Short History of Sociological Thought, 2nd edn, Macmillan Press, London, 1994, p. 30. 13 ibid., p. 31. 14 M Gever, ‘The Spectacle of Crime, Digitised’. European Journal of Cultural Studies, vol. 8, no. 4, 2005, p. 56. 15 ibid., p. 447-448. 16 ibid., p. 455. 17 ibid., p. 455. 18 B Latour, ‘Visualisation and Cognition: Thinking with Eyes and Hands’. Knowledge and Society, vol. 6, 1986, pp. 9-10. 19 M Meltzer, Dexter Season 1: Miami-Based Show is Full of Gore and Satisfaction, Miami Beach 411, 24 November 2008, retrieved 20 October 2009, <http://www.miamibeach411.com/news/index.php?/news/comments/dexter-season-1/>. Various versions of this image are also posted on official and fan websites. 20 L Ellestrom, Divine Madness: On Interpreting Literature, Music and the Visual Arts Ironically, Bucknell University Press, London, 2002, p. 177.


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21 D Leder, ‘A Tale of Two Bodies: The Cartesian Corpse and the Lived Body’ in D Welton (ed), Body and Flesh: A Philosophical Reader. London: Wiley-Blackwell, 1998, p. 119. 22 Youtube, Dexter: Morning Routine, Showtime, created 29 September 2006, last viewed 27 October 2009, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ej8-Rqo-VT4 23 This quote is often attributed to Edmond Burke - however there is much debate around this. A search of secondary resources revealed that although this quote is often cited there was no specific bibliographical reference given.

Bibliography Auerbach, N., Our Vampires, Ourselves. Chicago University Press, Chicago, 1995. Barbalet, J. M., Emotion, Social Theory, and Social Structure: A Macrosociological Approach. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1998. Berger, P., A Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion. Doubleday, New York, 1969. Douglas, M., Collected Works: Volume II Purity and Danger. Routledge, New York, 2002. Ellestrom, L., Divine Madness: On Interpreting Literature, Music and the Visual Arts. Associated University Press, London, 2002. Gever, M., ‘The Spectacle of Crime, Digitised’. European Journal of Cultural Studies, vol. 8, no. 4, 2005. Jenkins, P. Using Murder: The Social Construction of Serial Homicide. Aldine deGruyter, New York, 1994. Latour, B., ‘Visualisation and Cognition: Thinking with Eyes and Hands’. Knowledge and Society, 6, 1986. Latson, R., Red Fountain, Downtown Houston, TX (Showtime’s Dexter Promo)- High Shutter Speed, Flickr, 28 September 2007, retrieved 20 October 2009, <http://www.flickr.com/photos/montana_becky/1452017665/>.

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Leder, D., ‘A Tale of Two Bodies: The Cartesian Corpse and the Lived Body’ in D. Welton, (ed), Body and Flesh: A Philosophical Reader. Wiley-Blackwell, London, 1998. Meltzer, M., Dexter Season 1: Miami-Based Show is Full of Gore and Satisfaction, Miami Beach 411, 24 November 2008, retrieved 20 October 2009, <http://www.miamibeach411.com/news/index.php?/news/comments/dexter-season-1/>. Scott, B., ‘Picturing Irony: The Subversive Power of Photography’. Visual Communication, vol. 3, 1, 2004. Shilling, C., The Body and Social Theory. Sage Publications, London, 1993. Swingewood, A., A Short History of Sociological Thought. 2nd edition. Macmillan Press Ltd, London, 1991. Tait, S., ‘Pornographies of Violence? Internet Spectatorship on Body Horror’. Critical Studies in Media Communication, vol. 25, no. 3, 2008. Thirlwall, C., ‘On the Irony of Sophocles’ in J.J. Perowne, (ed), Remains: Literary and Theological 3. Daldy, Isbister & Co, London, 1878. Youtube. Dexter: Morning Routine, Showtime. created 29 September 2006, last viewed 27 October 2009, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ej8-Rqo-VT4. Shona Hill has recently been awarded her PhD and is a tutor in Sociology, Media and Religious Studies. [email protected]. Shilinka Smith is employed in the New Zealand public service. This paper represents her personal views. [email protected].

PART III

Physiological and Psychological Experiences of Fear

Fearing Fear: The Experience of Fright and Scares in the Early Modern Southern Netherlands

Sonja Deschrijver and Bhūmi Vanderheyden

Abstract In 1589 Truyken Oyen decided to play a practical joke on two jumpy beguines who were heading home in the dark. She covered herself with a white sheet en set out to scare them. Scared they were indeed. But instead of bringing about laughter, the joke turned out to have a bitter ending, because she also scared a peasant family, who mistook Truyken for a devilish creature and consequently beat her up. Identifying herself and explaining the joke did not set things straight: the angry peasants accused her of witchcraft, thus instigating a legal procedure of which the outcome remains unknown. No one likes to be scared, but to a modern reader, the reactions of these duped people in the light of fear appear to be rather excessive. How can we explain their seemingly ‘disproportionate’ response? Using a small selection of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century judicial cases relating to topics as witchcraft, murder, violence and ghost encounters, all of them situated in the duchy of Brabant in the Southern Netherlands, we will explore the experience of fear in relation to its specific temporal and cultural context. Our main point will be that fear was considered as physically harmful. This idea, that might be linked to the early modern experience of the self and the body as porous entities, resulted in experiences of fright being used as a lever to reach a variety of personal goals. As such, the saying ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself’ gains a very literal implication when applied to the early modern age. Key Words: Conception of the body, early modern history, emotions, fear, ghosts, monstrous births, witchcraft.


On August 5, 1589 in the city of Turnhout in the duchy of Brabant, a woman called Truyken Oyen decided to play a practical joke on two jumpy beguines who were heading home at the fall of night.1 They moaned to one another about being scared to go out after dusk, but finally they pulled themselves together and went ahead anyway. Innkeeper’s wife Truyken had overheard the two and a whimsical idea came to her mind. She covered herself with a white sheet and went out to scare the two beguines, with great success. Truyken clearly enjoyed her prank: instead of putting her act to an end, she sought new victims for her hoax. Thus she headed towards a

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neighbouring house where she scared a peasant family by approaching the front door of the house while reaching out with her arms underneath the sheet. Instead of bringing about laughter, however, the joke turned out to have a bitter ending, because the peasants mistook Truyken for a devilish creature. They explicitly asked her: ‘Are you from God then speak. Are you from the devil, then enter our home, so we can exorcise you.’2 Truyken made the unfortunate decision to leap into the house at that moment of time. Consequently they decided to ‘exorcise’ the demon’s servant with fists and beat her up. Identifying herself and explaining the joke did not set things straight: the angry peasants considered her inappropriate behaviour as a proof of indecency and consequently accused her of having bewitched their cattle that had suffered from a disease shortly before the incident. Being faced with this serious violation of her honour, Truyken followed a common course of action in an attempt to restore her public respectability: she started a trial for slander that continued well into 1590, the outcome of which unfortunately remains unknown to us.

Although of course people do watch scary movies or enjoy an occasional horror story, generally no one likes to be scared. But to a modern reader the violent reactions of these duped people in the light of fear appear to be rather excessive. How can we explain their seemingly ‘disproportionate’ response? In this paper we will explore the experience of fear in relation to its specific temporal and cultural context, using a small selection of approximately ten sixteenth- and seventeenth-century judicial cases relating to topics as witchcraft, murder, violence and ghost encounters. 3 The witness testimonies in these trials, all situated in the duchy of Brabant in the Southern Netherlands, reveal a detailed picture of everyday life: we hear witnesses talk about their actual experiences. But of course we have to take into account some methodological difficulties: the depositions could be influenced by leading questions, legal editing, narrative and rhetorical models and the witnesses’ expectations of what the court wanted to hear. A further difficulty pertains to the investigation of emotion in such sources. Emotions did not necessarily have a place in the sources of judicial practice. Only when they were relevant for the court case they were put down in writing.4 When emotions such as fear do present themselves, they neatly fit into the judicial narrative, functioning as an explanation for certain modes of behaviour and as such complying with social ideas and conventions. In other words, as historians, we only have indirect access to emotion, through depictions and representations of it. Or in this case even worse: through the scribes’ depictions of the witnesses’ representations. We can only approach emotions in their communicative functions.5 In their private aspect, feelings are subjective and manifold while defying articulation.6

Communication implies cultural models and codes, repertoires and genre conventions and we will explore one of these repertoires of ideas. We


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will particularly focus on the early modern notion of the direct impact of fear, an idea that presumably forms part of larger theories about the porosity of the human body and its vulnerability to external influences.7 We will argue that, in contrast to current conceptions, people of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries saw no distinct borderline between the human body and the surrounding world, thus considering themselves subject to a range of intruding external influences, such as fear. The seriousness of fear and its severe impact on someone’s life made it a useful lever to reach a variety of specific goals. 2. The Impact of Fear

A close reading of our case materials reveals that early modern people ascribed a very perceptible impact to fear: it was thought of as literally sickening. In 1596 for instance the bailiff of ‘s-Hertogenbosch and his men barged into the house of the widow of Peter van Delft in order to enter the home of her next-door neighbour whom they were pursuing because of theft.8 Falling ill shortly after the incident, the aged woman declared that her illness was caused by the sudden agony that she had suffered because of this brutal interference. She was confined to her bed for weeks.

Another example can be found in the Antwerp witch trial against Elisabeth Willekens, dating from 1598. Emanuel Ximenes, a Portuguese merchant banker residing in Antwerp, suspected Elisabeth of having bewitched his wife who did not recover from childbirth, despite more than two years of special care and rest. With a trick Emanuel lured Elisabeth into his house, where she was confronted with the patient and several witnesses. There, he asked her to undo the enchantment. Elisabeth, however, refused, claiming to be innocent. Clearly, this was not what Emanuel had in mind. To incite her to cooperate, he violently punched her in the face. Confused, bleeding, and fearing more violence, Elisabeth did all he asked of her. Numbed by fear during the event itself, the true extent of her suffering only became apparent later on, when she was caught up by the shock of what had happened. She fell ill to such an extent that medical specialists considered her dying. Consequently, she was administered the Last Sacraments. According to Elisabeth, her illness was caused not only by the violence and mistreatment of Emanuel Ximenes, but also by fear and a condition she called ‘anxiousness of the heart’ (benautheyt van herten) that was instigated by the event.9,

Emotions were deemed to have a direct impact on physical condition, as the same Elisabeth Willekens made clear after she was accused of having bewitched another girl from her neighbourhood. She rejected the charge and founded her statement with a very detailed argumentation, provided by a physician who had examined the child. According to his report the girl suffered from a natural disease that was caused by two important

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factors. Firstly, her father had gravely hit her, sometimes even on the head, causing a brain malfunction. Secondly, this brain failure was strongly stimulated by the state of fear the girl was in, due to her father’s threatening words. Elisabeth specifically pointed at the importance of one particular incident. When out for a walk, the little girl and her parents passed the Antwerp boarding school for poor girls. Her father fooled her into believing that he would leave her there, at which point the shocked and frightened girl started crying aloud. Her father consequently slapped her in the face so vigorously that she fell on the ground. Elisabeth testified that he had threatened to put the girl in the orphanage more than once. In her opinion the combination of being hit and fear caused different cold humours to affect the child’s nerves, thus causing paralysis, cramps and epilepsy. The parents of the girl attributed all these symptoms to Elisabeth’s witchcraft.10

The notion of humours draws back on the - at that time authoritative - Galenic medicine, which contended that physical health was the result of a balance of the four bodily fluids. These fluids’ relative proportions, quantity and movements determined well-being or illness.11 Fear was deemed to have a direct physical impact on these flows, as is underlined once more by the testimony of Heyl Vloos, a suspected witch living in the city of Lier. This woman was attacked by an angry mob in 1603 because she had failed to heal a young girl that was considered to be under her spell. By stabbing Heyl in her thumb, the bystanders tried to obtain some drops of her blood, since blood of the suspected witch was a common ingredient for remedies countering enchantment. Yet it took a serious effort to get Heyl bleeding. Only when some men strongly pushed the cut in her finger, a tiny amount of watery blood appeared. A lack of natural substances such as tears or blood was a standard characteristic in the stereotype of the old, dried up witch and it was often called upon in criminal cases to substantiate an accusation.12 Heyl did her best to explain this seemingly unnatural and threatening situation by attributing the absence of blood to a combination of factors, one of which was the fear she had experienced during the incident. Because of this fear, ‘all the blood in her body had shoved away.’13 This opinion mirrors the general theory that fear caused blood to pull away from the limbs towards the heart.14 The experience of terror had protected Heyl from feeling any pain during the mistreatment, but afterwards she fell seriously ill. As Elisabeth Willekens did in our earlier example, she put this down to both the physical injuries she had suffered and the fear she had experienced. 3. The Porosity of the Human Body

The people figuring in our examples all considered particular threatening incidents, shocking emotional experiences or - as we will illustrate later on - surprising visual impressions as the direct cause of their own or other’s physical ill-being. Our sources thus clearly illustrate the belief


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in fear’s immediate physical impact on the human body. They however remain silent on the exact process in which this impact was generated. Nonetheless we might assume that its conception diverged from the process described in up to date psychological and psychosomatic discourse. This hypothesis is based on the early modern conviction that the human body was an open-ended and porous entity, permeable by external influences and experiences. Different authors have shown how in the early modern age the line drawn around the self was never firmly closed off, so that the body was perceived to strongly interact with the environment.

This notion has readily been explored in the contexts of the female body, pregnancy and monstrous births. Several authors such as Herman Roodenburg and Ulinka Rublack have unearthed the firm conviction that the thoughts and experiences of women during coitus and pregnancy could physically imprint themselves on the unborn child.15 A monstrous birth in ‘s-Hertogenbosch in 1595 clearly illustrates this belief.16 The bailiff of this city arrested bricklayer Joost van Bueren after he had killed a man in a drunken brawl. Joost seems to have had a malicious reputation, for he was said to have cursed two of his unborn children. During his wife’s pregnancy he said to her: ‘If this child is mine, so it must never hear or speak.’17 And indeed, the child was born as a deaf-mute. Shortly after, his wife became pregnant again. In order to ensure that this time his baby would be healthy, Joost threatened her by saying he would slice open her body to see if her foetus was yet again deformed. These violent words scared the woman so much that they produced the contrary effect. She had a miscarriage and the little corpse appeared to be gutted from head to toe, corresponding to Joost’s threat towards her. The ill-fated impact of his words may not only have been put down to the moulding power of female imagination and the physical impact of fear, but to the power inherent to cursing words as well.

The discourse of the impact of fear could, in other words, be mingled with other repertoires, such as the power of words and deeds, or - as illustrated in our next example - sorcery. One night, two men passed the house of an elderly woman living in a small rural village called Mierlo.18 Looking through the window, they saw several women gathered in the basement. When the men drew attention, the women made the most god-awful faces and frightened them to death, literally, as would turn out later on, because one of the men fell ill and died. Subsequently, the other man fell ill as well. This succession of mishaps alerted the survivor to the possibility that there was more to their experience. The excessiveness of the two men both getting sick showed the possibility that they were dealing with sorcery. Not much more was needed to translate the experience of fear into an experience of bewitchment and as such a language of the direct impact of fear was supplemented with that of sorcery.

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The previous case also illustrates how the notion of the porosity of the human body can be extended beyond the realm of pregnancy and the female body. It appears in various other facets of early modern life. We can, for instance, mention the belief that noxious fumes brought about by the evening darkness entered the human body through its pores and infected the organs.19 Lunar influences were believed to make people ‘lunatic,’ an idea that reflects the larger theory of the impact of astral entities on a person’s behaviour.20 Devils were considered to enter human bodies through the mouth, nostrils and other body openings, thus causing demonic possession and disease.21 Physical condition, emotions and thoughts could be influenced by religious as well as magical rites and utterances.22 In short, through its porous and vague demarcation the human body was invaded by the outside world in a range of influences, varying from thoughts and emotions to malevolent wishes of one’s enemies, the air and the heavenly bodies. This way, the idea of fear’s physical impact possibly constitutes only one aspect of a broader conceptual spectrum. 4. Fear as a Lever

Clearly, fear was considered a serious matter with possibly severe consequences. This does not only explain the heavy reactions that it instigated upon duped people but also underlies the fact that fear could be used as a lever in diverse situations. Let us for instance go back to the example of Joost van Bueren’s wife and her cursed offspring in ‘s-Hertogenbosch. The story served a rather particular purpose.23 It was only recounted by the city’s bailiff as a means to his personal end of convincing the authorities of ‘s-Hertogenbosch he had rightfully arrested Joost. For he had taken the man into custody while he was hiding on sacred grounds and the privileges of the city clearly stated that civilians had sanctuary in such circumstances, unless they were reputed murderers or adulterers. In using the popular and recognisable imagery of a monstrous birth, the bailiff drew on the pregnant female body and its vulnerability to fear as a platform on which his own concerns could be projected. Through the story of the cursing of his unborn children, the bailiff hoped to prove Joost was indeed a reputed murderer.

In this way, the expression of emotions has to be understood as a communicative and purposeful factor within social relationships, which could even be seized upon by third parties. The importance of the social context hints at the notion of an ‘emotional community’ underlain by the idea that anxiety had direct physical consequences. The concept of emotional community was recently advanced by Barbara Rosenwein to describe a social environment in which specific assessments of emotions and emotionality are shared.24


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The 1589 witch trial against 14-year-old Anneken Faes Brosis from Nijlen, a village in the neighbourhood of Lier, gives a clear example of how the experience of fear could be used to reach one’s specific goals. On top of the witchcraft charges against her, this girl was additionally accused of fraud and pursuit of gain because she tried to establish a career as a supernatural specialist. Her services mostly consisted of passing on messages from the spirit world. One day, for instance, the ghost of the wife of Geeraert Willems appeared to her while she was keeping watch over the cows. The spirit desired a mass to be read for the salvation of her soul and a donation of corn to be given to the poor, and she summoned Anneken to report this to her surviving husband. Another time, Anneken was addressed by the ghosts of two children, Carel and Lynken Peeters, who wanted their relative Maeyken Smeyers to fast on water and bread and to make a pilgrimage to the church of Lier, where she had to burn a candle for them. Anneken charged these surviving relatives with a fee, but not because she had given them their loved ones’ messages. Rather, she told them, the fees were meant as compensations for the experience of intense fear that she suffered while being contacted by the spirits. They appeared to her against her will and caused fear and discomfort, to such an extent that she could not eat or drink after the encounters had taken place. The ghost of Geeraert Willems’ wife even injured her and caused her to faint.25 By asking for compensations for her scares, Anneken Faes Brosis bent the cultural conception of fear as a potentially harmful experience to her own advance by trying to make a living out of it. The judges however overturned her claims by using a similar discourse. If she really had been visited by spirits, they claimed, the anxiety that would have resulted from it would have made a much graver physical impact. She would have been only a shadow of the person she once was. Since this was not the case, she obviously was feigning the whole thing.26

Some of our earlier examples also show how the experience and representation of fear could serve its own purpose. Presumed witches Heyl Vloos and Elisabeth Willekens both used their experience of fear and its severe consequences as an argument of defence in their witch trial, thus portraying themselves as victims needing protection instead of delinquents needing punishment. Furthermore, Elisabeth stressed that it was fear, not witchcraft, that made one of her alleged victims sick. In the introducing case of Truyken Oyen, the fear that the peasant family had experienced during her prank became a weapon in an earlier discord about the payment of two bottles of wine. The peasant’s wife still had to pay Truyken for these and the latter made a snippy comment about this fact after she had removed her disguise and had identified herself. Although the hoax - and the feelings of profound fear that it was said to have caused - was seized upon as the key moment at which the interpersonal relations blew up, more than the prank itself it was the existing animosity between Truyken Oyen and the peasant

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family that seems to have been crucial for the further development of the case. Several historians have indeed pointed to the all-encompassing importance of neighbourhood dynamics in the occurrence of witch beliefs and trials. Quarrels and rivalries among villagers posed real threats as they overturned the sense of good neighbourliness that normally kept the local community together.27 We may even ask ourselves whether the case Truyken Oyen would have existed and blown up to such an extent, if there had not been a previous discord in which the experienced fear could have been used as a lever. 5. Conclusion

The early modern conception of the porosity of the human body, permeable by a broad range of intruding influences, led people to experience fear as a powerful force that could instigate illness and even could take lives. The saying ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself’ had a very literal implication in those days. Appealing to this shared cultural background meant that fear could be used as an equally powerful lever to obtain both personal and common goals. Whether the emotion was genuinely experienced or not does not even matter at this point. It was part of a discursive repertoire, to which people could appeal according to their aims and needs. In a society where the human body was thought to be pervaded by the outside world, fear was much more than merely an emotion.

Notes

1 City Archives Turnhout (CAT), Productieboek, no. 710, 1589-1591, folios 2r- 12v and 20v - 28r; CAT, Procedureboek, no. 736, 14.8.1589 – 12.3.1590. See also: R Peeters, ‘De tribulaties van een ‘spook’. Anno 1589’, Taxandria, vol. 38, 1966, pp. 157-164. 2 CAT, Productieboek, no. 710, 1589-1591, folio 21r, Deposition of Jan Geerincs (December 7, 1589). 3 D Gentilcore, ‘The Fear of Disease and the Disease of Fear’, in WG Naphy & P Roberts (eds), Fear in Early Modern Society, Manchester University Press, Manchester & New York, 1997, pp. 185-186 & 190-191. 4 M Naessens, ‘Sexuality in Court: Emotional Perpetrators and Victims versus a Rational Judicial System?’, in E Lecuppre-Desjardin & A Van Bruaene (eds), Emotions in the Heart of the City (14th-16th Century), Brepols, Turnhout, 2005, pp. 119-156. 5 J Deploige, ‘Studying Emotions: the Medievalist as Human Scientist?’, in E Lecuppre-Desjardin & A Van Bruaene (eds) Emotions in the Heart of the City (14th-16th Century), Brepols, Turnhout, 2005, pp. 19-20.


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6 C S Jaeger, ‘Emotions and Sensibilities: Some Preluding Thoughts’ in C S Jaeger & I Kasten (eds), Codierungen von Emotionen im Mittelalter. Emotions and Sensibilities in the Middle Ages, De Gruyter, Berlijn and New York, 2003, p. VII. 7 J J Martin, Myths of Renaissance Individualism, Palgrave Macmillan, Basingstoke, 2004, pp. 38, 83-102. 8 City Archives ‘s-Hertogenbosch (CAH), Archief van de Schepenbank, no. 063-12, Deposition of Herman van Herpen (May 15, 1598). 9 City Archives Antwerp (CAA), Vierschaar, no. 84, 1598 no. 8, 19 / 11 – dupliek voor Elisabeth Willekens (June 25, 1599), articles 117-124; Compare: U Rublack, ‘Fluxes: the Early Modern Body and the Emotions’, History Workshop Journal, vol. 53, 2002, p. 5. 10 CAA, Vierschaar, no. 84, 1598 no. 8, 19 / 11 - dupliek voor Elisabeth Willekens (June 25, 1599), articles 152-174; ibid., testimonies in favour of Elisabeth Willekens (September 15 – October 15, 1598), Deposition of Jacob Coignet. 11 IV Hull, ‘The body as historical experience: review of recent works by Barbare Duden’. Central European History, vol. 28, 1995, p. 75; AL Meaney, ‘The Anglo-Saxon View of the Causes of Illness’ in S Campbell, B Hall & D Klausner (eds), Health, Disease and Healing in Medieval Culture, MacMillan, Basingstoke, 1992, p. 14. On the importance of fluxes, see also: Rublack, ‘Fluxes’, pp. 1-16. 12 National Archives Brussels (NAB), Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Heyl Vloos, Answer, articles 17-26; ibid., Facts in favour of Heyl Vloos, articles 9-21; Rublack, ‘Fluxes’, pp. 6-8. 13 NAB, Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Heyl Vloos, Answer, article 25; Ibid., Facts in favour of Heyl Vloos, article 20. 14 Rublack, ‘Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Female Body’, p. 93. On the importance of the blood flow, see also: Gentilcore, ‘The Fear of Disease’, p. 196. 15 H W Roodenburg, ‘The Maternal Imagination: the Fears of Pregnant Women in Seventeenth-Century Holland’, Journal of Social History, vol. 22, 1988, pp. 701-716; U Rublack, ‘Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Female Body in Early Modern Germany’. Past and present, vol. 150, 1996, pp. 84-110. 16 CAH, Archief van de Schepenbank, no. 162-12; CAH, Criminele rol, no. 20, 1582-1595. 17 CAH, Archief van de Schepenbank, no. 162-12, Extract uit de Criminele Rol (May 30, 1595). 18 National Archives Anderlecht (NAA), Office Fiscal de Brabant, Inv. no. 166, dossier 1290, Information taken against Marie Baten and her deceased mother (September 2, 1595).

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19 R Ekirch, Nacht en ontij: de geschiedenis van de nacht in de voorindustriële tijd, Bezige Bij, Amsterdam, 2006, p. 31; Roodenburg, ‘The Maternal Imagination’, p. 711. 20 Ekirch, Nacht en ontij, pp. 30-31. 21 J R Watt, ‘The Demons of Carpi: Exorcism, Witchcraft, and the Inquisition in a Seventeenth-Century Convent’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte, vol. 98, 2007, p. 113, note 17. 22 N Z Davis, ‘Boundaries and the Sense of Self in Sixteenth-Century France’, in T C Heller, M Sosna & DE Wellbery (eds), Reconstructing Individualism: Autonomy, Individuality and the Self in Western Thought, Stanford University Press, Stanford, 1986, p. 56. 23 CAH, Archief van de Schepenbank, no. 162-12. 24B H Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about Emotions in History’. American Historical Review, vol. 107, 2002, pp. 821-845. 25 NAB, Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Anneken Faes Brosis, Antwoord, articles 3-11; NAB, Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Anneken Faes Brosis, Dupliek, articles 34-36. 26 NAB, Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Anneken Faes Brosis, Antwoord, articles 3-11; NAB, Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Anneken Faes Brosis, Dupliek, articles 34-36. 27 S Clark, ‘Introduction’, in S Clark (ed), Languages of Witchcraft: Narrative, Ideology and Meaning in Early Modern Culture, Macmillan Press and St. Martin’s Press, London and New York, 2001, p. 4.

Bibliography City Archives Antwerp, Vierschaar, no. 84, 1598, no. 8. City Archives Turnhout, Procedureboek, no. 736, 14.8.1589 – 12.3.1590. ____, Productieboek, no. 710, 1589-1591. City Archives-Hertogenbosch, Archief van de Schepenbank, no. 063-12 ____, Archief van de Schepenbank, no. 162-12. ____, Criminele rol, no. 20, 1582-1595. Clark, S., ‘Introduction’, in S. Clark (ed) Languages of Witchcraft: Narrative, Ideology and Meaning in Early Modern Culture. Macmillan Press and St. Martin’s Press, London and New York, 2001, pp. 1-18.


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Davis, N. Z., ‘Boundaries and the Sense of Self in Sixteenth-Century France’, in T. C. Heller, M. Sosna and D. E. Wellbery (eds), Reconstructing Individualism: Autonomy, Individuality and the Self in Western Thought. Stanford University Press, Stanford, 1986, pp. 53-63. Deploige, J., ‘Studying Emotions: the Medievalist as Human Scientist?’ in E. Lecuppre-Desjardin and A. Van Bruaene (eds), Emotions in the Heart of the City (14th-16th Century). Brepols, Turnhout, 2005, pp. 3-24. Ekirch, R., Nacht en ontij: de geschiedenis van de nacht in de voorindustriële tijd. Bezige Bij, Amsterdam, 2006. Gentilcore, D., ‘The Fear of Disease and the Disease of Fear’, in W. G. Naphy and P. Roberts (eds), Fear in Early Modern Society. Manchester University Press, Manchester and New York, 1997, pp. 184-208. Hull, I. V., ‘The body as historical experience: review of recent works by Barbare Duden’. Central European History, vol. 28, 1995, pp. 73-79. Jaeger, C. S., ‘Emotions and Sensibilities: Some Preluding Thoughts’ in C. S. Jaeger and I. Kasten (eds) Codierungen von Emotionen im Mittelalter. Emotions and Sensibilities in the Middle Ages. De Gruyter, Berlijn and New York, 2003, pp. VII-XII. Martin, J. J., Myths of Renaissance Individualism. Palgrave Macmillan, Basingstoke, 2004. Meaney, A. L., ‘The Anglo-Saxon View of the Causes of Illness’ in S. Campbell, B. Hall and D. Klausner (eds), Health, Disease and Healing in Medieval Culture. MacMillan, Basingstoke, 1992, pp. 12-33. Naessens, M., ‘Sexuality in Court: Emotional Perpetrators and Victims versus a Rational Judicial System?’, in E. Lecuppre-Desjardin and A. Van Bruaene (eds), Emotions in the Heart of the City (14th-16th Century). Brepols, Turnhout, 2005, pp. 119-156. National Archives Anderlecht, Office Fiscal de Brabant, Inv. no. 166, dossier 1290. National Archives Brussels, Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Anneken Faes Brosis.

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____, Geheime Raad – Spaanse Periode, no. 1098, dossier Heyl Vloos. Peeters, R., ‘De tribulaties van een ‘spook’. Anno 1589’. Taxandria, vol. 38, 1966, pp. 157-164. Roodenburg, H. W., ‘The Maternal Imagination: the Fears of Pregnant Women in Seventeenth-Century Holland’. Journal of Social History, vol. 22, 1988, pp. 701-716. Rosenwein, B. H., ‘Worrying about Emotions in History’. American Historical Review, vol. 107, 2002, pp. 821-845. Rublack, U., ‘Fluxes: the Early Modern Body and the Emotions’. History Workshop Journal, vol. 53, 2002, pp. 1-16. ____, ‘Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Female Body in Early Modern Germany’. Past and present, vol. 150, 1996, pp. 84-110. Watt, J. R., ‘The Demons of Carpi: Exorcism, Witchcraft, and the Inquisition in a Seventeenth-Century Convent’. Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte, vol. 98, 2007, pp. 107-133. Sonja Deschrijver (FWO Research Foundation – Flanders; University of Antwerp – Centre for Urban History) studied history at the University of Antwerp, where she specialized in early modern cultural history. Currently she is preparing a PhD on madness in seventeenth-century Brabant. Other topics of interest include the history of witchcraft and early modern suicide. Bhūmi Vanderheyden (FWO Research Foundation – Flanders; University of Antwerp – Centre for Urban History) studied history at the University of Antwerp and preservation of monuments and sites at the Hoger Architectuurinstituut Henry van de Velde (now Artesis). At this time she is preparing a PhD on the negotiated attitudes towards the supernatural in the city of Lier in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Brabant. She is particularly interested in the history of witchcraft and magic, demonic possession and ghostly encounters.

‘The Horror of the Nurses’: Shell-shock and Stillbirth in H.D.’s Asphodel

Elizabeth Brunton

Abstract War and childbirth have been linked in literature since Greek tragedy. The modernist writer H.D. develops this parallel in her novel Asphodel, when she draws on the First World War language of shell-shock in describing the experience of stillbirth. I will demonstrate in this paper how H.D.’s novel depicts a character ‘shell-shocked’ through her traumatic experience of birth. This is achieved through the symptoms experienced, but also through connections in the root causes; in particular the experience of fear, horror and terror. Fear is at the heart of literature on shell-shock, whether medical texts or personal accounts. Horror is encountered less in the medical writing of the day but from personal accounts it is evident that the sights, sounds and smells of the trenches impacted heavily on the mental state of the soldiers. Asphodel’s protagonist Hermione experiences her stillbirth during a zeppelin raid in 1915. In witnessing the death of her child and being fearful for her own, she uses the setting of the war to highlight an underlying comparison. In speaking of ‘an abyss of unimaginable terror, the pain, the disappointment, the utter horror of the [stillbirth],’ she ties together her own situation and that of the shell-shocked soldier.1 Key Words: Childbirth, First World War, H.D., shell-shock, stillbirth

***** 1. Introduction War and childbirth may not seem the most immediately obvious of topics in which to find connections; the domestic world of childbearing may seem very far from the international and violent stage of warfare. Connections between birth and war have been made however throughout literary history, with Medea saying ‘I would rather stand three times in the front line than bear/ One child.’2 There are numerous ways in which parallels can be drawn; not least of all the prospect of pain and the possibility of death. While deaths in childbirth had dramatically reduced - following the increasing awareness of the impact of hand-washing on disease containment - problems of maternal and infant mortality were still high at the time of the First World War. In fact, the number of babies dying each week in the United Kingdom was higher than the number of men dying on the Western Front. Furthermore, the two experiences are strongly associated with gender and gender solidarity. Childbirth was traditionally a moment of female bonding;

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the midwife and female relatives sharing the experience of birth, and, sometimes, death. Similarly men lived and died together in battle and in the trenches. While previous novels, such as War and Peace and Vanity Fair have linked the two by either the mother dying in childbirth or the father being killed in battle (leaving the other alive with the child), a number of novels from the period immediately after the First World War bring this link to bear on the child also, dying alongside or instead of, the mother. Reasons for this may suggest themselves naturally: the senses of futurelessness, of futility, and of loss of hope resulting from the war; the obvious reduction in the numbers of the next generation; and disruption of the natural order. However, the link I wish to examine here today is the psychological one; the possibility for surviving both war and the stillbirth of a child has the potential to cause psychological damage.

In looking at this question, it is difficult to avoid recent developments in the study of surviving trauma; the work of Cathy Caruth and other trauma theorists.3 Their work focuses on the illness now known as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; a descendant of shell-shock but understood and treated very differently. It would, in many ways be beneficial to pursue this line, given that traumatic birth and stillbirth have now been recognised as potential triggers for PTSD in a way that would have been unheard of and even laughable in the WW1 era. However the diagnosis and theories of PTSD are strongly influenced by being written in a post Holocaust, post-Vietnam environment. The former altered the perception of trauma immeasurably, while Vietnam produced a culture shift in the way nations viewed their own soldiers. Post-Vietnam syndrome became as much about explaining atrocities and drug addiction as it was about the reconciliation of the soldiers with their experience of the horror of war. This paper therefore will focus on the debate during and around the First World War of whether shell-shock was a new disease, specific to warfare and the consequences of this for the acceptance of ‘other’ kinds of trauma. I argue that the suggestion made in HD’s novel Asphodel, namely that other events such as the stillbirth of a child could precipitate a similar response, is validated by a number of parallels. 2. Background

As a brief introduction, H.D. was born in 1886 in Pennsylvania and moved to London in 1910 where she was part of the Imagist group of poets. Her name, Hilda Doolittle, was reduced to her initials as a nom de plume by her friend, one-time fiancé and fellow poet, Ezra Pound. Asphodel is a loose autobiography, certainly the events of the novel tally with many of those of the author herself; including the stillbirth which occurs during World War One. The novel is experimental, impressionistic and at the start of Part 2 of this novel, the protagonist, Hermione, has just been brought home from

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hospital having given birth to a stillborn child. Throughout the text, the discussion of the experience is overlaid with that of the war. It is set in May/June1915 and in while her husband, Jerrold, is concerned with Hermione’s experience, Hermione talks of the war:

You’re right here, here right enough. Thank God we got you out of that damned nursing home. Yes. I forget. Keep forgetting. The funniest thing was when they stood at the end of my bed and told me about the crucified- Hush. Hush darling. Jerrold. Darling? Are there any men left, any at all in the streets, no, not in khaki?4

The idea that she keeps ‘forgetting’ her experience suggests disorientation and repressed memories, but her concern about the lack of men in khaki relates directly back to the nursing home where she was made to suffer by the nurses for her husband's non-combatant status. The ‘crucified’ figure she finds amusing is probably the legend of the crucified Canadian soldier, which had become common and dates to April 1915. Despite scepticism about the truth in the myth, her assessment of any part of her birth experience as ‘funny’ is disorientating for the reader as the distress resulting from it dominates the early pages of part 2.

The novel sets the scene for the psychological parallel by setting the stillbirth of the baby in an air-raid shelter during a zeppelin raid. A connection between Hermione and the war’s soldiers occurs through the noise surrounding the moment of birth. She says: ‘Men were dying as she had almost died to the sound (as she had almost died) of gun-fire.’5 In giving the setting the accompanying sound of guns Suzette Henke says that: ‘H.D. clearly intends to heighten the association between her own pregnancy loss and the war wounds endured by soldiers.’6 Aerial bombing was a new phenomenon in war-fare and very significant for Britain as it placed civilians in danger for the first time in centuries on their home soil. In making such strong claims relating birth and battle - it was not through the air-raid that she may have died, but as a result of the birth - H.D. is treading on dangerous ground. Other (women) writers who make comparisons between their own experiences and those widely recognised as being particularly brutal and traumatic have not always been well-received. In negative responses to Sylvia Plath’s poem ‘Daddy’ her use of the Nazi/Jew relationship as a metaphor for her and her father has been described as ‘inappropriate,’ ‘monstrous,’ ‘empty,’ ‘histrionic’ and it has been said that she ‘did not earn it.’7 In latching her experience to the experience of the soldiers at the front, H.D. has been described as ‘giving [her experience] apocalyptic dimensions.’8 Charges of narcissism can follow close on the heels of such an expression of empathy, in both fictional and in real life description. Hazel


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Danbury, a clinical psychologist, discusses narcissism and bereavement saying: ‘Narcissism can lose one sympathy and attract the accusation of trivialising the death by demanding the centre-stage and reacting as if the death is a personal attack.’9 If it could be said that, in her fiction and memoirs, H.D. appears to try to place herself at the centre of history by assuming her own body as a battleground, is there any validity for her claims?

While she makes the physical link explicit, she makes no direct link or mention of shell-shock as a factor in Hermione’s mental state. This link is, instead, implicit; connecting the psychological effects of the war on a soldier with their equivalent outcomes in pregnancy loss. Such similarities exist in some of the ‘symptoms’ of neurosis, but more surprisingly, links can also be seen in some of the root causes, such as the brush with death, the experience of horror and the isolating nature of its experience. It could be argued that the experiences of soldiers may be trivialised by such a ‘domestic’ comparison, but such a view in turn runs the risk of minimising the experience of a different, yet also terrible experience. For the war-generation, the psychological impact of the war became apparent through their experiences with those suffering from ‘shell-shock,’ whereas the traumatising effects of the loss of an unborn or newly born child were not explored until the late 1960s. For Hermione, the experiences of childbirth (carrying its own risk to life) followed by the death of the baby induce these emotions. She speaks of ‘the dark subconscious, an abyss of unimaginable terror, the pain, the disappointment, the utter horror of the last thing.’10 The circumstances of the tragic birth provide an encounter with both the kind of fear and loss of morale that were discussed in early shell-shock literature but also link to the ideas of abject horror that have been influential in revisiting shell-shock in subsequent years.

3. Shell-Shock

The early war doctors were baffled by the strange physical symptoms they saw in the soldiers, which Charles Myers described as an ‘orgy of neuroses and psychoses and gaits and paralyses . . . Hysterical dumbness, deafness, blindness, anaesthesia galore.’11 Alongside these were the ‘neurasthenic’ symptoms of nightmares, panic, depression and nervousness. The cause of the problems was initially thought to be the high-explosive shells; in this first large-scale industrial war, the effects of suffering bombardment of this kind were virtually unknown. In 1915 Myers published an article in The Lancet that would change the nature of military psychiatry forever, in which he referred to the problems he was seeing as ‘shell-shock.’12 The term stuck despite being very quickly discredited as both inaccurate and unhelpful. As the war progressed, it became very apparent that emotional disturbance, not physical shock was at the heart of many cases of

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shell-shock; indeed cases occurred in soldiers who had never been near an exploding shell or set foot in a trench. Some doctors believed shellshock to be nothing other than cowardice, others took a more lenient view that the conflict between natural fear and duty was at the heart of the problem. 13,14 The soldier would experience shell-shock treatment very differently depending on which hospital he arrived at. These differing views produced a vast amount of psychological literature on the subject in all countries involved in the conflict, including the 1922 report to Parliament, which contains evidence from numerous specialists and experts. One question posed to them asked whether ‘shell-shock due to commotional’ or ‘emotional disturbance’ was more common.15 It is one of the only questions that is answered consistently and regularly in the summary of evidence, by professionals with very different viewpoints on shell-shock as a whole. Without exception, the witnesses thought that commotional disturbance - while real and relevant - was very rare, and that emotional disturbance made up the bulk of ‘shell-shock’ cases seen by the medical professionals at the front. The real picture, for these experts, was that ‘the majority of cases are entirely anxiety neurosis.’16

Their conclusions suggested that this form of psychological damage is no more specific to war any more than to any other traumatic situation. The report states that: ‘the war produced no new nervous disorders, and those which occurred had previously been recognised in civil medical practice.’17 This recognition is prompted by the final question on the questionnaire, following 38 questions relating specifically to the war. They ask: ‘have you experience of emotional shock similar to shell-shock arising during peace either at home or abroad? If so, under what conditions?’18 While there may have been some political motivation to this conclusion - after all, if it is part of a bigger illness, which constitutes a weakness in the human makeup, war itself is not at fault and therefore war-mongers need shoulder no blame - this connection, made at the time by those considered experts, adds validity to H.D.’s use of a parallel between Hermione and the shell-shocked soldier. If it is not only soldiers who can suffer from emotional shock, then a railway crash victim or a woman who has given birth to a stillborn child could potentially be a victim too, provided that the experience was judged to be sufficiently traumatic. As Daniel Pick notes: ‘a whole array of industrial accidents and traumatically induced conditions - defects of speech, tics, paralysis and so forth - preoccupied specialist commentators before the war.’19

Another point of focus for the report is the capacity for morale to influence the outcome of undergoing trauma. The report shows that the experts believed the response to a traumatic experience was neither inevitable nor based solely on the nature of the trauma.20 Men who did break down may not have done so had they been in a different platoon with different


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leadership and vice versa. The possibility for the emotional outcome of a situation to be linked to ‘morale’ and leadership is particularly relevant to Asphodel when Hermione recalls her treatment at the nursing home where the baby was born. Hermione’s husband is not yet in the army, and this produces unsympathetic and bullying reactions from the women in the nursing home. Hermione’s right to medical care and even to her baby is questioned by the women who ask constantly why her husband isn’t in khaki:

They got exaltees, those nurses and their cheeks flushed with ardour and they said… O Mrs. Darrington, how lucky for you to have your husband when poor Mrs. Rawlton’s husband is actually now lying wounded… and Mrs Dwight-Smith’s husband is MISSING. Their cheeks went pink with almost consumptive joy and fervour while they drove and drove and drove one towards some madness. Why isn’t Mr Darrington in Khaki. What is khaki? Khaki killed it. They killed it… - Why isn’t Mr Darrington in khaki? 21

In this passage, Hermione is feverishly attacked by the women who should be helping her. They consider her beneath the other women in the ward whose husband’s are in action. A further sentence from this passage: ‘But would eau-de-cologne mean anything to anyone who was having a baby, having I say a baby, while her husband was being killed in Flanders.’22 The link between birth and war is explicit. The war destroys one of the oldest acts of solidarity between women; the childbirth experience and the role of the midwife. This profession was in decline due to the ascent of obstetrics as a branch of medicine. However with doctors at the front Hermione’s birth experience is a predominantly female one and the solidarity of childbirth could have been present for her in a unique way for the time. The women and their obsession with khaki seem to kill the baby and destroy the ‘morale’ which would help Hermione recover from her experience. As a result of this lack of support, Hermione suffers emotionally. 4. Horror and the Abject

Later work on trauma, including the diagnosis of PTSD, emphasises both fear and horror as being central to the experience of trauma.23 In looking back at shell-shock, historians have suggested the same. A discussion of fear always runs throughout literature on shell-shock, whether medical texts or personal accounts. Horror, however, is encountered far less in medical writing; as Laurinder Stryker points out, it was politically charged in its connection with pity and treated as a ‘subspecies of fear,’ albeit apparently unconsciously.24 To feel horror implies a recognition, not only of the

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potential for one’s own death but of the human cost of war; its consequences for humanity and its futility. Such a feeling would not be conducive to fighting. Despite being overlooked in medical literature, personal accounts and poetry like that of Owen and Sassoon show that the sights, sounds and smells of the trenches made a strong impression on the minds of the soldiers. In the introduction to her account of the impact of the war on five surviving soldiers, Michele Barrett shows how ‘in particular, it was about the bodies, damaged but alive, and the dead ones.’ One of the soldiers she discusses, Ronald Skirth, ‘gave graphic descriptions of the distended dead bodies he encountered at Messines and at Ypres.’25 These assaults on the senses, combined with evidence of the fragility of life and the randomness of its destruction, created an encounter with terror and horror that is indubitable.

The experience of fear and horror can, however, be experienced outside of a war situation; in describing traumatic neurosis the comparison with the railway crash was frequently invoked, and here too both witnessing death and the fear of one’s own death were combined. Julia Kristeva’s concept of the abject is concerned with casting out and with repulsion in the face of the other. She says: ‘The corpse, seen without God and outside of science, is the utmost of abjection. It is death infecting life. Abject.’26 While the abject is thus associated with waste, this stems from the dizzying effects of borders; between internal and external, dead and alive. Kristeva says: ‘It is thus not cleanliness or health that causes abjection but what disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, position, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite….’27 The encounter with death, and particularly unburied and rotting corpses, experienced by soldiers in the war would certainly fit within a discussion of the abject, and again, this ties together the themes of war and birth. The pregnant body is always one which disturbs the notion of borders; two people are contained in one body. The birth process similarly is connected with a physical casting-out, of not only the child, but the placenta and, often, blood. The stillborn infant is a truly abject figure as it disturbs order not only by inverting the process by which parents die before their children but the whole idea of birth in which pregnancy ushers in new life. The mother, in delivering the child is faced with the knowledge of casting out part of herself (bordering with the life of another) as dead and the knowledge of having carried the dead child in her body.

5. Conclusion

To sum up, the novel Asphodel uses a physical association between two different kinds of physical suffering to create a dramatic and memorable description of her loss. However, the implicit psychological links within the text mean that this comparison, while not immediately obvious, is backed up by a number of validating similarities. The shell-shock literature of the day


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provides this in relation to the experience of fear and of the role of support in recovery, while later shell-shock theory looks at the role of horror. It is in her evocation of this horror and fear that H.D makes the clearest links between Hermione’s situation and that of the shell-shocked soldier, above and beyond the physical comparisons she places deliberately in the text.

Notes 1 H D, Asphodel, Duke University Press, London & Durham, 1992 p. 154 2 Euripides ‘Medea’ in Medea and Other Plays, trans. P Vellacott, London, Penguin, 1963 l. 249-50. 3 C. Caruth, ‘Traumatic Departures: Survival and History in Freud’ in C B Strozier & M Flynn (eds), Trauma and Self, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, London, 1996. 4 H D, p. 113. 5 ibid., p. 114. 6 S Henke, Shattered Subjects : Trauma and Testimony in Women’s Life-Writing, Macmillan, London, 1998, p. 156 n. 21. 7 J Rose, The Haunting of Sylvia Plath, Virago, London, 1991. p. 65. 8 D K Hollenberg, H.D.: The Poetics of Childbirth and Creativity, Northeastern University Press, Boston, 1991, p. 37. 9 H Danbury, ‘Narcissism and Bereavement’ in J Cooper & N Maxwell (eds) Narcissistic Wounds: Clinical Perspectives, J Aronson, Northvale: NJ & London, 1995, p. 110. 10 HD, p. 154. 11 B Shephard, A War of Nerves : Soldiers and Psychiatrists in the Twentieth Century, Harvard University Press, Cambridge: MA, 2001, p. 2. 12 ibid., p.1. 13 A Richards (ed), Report of the War Office Committee of Enquiry Into ‘Shell-Shock’ (Cmd. 1734): Featuring a New Historical Essay on Shell Shock, Imperial War Museum, London, 2004, p. 138. 14 See B Hart’s evidence, ibid., p.76-80. 15 ibid., p. 198. 16 ibid., p. 62. 17 ibid., p. 92. 18 ibid., p. 196. 19 D Pick, War Machine: The Rationalisation of Slaughter in the Modern Age, Yale University Press, New Haven: Conn. & London, 1993, p. 250. 20 Report of the War Office Committee of Enquiry Into ‘Shell-Shock’, p. 151. 21 H D, p. 109. 22 ibid., p. 109. 23 Caruth, op. cit.

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24 L Stryker, ‘Mental Cases: British Shell-Shock and the Politics of Interpretation’ in G Braybon (ed), Evidence, History, and the Great War : Historians and the Impact of 1914-18, Berghahn, New York & Oxford, 2003, p. 164. 25 M Barrett, Casualty Figures: How Five Men Survived the First World War, Verso, London, 2007, p. 17. 26 J Kristeva, ‘Powers of Horror’ in K Oliver (ed), The Portable Kristeva, Columbia University Press, New York & Chichester, 2002, p. 232. 27 Ibid., p. 232.

Bibliography Anthony, R. (ed) Report of the War Office Committee of Enquiry Into ‘Shell-Shock’ (Cmd. 1734): Featuring a New Historical Essay on Shell Shock, London: Imperial War Museum, 2004. Barrett, M., Casualty Figures : How Five Men Survived the First World War. Verso, London, 2007. Caruth, C., ‘Traumatic Departures: Survival and History in Freud’ in C. B. Strozier & M. Flynn (eds), Trauma and Self, Lanham, MD; Rowman & Littlefield, London, 1996. Danbury, H., ‘Narcissism and Bereavement’ in J. Cooper & N. Maxwell (eds), Narcissistic Wounds: Clinical Perspectives, J. Aronson, Northvale, N.J. and London, 1995. Ehrenreich, B. & D. English, For Her Own Good: 150 Years of the Experts’ Advice to Women. Pluto Press, London, 1979. Friedman, S. S., Psyche Reborn: The Emergence of H.D. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1981. Friedman, S. S., Penelope’s Web: Gender, Modernity, H. D.’s Fiction. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1990. H.D., Asphodel. Duke University Press, Durham & London, 1992. Henke, S., Shattered Subjects: Trauma and Testimony in Women’s Life-Writing. Macmillan, London, 1998.


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Hollenberg, D. K., H.D.: The Poetics of Childbirth and Creativity. Northeastern University Press, Boston, 1991 Kristeva, J., ‘Powers of Horror’ in K. Oliver (ed), The Portable Kristeva, Columbia University Press, New York & Chichester, 2002. Pick, D., War Machine: The Rationalisation of Slaughter in the Modern Age. Yale University Press, New Haven: Conn. & London, 1993. Rose, J., The Haunting of Sylvia Plath. Virago, London, 1991. Shephard, B., A War of Nerves: Soldiers and Psychiatrists in the Twentieth Century. Harvard University Press, Cambridge: MA, 2001. Showalter, E., The Female Malady: Women, Madness and English Culture 1830-1980. Virago, London, 1987. Stryker, L., ‘Mental Cases: British Shell-Shock and the Politics of Interpretation’ in G. Braybon (ed), Evidence, History, and the Great War : Historians and the Impact of 1914-18, Berghahn, New York & Oxford, 2003. Elizabeth Brunton is a postgraduate student at Queen Mary University London in the Department of English. Her PhD project is entitled The Other ‘Lost Generation’: Tragic Birth in Modernist Fiction and looks at works by H.D., Jean Rhys, Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce. Her research interests are modernism, history of medicine, psychology and cultural history.

Inscribing the Traumatised Body: The Wartime Diaries of Marguerite Duras and Marie Vassiltchikov

Ravenel Richardson

Abstract As a private versus a public form of discourse, diaries often illuminate aspects of life experience that society endeavours to silence and suppress. Often what is repressed in literature is the story of the body. Women in general and women writers in particular have a problematic history with embodiment. Excised from intellectual spheres for centuries for purportedly being incapable of rising above their reproductive function to form an objective opinion, women writers often avoided writing about their bodies when they finally gained their precarious admittance into the intellectual sphere. During the first half of the twentieth-century, many women writers tried to present themselves as neutral, and therefore desexualized, subjects, which involved turning away from the body and focusing on the gender neutral mind.1 Women’s diaries from this period, however, evidence a different trend. This essay examines the presence of women’s bodies in their private writing during the physically and psychologically traumatizing atmosphere of the Second World War, focusing on the diaries of Marie Vassiltchikov and Marguerite Duras. It explores what diary writing reveals about how human beings experience and memorialise trauma, the role the body plays in recording events, and whether we analyse the world in bodily terms. Key Words: Diaries, Marguerite Duras, Marie Vassiltchikov, memory, Résistance, Second World War, trauma.


French theorist Hélène Cixous makes a call for writers, and women writers in particular, to strive towards a new kind of writing that encompasses the body and its rhythms rather than being at the expense of the body.2 She champions a type of writing which she terms l’écriture féminine (feminine writing), which among its many characteristics, necessarily involves explorations of human grief and loss. These texts are difficult to read because they do not provide closure, but ‘thrust [one] into the void’ of human suffering, an experience which does not end neatly with the culmination of the text.3 It is striking that the diarists in this study, although writing before Cixous’ time, were inscribing their bodies in their private texts at a time when it was neither fashionable nor acceptable in formal literary texts. A

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study of women’s diary writing at this time thus provides a window into the connection between one’s body and one’s writing, a connection that is admittedly disarming as the bodies inscribed into these diaries are necessarily ravaged by war. This paper explores the bodily narratives in the Second World War diaries of Marie Vassiltchikov (Berlin Diaries: 1940-1945) and Marguerite Duras (section I of The War). While each diary contains a multitude of physical references, this paper will primarily focus on the role the body plays in recounting traumatic memory.

Marguerite Duras and Marie Vassiltchikov had markedly different experiences of the Second World War. Duras was an established writer and member of the Résistance who was prominent in the Parisian political and intellectual spheres. She wrote her diary as the war ended and she awaited uncertain news of the fate her husband, Robert Antelme, who was imprisoned in Dachau concentration camp for his resistance activities. Vassiltchikov was an exiled White Russian Princess. During the war she worked first in Berlin at the Foreign Ministry’s Information Department, and then as a Red Cross Nurse in Vienna. Vehemently anti-Nazi, she was involved in the failed plot to kill Hitler, the 20th of July plot, and its bloody aftermath, which resulted in the torture and execution of many of her closest friends. 2. Physiological and Psychological Manifestations of Trauma

In the exceptionally violent climate of the Second World War, Vassiltchikov and Duras experienced a multitude of events that would be classified as traumatic. Events defined as traumatic by the American Psychiatric Association are: ‘combat, sexual and physical assault, being held hostage or imprisoned, terrorism, torture, natural and manmade disasters, accidents, and receiving a diagnosis of a life-threatening illness.’4 Vassiltchikov, living in Berlin and Vienna during devastating bomb blitzes, witnessed cityscapes turned into apocalyptic scenes of smoke, fire, rubble, with piles of corpses littering the landscape. Working as a nurse, she tended soldiers with full body burns, missing limbs, and gangrene. Duras lived through the German occupation of Paris. As a member of the Résistance, she witnessed the torture and murder of individuals on both sides of the conflict. Waiting for her husband, she watched trainloads of concentration camp victims, and eventually Robert himself, arrive in a physical state she describes as worse than death. Living through these devastating circumstances exacted a physical and psychological toll on both women. Trauma, whether physical or psychological, witnessed or experienced, manifests itself in distinctly bodily terms. The body’s autonomic nervous system either prepares defensively, with a ‘fight or flight’ response, or for death, with a ‘freeze response.’5 In fight or flight, one experiences accelerated heart rate, dry mouth, cold sweating, heart palpitations, hypervigilance, nausea, vomiting, and rapid breathing.6 If the

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limbic system of one’s brain perceives that there is neither the time nor the bodily strength for a defensive response, the body freezes, which results in a perception of slowed time, momentary paralysis, or loss of consciousness.7 Duras and Vassiltchikov both recount direct physiological responses to the trauma they experience, as well as posttraumatic stress symptoms, such as flashbacks, loss of appetite, and nightmares.8 In some examples, Vassiltchikov writes that her ‘heart begins to beat’ whenever the air raid sirens start, and that this reaction is exacerbated as the war progresses; Duras vomits whenever she tries to eat, wasting away to a near skeletal state; and due to nightmares Vassiltchikov shouts so much in her sleep that she has to be given tranquillisers.9 The women also frequently recollect the toll of physical exhaustion that prolonged external stresses such as bombings and hunger are exacting on their bodies. Duras writes: ‘I’m very cold, my teeth are chattering;’ ‘I’m thin, spare as a stone;’ and, ‘I’m bathed in sweat.’10 She always employs the present tense, which has the effect of pulling the reader into her physical space. These statements, which occur in the middle of passages which meditate on war activities, politics, religion, and the human condition, have a very jarring effect, jerking the reader from the mind down to the body, which, as evoked by her compact syntax, is an hyper-contained space. Vassiltchikov echoes this syntactical compression in her diary. In the passages relating her physical condition, she tends to write in incomplete, or very short, sentences. For example, she writes: ‘No bath, dirty;’ ‘Temperature;’ and, ‘Am totally hoarse.’11,12 In each diary, the exhausted, emaciated, and feverish pain-bodies present a bodily meta-narrative which runs through the text like a physical current. These truncated pain-bodies become a mirror for the violence and destruction perpetuated against humanity during the war. The trauma each woman experiences is not only evident in their descriptions of their physical states, but also in their recollection of particularly disturbing memories. Contemporary trauma theory provides a useful frame though which to analyse these memories. Cathy Caruth asserts that trauma is ‘the confrontation with an event that, in its unexpectedness and horror, cannot be placed within schemes of prior knowledge.’13 Bessel van der Kolk explains that when faced with such an inassimilable event, the victim experiences ‘speechless terror.’14 Because the traumatic experience cannot be organized on linguistic level, or with words or symbols, it is left to be organized on a ‘somatosensory’ level, or with ‘somatic sensations, behavioural re-enactments, nightmares, and flashbacks.’15 Trauma, as previously discussed, produces a particular set of neurological responses in the body. It is this set of neurological responses, rather than objective observations, that are stored as the somatosensory memory of the traumatic event. Somatosensory memory is thus characterized by ‘fleeting images, the percussion of blows, sounds, and movements of the body.’16


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The split that occurs between the body and the mind during a traumatic event is called dissociation. Ruth Leys asserts that fundamental to the definition of trauma is the idea that the ‘mind is split or dissociated: it is unable to register the wound to the psyche because the ordinary mechanisms of awareness and cognition are destroyed.’17 In other words, our cognition fails us: we are unable to assimilate the event because our mind has no prior frame of reference through which to process it. Contemporary research has shown that the dissociation of a traumatic experience occurs at the very moment of trauma; trauma survivors see their trauma from a distance, or disappear entirely, leaving other aspects of their personality to suffer and store the overwhelming experience.18 The traumatic experience, however, does not remain conveniently stored and contained; rather, it erupts continually and without warning into the victims’ conscience. Traumatic memories are hence not represented as past, but are ‘perpetually re-experienced in a painful, dissociated, traumatic present.’19 The traumatized person thus lives in parallel temporalities which cannot be synchronized: the realm of the traumatic experience and the realm of their ordinary life.20

In summary, traumatic memory has four main characteristics: it is overwhelming because it cannot be understood through prior schemes of knowledge, it is sensory rather than linguistic, it is dissociative, and it is inassimilable in linear time. All of these characteristics lead to a crisis in traumatic testimony, or the paradox of the ‘concomitant need to tell what seems untellable.’21 This is a cruel paradox, because despite the inherent difficulty, even impossibility, of providing a narrative frame for the story of one’s trauma, composing a narrative is a crucial step of the recovery process. As the diaries will show, the narrative process is inevitably disrupted by the volatile nature of traumatic memory. 3. Deep Memory v. External Memory

Charlotte Delbo, writer and Holocaust survivor, describes the disruptive nature of traumatic memory within narrative. Discussing her survival of Auschwitz, Delbo distinguishes between what she calls ‘deep memory,’ or the memory of traumatic experiences that provides ‘sensations’ and ‘physical imprints’ and ‘external memory,’ or the ‘intellectual memory’ which is ‘connected with the thinking process.’22 By stipulating that words issue from external memory, not deep memory, Delbo connects external memory to the narrative process. It is external memory which allows an author to impose linearity in their narratives, and it is the imposition of this orderly, external memory which allows the survivor to function in society. Deep memory, conversely, arises, unbidden, in life and within narrative. She writes, ‘if I dream of the thirst I suffered in Birkenau, I physically feel that real thirst and it is an atrocious nightmare.’23 Delbo likens this intrusion of

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her deep memory into her present life to a breach or rupture, which thrusts her into the perpetually present realm of trauma.24 Lawrence Langer and, elaborating on his work, Roberta Culbertson provide a compelling discussion of how deep memory and external memory interact in trauma testimony. Langer asserts that external memory intervenes on the wordless, bodily nature of deep memory, endeavouring to organize it for both the survivor and their audience.25,26 He asserts that survivor memoirs must abide by certain literary conventions, such as chronology, description, and characterization, the most important of which is a clear narrative voice. This narrative voice, which he attributes to what Delbo calls external memory, imposes a perceived sequence on chaotic episodes, regardless of whether that sequence was perceived identically when the events were experienced.27 Unfortunately, what is often lost in this type of external memorialisation is the true nature of the traumatic event; external memory mediates atrocity, endeavouring to reassure its audience that some human bonds were inviolable even during wartime.28 According to Culbertson, memory, in this figuration, is thus subjected to the ‘conventions, which define the believable.’29 In this situation, deep memory, with its dissociative, sensory, bodily, and impressionistic qualities, is removed from the narrative, and replaced by a more cohesive storyline. The consequence of this disembodied memory is the suppression of the body’s recall of its response to trauma, and of the wordless language in which it expresses this pain. How do we address this crisis of traumatic memory? How do we try and reclaim the body’s story? Langer’s answer is to search for the body’s lost story within oral testimony by documenting events in witness testimony where deep memory intrudes on external memory, disrupting the flow of narrative, and analysing the significance of these disruptions in relation to personal narrative, memory, and survival. Following Langer, I have turned to diaries, which are relatively unencumbered by the pressure of enabling public understanding, to examine the intersection of deep, sensory memory and external, narrative memory.30 4. Marie Vassiltchikov: Distant or Dissociative?

Marie Vassiltchikov has been criticized and belittled for her omission of emotive passages in her diary and the triviality of her war commentary by several critics.31 Not only are these criticisms pejorative, but they evidence a failure to read beneath the surface of her narrative. By the advent of the fall of Vienna in the spring of 1945, Vassiltchikov had lived through multiple aerial attacks on Berlin, the devastation following the failure of the 20th of July Plot, and the experience of nursing badly wounded soldiers. Her physical and emotional bodies are broken down at this point,


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and this is evidenced in her fragmentary and increasingly disjointed diary entries. In one passage, Vassiltchikov describes an event that occurs as she bends down to pick up her accordion, which has fallen off of her bicycle in front of a bombed out building:

As I bent down to pick it up, I bumped into a lorry parked before the ruins. There was still that ghastly smell and, as I looked up, I saw that the lorry was loaded with loosely tied sacks. From the one nearest to me a woman’s legs protruded. They still had their shoes on but, I noticed, one heel was missing.32

As Vassiltchikov begins to narrate this particular memory, she recalls the sensory impression of the stench of decomposing flesh. Her zeroing in on the woman’s shoe reflects two aspects of the body’s adrenaline response to trauma as discussed by Culbertson: first, the effect of an adrenaline rush, which results in a hyper-awareness of the most minute details, and second, the subsequent effect of a non-adrenaline rush, or the freeze response, which manifests in the victim focusing on something small, which enables them to dissociate from the larger, traumatic event.33 Vassiltchikov’s inability to deal with this event on an analytical level is further evidenced by her immediate movement to another subject after relaying this memory, without elaborating on it. In a novel, autobiography, or memoir, she would have commented on her emotions, or remarked that the lorry loaded with corpses was horrific and extremely upsetting. In her diary, however, she is able to record the memory as she experienced it: confronted with something inassimilable, she froze, tightened her focus on something she could process, the innocuous detail of the heel-less shoe, and rode on. In a similar passage, Vassiltchikov writes of pulling bone shards from a wounded soldier’s amputated legs. ‘Both stumps are completely mangled, with the bones shattered into many little pieces,’ she writes, ‘they keep popping up and have to be fished out with tweezers.’34 Again, Vassiltchikov is zeroing in on a minute detail, the shards of bone, rather than assimilating the larger picture. This passage, however, differs from the former in that she expresses awareness of her dissociation. ‘At first I did not think I could,’ she continues, referring to pulling the bone splinters from the soldier’s leg, ‘but, strangely enough, it is bearable. . . there is. . . such a curious kind of detachment from the patient’ when performing these types of procedures.’35 Rather than judging Vassiltchikov as callous, which the reader is tempted to do reading the distant tone of such passages, one must realize that this dissociation is what repeated exposure to traumatic situations yields in a subject.

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5. Marguerite Duras: The Body in Terror Duras’s diary contains several passages, which display the

phenomenon of deep memory disrupting the linear narrative of external memory, as well as the split being that arises from this dissociation. Duras writes of a night where she felt she intuitively knew that her husband had died:

And suddenly certainty, certainty burst in: he’s dead. Dead. Dead. The twenty-first of April, died on the twenty-first of April. I’d stood up and gone into the middle of the room. It happened in the space of a second. It had happened in the space of a second. No more throbbing in my head. Not now. My face falls apart, changes. I fall apart, come undone, change. There’s no one in the room where I am. I can’t feel my heart any more. [ . . . ] I no longer exist. [ . . . ] If she wants to wait, why not wait for another? She and this man no longer have anything in common. [ . . . ] Who is she?36

There is a marked shift in tense in this passage, which begins with the past tense of external, or narrative, memory: ‘I’d stood up’ and ‘It happened.’ As Duras’s deep memory breaches her external memory, her narration moves simultaneously to the present tense and the bodily: ‘no more throbbing in my head,’ ‘my face falls apart,’ ‘I fall apart,’ ‘I can’t feel my heart anymore.’ The sensory memories intrude as perpetually present. Perhaps the most striking element of this passage is the complete traumatic dissociation, evidenced by Duras switching from first person to third person narration, from ‘I’ to ‘she,’ as if she is watching herself collapse from a distance. Her question, ‘Who is she?,’ illuminates the most overwhelming aspect of trauma: the inexorable separation of self before the traumatic event from the self that will live on afterwards. Robert, in fact, is not dead, but is rescued from Dachau and returns to Paris. In a second passage, Duras recalls beginning to eat and sleep alongside him, in a way paralleling his recovery. This entry was written several weeks after the events occurrence, and Duras’s tone is thus less immediate than previous entries. Duras begins with reflective narration, writing,

Like him I haven’t been able to eat for seventeen days. Like him I haven’t slept for seventeen days, or at least that’s what I think. In fact, I’ve slept for two or three hours a day. I fall asleep anywhere. And wake in terror. It’s awful, every time I think he’s died while I was asleep. I


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still have that slight fever at night. The doctor who comes to see him is worried about me, too. He prescribes injections. The needle breaks in the muscle in my thigh, my muscles are knotted, as if tetanised.37

Duras begins in the present tense, describing her physical state in clipped sentences. However, in the second sentence, her intellectual memory censors her, as she writes ‘or at least that is what I think.’ This narration embarks upon facts ‘in fact, I’ve slept for two or three hours a day,’ but soon becomes overtaken by her sense memories as she describes her post-traumatic stress-induced nightmares of Robert’s death from which she wakes ‘in terror.’ The narration seems to regain control, as she writes of her doctor prescribing injections, but once again loses control as the sense memory of these injections takes over, moving into the present-tense of trauma: ‘the needle breaks in my thigh.’ While Duras’s external memory endeavours to organize the memories of her experience, the disruptive nature of her deep, sense memories continually invade and take over. One is acutely aware that despite her trying to impose some sort of order in her life through her writing, Duras is completely out of control. 6. Conclusion Julia Kristeva writes that the reality of the Second World War was an ‘explosion of death and madness that no dam, ideological or aesthetic, could contain.’38 In the diaries, the horror manifests, as explored by Cixous, physiologically, with the inscription of the traumatized body in the text. What results is the story of bodies which are not contained in their suffering, but burst through the ideological and aesthetic dam of narrative. Stories, with their linear narrative trajectory, and history books, with their sets of facts, diagrams, statistics, and photographs, have the effect of making war assimilable. War becomes something one can process, a story with heroes and villains, a beginning and an ending. In reality, war is no such thing; it is horrifying beyond all scope of our imagination. The body, in contrast, tells a wordless story, a story of the psychological and physiological breakdown that is to experience war. These women’s diaries provide a window into the traumatic realm of war, the physical and psychological tolls it exacts on the people who live through it, and the collateral damage caused by the governments who continue to sustain a culture of war.

Notes

1 Cf. S Smith, Subjectivity, Identity, and the Body, Indiana University Press, Bloomington & Indianapolis, 1993.

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2 Cf. H Cixous, ‘The Laugh of the Medusa’, trans. K and P Kohen, in The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., New York & London, 2001, p. 2039. 3 H Cixous, Rootprints: Memory and Life Writing, trans. E Prenowitz, Routledge, New York & London, 1997, p. 53. 4 B Rothschild, The Body Remembers: The Psychopathology of Trauma and Trauma Treatment, W.W. Norton and Company, New York & London, 2000, p. 7. 5 B Rothschild, op. cit., p. 7. 6 ibid., p. 7. 7 ibid., pp. 9-10. 8 Cf. B Rothschild, ‘Overview of PTSD’, op. cit., pp. 1-14. 9 M Vassiltchikov, Berlin Diaries 1940-1945, Vintage Books, New York, 1988, pp. 50, 249, 88; M Duras The War: A Memoir, trans. B Bray, Pantheon, New York, 1986, p. 45. 10 Duras, op.cit., pp. 21, 8, 39. 11 Vassiltchikov, op. cit., pp. 4, 10, 27. 12 ibid., pp. 261, 29.1 13 C Caruth, ‘Introduction’, in C Caruth (ed), op. cit., p. 8. 14 B van der Kolk and O van der Hart, op. cit, p. 172. 15 ibid., p. 172. 16 R Culbertson ‘Embodied Memory, Transcendence, and Telling: Recounting Trauma, Re-establishing the Self’. New Literary History, vol. 26, 1995, p. 174. 17 J Edkins, Trauma and the Memory of Politics, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2003, p. 43. 18 B van der Kolk & O van der Hart, op. cit., p.168. 19 J Edkins, op. cit., p. 43. 20 B van der Kolk & O van der Hart, op. cit., p. 176. 21 R Culbertson, op. cit., p. 170. 22 C Delbo, Days and Memories, trans. R Lamonte, The Marlboro Press/ Northwestern University Press, Evanston, 2001, p. 3. 23 C Delbo, op. cit., p. 4. 24 ibid., pp. 2-3. 25 L Langer, Holocaust Testimonies: The Ruins of Memory, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1991, p. 6. 26 Langer alters the name of Delbo’s term ‘external memory’ to his own term of ‘common memory’ within his text. However, for the sake of continuity within this study I will continue to employ Delbo’s term ‘external memory’ throughout. 27 ibid, p. 41.


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28 ibid, p. 9. 29 R Culbertson, op. cit., pp. 179, 178. 30 This work in part stems from the related work of Jennifer Willging, who uses Delbo and Langer to analyze Duras’s story ‘Monsieur X dit ice Pierre Rabier’. Cf. J Willging, ‘‘Truth’ in Memory and Narrative: Marguerite Duras’s ‘Monsieur X. dit ici Pierre Rabier’’, in Telling Anxiety, University of Toronto Press, Toronto, London and Buffalo, 2007, pp. 27-72. 31 Cf. R Sheppard, ‘The Catcher in the Reich BERLIN DIARIES, 1940-1945 by Marie Vassiltchikov’, Time Magazine, 13 April 1987, pp. 1-2, retrieved 3 August 2009, <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,964023,00.html>; G Craig, ‘An Outsider Inside the Third Reich’, The New York Times, 5 April 1987, p. 6s. 32 M Vassiltchikov, op. cit., pp. 263-4. 33 R Culbertson, op. cit., p. 186. 34 M Vassiltchikov, op. cit., p. 254. 35 ibid., pp. 254-5, (italics Vassiltchikov’s). 36 M Duras, op. cit., pp. 36-7. 37 ibid., p. 63. 38 ibid., p. 139.

Bibliography

Caruth, C., ‘Introduction’, Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 1995, pp. 3-12. Cixous, H., ‘The Laugh of the Medusa’, trans. K. Cohen and P. Kohen, in The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., New York and London, 2001, p. 2039. Cixous, H., Rootprints: Memory and Life Writing, trans. E. Prenowitz, Routledge, New York, 1997. Craig, G., ‘An Outsider Inside the Third Reich’, The New York Times, 5 April 1987, p. 6s. Culbertson, R., ‘Embodied Memory, Transcendence, and Telling: Recounting Trauma, Re-establishing the Self’. New Literary History vol. 26, 1995, pp.169-95.

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Delbo, C., Days and Memories, trans. R. Lamont, The Marlboro Press/Northwestern University Press, Evanston, 2001. Duras, M., The War: A Memoir, trans. B. Bray, Pantheon, New York, 1986. Edkins, J., Trauma and the Memory of Politics. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2003, pp. 20-54. Kristeva, J., ‘The Pain of Sorrow in the Modern World: The Works of Marguerite Duras’, trans. K. Jenson, PMLA, vol. 102, pp. 138-152. Langer, L., Holocaust Testimonies: The Ruins of Memory. Yale University Press, New Haven, 1991. Rothschild, B., The Body Remembers: They Psychophysiology of Trauma and Trauma Treatment. W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., New York, 2000. Sheppard, R., ‘The Catcher in the Reich BERLIN DIARIES, 1940-1945 by Marie Vassiltchikov’, Time Magazine, 13 April 1987, pp. 1-2, retrieved 3 August 2009, <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,964023,00.html>. Smith, S., Subjectivity, Identity, and the Body. Indiana University Press, Bloomington and Indianapolis, 1993. van der Kolk, B. & O. van der Hart., ‘The Intrusive Past: The Flexibility of Memory and the Engraving of Trauma’, in C. Caruth (ed) Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, MD, 1995, pp. 158-82. Vassiltchikov, M., Berlin Diaries 1940-1945. Vintage Books, New York, 1988. Willging, J., Telling Anxiety: Anxious Narration in the Work of Marguerite Duras, Annie Ernaux, Nathalie Sarraute, and Anne Hébert. University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 2007.


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Ravenel Richardson is a PhD student in English and Related Literature at the University of St. Andrews. Her interests are women’s studies and twentieth-century literature, and her thesis focuses on responses to and representations of trauma in women’s diaries written during the Second World War.

The Id in the Basement

Michèle Huppert Abstract Alfred Hitchcock is said to have been less than an enamoured with psychoanalysis yet his film work belies this claim. The intuitive understanding of the machinations of the mind, with a fascination for what lies below the surface, is evident in all his movies. This paper examines some of the psychoanalytic principles illustrated in Hitchcock’s movies with particular emphasis on the Hitchcockian classic, Psycho (1960). Renowned psychoanalyst and philosopher, Slavoj Zizek, has opened the door for this recognition of the parallels between psychoanalytic theory and Hitchcock’s movies in his The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema (2006), in which Zizek ‘delves into the hidden language of cinema, uncovering what movies can tell us about ourselves’ and, in particular, what Hitchcock was telling us about the hidden desires and fears of the human psyche.1 Hitchcock may have been skeptical of psychoanalysis, but his exploration of the psychoanalytic perspective, and his efforts to feed ourselves back to ourselves, draws me to the conclusion that ‘the [film director] doth protest too much, methinks’ (apologies to Shakespeare).2 Key Words: Allegorical space, Alfred Hitchcock, Psycho.

*****

In 1895 there were two auspicious births. The Lumière brothers invented a rudimentary film projector, signifying the birth of cinema, and Studies in Hysteria appeared, inaugurating the new science of psychoanalysis. Throughout the twentieth century, the two new disciplines have been inextricably linked.3

1. Introduction This is neither a paper on a critical film analysis of Hitchcock’s film Psycho nor a paper on the psychoanalytic concepts of voyeurism and castration and yet it is both. In this paper I am proposing, in addition to the traditional transitional space of the Object Relation theorists, in which both the experience of the viewing the film, and the experience of reacting to the film occurs, there is an allegorical space, where meaning, interpretation and creation of subjective reality exists. Some may argue that this proposition is tautological, but providing one accepts the existence and relevance of both, this should pose little problem for us.


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2. Allegorical Space In his paper ‘On transference and Interpretation’, Emanuel Berman states that the attempt by the film viewer to interpret and assign meaning to a film cannot avoid personal identifications and emotional responses. He draws a parallel process with the therapeutic space that occurs between analyst and analysand, in which interpretation occurs, providing creative insight. This, he continues, combines ‘transference (to the work…as a source of insight and growth) [and] counter-transference (the fantasy of the [film maker] and [character] as patients …to be analysed) and interpretation (the striving to understand more deeply).’4 There is however, another space; the space in which we, as observer, and we, as reactor, also attempt to make sense of our subjective experience. Thus, the meaning we ascribe to Hitchcock is none other than our interpretation of our subjective reactions to our personal affective experience in watching the film. This temporal space, the time between observation, reaction and then understanding, is what I am terming allegorical space.

The concept of the transitional realm of experience was proposed by Donald Winnicott as located between the unconscious internal-subjective experience and the conscious external-objective reality - a transitional space in which both exist and inform each other to create a perceived reality.5 However, I would like to suggest that in film, as in other art forms, a further process occurs. Unless we are content to go no further than the superficial, assignation of meaning and interpretation occurs at the conscious level and requires insight and understanding of our selves. And so, it is in this allegorical space, we observe and analyse our emotional reactions, give meaning to the actors and actions on the screen, and interpret Hitchcock’s intent rather than simply react to it.

And so it is that I ask you to entertain many processes that occur simultaneously or tangentially. We must pay attention to our impulsive reactions to viewing the film - the transference; our reactions devoid of insight are also transference. It is only with the usage of the allegorical space, the space in which we can analyse and interpret our impulsive reactions that counter-transference occurs. I ask you to keep in mind the roles of the conscious and the unconscious, our reactions and our responses and the notions of the transitional space and the allegorical space.

The relationship between film and psychoanalysis has been popular since as early as 1916 when Harvard psychologist Hugo Münstenberg observed that film translates the external world into subjective psychic experience.6 By 1926 filmmakers were seeking consultations with psychoanalysts, notably Karl Abrahams and Hanns Sachs.7 Robert Ray regarded Hollywood producers as ‘cultural anthropologists’ who were able to reach into the unconscious wishes and fears of society.8 Sigmund Freud, however appeared to pay little attention to the new film phenomenon having

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famously turned down a lucrative consultancy deal with Samuel Goldwyn himself.9 I have always found this surprising as Freud was heavily influenced by literature, art and artefacts. The plays of Sophocles were Ancient Greek ‘cinema’ and we know the significance of such works as ‘Oedipus Rex’ to Freud.

Hitchcock has been recorded, as having scepticism for psychoanalysis yet his films are full of subtle, and not so subtle, Freudian themes and symbolism. So much so that ‘[Hitchcock] doth protest to much, methinks.’ 3. And Now to the Movie

‘Psycho’ was released in 1960 and although a box office success the film critics were initially less enamoured. The film became, however, one of the most studied films of all time.10 Janovich states that although Hitchcock had become known as a ‘Master of terror,’ Psycho was his first real horror film.

The film opens with a panoramic view of what we are told is Phoenix, Arizona. There is particular emphasis on the tall buildings - the phallic symbols of western capitalist society - the camera, and thus us, seems to randomly choose an arbitrary window through which we are to voyeuristically view a couple post-coitus.11 Hitchcock has already thrust us in to the position of the perverted voyeur with the object of our voyeurism being the sexually charged couple, Marion and Sam. What is it that we are being asked to be witness to? An illicit relationship, not between a married man and his mistress, but rather between a financially challenged salesman in possession of inherited debt from his father as well as his ex-wife’s alimony, and an unmarried secretary. And yet these lovers must hide out in a sleazy locale because there is something inherently shameful in their relationship and behaviour.

As Marion dresses her concern for the disrespectability of her position exponentially grows - her stylish and respectable clothing represent her rejoining society’s misogynist social mores where women are castrates of male domination. Here there is a taboo surrounding a woman’s sexual drive, and only marriage, and thus a man, can save her from herself. In Psycho there is no escape from the gaze of the Superego – the internalised experience of the ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’ts’ of the external world. In almost every scene there is the unflinching and critical gaze of the Superego - the photos of Marion’s deceased mother in her bedroom, the stuffed birds in Norman Bates’ parlour - and twinned with it are the reminders of our Id, our primal impulses from which we cannot escape - the shadows which particularly surround Marion. Hitchcock’s usage of shadow and silhouette heighten our fears for Marion, and thus ourselves. Marion cannot escape her shadow, which due to its separation and distance from her, particularly leading up to


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the theft, almost appears to act autonomously. In one scene, in her bedroom as she is packing her bag, there is a shadow before and aft her so that it is unclear which is leading whom - will the Id take the lead allowing Marion to surrender her ego to the impulse to steal the money or will the Superego, represented by the respectable and demure dress, win out and force Marion to remain helpless and impotent?

The theme of castration is also prevalent so far. If we look at how Sam has been portrayed we see a man helpless to change his situation. The situation revolves around money, the power tool of the society, and his lack of it renders him impotent. His impotency means that I, at least, cannot admire him, which again is a manipulation by Hitchcock, I suggest, to identify with Marion. Her decision to steal the money becomes symbolic of her attempt to rescue Sam, but in so doing she will be guilty of a further emasculation of Sam and the defeminisation of herself. The interweaving of emasculating figures and symbols throughout the film create a feeling of entrapment. Again, the photos of maternal figures, the cruelty of the stuffed birds and animals, the use of money to ‘buy off unhappiness’ and to reinforce a father’s power over his daughter, shut down any possible escape routes from a harsh reality housed in the Superego. This is parallel to the castration and impotency of Norman Bates, our psycho.

At first meeting, Norman presents as a shy and awkward young man, uncomfortably attracted to Marion. Always in the background is the foreboding house, the dark, shadowy silhouette of his ‘mother,’ and of course, the harsh unflinching gaze of the stuffed birds who, even in death, do not stop staring. Norman too is trapped - trapped in a motel by which no one passes, trapped by his mother as ‘a boy’s best friend is his Mother,’12 trapped and seemingly resigned to his fate.

NORMAN: People never run away from anything. The rain didn't last long, did it. You know what I think? I think that we're all in our private traps - clamped in them. And none of us can ever get out. We - we scratch and claw, but only at the air--only at each other. And for all of it, we never budge an inch. MARION: Sometimes we deliberately step into those traps. NORMAN: I was born in mine. I don't mind it anymore.13 This is a pivotal exchange for Marion. Robin Wood describes the

parallel between Norman and Marion as ‘part of the essence of the film to make us feel the continuity between the normal and the abnormal: between the compulsive behaviour of Marion and the psychotic behaviour of Norman Bates.’14 Up until this moment we are led to believe by Hitchcock that we are all in this together - we are all trapped in our own private Idaho and helpless

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to get out. Norman’s attempt to normalise his experience by enjoining with Marion reminds Marion that she has choice. Although Norman has no transitional space, no place to filter and create a reality between his Superego and Id, Marion is ‘given back’ her space and can reclaim herself from her shadow, she has regained ‘her power of rationality’ and at that moment, when she resolves to return the money, we too are reprieved from thinking ourselves to be going mad.15 Perhaps Norman senses this change in her… we certainly begin to change our sense of Norman.

With this newly developing distance from Norman and the recognition of the transitional space that allows us to perceive, and the allegorical space where we interpret and create, we hand over the mantle of voyeur to him. We are no longer perverted and at the mercy of our primal urges. We are let off the hook and this is signified by Norman’s spying on Marion through the peep hole hidden behind the painting in his parlour. We watch him spying but we are no longer spying ourselves. There is no need now for us to identify with Norman as we have been redeemed by Marion’s reclamation of rationality. And so we luxuriate with her in the shower, washing away the guilt of impulsive desires.

The shower scene from Psycho is infamous; even those who have not viewed the movie are aware of its terrifying and horrific qualities. The murder appears random and meaningless and immediately shocks and horrifies with us unable to make sense of it. As Wood states, ‘The murder is as irrational and meaningless as the theft of the money. It also [is] so shattering that… we scarcely recover from it. Never…has identification been broken off so brutally.’16 And yet the scene is not objectively gruesome, but rather an abstraction that creates a powerful and dramatic experience of violence.17

Our attention is now focused on the house, Norman and his mother. The house, with its three levels, parallels the Freudian topology of the mind. Mother resides on the top floor - symbolic of the Superego. Her harsh and critical relationship with her son represents Norman’s harsh and critical internalisation of her that dominates his mind. 4. Conclusion On the ground level, Norman interacts with the world around him, including Marion. On this level he appears to function normally, even though a little awkward and shy. His ego, on this level, is still functioning although the harsh superego threatens to penetrate at various times. And then we have the basement/fruit cellar to which Norman banishes his Mother when his ego is too threatened by her intrusion and interference. But by removing her to the basement the destruction of the ego is complete and Norman is no more. Id and Superego are left to battle it out - who will get Norman?


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Mother/Superego wins as the need to protect and defend mother and keep her ‘real’ is Norman’s only way to survive. To do this he becomes Mother, sacrificing his own identity to maintain hers and we see Norman, dressed in his Mother’s clothes, protesting ‘her’ innocence and yet, as she continues to talk, Norman is totally submerged until the transformation is complete. This is signified by the final grimace with which we associate the skeleton of Mother as she is revealed to us in the fruit cellar. Norman’s ego makes the ultimate sacrifice for his Mother as he cannot exist with her but he cannot live without her - after all, ‘A boy’s best friend is his Mother!’

Notes

1 The Pervert’s Guide, About the Guide, P Guide Ltd., retrieved 17 March 2009, <www.thepervertsguide.com>. 2 W Shakespeare, Hamlet: Prince of Denmark, act III, scene II, line 230. 3 G Gabbard, ‘The psychoanalyst At the Movies’, International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, vol. 78, 1997, p. 429. 4 E Berman, ‘On transference and interpretation’, International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, vol. 84, p. 122 5 D Winnicott, ‘Transitional objects and transitional phenomena’, International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, vol. 34, 1951, pp.89-9.7 6 H Münsterberg, The film: A Psychological Study, Dover Publications, New York, 1970. 7 Gabbard, op. cit. 8 R Ray, A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood Cinema, 1930-1980, Princeton University Press, Princeton: New Jersey, 1985. 9 Gabbard, op. cit. 10 M Janovich, Rational fears: American horror in the 1950s, Manchester University Press, Manchester, 1996. 11 G Loughlin, ‘Architecture - Becoming-skyscraper: Ayn Rand’s Architect’, in A. Ballantyne (ed), Modernism and After, Blackwell Publishing, Oxford, 2004, pp.88 – 101. 12 A Hitchcock, Psycho, New Arts Library, 1998, retrieved 10 July 2009, <www.paradiselost.org/psycho.html>. 13 A Hitchcock, Psycho, New Arts Library, 1998, retrieved 10 July 2009, <www.paradiselost.org/psycho.html>. 14 V Perkins, Film as Film, Penguin Books, Middlesex, England, 1972, p. 126. 15 ibid. 16 ibid., p. 128. 17 Ibid., p. 108.

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Bibliography

Berman, E., ‘On transference and interpretation’. International Journal of Psycho-analysis, vol. 84, 2003, pp.119–129. Gabbard, G., ‘The psychoanalyst At the Movies’. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, vol.78, 1997, p. 429. Jancovich, M., Rational fears: American horror in the 1950s. Manchester University Press, Manchester, 1996. Loughlin, G., ‘Architecture – Becoming–skyscraper: Ayn Rand’s Architect’ in A. Ballantyne (ed), Modernism and After. Blackwell Publishing Oxford, 2004, pp.88 – 101. Münsterberg, H., The film: A Psychological Study. Dover Publications, New York, 1970. Perkins, V., Film as Film. Penguin Books, Middlesex, England, 1972. Ray, R.B., A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood Cinema: 1930-1980. Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, 1985. Shakespeare, W., Hamlet: Prince of Denmark. The Pervert’s Guide, About the Guide, P Guide Ltd., retrieved 17 March 2009, <www.thepervertsguide.com>. Winnicott, D., ‘Transitional objects and transitional phenomena’. International Journal of Psycho-Analysis, vol. 34, 1951, pp. 89-97. Michèle Huppert is a Lecturer in Behavioural Studies, School of Political and Social Inquiry, Monash University, Australia.

PART IV

Cultures of Fear, Horror and Terror

And The World Became Rifty: The Context of Terror in Mediaeval Society

Rainhard Bengez

Abstract We will use a method of structural analysis to show that aspects of violence such as fear, horror, terror, brutality, and agony, as well as martial conflicts are structural elements of this medieval society. Furthermore, these aspects of society are not only supporting or forcing violence against others, they are constitutional elements. Our results will be compared with concepts of well known traditional and modern philosophers. Key Words: Complexity, conflict, fear, horror, medieval society, model, the other, pestilence, pogroms, and terror.


Fear, horror and terror are not only elements and themes in literature or film - they are also part of our actual and historical social constitution and life. 1.1. Mediaeval Times in a Nutshell

The epoch of the Middle Ages covered about one thousand years and describes the period between the Ancient World (from the end of the Migration Period or from the fall of the remaining Roman Empire) and early Modern Times (the invention of printing or the dawn of the Reformation). Among scholars there is lively discussion on where to situate the dawn as well as the end of this epoch. 1 The term Middle Ages (Latin: medium aevum or aetas obscura) was introduced by Italian humanists during the 14th Century to herald a new era - the Renaissance. The past (terrible) times would only remain as a bridge between the glorified ‘ancient times’ and the new human-centred age.

During mediaeval times a new order nearly overran the entirety of Europe. The political and cultural predominance of the Hellenic/Latin- embossed Mediterranean era was replaced by a world of (many small) Christian feudal states. Mediaeval society was a religious class system with Latin as its lingua franca. Also significant was the idea of the unity of the Christian church. Certainly, after the Great Western Schism (the conflict between the Western and the Eastern Church), this general unity longer existed.

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1.2. The Christian Era - aetas christiana Historically, the Christian Middle Ages considered salvation to be

the most important event in time, and thus superior to every other age of human history. The Christian era (Latin: aetas christiana) 2 began with the birth of Jesus and was purportedly destined to end with a day of judgement. Therefore, this period was seen as a timeless time (a steady state) until the return of Jesus, which means that time became problematic in this era. A major problem for the Roman (Western) Church was the idea of historical development within the aetas christiana which would either imply a process of progress or degeneration. Stated otherwise, this would imply the degeneration of an institution which represents the nature and will of its god. Or it would imply that the Christian doctrine, the Gospels, or the work of the fathers of the church could be enhanced or advanced - both things which could not happen within an already ‘perfect’ doctrine. 2. The Eternal Era - Everything has an End

It is the year 1347. 3 It is a nice October in Messina (a large city and port near the north-east corner of the island of Sicily, Italy). The sun twinkles in the sea, the fishermen are unloading their cargo, children are playing on the beach and women are talking to each other while a soft mild wind curls the waves - a perfect autumn.

On the skyline twelve ships of the merchant navy of Genoa approach as the Franciscan (or Dominican) Michele da Piazza in his History of Sicily (Latin: Historia Siculorum) will later report.4 Where did they come from: Caffa (present-day Theodosia), from the Tartaric Crimea, or Constantinople? As the sailors disembark, nobody is suspicious, but along with them off the ship comes death. The dying was unavoidable. Later, but too late, when the Genoans made the connection between the plague and death and the merchant navy, they expelled the sailors. But the pestilence had already begun to have a stranglehold over Europe.

Within five years one-third of Europe’s population would be annihilated (globally about 43 million people would die) - the worst epidemic plague ever since the beginning of historiography. This was the third time that the Black Death had drawn its traces of calamity over the world. It had also been around before the Common Era and again during the Great Migration in the 6th century. Whether the pestilence was always the same or whether this was some new plague (for example, Ebola) is still an academically discussed question. The Plague of Justinian weakened the political and economic power of the Eastern Roman Empire and induced its cultural doom. The plague then vanished for several hundred years, but returned strengthened and cruel in 1347. This second pandemic strongly altered the inherent socio-economic structure of the European world through the mass mortality. As the plague became increasingly strong and spread

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widely, an attempt was made to find the culprits. The scapegoats were rapidly found: those well-known old culprits, the Jews. Some years before, they had been banned and forced to wear special hats, yellow points or other signs to bear evidence that they were different. Pogroms and complete extinction of families, as well as torture, fear and horror, brutality and terror were the companion of the plague everywhere.5 Irrespective of the plague, there were many conflicts related to the quest of power and stability within the whole known world.

With the end of this pestilence a new era seemed to start. The lower class people took this opportunity to find well-paid jobs, as there was a huge lack of workers; many villages were vacant. Depopulated cities welcomed new citizens, and in Italy the nobles and the church lost power; citizens and guilds gained more influence. Even the poorest - the peasants - were on the winning side: they could garner the best farm land and the best homesteads. Technical innovations were a way to reduce poverty and balance the lack of workers. The invention of the printing press, dwindling confidence in the old system and the traditional view of god combined to disperse the old order. The world became ‘rifty’. 3. A Look through the Magnifying Glass

Is it possible to explain the emergence of social structures and human societies, and therefore their fall? Peace and conflict research often deals with this problem. Frequently political ideas, religious beliefs and concepts have been developed and adapted from once pre-eminent coherent models and schemes which were developed to understand specific attributes of nature (e.g. from natural sciences, cosmology, mathematics).

We are interested in outlining here what kind of influence the structure of a social system of human beings has on facets of horror and terror within such a human organisation. Is it possible that the structure actually promotes these attributes? We are not interested in the specific motives and guiding themes of individuals. Therefore, we are not interested in a socio-psychological analysis, but, if one prefers, in a structural socio-philosophical analysis of the pattern of the model of society and order. This is of course related to specific questions which we will now address using the work of several philosophers. 3.1. It is a Greek World

Heraclitus’ idea of change being (or: the changeful nature of being) influenced Plato and his student Aristotle, who were the first known human-centred philosophers. They tried to explain the dawn, emergence and end of political, socio-economic order and structure of human societies using the example of the polity (Greek: polis). Aristotle’s model of economic and political justice became the leading (dogmatic) idea during mediaeval times.


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Plato distinguished a hierarchic scheme both of the state and of state transformation, which a community must undergo before becoming a harmonic society. For him the wisest men (i.e., philosophers) should rule the state, which is organised in a caste system. He mistrusted democracy, as he recognised that people are driven by emotions, envy, and flagrancy. For his student Aristotle, human beings were political animals and therefore by nature social beings who not only have the will to survive, but also the wish to live well and happily. He believed in an organic development of human organisations driven by their members and their wishes for a good and fair life. Moreover his concept of (quantitative and qualitative) justice and fairness became intuitional for all of Western civilisation.6

3.2. The Whole is the Sum of its Parts

In his famous and widely known book Leviathan or the Matter, Form and Power of Commonwealth, Ecclesiastical and Civil, Thomas Hobbes projected a mechanistic and linear model of state and society which was based upon the ideas of Galileo Galilei.7 According to his mechanics, it was possible to divide a complex phenomenon into separable elements and to reunify it by certain synthetic methods. Hobbes transferred Galileo’s mechanistic laws to anthropology and state theory. For him humans were driven by instincts and emotions, with the human main affect of self-preservation and survival. The state was the antipode of war and therefore the sovereign was the sum of all individuals ratifying the social contract - the guarantor not only of peace but even of society as such.

3.3. Aspects from Complexity Theory

According to the interpretation of the philosopher Klaus Mainzer, the development or, stated more neutrally, the phenomenon of human culture and society may be interpreted in terms of complexity theory (i.e., a organic point of view). For him Plato’ state can be explained as a centralised processor who controls every activity and element of the system. The aristocratic leaders would lead the whole system to a harmonic steady-state. Whether this is possible or not must stay open. But a glance at history may deem this doubtful. Aristotle’s concept of state and society can be seen as a dynamic (not a mechanistic), natural process which leads to an equilibrium when the polity is achieved. Therefore, the emotions and all the other human attributes Plato disliked and feared are important aspects for the steady state.

Hobbes’ interpretation of society in terms of Galileo’s physics shows that the corpus of the Leviathan is a huge complex system of single individuals, as illustrated on the title page of his book. For him, a political system - a state - is linearly ordered. According to complexity theory, the transition from the phase of war (everyone against everyone) to the steady-state of political sovereign order is realised by social agreements between all

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citizens - this means self-organisation. Nevertheless, the final state is a pure deterministic system without any political freedom for its citizens. There is one mighty monarch and many controlled, powerless citizens.8

3.4. Reflections and Another Point of View

What about fear and horror or terror? It seems that not one of the above-mentioned philosophers bears this in mind. They are talking about imperfection and the construction and development of societies, but seemingly omit consideration of this question. Maybe they think they have already mentioned it in form of human emotions, wishes and war, wills and affects and contracts? But they do not include the possible existence of a structural problem - something which is inherent in such a concept (or every concept?) of society.

For Heraclitus, the world has always been in the process of change, therefore such a question could be related to the ongoing movement of the whole of being. Structures will come, patterns will go. The only important and remaining entity is the process itself. For Plato and his aristocratic state, such negative emotions are the main reason for rigour. The only structure to avoid this is the cooperative aristocratic caste system. For him there would be no structural problem besides the foolish and less gifted people. Aristotle, on the contrary, would not neglect such structural problems during the ripening, but after the manifestation of the polity, such problems would no longer occur. Thomas Hobbes, with his idea of sovereignty, would think akin to Aristotle, because his definition and concept of state is defined as the antipode of war. He easily excluded such questions and problems: Without such a state based upon a contract there is war - the war of everyone against everyone. Therefore, such contracts would exclude this kind of unfair and cruel practices. Thus, the structure itself cannot include negative attributes. If we analyse these concepts in the terms of complexity theory (as suggested by Klaus Mainzer), we can use strong mathematical concepts like neural networks, differential equation systems and many, many more to see under which environmental conditions such a system would fail. What we could learn in this is that in every such system there is just a small probability to be stable for a given period and that there are manifold reasons for failure. But a direct deduction from violence is not possible. This must be included in the form of new and specific restrictions and equations. It would mean distinguishing the structures in structures or meta-structures and paying attention to further (subtle) structural items. During mediaeval times there was an amalgam of the concept of Plato, the concept of Aristotle and the feudal state. The last may be seen as a pre-stage of the idea of Hobbes. To understand this, we must ask some questions about the medieval society.

What characterised it? First of all it was a Christian, a religious society with the self-conception of being the last and ontologically superior


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age and community which would last until Judgement Day. This means they were convinced of their perfection and superiority to other (human) orders; this presupposes a hierarchy of values and the absence of a political and religious order based upon plurality. The political sphere tolerated no split of power. Who was in authority: the church (Rome) or the emperor and the kings? There was a highly tense relationship between them. But both shared political power by the grace of god. Society induces politics and politics induce the exertion of power. Therefore, there are those who dispose and those who are ruled: is it not possible to separate power from the institution of Rome - or should the representative of god on earth (i.e., the god who is here) be the subject? Without power, Christian society and the church would not be possible – there would be no ontological being in the corpus of Jesus (for them the lord of the world). But this would mean to be a disposer (there is no such thing like a disposer without power). As stated above, this was a caste system and just as there are disposers and subjects, there are friends and enemies, too. But this is a contradiction: for most people the Jesus movement was a nonviolent community. What happened with the Roman Church and the Christian Age? They had no structure which guaranteed or allowed plurality, i.e. individuality. Because they only knew friends and enemies, human beings who were not 100% compliant to the disposers were enemies: a black-and-white structure promoting further tensions and conflicts. But just having such a dichotomous view impeded exchange with others to avoid the inherent risk of losing their ’freedom‘ of being special or alienating them. Here we may ask about the ontic priorities. Thomas Hobbes doesn’t pay attention to the important fact of exchange of ideas for a society. He concentrates his efforts exclusively on the phenomenon of war and ignores the problem of unity and totality.

This society was both a totality - as it was a perfect composition, the copy of the body of their godhood and his representative, too - and autonomous. There was unity, because they disclaimed a social partitioning; they disclaimed the inequality of man by social status, but rather on the basis of belief. Thus, this society was both equal and unequal, simultaneously. And this was the political fact of indivisibility. Their indivisibility was guaranteed by the old law given to them by their god, who also assured them authority over believers. For them, their society was not static, but in equilibrium, however, not without dynamics. This monad was far, far away from being self-sufficient. It opened its shell to others with martial and brute force. But that would mean cruelty; hence fear and terror are parts of the structure of the system. Friendship and exchange with others was possible only between believers, not with others, e.g. Jews, Muslims, heretics or unpopular persons. For those, only the category of enemy remained. It is important to notice that their logic of identity is based on disparity. Back to Hobbes, we can retain one central concept: the impossible state of war of

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everybody against everybody (which would mean there are many single monads of believers in their specific god, etc.) leads to a separation of people into friends (believers within the same entity) and enemies (the others - non-believers).

The brute conflicts and violence like pogroms, inquisitions and crusades may be seen as the foreign policy of such a state. The latter is a mirror image of the conservatism of the sense of community (‘we’) which is iterated by reference to the given, determined and unchangeable law of a godhood or patriarchy which had always to be honoured. The institutions and people will conserve their undivided being (their being as a ‘we’) and try to prevent innovation or changes to avoid the splitting of the community and therefore the splitting of the corpus of their godhood. The community must be homogenous and united to successfully confront the others (the enemies – whom, paradoxically, they need!). The community needs the others through which they consist as a unity and through which they discover their own being and self as antipode. The institutions have always known that every alteration of social life would mean damage to their purity. In other words, the members of the community would lose the freedom of being a pure and perfect entity framed by belief; therefore the community would lose its being.

What is the meaning of this explanation for the aspects of horror, fear and terror in mediaeval society? Fear occurred in the menace of hellfire, horror, inter alia in the fear of punishment and strangers. If we mention all the pogroms against Jews, heretics or many other unpopular peoples, we may imagine the aspect of fear and terror against certain groups. In short, if there is cruelty, brute and martial force against others, there can always be fear and horror and the terror against the other groups. Otherwise, the feeling of being committed to the mercy of a godhood and (not well understood) nature causes fear as well as horror. Therefore, the pestilence can be seen as an act of terror against subjects of the body which then led to fear, horror and terror against the others. In short, we have tried to show the coherence of the structure of the mediaeval system of society and the inherent dynamic which leads inexorably to brute force, fear and terror.

But even bad things and times may have an end. The pestilence and many other factors - as well as intelligent persons, who exist in every era - have led to a new age - the Renaissance - in which the world became human-centred and later enlightened. Besides the question about the structure of fear, terror, cruelty and horror, the question about the conditions of the transition remains. Was the bloody path really necessary or did an alternative exist?


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4. Summary Finally, we can maintain that neither Plato, Aristotle nor Hobbes

paid attention to the problem of structural violence within social systems. Only the framework of complexity theory may enable us to receive impressions not only about the instability and fall, but also about the development of human societies (of course not in a perfect way, but at least slightly). To gain a better understanding about the fact that there are structural aspects promoting or forcing such problems, we have exemplified our method of analysis on mediaeval human society and deduced that these components are within their structure. Thus, cruelty has always been a part of such an organised structure of human society. One of the open problems is putting this analysis into a more formal frame and combining this kind of survey with the framework of complexity theory.

Notes 1 For this section I mainly used: H Boockmann, Einführung in die Geschichte des Mittelalters, Beck, München, 8. Aufl., 2007; A Borst, Barbaren, Ketzer und Artisten: Welten des Mittelalters, Piper, München, 1988; J Fried, Das Mittelalter: Geschichte und Kultur, Beck, München: Beck, 3. Aufl., 2009; H Fuhrmann, Überall ist Mittelalter: Von der Gegenwart einer vergangenen Zeit, Beck, München, 3. Aufl., 1998; J LeGoff and G Osterwald, Die Geburt Europas im Mittelalter, Beck, München, 3. Aufl., 2004; The complete Cambridge Series edited by MacKitterick et alii (1998, 1999a, 1999b, 2004a, 2004b, 2005); E Schubert, Alltag im Mittelalter: Natürliches Lebensumfeld und menschliches Miteinander, Wiss. Buchges., Darmstadt, 2002; and K Spindler, ’Mensch und Natur im mittelalterlichen Europa. Archäologische, historische und naturwissenschaftliche Befunde‚, in Akten der Akademie Friesach: „Stadt und Kultur im Mittelalter,“ Tagung in Friesach (Kärnten), 1. - 5. September 1997, Wieser, Klagenfurt, 1998. I can especially recommend the Cambridge series and the books of Boockmann and Fried. 2 Esp. the collected works of Ockham et alii are a must for a deeper understanding: W Ockham et alii, Philosophical writings: A Selection, Hackett Pub. Co, Indianapolis, 1990. Furthermore, I used: A Borst, Barbaren, Ketzer und Artisten: Welten des Mittelalters, Piper, München, 1988; L Feuerbach, Das Wesen des Christentums, Reclam, Stuttgart, 4. Aufl., 2002; A Harnack and C v. Osthövener, Das Wesen des Christentums: Sechszehn Vorlesungen vor Studierenden aller Fakultäten im Wintersemester 1899/1900 an der Universität Berlin gehalten, Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2., durchges. Aufl., 2007; R Heinzmann, Philosophie des Mittelalters, Kohlhammer, Stuttgart, Berlin, Köln, 1995.

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3 For detailed information compare: K Bergdolt, Der Schwarze Tod: Die Große Pest und das Ende des Mittelalters, Beck, München, 5. Aufl., 2003; P Horden, ‘Mediterranean Plague in the Age of Justinian’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, M Maas (eds), Cambridge Univ. Press, Cambridge, reprinted, 2007, pp. 134–160; M Maas (ed), The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, Cambridge Univ. Press, Cambridge, reprinted, 2007; M MacKitterick et alii, ‘C. 1300 - c. 1445’. The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 6, 2000; M Matheus and M Miglio, ‘Stato della ricerca e prospettive della medievalistica tedesca, Roma, 19 - 20 febbraio 2004’, in Il convegno è stato organizzato dall'Istituto Storico Germanico di Roma e dall'Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, Roma, 2007; and H Wilderotter, ‘Alle dachten, das Ende der Welt sei gekommen’, in Das große Sterben: Seuchen machen Geschichte, H Wilderotter, M Dorrmann, K Achilles-Syndram (Hg.), Jovis, Berlin, 1995, S. 1–33. 4 This seems not to be clear. Enzensberger has a deviant opinion: H Enzensberger, ‘Italien im Mittelalter: Süditalien’, in Historische Zeitschrift, H. 7-8 (Sonderheft 7), 1980, S. 299–447. 5 cf. R Bengez, Eine kurze Geschichte der Juden in Ravensburg, Unveröffentlichtes Manuskript, München, August 2008. 6 Cf. R Bengez, Gerecht ist (nicht nur) das Proportionale: Materiale Gerechtigkeit aus aristotelischer und talmudischer Sicht, Unveröffentlichtes Manuskript & Vortrag an der Universität München, München, April 2009 and E Bloch et alii (Hg.), ‘Neuzeitliche Philosophie 2‘, Leipziger Vorlesungen zur Geschichte der Philosophie, Bd. 4, Suhrkamp, Frankfurt am Main, 1. Aufl., [Nachdr.], 2004. 7 T Hobbes and CB Macpherson, Leviathan, Penguin Books, reprinted, Harmondsworth, 1987. 8cf. K Mainzer, Thinking in Complexity: The Computational Dynamics of Matter, Mind and Mankind, Springer-Verlag, Berlin & Heidelberg, 5. Aufl., 2007, p. 367-415.

Bibliography

Bengez, R., Eine kurze Geschichte der Juden in Ravensburg. Unveröffentlichtes Manuskript, München, August 2008.

Bengez, R., Gerecht ist (nicht nur) das Proportionale: Materiale Gerechtigkeit aus aristotelischer und talmudischer Sicht. Unveröffentlichtes Manuskript & Vortrag an der Universität München, München, April 2009.


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Bergdolt, K., Der Schwarze Tod: Die Große Pest und das Ende des Mittelalters. Beck, München, 5. Aufl., 2003.

Bloch, E., Römer, R., Braun, E. (Hg.), ‘Neuzeitliche Philosophie 2‘. Leipziger Vorlesungen zur Geschichte der Philosophie, Bd. 4, Suhrkamp, Frankfurt am Main, 1. Aufl., [Nachdr.], 2004.

Boockmann, H., Einführung in die Geschichte des Mittelalters. Beck, München, 8. Aufl., 2007.

Borst, A., Barbaren, Ketzer und Artisten: Welten des Mittelalters. Piper, München, 1988.

–––, Lebensformen im Mittelalter. Ungekürzte Ausg., Ullstein, Frankfurt/M und Berlin, 14. Aufl., 1995.

Enzensberger, H., ‘Italien im Mittelalter: Süditalien’, in Historische Zeitschrift, H. 7-8 (Sonderheft 7), 1980, S. 299–447.

Feuerbach, L., Das Wesen des Christentums. Reclam, Stuttgart, 4. Aufl., 2002.

Flasch, K., Das philosophische Denken im Mittelalter: Von Augustin zu Machiavelli. Reclam, Stuttgart, 2. revidierte. und erw. Aufl., [Nachdr.], 2006.

Fried, J., Das Mittelalter: Geschichte und Kultur. Beck, München: Beck, 3. Aufl., 2009.

Fuhrmann, H., Überall ist Mittelalter: Von der Gegenwart einer vergangenen Zeit. Beck, München, 3. Aufl., 1998.

Harnack, A. and v. Osthövener, C.-D., Das Wesen des Christentums: Sechszehn Vorlesungen vor Studierenden aller Fakultäten im Wintersemester 1899/1900 an der Universität Berlin gehalten. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2., durchges. Aufl., 2007.

Heinzmann, R., Philosophie des Mittelalters. Kohlhammer, Stuttgart, Berlin, Köln, 1995.

Hobbes, T. and Macpherson, C. B., Leviathan. Penguin Books, reprinted, Harmondsworth, 1987.

Horden, P., ‘Mediterranean Plague in the Age of Justinian’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian. M. Maas (eds), Cambridge Univ. Press, Cambridge, reprinted, 2007, pp. 134–160.

LeGoff, J. and Osterwald, G., Die Geburt Europas im Mittelalter. Beck, München, 3. Aufl., 2004.

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Maas, M. (ed), The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian. Cambridge Univ. Press, Cambridge, reprinted, 2007.

MacKitterick, R., Allmand, C., Reuter T. (eds), The New Cambridge Medieval History, vols. 1 - 7, 1998 - 2005. Mainzer, K., Thinking in Complexity: The Computational Dynamics of Matter, Mind and Mankind. Springer-Verlag, Berlin & Heidelberg, 5. Aufl., 2007, p. 367-415. Matheus, M. and Miglio, M., ‘Stato della ricerca e prospettive della medievalistica tedesca, Roma, 19 - 20 febbraio 2004’, in Il convegno è stato organizzato dall'Istituto Storico Germanico di Roma e dall'Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo. Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, Roma, 2007. Ockham, W., Boehner, P., Brown, S., Philosophical Writings: A Selection. Hackett Pub. Co, Indianapolis, 1990. Schubert, E., Alltag im Mittelalter: Natürliches Lebensumfeld und menschliches Miteinander. Wiss. Buchges., Darmstadt, 2002. Spindler, K., ‚Mensch und Natur im mittelalterlichen Europa. Archäologische, historische und naturwissenschaftliche Befunde‘, in Akten der Akademie Friesach: „Stadt und Kultur im Mittelalter,“ Tagung in Friesach (Kärnten), 1. - 5. September 1997, Wieser, Klagenfurt, 1998. Wilderotter, H, ‘Alle dachten, das Ende der Welt sei gekommen’, in Das große Sterben: Seuchen machen Geschichte. H. Wilderotter, M. Dorrmann, K. Achilles-Syndram (Hg.), Jovis, Berlin, 1995, S. 1–33. Rainhard Bengez is lecturer and scholar at the TUM - Technical University of Munich.

Everyday Fear: Parenting and Childhood in a Culture of Fear

Leanne Franklin and John Cromby

Abstract In a media fuelled society we are never far from hearing stories of paedophiles, abductions, health scares, recession, and violent crime. The lived world can often seem more terrifying than that portrayed in horror movies, as we hear tales of body parts being found in fields and fathers imprisoning their daughters in the basement for decades. The media acts to reinforce our material experiences of increasing individualisation, changing family structures, and decreasing community. Together, these symbolic and material influences constitute a fearful culture where we are mistrustful of fellow human beings, uncertain about the future, and subject to free-floating anxiety. The family unit is where this culture of fear is perhaps most visible as the relationship between adults and children is seemingly more fraught than ever. Child rearing is no longer a shared social responsibility, but is confined to the immediate family, while strangers are viewed with a mistrust that comes easily. Parents are bombarded with conflicting advice from ‘experts’ and battle to walk the line between allowing their children to be ‘free range’ and wrapping them in cotton wool. This paper explores some of the ways that this everyday fear is impacting on parenting and childhood. Key Words: Anxiety, danger, media, parental fear, risk.


There are certain news stories that reflect the worse nightmare of parents: Jamie Bulger, the Soham murders, Maddie McCann, and Jaycee Lee Dugard are familiar to the UK public as those worst case scenarios. 1,2,3,4

Young innocent children, lost to murderers, kidnappers and paedophiles. However, these horrifying cases are thankfully rare and act to reinforce a fear within an already fearful culture. A ‘culture of fear’ is said to prevail in contemporary British and American culture and this culture has several identifying features.5 Firstly there is a mistrust of strangers and their motives; we view strangers offering help with suspicion and in an individualised community we no longer know our neighbours and are unable to meaningfully assess their character. Risk taking is discouraged, as we live by the mantra that it is ‘better to be safe than sorry’ and risk is consistently approached with the expectation of a negative outcome. The boom in ‘no win, no fee’ solicitors and compensation seeking reinforces an overemphasis

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on health and safety, that in turn reinforces the ‘better safe than sorry’ mantra. There is a degree to which purely theoretical risks are over-analysed and presented as genuine threats to life: this is currently demonstrated by the swine flu panic, as the UK governments’ worse case scenario is treated as the most likely outcome. Suffering is also praised as our desire for tragedy is both inculcated and satiated by chat shows, real life heartbreak in magazines, and tragic biographies. Amazon.co.uk even has a section dedicated to ‘Tragic Life Stories,’ which includes titles such as Cut: The true story of an abandoned, abused little girl who was desperate to be part of a family and Daddy’s little earner: A heartbreaking true story of a brave girl’s escape from violence.6,7 All these factors create the impression that the world is a very dangerous place, that life-threatening risks are just around the corner, and people are not to be trusted.8 This paper examines the experiences of parenting and childhood within such a culture. 2. Everyday Fear

Parent and child relations have always been subject to contemporary issues, beliefs and norms: Aries, for example, describes the humorous way sexuality was expressed around an infant Louis XIII, which is distinctively different to our contemporary notions of appropriateness, sex, and childhood.9 Thus it is important to reflect upon how wider social changes impact on parenting expectations, ideals and practices. Writing with particular reference to the USA, Glassner argues that the media plays a vital role in contributing to these notions of parenting and childhood.10 In a media saturated society where many have instant internet access it is easy, and sometimes unavoidable, for parents and children to keep up to date with the latest focus of fear. Glassner also points out that a culture of fear is very profitable for some as the market swells with products designed to quell parental anxiety: parenting books, temporary tattoos with the child’s name and address on them, DNA storage kits should the very worse happen, or expensive GPS tracking systems.11 There are also a mass of parenting support websites available 24/7 to connect parents to each other and to debate the best way to approach issues such as step families, teething problems, and bedwetting.

Parents have been given ‘expert’ advice for centuries but today’s advice seems different in two respects. First, there is much more of it, and what there is seems to be more readily available. Second, there is a distinct edge to the kind of advice typically given, a new aspect of alarmism. As Hardyment notes:

At no one point is it easy to say that a childcare expert or a writer is absolutely exceeding reason in the anxiety stakes,


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but the present generation of manual writers undoubtedly induce considerable paranoia. 12

It is not surprising that this is the case given the ‘free floating’ fear that permeates our society, ever-ready to attach itself to any potential threat, in this case, the threat is poor parenting skills.13 ‘Experts’ have become plentiful as each advise parents how to best raise their children in every conceivable aspect of life, from toilet training and feeding to sleeping and playing. Just a glimpse at best-selling list reveal titles such as Raising Your Child: The Complete Illustrated Guide: A Parenting Timeline of What to Do at Every Age and Stage of Your Child’s Development, Raising Boys: Why Boys are Different - And How to Help Them Become Happy and Well-Balanced Men, and Your Baby Week by Week: The Ultimate Guide to Caring for Your New Baby. 14,15,16 Thus parents are faced with a wealth of advice and knowledge, with an increased pressure to keep up to date with the latest dangers, recommendations, and safety products. It is not just parents who have to navigate a path through risk aversion, since children’s play generally has become mired in health and safety concerns. Tim Gill writes that the cost of the ongoing project to cover playground surfaces with rubber (an apparently safer material than tarmac or concrete) in the UK is estimated to be £200-300 million, yet the chance of a child dying from a playground injury is 1 in 30 million.17 This amount of money is even more startling given that there are over 4 million children living in poverty in the UK; arguably, more lives could be saved if this money were invested in social programmes.18 This imbalance and misperception of risk, danger, and safety are changing the shape of children’s activities; making play more likely to occur in the home, be supervised, and be risk averse. The over-regulation of adult/child relationships is also changing the shape of play as more volunteer agencies (such as play schemes, sports teams, and charities) close under the pressures of CRB regulations which operate in the UK. 19,20 These closures are likely to intensify as the CRB and safeguarding regulations tighten in October 2009, which will, for example, prevent children’s authors visiting schools unless they have been vetted.21 Unfortunately this over-regulation results in adult/child interactions becoming strained, unnatural, and uncomfortable, so that ordinary physical interaction, such as a hug or a sports coach guiding a child’s movements, becomes cautious, guarded, and considered. This awkwardness in physical contact then acts to reinforce the notion that adults are not to be trusted, fuels suspicion, and damages interaction. This suspicion will undoubtedly have long term consequences for children, from the lack of sports coaches to a mistrust of adults, and in one case it has even already had fatal consequences:

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The story everyone remembers is the one about a two year-old girl who disappeared from her nursery and drowned in a garden pond. A bricklayer had driven past her as she wandered through the village. She wasn’t walking in a straight line. She was tottering I kept thinking, Should I go back, he told the inquest into the child’s death. One reason I did not go back because I thought someone would see me and think I was trying to abduct her. 22,23

It is easy to see why Furedi points to a crisis of trust where adults and children are unsure who they can rely on.24 As families have become more mobile, it is more than possible to not know the names of any neighbours, let alone be friends or related to them, local networks of informal support are less readily available, and family life has become more introverted. Church communities, for example, are smaller, diminished in their influence, and themselves fatally damaged by abuse accusations, and there are fewer large-scale, stable employers where communities of people who live together also work together. This material individualisation also means that child-rearing is no longer shared and parents can no longer rely on adults outside of the family unit to praise, admonish, or support their children in a public environment. In Germany and Scandinavia, for example, children enjoy much higher levels of freedom as parents are more secure in the knowledge that should their children need guidance from an adult it will be provided.25 In the UK and the USA, where the culture of fear is much more entrenched, parents cannot rely on, and frequently do not want, input from other adults. Thus responsibility for child-rearing falls solely on the shoulders of the parents, a pressure multiplied many more times for single parents. This individualisation also means that, while we have always gathered knowledge about the world around us from friends, families and neighbours, we increasingly gain a larger proportion of our knowledge from the media. But the news, by its very nature, disproportionately reports the rare, tragic, and remarkable and so the misconception arises that these exceptional acts are commonplace.26

All these factors have led to the development of what Furedi terms ‘paranoid parenting.’27 An explosion of perceived risk in the media, a cacophony of ‘experts’ who know best, and an increasingly individualised society means that parents are struggling to understand what is best for them and their children. In the UK there are no longer ‘jobs for life,’ divorce rates remain high, and familial attachments are not permanent as families are spread across the globe; and Furedi argues that in this context children provide a sense of continuity, security, and identity, since whatever other changes occur in a parents’ life they will always remain a parent.28 With so much pressure on parents it is unsurprising that they do everything in their


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power to protect their children, even if it is from purely hypothetical risks, and unfortunately this can mean over-protection, over-supervision, and overregulation. It is in this climate that parents are attempting to show their children the ways of the world and how to navigate themselves safely through life, and it is against this backdrop that we will now explore the talk of the participants. 3. Participants’ Talk There were three different streams of data involved in this research. The first set of data comes from focus groups held with 12-13 year old students at three schools; two of the schools are in a small university town and the third school is in a large city, both in the East Midlands, UK. A total of 16 focus groups were carried out with the children, totalling just less than 12½ hours of discussions. A second set of four focus groups was carried out with parents who responded to letters sent home with the students and a series of emails requesting volunteers. A third and final set of data was gathered from parenting websites where participants responded to a series of questions about contemporary parenting. Focus group data has been transcribed verbatim and online data has been identically reproduced. This mass of data allowed the identification of several themes: media, changes in society, parent fear and danger and risk. These themes will now each be discussed. Please note that the participants’ names have been changed to preserve anonymity . 3.1 Media The media has been identified as a central feature of a culture of fear as it contributes to the perpetuation of the worry, anxiety, and fear that are so prominent in contemporary western society, and this was reflected in the data.29 The participants were aware of the effects of the media, which were mainly viewed as negative: Lizzie & Jacob, 12-13 years old: J: News is depressing. L: All news is depressing J: All news like specially like when it’s like young people ‘cause it

puts out the image that like all young people carry a knife or carry a gun (.) and go round with hoodies [drink like]

The participants also discussed of several high-profile cases that have entered the public consciousness in the UK. The trial of Shannon Matthews ‘abductors’ and the case of Baby P were prominently featured in the press at the time of some of the focus groups, so it is unsurprising that these were

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spontaneously mentioned in the groups.30,31 However, the Soham murders and the Jamie Bulger case had not received significant news coverage lately and so mentions of these cases cannot be explained in terms this. Rather the mentions can be seen as confirmation of their status as ‘poster children,’ whereby certain crimes receive notable media attention and become ingrained in public consciousness as examples of a particular social evil.32 3.2 Changing World Throughout the data there is a sense that the participants are aware they are living in a very different world from which they grew up in or, in the case of the children, which their parents grew up in. This was demonstrated in three different ways. Firstly, through nostalgia for times past as seen in the following extract: ruralmum posted 20/01/2009: Do you think that being a child and a parent is more difficult and dangerous today than it was when you were young? Yes, where i live a small village, we could walk the fields with a bottle of water and jam sarny 33 and we were out until it started to get dark. Now i think alot of parents are too frightened to let their children do this, to let them out for long periods of time without worrying. I don’t know that anything has changed around here in that sense, its just the dangers are more publicised nationwide.

A second aspect of change identified by the participants, both young and old, is the increase in technology and consumerism over recent years, such as the development and wide-spread use of the internet. The mobile phone was also mentioned several times, specifically in its role as a safety link:

Jamini & Molly, 12-13 years old: J: I got one because I was starting high school, and I live quite far

away from here and if I'm walking home and something happens. R:34 Okay. And why did you get your phone? M: Sort of the same thing, just like in case for walking home on my

own and I needed to call someone that sort of thing Finally, wider social changes were commented upon, such as the decline of community and a declining number of stay at home mothers.


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3.3 Parental Fear Parents spoke of fear for their children, and there was an understanding on the part of the child participants that this fear is normal and is a way of their parents demonstrating their love: George, 12-13 years old: G: I think it worries the parents more because they don’t know where

we are every minute of the day and they like dunno. They try to- I think they worry because its their kids that are going out and if they let something happen to you they will never forgive themselves so they trying to crack down on where you are and stuff

George’s extract vocalises a notion that appeared time and again in the data, that parental fear is governed by the question of ‘what if?’: ‘what if someone abducts my children in the night?,’ ‘what if my child gets hooked on drugs?,’ or ‘what if my child gets stabbed?’ Parental worry and concern for children is expected, but the way in which theoretical risks are treated as real can be paralleled with Furedi’s notion of a culture of fear.35 The fear that parents have for their children also has to be balanced with wanting their children to have some independence and not wanting them to be frightened, and so a ‘catch 22’ emerges: Jacob & Lizzie, 12-13 years old: J: [They’re never going to kind of see you as grown up] L: [But they’ve got to kind of (.) learn to let you go] or else you’re

going to be like (.) when you’re older you’re going to be a nervous wreck - Oh I can’t go

Thus parents have to balance the risk with allowing their children to view the world in a positive way and to experience that world. 3.4 Danger and Risk Linked very closely with parental fear was the identification of dangers that were (potentially) present in their children’s lives. In the discussion below Nina describes her current fear concerning her near-adult son:

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Nina, Arifa & John, parents: N: [I am worried] about um he’s coming up to eighteen and he said his

friends are going to take him out into town and and get him drunk that’s what he said and that really worries [me ]

A: [mm] N: that frightens me to [death] J: [yeah] N: and I keep saying that really isn’t funny y’know because y- they

could kill you you could die couldn’t you? British teenagers have been commemorating their adulthood for decades with a few drinks in town, but for Nina the risk is too great and could mean the death of her son and so the effect of this culture of fear is clear to be seen. These fears, as mentioned earlier, can easily lead to the adaptation of behaviour and the imposition of strict guidance and over-supervision. Lisa (extract below), for example, resides in a low-crime town, and although Lisa admits ‘it’s a quiet area,’ there is fear that she and her sister may be the victim of a random knife attack: Lisa, 12-13 years old: R: What about if you wanted to play outside in your street? L: I wouldn't, no. Because its normally just me and my sister and we're

never really allowed out on to the front, like the road, because its like- I know it’s a quiet area, but you do get the odd car coming and you might not see it, or there might be people around with knives or whatever things like that

There is also an aspect of time and space to danger as parents and children discussed seasons and times in relation to the assessment of threat, e.g. winter was seen as riskier due to the darker evenings. The private/public divide also altered danger perception and so in Lisa’s comments (above) the front of her house is representative of this external risk. The dangers discussed were external ones and risks within the home, which is statistically where children are at greater risk, were only mentioned once or twice throughout the focus groups. There is also a paradox where children themselves, and in particular teenagers, are identified as a source of danger and this occurs in contrast to the majority of talk which frames under-18’s as innocents who need to be protected and supervised. The following extract demonstrates how teenagers are constructed as a source of danger, anxiety and concern:


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Sue & Dave, parents: S: for me it’s a thing about where I am my kids aren’t that old yet and

as an outsider looking at that group yes I think they’re horrible threatening nasty out of control bunch of people but I think by the time I get there and I know more 14 15 16 year olds I will see the good ones and get a more balanced view

D: yeah S: cuz at the minute all all you hear as an outsider to that group is all

the bad stuff 4. Summary It is clear from the small number of extracts shown here that there is a sense of danger and fear among parents and adults in contemporary society. In fact the danger to children is statistically minimal: traffic deaths are lower than they ever have been and child murders at the hand of strangers remain consistently low.36,37 This apparent mis-match between reality and the fears discussed by parents and children is understandable when viewed alongside features of a culture of fear. An approach to parenting has arisen which asks ‘what if?’ and seeks to prevent any risk involving their child. This ‘what if?’ is enhanced and intensified by media horror stories and an over-assessment of risk and danger. However, there is also an awareness of a need to allow children to experience some kind of independence and self-responsibility, and so parenting and childhood in a culture of fear is constructed as an issue of balance: a balance between creating ‘cotton wool kids’ and allowing children to be ‘free range.’ There is, as always, much more scope for investigation into contemporary parenting and childhood in the UK. The long term effects of over-supervision, lack of risk taking, and over-assessment of danger could be serious and warrants further attention, as does the use of technology to track children and its role within risk management strategies. Certainly, contemporary parenting is changing rapidly, and its impact on future generations is as yet unknown.

Notes 1 Two-year old Jamie Bulger was shopping with his mother in Liverpool on the 12th of February 1993, when he was abducted by Jon Venables and Robert Thompson, both aged 10 at the time. Bulger’s body was discovered two days later and post-mortem examinations showed the toddler had been subjected to physical abuse before his death. He was killed by a blow to the head and the two older boys placed his body on a railway line in the hope that his death would be viewed as an accident. Venables and Thompson were

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eventually found guilty of murder and were subsequently released from prison in 2001 having adopted new identities for their own protection. 2 Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman were two ten year old friends from Cambridgeshire who disappeared on their way back from the shop in August 2002 and they are believed to have died on the same date. Their murderer was Ian Huntley who was employed as caretaker at the school the girls attended. The bodies of the girls were found some 2 weeks later and Huntley was arrested and later sentenced to a minimum of 40 years imprisonment. 3 The kidnapping of 3 year old Madeleine McCann from her parents’ holiday apartment in Portugal hit the headlines in May of 2007. At the time of the kidnapping her parents, Gerry and Kate McCann, were dining with friends at a restaurant over 100 metres away, while the three year old girl and her younger brother and sister slept in the apartment. The story made global news as Gerry and Kate urged the world to look for their daughter and it continues to make headlines as the search continues. Although there have been several suspects, including Gerry and Kate, there is still no clue as to what happened to Madeleine or where she is. Criticism of the couple has been strong and the Portuguese police investigation has also been fierce, for their handling of evidence and the conduct of the office in charge of the case. Gerry and Kate have attempted to maintain a high media profile of their daughter’s case as they continue their search for their little girl. 4 Jaycee Lee Dugard was kidnapped aged 11 while walking to the school bus stop near her home in South Lake Tahoe, California, in June 1991. Her step father witnessed her being forcibly bundled into a car by a man and woman but the trail then went cold despite a huge campaign which included the case being featured several times on ‘America’s Most Wanted.’ On 26 August 2009, Philip Garrido, a known violent sex offender, attended a parole meeting accompanied by his wife, Nancy, and 3 young women. After questioning away from Garrido one of the women admitted to being Jaycee Lee Dugard and that the other young women were her children by Garrido. It emerged that since her kidnapping Jaycee was kept captive by the Garridos in sheds and tents in their backyard and was subject to repeated rapes over the years. Jaycee has been re-united with her family and Garrido and his wife have pled not guilty to charges including kidnapping, rape and imprisonment. 5 F Furedi, Culture of fear: Risk-Taking and the Morality of Low Expectation, Revised edn, Continuum, London and New York, 2002; B Glassner, The Culture of fear: Why Americans are Afraid of the Wrong Things, Basic Books, New York, 1999; J Simon, Governing through Crime: How the War on Crime Transformed American Democracy and Created a Culture of Fear, Oxford University Press, New York, 2007; Z Bauman, Liquid Fear, Polity Press, London, 2006.


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6 C Glassner, Cut: The True Story of an Abandoned, Abused Little Girl Who was Desperate to be Part of a Family, Harper Element, London, 2009. 7 M Landon, Daddy’s Little Earner: A Heartbreaking True Story of a Brave Little Girl’s Escape from Violence, Harper Element, London, 2008. 8 Furedi, 2002, op. cit. 9 P Aries, Centuries of Childhood, Plimico, London, 1996. 10 Glassner, op. cit. 11 ibid. 12 C Hardyment, Dream Babies: Childcare advice from John Locke to Gina Ford, Francis Lincoln, London, 2007, p. 347. 13 F Furedi, The Only Thing we have to Fear is the ‘Culture of Fear’ itself, Spiked, 2007, retrieved 21 October 2009, <http://www.frankfuredi.com/pdf/fearessay-20070404.pdf>. 14 J Meyers & J Loehr, Raising Your Child: The Complete Illustrated Guide: A Parenting Timeline Of what to do at Every Age and Stage of Your Child’s Development, Fair Winds Press, London, 2009. 15 S Biddulph, Raising Boys: Why Boys are Different - and how to Help them Become Happy and Well-Balanced Men, Thorsons, London, 2003. 16 C Fertleman & S Cave, Your Baby Week by Week: The Ultimate Guide to Caring for Your New Baby, Vermilion, London, 2007. 17 T Gill, No Fear: Growing Up in a Risk Averse Society, Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, London, 2007. 18 End Child Poverty, Why End Child Poverty: Key Facts, End Child Poverty, 2007, retrieved 4 August 2009, <http://www.endchildpoverty.org.uk/why-end-child-poverty/key-facts>. 19 F Furedi & J Bristow, Licensed to Hug: How Child Protection Policies are Poisoning the Relationship between the Generations and Damaging the Voluntary Sector, Civitas, London, 2008. 20 The Criminal Records Bureau (CRB) is a division of the Home Office which conducts check on criminal records. Any adult working with children or vulnerable adults in a paid or volunteer role must complete a criminal record disclosure, details of which are then passed on to potential employers or agencies. 21 C Green, ‘Authors Boycott Schools Over Sex-Offence Register’, The Independent, 16 July 2009, pp. 1-2. 22 Two-year-old Abby Rae wandered away from her nursery in Stratford upon Avon on 28th November 2002 after a back door was left open. After a search of the neighbourhood she was found in a nearby garden pond and was pronounced dead later that day. Clive Peachy drove past the toddler when she was wandering down the street on her own, but told the inquest into her death

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that he did not help for fear of being accused of abduction. The nursery was later charged with neglect. 23 Furedi & Bristow, op. cit., p. 48. 24 Furedi 2002, op. cit. 25 Gill, op. cit. 26 Glassner, op. cit. 27 F Furedi, Paranoid Parenting: Abandon Your Anxieties and be a Good Parent, Allen Lane: The Penguin Press, London, 2001. 28 Furedi 2002, op. cit. 29 Glassner, op cit. 30 Shannon Matthews was 9 years old when she disappeared on 19th of February 2008 and she was last seen on her way home from school in West Yorkshire. Police launched a massive man-hunt for the girl and a substantial reward was offered by a tabloid newspaper. Shannon was found on the 14th of March 2008, hiding in her step-uncle’s flat. It later emerged that Shannon’s mother and step-uncle had planned the ‘abduction’ in order to reap the reward money and in January 2009 they were both sentenced to 8 years in prison. 31 The story of ‘Baby P’ hit the UK headlines in November 2008 as the trial of his abusers began. The boy’s mother, Tracey Connelly, her boyfriend, Steven Barker, and her lodger, Jason Owen, were all found guilty of causing or allowing the death of a child and sentenced to varying lengths of imprisonment. The scale and nature of the abuse was headline grabbing, as were the failures of the authorities concerned. Social services were repeatedly involved yet failed to remove the child from his mother’s care long term and several doctors had failed to realise the significance and extent of the toddler’s injuries, including one doctor who failed to notice that the child’s back had been broken. The story continues to make the news as an exemplary case of abuse and to highlight service failures,. 32Glassner, op. cit. 33 This emoticon is titled ‘cheesy’ by the website the extract is taken from. 34 R = Researcher 34 Furedi 2002, op. cit. 34 Office for National Statistics, Road Casualties: Deaths on Great Britain’s Roads at all Time Low, Transport, United Kingdom, June 2008, retrieved 15 April 2009, <http://www.statistics.gov.uk/cci/nugget.asp?id=1208>. 34 Office for National Statistics, Crime and Justice: A Fall in Children Entering the Youth Justice System, United Kingdom, June 2009, retrieved 11 June 2009, <http://www.statistics.gov.uk/cci/nugget.asp?id=2200>.


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Bibliography

Aries, P., Centuries of Childhood. Plimico, London, 1996. Bauman, Z., Liquid Fear. Polity Press, London, 2006. Biddulph, S., Raising Boys: Why Boys are Different - and how to Help them Become Happy and Well-Balanced Men. Thorsons, London, 2003. End Child Poverty, Why End Child Poverty? Key Facts, End Child Poverty, 2007, retrieved 4 August 2009, <http://www.endchildpoverty.org.uk/why-end-child-poverty/key-facts>. Fertleman, C., & S. Cave, Your Baby Week by Week: The Ultimate Guide to Caring for Your New Baby. Vermilion, London, 2007. Furedi, F., Paranoid Parenting: Abandon Your Anxieties and be a Good Parent. Allen Lane: The Penguin Press, London, 2001. ____, Culture of fear: Risk-Taking and the Morality of Low Expectation, Revised edn. Continuum, London and New York, 2002. ____, The Only Thing we have to Fear is the ‘Culture of Fear’ Itself, Spiked, 2007, retrieved 21 October 2009, <http://www.frankfuredi.com/pdf/fearessay-20070404.pdf>. Furedi, F., & J. Bristow, Licensed to Hug: How Child Protection Policies are Poisoning the Relationship between the Generations and Damaging the Voluntary Sector. Civitas, London, 2008. Gill, T., No Fear: Growing Up in a Risk Averse Society. Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, London, 2007. Glass, C., Cut: The True Story of an Abandoned, Abused Little Girl Who was Desperate to be Part of a Family. Harper Element, London, 2009. Glassner, B., The Culture of fear: Why Americans are Afraid of the Wrong Things. Basic Books, New York, 1999. Green, C., ‘Authors Boycott Schools Over Sex-Offence Register’, The Independent, 16 July 2009, pp. 1-2.

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Hardyment, C., Dream Babies: Childcare advice from John Locke to Gina Ford, Francis Lincoln, London, 2007 Landon, M., Daddy’s Little Earner: A Heartbreaking True Story of a Brave Little Girl’s Escape from Violence. Harper Element, London, 2008. Meyers, J., & J. Loehr, Raising Your Child: The Complete Illustrated Guide: A Parenting Timeline Of what to do at Every Age and Stage of Your Child’s Development, Fair Winds Press, London, 2009. Office of National Statistics, Crime and Justice: A Fall in Children Entering the Youth Justice System, United Kingdom, June 2009, retrieved 11 June 2009, < http://www.statistics.gov.uk/cci/nugget.asp?id=2200>. ____, Road Casualties: Deaths on Great Britain’s Roads at all Time Low, June 2008, retrieved 15 April 2009, < http://www.statistics.gov.uk/cci/nugget.asp?id=1208>. Simon, J., Governing through Crime: How the War on Crime Transformed American Democracy and Created a Culture of Fear, Oxford University Press, New York, 2007. Leanne Franklin is a PhD student at Loughborough University working with John Cromby. Her work investigates the culture of fear that prevails in contemporary society and, in particular, how parenting and childhood is affected. Other research interests include fear, emotions and language. Email: [email protected] John Cromby is a Senior Lecturer in the School of Sport, Exercise and Health Sciences, Loughborough University UK. His research explores how experience gets co-constituted at the intersection of the body and social influence, and engages with topics such as emotion, depression, paranoia and chronic fatigue syndrome. He is co-editor of the journal ‘Subjectivity’. Email: [email protected]

Fearing the Addict: Hollywood’s Projection of America’s Phobia of Drug Addicts

Bryan Brown

Abstract United States citizens are ingrained with a fear of the drug addict. Through political rhetoric, legislation, and popular culture representation citizens are enveloped in a realm of fear. In pre-World War II, Hollywood addiction films portray the monstrous effects of drug experimentation in the youth culture. Post-WWII cinema brings the addict out of urban environments and into the local community. These narratives reflect a cultural and political awareness of the rise in combative efforts against drug addiction. Such representation fosters the social structure that enables fear within the community. Through early fear films Hollywood began to present the addict as an individual, which offers a threat to the local community. Through destructive behaviour addicts cause much hardship to their family, friends, and local community. Later films present the addict as sympathetic, but maintain he is to be feared because he weakly gives into his addiction regardless of the consequences. The addict must face harsh consequences for such behaviour. The structure of the studio system coupled with the industry created Hays Code demanded the representation of the addict to be overtly negative and to instill a wide spread fear in the audience. Films were declaring: Fear the Addict! Key Words: Addiction, characterisation, cinema, criminal, depiction, deviance, drug, fear, film, Hollywood, movie.


The drug addict is in the midst of a constant pursuit of the next fix of mind altering tablets, vials of the sweet nectar of escape in the form of an opiate, or perhaps to take one more lung full of smoke that will numb the pain of the world. The drug addict seeks this with little regard to your health and even their own well being. When a person succumbs to drug addiction they surrender all hope and cast aside all aspirations for any perceivable future.

The drug addict is a threat, a criminal, a health risk, and an unrepentant killer. These are the images of drug addiction offered by Hollywood cinema. While these images are primarily reserved for entertainment the dramatic license taken with the narrative offers insight into the American social construction of the drug addict. Furthermore, these

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narratives work to perpetuate the public perception of the drug addict, not as victim, but as threat. It is within this framework that the discussion of the depiction of drug addiction in Hollywood cinema is furthered. Hollywood is one of the United States’ most profitable industries both in national and international sales.1 The large revenue gained from the distribution has enticed Hollywood to seek new and expand existing markets. These markets have different cultures, customs, and social dynamics in which Hollywood films do little to attempt to adhere. This is not the intention of the work, as the intention is to make the most revenue possible in the limited amount of time and space that is allotted for Hollywood films abroad. Every effort is made to increase the profitability of every film produced by the Hollywood industries. With this noted, it becomes increasingly apparent that hesitation remains when considering the production of films with subversive material.2 If audiences find the films’ content to be too questionable then there is a reluctance to view such works. While this is certainly a consideration in regards to cinema that portrays certain types of drug addiction, it is not a definite refusal to make such works.

The question bears asking, if the content of drug addiction is considered controversial or subversive then why would Hollywood executives elect to produce such works? In the characters with drug addiction, Hollywood has indeed found a profitable and widely marketable social scoundrel. Hollywood has used the drug addict to both play upon audience fears and create a cinema villain that is ever present in society. The drug addict has become a prominent figure in Hollywood cinema and has done so at the cost of sympathy and willingness to provide care for such individuals in reality. Rather, the drug addict appears as an aspect of the underbelly of society, a roaming figure that is looking for a handout or stealing from the protagonist. A constant drain on society, the filmic aspects of the drug addict personality is that of social degradation.

While the drug addict is certainly not alone in its less-than-complimentary characterization, the drug addict remains an ever-present character meant to invoke fear in the minds of the audience. Other stereotypical characters have evolved to become more sympathetic or have simply disappeared. Still others, such as the gangster, have become anti-heroes.3 Even some of the most horrific characters, monsters such as ‘Freddy Krueger,’ are given some form of redemption within their films with comedic qualities to add levity to an onslaught of graphic images.4 There is little evidence to show attempts to rationalize or raise the audience relatable qualities of the drug addict. While this statement may draw some discussion, it warrants qualification.

Unrepentant drug addicts in films never rise above the fear inspiring aspects; only recovering addicts are viewed as heroic, brave, and worthy of any sympathy or accolade. Hollywood has yet to offer an anti-hero drug

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addict or even a drug addict in which ‘we love to hate.’ Rather, Hollywood is reliant upon the stereotype of the narcissistic drug addict that is more than a menace to those in which he is surrounded; he is a constant threat on many levels.

The threat of the narcissistic drug addict is perpetuated throughout the history of Hollywood cinema. The driving force behind this addiction remains on a sub-human level. Rarely is the reasoning behind the drug addiction given any credence outside of the initial usage. Peer pressure, a common culprit in Hollywood films, convinces the firstly clean individual to try the drug of choice.5 This preliminary high causes a chain reaction of negative aspects that lead to the ultimate destruction of the individual. While this may be regarded as some misguided form of audience education, the use of these fear tactics creates an image of the addict as both unredeemable and unworthy of sympathy.6 2. Type 1: The Drug Dealer-Addict

The unrepentant drug addict typically takes three forms. First, is the drug-dealer-addict. These addicts either become addicted to their own stash or they are selling the drugs to feed their addiction. In Darren Arnofsky’s 2000 film Requiem for a Dream the trio of friends become dealers with the intention and all the fervour of a get-rich-quick scheme.7 These characters, already young and narcissistic, reflect a postmodern worldly concept where the generation of those in their twenties has a perspective of both self-loathing and disillusioned idealism.8 Harry Goldfarb is a charismatic individual in which the intention is for the audience to feel sympathetic toward his plight, however misguided, in the beginning. However, as Harry becomes addicted to the heroin in which he pushes, the audience is disengaged and feels a tinge of relief as his world begins to crumble.

Harry’s influence is as poisonous to the people around him as the drugs he has given them to aid their addiction. He is equally as seductive, convincing, and tempting to those around him. Harry is also unwilling to acknowledge the pain he causes and the path to self-destruction in which he follows. Harry Goldfarb represents a sinister characterization of the drug addict. Through his charisma he is able to convince those around him to commit vile acts at the cost of their souls, metaphorically. Hollywood presents the charismatic addict as one in which we are all susceptible to falling prey to their charm. We like Harry Goldfarb, we too are convinced of his likeability, and we cannot deny our desire to be close and know more about the man leading us down this path. This is one of the essential aspects of an effective protagonist; the exception with Goldfarb is in that the sympathy quickly dissolves and is replaced by disgust.9

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3. Type 2: The Charismatic Drug Addict The similarities to the characterization of the charismatic drug addict

and the psychopathic killer in Hollywood film are undeniable. Each possesses a magnetic personality that makes them highly successful in their persuasion of others and they are able to convince their victims that they are trustworthy. Moreover, the audience is meant to relate or even root for the psychopathic characters despite their ruthless behaviour.10 As the audience becomes acquainted with the characters, their charming personality being projected is certainly a plot device that is meant to mask the foreshadowing of the events that will follow. However, these personality traits are factually based. Many high profile American serial killers, for instance, are described as projecting charisma while shadowing their violent tendencies to those potential victims.11 While the cinema serial killer becomes humorous and an audience favourite, the charismatic drug addict does not. Instead, the drug addict remains a threat and an image to fear. Always preying on the weakest amongst us, the charismatic drug addict uses their charming personality to spread drug addiction throughout the community and his temptation is irresistible.

The characterization of the alluring qualities of the charismatic drug addict presents the image that everyone is drawn to their magnetism. With special emphasis placed upon their influence of the youth and female, the image of this drug addict is repellent. Unlike cinema’s savage serial killer, the drug addict does lack a clear sense of humour and he does not resort to the zany quarks many of the serial killers possess. The drug addict’s charm dissolves and he becomes the clear instigator of the remainder of the downward spiral for the protagonist of the story that is if a clear protagonist exists. The charismatic drug addict in this instance is particularly threatening to the audience because he is endangering the protagonist or more aptly the cinematic manifestation of the social norms and values of a society. The protagonist is meant to be not only the visual representation of the audience member, but the liaison to the corrupt world created within the film. When the protagonist is threatened the audience is threatened. This aspect further perpetuates the basis of social fear in regard to the drug addict. In this case, the drug addict is viewed as an undeniable force that provides temptation to all those around him. He is constantly offering to fulfil the desires of those within our community with no regard for legal or ethical constraints. He becomes an invisible threat lurking amongst us, seeking his prey.

4. Type 3: The Anarchic Drug Addict

Placing the victim, or the influenced, aside for a moment another telling aspect of the storyline of the charismatic drug addict is that there is no clear or positive representation of the legal system. The drug addict is portrayed primarily as an ex-convict that has never rehabilitated. Rather, the

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system has failed to keep the criminals away from the innocent. This failure of the legal system is reflective of an overall mindset of the American public. Whereas incarceration is acceptable and reasonable, rehabilitation of a criminal is viewed as unlikely and rare. Garland believes this view is influenced by the reality that incarceration, not rehabilitation is the goal of the legal system as it stands today.12 The effect that some minor offenders become more determined criminals once they leave the prisons is an unfortunate after effect.

In the 1971 film Panic in Needle Park, Bobby is both an ex-convict and a charismatic drug addict that convinces his naïve girlfriend to not only partake in the drugs, but that she should resort to prostitution, drug smuggling, and lying to the police to maintain their drug supply. Helen represents the innocent girl caught up in the charm and excitement of Bobby and has little hesitation about following him into the abyss. It is indeed Helen’s perspective that drives the storyline rather than that of Bobby. The audience watches as Helen’s life deteriorates and she becomes more of a puppet for Bobby’s every whim rather than the young, innocent girl that began the film. All empathy for Helen is replaced with a disdain. The audience takes no pleasure in viewing her downfall, but this film furthers the fear of the drug addict convict that fails to be rehabilitated. Narratives such as these are prevalent within Hollywood. These remain as a constant reminder to the audience that the legal system may be effective in containing some hardened criminals, but drug addicts are loose, influential, and within close proximity.

More than a criminal, the drug addict is a highly persuasive health risk that attacks the weakest of the cinema characters, the characters in which the audiences are meant to relate or sympathise. In these films, typically the most innocent amongst us fall prey to the temptations that drugs offer. Women, like Helen, and children are the hapless victims in much of the cinema that portrays the addict. Whether this is the person actually dealing with the addiction or having an association with the addict the innocent is drawn into a world in which the film makes clear that they do not belong.

Female characters have a long tradition of dichotomous framing in addiction cinema. First, the female is portrayed as generally innocent and naïve. These characters are apt to be easily influenced by the more charismatic male characters. Films such as Panic in Needle Park combine the traditional stereotypes of virgin, scatterbrain, and whore within the character arch within the storyline.13 This downward spiral that takes place allows the audience to see the transition from innocent and pure to disgrace and a reflection of the worst aspects of society. Furthermore, the women cast in these films are rarely A-list actresses.14 The intention is to cast female characters that are viewed as average and that represent the female as that of undetermined locale. The male, usually addicted prior to the beginning of the

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narrative, draws the female into the drug world. The females are lured by the promises of love or success. Rarely do the female characters have a lust for the drug itself at the beginning of the film, their interest lies with the pleasing of the male character. The female character of these films is typically the weakest in will. While the male character is ultimately rehabilitated, sometimes forcefully, the female character remains caught within the clutches of the drug.15 5. The American Dream and Drug Addiction

The American philosophy of maturity is the conduit to success and those that choose to remain in arrested development are openly bucking the system reveals a compounding fear manifestation within the drug addicted character.16 Armed with charisma, the drug addicted character remains undaunted by the social pressures of the societal success. The mainstream conception of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (family, accumulated wealth, and social stature) are of little concern to the drug addict. Rather, the character is reflective of an anarchic social stratum that convinces itself that the only way to true happiness is self indulgence at any cost.17 Again, these characterisations create a fear of drug addiction that is deeply rooted within the cultural and social psychology of the United States. With little regard to the items in which Americans associate with self worth, the audience is faced with a character in which they are not only unable to relate, but despises the very foundation for which the audience has grown accustomed. The faction of drug addicts in Gus Van Sant’s 1989 Drugstore Cowboy illustrate this level of social ambivalence that creates a level of unease and perpetuates the instilled fear within the audience.18 These characters are not particularly likeable, nor are they intended to be. While there certainly are hints of charisma, the overarching despicable qualities of the drug addicts make them ultimately not relatable. However, the film can certainly be associated with the caper genre; the key difference is that while cinema bank robbers have become glorified anti-heroes, or modern day Robin Hoods, the drug addict is a social pariah that steals only to fulfil his desire for narcotics.

Hollywood is emblematic of the social trend of culture commodification. As apparent in the industry trends and practices of the past century, most notably in the latter half of the twentieth century, Hollywood represents a crossroads where culture and economics are indistinct. The film industry has a consistent practice of geographic expansion, production efficiency, and promotion of social and economic standards.19 Principally, Hollywood is a competitive, profit-oriented business with the key interest being to raise the profit margin and lower the rate of uncertainty. Under the principles of capitalist ideology, the Hollywood film industry has promoted and reflected the social and legislative concerns of the dominant administrations of the United States.

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While narcotics have been a concern of legislation and law enforcement before the introduction of the Hollywood industry there is little doubt that the influence of the characterization of drug addicts in cinema has had a large impact on the social perception of the drug addict. The Hollywood film industry began during the height of the Progressive Era and it is here that the intertwining of the politics of the social climate and cinema as entertainment has its roots. The changes in social climate occurring during the early twentieth century in the United States are illustrated by the various local laws that were passed to suppress what was deemed as immoral behaviour.20 Both the local and the national laws became increasingly focused upon the practices that were deemed most impacting on the larger social scale. This included, among other areas, legislation to impede drug trafficking. Coinciding with the Progressive Era and due partly to business and artistic endeavours and newly formed industry legislation, film emerged as a driving force in both industry and culture. The earliest films were already addressing social issues that are the focus of the Progressive Era legislation. These early shorts illustrate the social-morals being promoted during this time period. The Curse of Cocaine (1909) is one such film produced by Chicago’s Essanay Film Company. The controversial film was intended to be a short expose of the harmful effects of the cocaine abuse. The film became objectionable and was subsequently censored not due to the narrative containing drug use, rather the image of the trademarked container that held the narcotic.21 The intention of this film was to draw attention to the largely adopted usage and prescribing of the narcotic to people across the United States. While the controversy surrounding The Curse of Cocaine remained in the negative effects on pharmaceutical sales, the impact on the support of the foundational stereotypes of drug addicts is dismissed from scrutiny. Similar films were to follow The Curse of Cocaine each with its own take on the deemed wretched behaviour of drug addiction.22 6. The Filmic Drug Addict as Fear Appeal

Fear appeals fuel social tensions and thereby promote a willingness to support any legislative action that may be used to suppress the behaviour that is at the root of such fear. While the extensive history of the political usage of news outlets promoting political agendas has been well documented the influence of entertainment media has remained questionable.23 The use of media as an instrument for political agenda is not a new concept. In fact, the use of film as a projection of political ideology is not a fresh perspective either. The exception is that audiences and critics associate the film’s content with that of the director or screenwriter. The ‘lone gunman’ theory of film implies that the messages presented in the work are reflective of the personal beliefs of the auteur rather than an industry or a society. However, those

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artists have a variety of influences and both consciously and subconsciously those influences remain an aspect of the film. The screenwriter and director are influenced by social hierarchical tradition and works of their fellow artists. They draw upon those influences when creating the narratives and producing the films. There should be little doubt that the representation of the drug addicted character has altered over time. The characters have not changed, at least not for the better, and the fear remains that the drug addict does not alter with it. If indeed the characters have altered it is toward a more negative and violent representation.

Fear appeals are perhaps most effective when they reflects an underlying social concern. Drug addiction is a constant source of media fodder and therefore the sheer volume of drug addicted characters and storylines within cinema work to further this concern. The real issue that emerges is that Hollywood offers no solution for the matter. The fear appeals are implemented, but the solution for the national drug addiction issue is never resolved.24 Rather, the drug addict may elect rehabilitation, but those around him continue the lifestyle. Therefore, drug addiction continues beyond the closure of the narrative.

If cinema has indeed propagated the social fear of the drug addict is there a possibility for social scientists to gauge its effectiveness? While the opinions of scholars are inconclusive public perception appears to be generally positive that fear appeals are effective. These somewhat subtle fear appeals that are prominent in drug addiction films remain in constant question of social acceptance. The works of media effects scholars continue to study the influences of these types of films and its relation to substance abuse, but there is a void in questioning the effects of the fear appeals on the masses. 7. Conclusion

The filmic portrayal of the drug addict fosters in its audience a sense of inevitable dread. According to cinema, all ethnicities, all regions, and all peoples are susceptible to drug addiction. For these characters, the needle, the pipe, the snort take priority above even self sustainability and well being. The audience member, having little interaction with drug addicts other than those represented within the media is most vulnerable to accepting the stereotypes presented in the work. As a result these audience members, having been constantly exposed to the abundance of drug addicted and abusing characters within film, become sympathetic to the political concerns regarding such behaviour regardless of the consequences to the drug offender. Their fear consumes them and they too are caught within their own addiction. The addiction of the fear of the addict.

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Notes 1 Hollywood’s global industry is more profitable than its national distribution

network. Hollywood is no longer a national industry with strict regional confines it has now fully global with structures of industry throughout the globe. S R Greenwald & P Landry, The Business of Film, Lone Eagle, New York, 2009.

2 See J Sedgwick & M Pokorny, An Economic History of Film, Routledge, New York, 2005.

3 See J McCarty, Bullets Over Hollywood: The American Gangster Picture from Silents to ‘The Sopranos’, De Capo Press, New York, 2005.

4 See P Lewis, ‘The killing jokes of the American eighties’. Humor- International Journal of Humor Research, vol. 10. no. 3, 1997, pp. 251-284.

5 While many prevention programmes point to peer pressure as the primary cause for drug usage, many researchers maintain there is a variety of reasoning and influences behind one adopting the drug lifestyle. See LJ Crockett, M Raffaelli & Y Shen, ‘Linking self-regulation and risk proneness to risky sexual behavior: Pathways through peer pressure and early substance use’. Journal of Research on Adolescence, vol. 16, no. 4, 2006, pp. 503-525.

6 While filmic examples of the narcissistic drug addict appear throughout the tenure of Hollywood cinema, the characters become particularly prevalent during the late 1960s and 1970s. This is partially due to an overwhelming rise in the disillusionment of American youth during the 1970s and a rise in cultural narcissism.

7 E Watson & P West (prod) D Aronofsky (dir) Requiem for a Dream, Artisan Entertainment, Burbank, 2000.

8 See C Lasch. The Culture of Narcissism. W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, 1979.

9 It is particularly noteworthy to point to the fact that Aronofsky’s work thus far has centred around obsession and addiction in its various forms. He has yet to stray from such narratives.

10 American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman is a recent example of the charismatic psychopath, but Hollywood has an extensive history of producing films with such characters.

11 RM Holmes & ST Holmes, Contemporary Perspectives on the Serial Killer, Sage Publications, New York, 1998.

12 See D Garland, Punishment and Modern Society: A Study in Social Theory, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1990.

13 See R Schubart, Super Bitches and Action Babes, McFarland & Company, Jefferson, North Carolina, 2007.

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14 Notably, Anne Hathaway and Jennifer Connolly have both played drug

addicts in recent films, but Hollywood has an extensive history of combining A-list male actors with lesser-known female counterparts in addiction films.

15 See Neil Armfield’s Candy (2006) - Australian; Blake Edwards’ Days of Wine and Roses (1962); Harold Becker’s The Boost (1988).

16 It warrants noting that sociological research has drawn links to maturity levels in adults and criminal behaviour. The prevailing theory of the 1950s, that those participating in criminal behaviour possess a sense of immaturity, is disputable amongst modern scholars. See CE Sullivan, MQ Grant & JD Grant, ‘The Development of Interpersonal Maturity: Applications to Delinquency’. Psychiatry, vol. 20, 1957, pp. 373-385. Also see P Van Voorhis, Psychological Classification of the Adult Male Inmate, New York University Press, New York, 1994.

17 See GR Hanson, PJ Venturelli, & AE Fleckstein Drugs and Society, Jones & Bartlett Publishers, Sudbury: MA, 2005.

18 K Murphy (prod) G Van Sant (dir) Drugstore Cowboy, Los Angeles: Avenue Productions, 1989.

19 A J Scott, On Hollywood: The Place, The Industry, Princeton University Press, Princeton, 2005.

20 During the Progressive Era (1890s - 1920s) the local law enforcement passed laws regulating child labour, prostitution, political corruption, minimum wage, and many labour practices.

21 By the turn of the century, various pharmaceutical companies held the packaging patent for cocaine and opium based products. This included the Mallinckrodt Chemical Works which was heavily critical of the The Curse of Cocaine because the film included a close-up of a medicine bottle with the company’s label. Objecting more on the basis of bad publicity rather than public health, the chemical company threatened legal action. (JF Spillane Cocaine: From Medical Marvel to Modern Menace in the United States, 1884-1920, The Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 1999).

22 Other such works include D W Griffith’s For His Son (1912), The Morphinist (1911), J Griffith Way’s Human Wreckage (1923).

23 See R E Rice & C K Atkin, Public Communication Campaigns, SAGE, Thousand Oaks, 2000; DN Walton, Media Argumentation, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2007.

24 See A R Pratkanis & E Aronson, Age of Propaganda, MacMillian, New York, 2001.

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Bibliography

Crockett, L. J., M. Raffaelli & Y. Shen, ‘Linking self-regulation and risk proneness to risky sexual behavior: Pathways through peer pressure and early substance use’. Journal of Research on Adolescence vol. 16, no. 4, 2006, pp. 503-525.

Garland, D., Punishment and Modern Society: A Study in Social Theory. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1990.

Greenwald, S. R. & P. Landry, The Business of Film. Lone Eagle, New York, 2009. Hanson, G. R., P. J. Venturelli, & A. E. Fleckstein, Drugs and Society. Jones & Bartlett Publishers, Sudbury: MA, 2005.

Holmes, R. M. & S. T. Holmes Contemporary Perspectives on the Serial Killer. Sage Publications, New York, 1998.

Lasch, C., The Culture of Narcissism. W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, 1979.

Lewis, P., ‘The killing jokes of the American eighties’. Humor- International Journal of Humor Research, vol. 10, no. 3, 197, pp. 251-284. McCarty, J., Bullets Over Hollywood: The American Gangster Picture from Silents to ‘The Sopranos’. De Capo Press, New York, 2005.

Murphy, K. (prod) G. Van Sant (dir) Drugstore Cowboy. Avenue Productions, Los Angeles, 1989.

Pratkanis, A. R., & E. Aronson, Age of Propaganda. MacMillian, New York, 2001.

Rice, R. E. & C. K. Atkin, Public Communication Campaigns. SAGE, Thousand Oaks: CA, 2000. Walton, D. N., Media Argumentation. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2007.

Schubart, R. Super Bitches and Action Babes. McFarland & Company, Jefferson: North Carolina, 2007.

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Scott, A. J. On Hollywood: The Place, The Industry. Princeton University Press, Princeton, 2005.

Sedgwick, J. & M. Pokorny, An Economic History of Film. Routledge, New York, 2005.

Spillane, J. F., Cocaine: From Medical Marvel to Modern Menace in the United States, 1884-192. The Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 1999.

Sullivan, C. E., M. Q. Grant & J. D. Grant, ‘The Development of Interpersonal Maturity: Applications to Delinquency’. Psychiatry, vol. 20, 1957, pp. 373-385.

Van Voorhis, P. Psychological Classification of the Adult Male Inmate. New York University Press, New York, 1994.

Watson, E. & P. West (prod) D. Aronofsky (dir) Requiem for a Dream. Artisan Entertainment, Burbank, 2000. Bryan Brown is a PhD candidate at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. His research focuses upon the depiction of drug addiction in Hollywood cinema. Specifically, his dissertation is focused upon drug addiction in 1970s Hollywood cinema. Additionally, he teaches courses in film theory, history, and criticism.

‘Bullet-Holes for Eyes’: The Lingering Image of Horror in a 1920s Murder

Jo Chipperfield

Abstract In the small hours of a September morning in 1927, PC George Gutteridge was shot dead in the quiet Essex village he patrolled. The ‘motor-bandits’ responsible finished the dying man off with a bullet to each eye, fired at close range. Their act was dismissed at the time as evidence of an erroneous belief in the superstition that the retina can retain the last image seen before death, and used by the press of the day as nothing more than salacious filler, an index to the villains’ barbarism and low intellect. As the first case to use ballistics evidence to bring a conviction in an English court, the Gutteridge murder was considered one of the country’s greatest criminal cases in the first half of the twentieth century. Today it has only local notoriety and limited fame in the annals of forensic science, yet the shooting of the eyes remains and has become the cornerstone of most narratives published on the murder. This paper explores the peculiar tenacity of this detail through an analysis of early experiments in retinal imagery and the significance of eye mutilation as a horror motif. I argue that the visceral/visual symbolism of the eye, as both witness to horror (and the horror of its own destruction) and an object of horror (when intact and watching or when blinded/mutilated) is key to this crime story. I also suggest that the lack of explanation from the perpetrators themselves adds a level of mystery and uncertainty to a story which is otherwise perceived as neatly resolved through scientific and rational enquiry, and maintains abjection in an almost-forgotten crime over 80 years old. Key Words: Crime, criminology, England between the wars, eyes, forensic science, horror, optograms, superstition.

*****

1. Introduction In the early 20th Century, the rapid and accelerating changes of

modernism produced a volatile admixture of old and new. In 1927, a murder occurred that invoked one of the 19th Century’s hottest scientific debates: the possibility that the last thing a person saw would be imprinted on the retina and could, in cases of murder, be photographed and used as evidence. It was suggested that this was the ‘superstition’ that led two car thieves, William Kennedy and Frederick Browne, to fire a bullet through each of PC George

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Gutteridge’s eyes after they had gunned him down for stopping and questioning them.

While most of the press reports noted the singular horror of this detail, it was not widely dwelt upon. With the exception of two tabloid articles sensationalising it, the eye-shooting was a footnote to what otherwise became vaunted as ‘the greatest murder case in English jurisprudence,’ famed for the pioneering use of forensic ballistics in securing the resulting murder conviction.1 Yet, in the accounts of the crime that appear in the true crime revival of the 1980’s and 1990’s, this horrific detail is the story’s central and most-cited feature. This paper is about the changing appeal of this detail in true crime, which I will explore by way of the science and symbolism of murder, detection and images in the eyes of the dead. 2. Murder Most Foul

Just before 6 AM on 27 September 1927, Alec Ward was driving his mail van towards Howe Green, Essex when he came upon what looked like a bundle of something lying under a hedge on the side of the road. Alec pulled up, got out and, to his horror, saw at once that it was the local policeman, lying in full uniform and cape, his head and shoulders on the grass verge, legs sticking out into the road. In the constable's right hand was grasped a short pencil. There was a lot of blood, splashed across the road in a long arc, soaking the grass under the constable’s head, obscuring most of his face. To the right, about a yard away, lay the domed helmet and little black pocket book emblematic of the British bobby. Alec took hold of the constable’s stiff, upraised hand and found it stone cold.2

So began what was termed ‘one of the most mysterious [murders] of recent years.’3 When the local Detective Inspector and the GP he had called arrived at the scene, Gutteridge’s body was moved to the closest public house, where it was laid out in a back room. A hundred years before, suspects would have been brought to view the body to ascertain guilt: the body was said to bleed afresh in the presence of its murderer. In the new era of forensic science, the doctor and the detective made a detailed examination of the body. They found that there were two distinct bullet holes in the right cheek, closely spaced just in front of the ear. There were larger exit wounds on the other side of the head, one through the cheek and the other through the neck. Most disturbing, yet surprisingly easy to miss, were the neat, round bullet holes, peppered with gunshot residue, in each of Gutteridge's eyelids.

The Daily Mail was the first newspaper to speculate on why Gutteridge had been shot in this deliberate and peculiar fashion:

It is now believed that this savagery was the outcome of a fixed belief in the minds of many people that the last scenes

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witnessed by a dying person are ‘photographed’ on the retina of the eyes. ‘I suspect,’ said a famous detective engaged in investigating the murder, ‘that the murderer believed that his own portrait would be found on the retina of the constable’s eyes, and therefore he callously shot out the poor fellow’s eyes so that they should tell no tales.’4 While unattributed, I suspect that the Mail was quoting Detective

Inspector Walter Dew who was indeed famous, as ‘the man who caught Crippen,’ though he wasn’t involved in this case.5 In 1888, Dew was a detective in the Whitechapel division of the Metropolitan Police. He was right behind Inspector Beck, who was first to peer into the bloody chamber at 13 Miller's Court where Mary Kelly, a prostitute Dew knew well by sight, had been left barely recognisable by what would be Jack the Ripper's final and most frenzied attack. In his memoirs, Dew describes the scene as best he can within the bounds of decency, and notes that her wide-open eyes prompted the police to try to photograph her retina:

I do not for a moment think that the police ever seriously expected the photograph of the murderer to materialise, but it was decided to try the experiment. Several photographs of the eyes were taken by expert photographers with the latest type of cameras. The result was negative ... the very fact that this forlorn hope was tried shows that the police, in their eagerness to catch the murderer, were ready to follow any clue and to adopt any suggestion, even at the risk of being made to look absurd.6

3. The Strange Case of the Optogram

The suggestion that the retina could ‘photograph’ the last thing a dying person saw had been the subject of heated debate in Victorian scientific circles, perhaps influenced by the development of photography. In 1835 William Fox Talbot looked at the fleeting images in his camera obscura and thought how marvellous it would be to capture them permanently, and his experiments with paper soaked in light-sensitive chemicals produced the earliest paper photographs.7 It was perhaps natural that the new understanding of photo-sensitive chemicals would prompt enquiry into whether the fleeting images captured by the human eye could also be fixed.


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By the 1860s the possibility that retinal photography be considered as a means to identify killers was seriously proposed whenever a particularly newsworthy murder proved difficult to solve.8 These proposals were met with scorn, especially by the Pall Mall Gazette which, while doing an excellent job of discrediting press reports of murderers being caught by such a method, also confidently stated that the discovery that the retina could preserve images was about as likely as the advent of colour photography.9 By the late 1860s, the matter seemed finally relegated to folklore, resurfacing only, as Popular Science Review commented, as well-known press-fillers, used ‘when other more important matter is not handy.’10

Then, in 1876, German scientist Willy Kühne published the first paper on retinal chemistry which suggested that the human eye could indeed be likened to the mechanism of photography. He wrote:

the retina behaves not merely like a photographic plate, but like an entire photographic workshop, in which the workman continually renews the plate by laying on new light-sensitive material, while simultaneously erasing the old image.11

Kühne also conducted lab experiments to test the hypothesis that

retinal images could be retained and viewed after death. He took an albino rabbit, removed its eyelids and clamped its head facing a bright window. He covered its head with a cloth for some minutes to build up the sensitivity of its eyes then lifted the cloth from one of its eyes to ‘expose’ it. He then chopped the hapless bunny's head off, took out the eyes, cut the exposed one in half and put it in an alum (aluminium chloride) bath to ‘fix’ the image. The next day, Kühne saw and photographed the resulting image - a clear, if distorted, black and white rendering of the barred window. It’s remarkably similar in quality to the first experimental photograph Fox Talbot took of the oriel window of his home at Lacock Abbey 40 years before.12

Also working in this field was Franz Boll of the University of Rome, who had been first to describe the light-sensitive substance on the retina that is now known as rhodopsin. In 1877 Boll was given permission to attempt to capture an image from the retina of an executed criminal. Within two hours of the man's execution, Boll extracted and examined the eyes. He found no image, and concluded that the light in the prison yard was too dim, but that even if there had been sufficient light to produce an image, it would have been erased when the executioner closed the man's eyes. Even in the best conditions, however, he concluded that the immediate plunge into an alum bath that was needed to fix any retinal image would always prove impractical.

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Kühne, however, believed that advances in knowledge and technique would eventually allow landscapes and portraits to be photographed using the retina, and he coined the name ‘optograms’ for these images. His colleague Dr Ayres made over a thousand experiments using cattle while working in Kühne's laboratory in Heidelburg - a veritable one-man slaughterhouse. Like Boll, he eventually concluded that, given the difficulty of obtaining optograms even under laboratory conditions, the practice of recording retinal images after violent death was an ‘utterly idle’ belief.13 4. Retinal Facts and Fictions

There is something in the idea of retinal imagery that seems to offer at least a culturally symbolic explanation for why a car thief should shoot out the eyes of a dying policeman. The symbolism of the eye as the ‘window of the soul’ through which we both perceive and are perceived is immensely strong. The eyes are a site of the abject, one of the few organs that is both internal and external, a vulnerable entry point to the body which is also exposed and visible. The sheer horror of imagining the violent destruction of the eyeballs is invited by their delicate biology. It turns your stomach to dwell on it too much, let alone see it. Two years after the Gutteridge murder, in 1929, Salvador Dalí and Louis Buñel released The Andalusian Dog, a surrealist film which opens with a scene in which a woman’s eye is apparently slit open with a razor, a special effect created by substituting a shot of a cow’s eye for the woman’s just before the act. Reportedly, Buñel was sick for a week after the filming of the scene.14

The Daily Mail’s suggestion that retinal imagery was behind the shooting of Police Constable Gutteridge’s eyes was briefly picked up by other newspapers, and then dropped as the investigation went on. In the later press reports covering the arrest of William Henry Kennedy and Frederick Guy Browne for the murder, it doesn’t appear at all. Neither does it feature in the trial. No explanation was ever sought from Browne or Kennedy - it simply wasn’t important to the investigation. Kennedy made a statement that carefully implicated Browne in the shooting, casting himself as the helpless passenger in Browne’s car-thieving expedition and the ensuing murder. Describing the killing, Kennedy stated only that Browne stooped over the dying constable and said ‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ before shooting deliberately into each eye. Browne denied any involvement, and protested his innocence to the end.

The Gutteridge murder was the first case in which ballistics evidence was used to bring a conviction in an English court. It also led directly to the instigation of the 999 emergency telephone service after it was found that the local telephone operator had not known what to do with the emergency phone call that Alec Ward tried to make after discovering the


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body.15 Despite these historic firsts, the case today is largely forgotten, relegated to histories of forensic science and the local history of Essex, popping up occasionally in true crime magazines and omnibuses.

When it does appear in the true crime omnibuses, however, there is a very notable difference between the accounts of the crime from the early 20th century and those which have appeared in the last decade or so.

In the true crime collections of the first half of the 20th century, the case is uniformly featured as a feat of detection, strongly featuring the pioneering use of forensic ballistics as a powerful new weapon in the fight against crime. In the press too the focus was on the marvels of modern police detection, and few reports make gratuitous use of the shooting. One appeared in the Sunday News of October 2nd, the first Sunday after the murder:

RED GLEAM IN DYING CONSTABLE’S EYES EYES SCORCHED BY FLASH This is the most extraordinary feature of the crime. The eyes were seared by the revolver flame, showing that the action was either with intent to stop the dying man’s last effort, or the result of a frenzy of fear. A correspondent whose unfortunate experience it has been to see many men die violent deaths, states that sometimes after being shot in the head with the heavy leaden bullet the eyes of dying men gleam momentarily red and then fade away into glassy darkness. Such a gleam may have shown in poor Gutteridge’s eyes, and his slayer, maddened by fear, held the barrel close and for ever put out their light.16 Notably, this article - sensationalist as it is - makes no mention of

retinal imagery, even though it appears after the Daily Mail article that was the source of the suggestion. It offers instead an (alleged) ‘eye-witness’ rational account of why this happened, suggesting the killer feared not an old wives’ tale but the physical result of the shooting itself - the horror of his own actions. Similarly, the Evening Standard ran a long article which also dismissed the superstition under the heading ‘Dying Man’s Eye As Crime Camera: Fallacy Behind Savage Act in Policeman Murder,’17 and which quoted ‘eminent ophthalmic surgeons’ who helpfully explained the entire mechanism of the eye and the difficulty of obtaining optograms, just as Boll and Kühne had concluded 50 years before.

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5. The Lingering Image of Horror The two stories explicitly linking the shooting of Gutteridge’s eyes

with a belief in retinal imagery appear within days of the crime, and amount to a very small proportion of the total column inches devoted to the crime’s investigation.

In stark contrast, the killers belief in retinal images is the single common element retold in the late 20th century true crime narratives, to the point where the remaining fame of the crime now centres on the grisly detail of shot eyeballs. While it appears in true crime books of the 1930s, 1940s and 1950’s with titles like Great Feats of Detection, in the true crime revival of the 1980’s and 1990’s it’s found under titles such as Crimes of Horror. The title of this paper comes from the account in an issue of Murder Casebook from 1991, entitled ‘Death in a Country Lane,’ and which begins:

The first light of an autumn morning filtered through the mist on a rural lane in Essex, and disclosed a grisly sight. Propped up by the roadside was a police constable, but he was not dozing or admiring the view. He had bullet holes for eyes.18

The true crime of the 1990s reflects a wider shift in taste and in

attitudes to crime and its detection. In the early 20th Century, tales of detection in which the police and legal system hunted and inevitably captured and punished the criminal threat to society, reflected a faith in technological, scientific and social advances in the fight against all of society’s ills. By the late 20th Century that faith had been proven to be misplaced. What has replaced it is a fascination with the minute details of crimes themselves, of the mechanism of death and the acts of killers - both the physical infliction of pain and death and the psychological circumstances that drive the killing urge. Perhaps, as Walter Benjamin argued in 1936, ‘[Mankind’s] self alienation has reached such a degree that it can experience its own destruction as an aesthetic pleasure of the first order.’19

However, true crime narratives and the lurid accounts of murder that we associate with them - and indeed with sensationalist journalism - have a pedigree stretching back at least four centuries before the advent of the mass media. The history of true crime narratives has been traced back to the ‘murder ballads’ of the 16th, 17th and 18th Centuries, printed pamphlets that publicised notorious crimes, and most particularly murders, for literate and illiterate alike. In text and image, they printed mutilated bodies in near-forensic detail and imaginatively reconstructed the terror of the victims, the mentality of the killers and the killers’ pre-execution confessions. The pamphlets’ publishers argued in their introductions that through knowledge of these terrible deeds the devil could be recognised and protected against,


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and that the shocking details of heinous crimes would serve as a warning against impiety that could let the devil in and drive ordinary men and women to murder.20

For complex reasons that can’t simply be put down to morbid curiosity or perverse voyeurism, a large number of people have always been fascinated by the particular kind of horror offered by true crime. The speculative detail of these old ballads, and indeed of more contemporary true crime, speaks to a continuing desire to understand how and why people kill. One researcher has suggested that:

Sensationalist crime accounts build their emotional potency on both a visceral response to violence itself and the quasi-religious dilemma posed by transgression of core values. And that by Linking violent crime and criminal justice procedures with a prescribed emotional response both personal and communal, these works have been a powerful means of constructing both shared values and individual identity.21

While the press of 1927 invited readers to share a comforting laugh

at the expense of the low-minded criminal and his primitive beliefs, the subsequent survival of this horror motif sounds a symbolic note that cuts to the heart of the significance of this murder: here was the representation of law and order, the observant flâneur trained and paid to keep a watchful eye on the sleeping village of Stapleford Abbots, slain and with his eyes - the organs of detection - put out. 6. Conclusion

That this is now the leading motif of the Gutteridge murder is instructive of the profound changes that have taken place over the 20th Century, and what I hope to have shown here is that these changes are reflected in the shift in focus of true crime stories.

In the early 20th Century, with its prevailing ideology of a secular, rather than religious, response to violence, the focus was on the war between the state and the criminal rather than god and the devil, and on the progress of prevention, detection and punishment. The advances made by science in the 19th and early 20th Centuries drove an optimism for continued progress towards a more law-abiding, ordered and knowledgeable society.

In the late twentieth century and here in the early twenty-first, the optimism and confidence in the state’s ‘conquest of violence’ has long been undermined by the continuing perception of rising crime rates and worsening social behaviour which, without recourse to the equally undermined bulwark of Christianity, has translated into a public discourse obsessed with the

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enumeration and microscopic examination of violence, murderers and victims in the hope of gaining knowledge that will act as personal protection in the face of unpredictable and ubiquitous crime. 22

Notes 1 J Berrett, When I Was at Scotland Yard. London: Sampson Low, Marston & Co, 1936, p. vi. 2 This and subsequent narrative accounts of the murder are reconstructed from witness and police statements. These documents are housed at the National Archive, Kew (MEPO31631 and DPP1/86). 3 Anonymous, ‘Mysterious Murder of A Policeman’. The Daily Mail, 28 September 1927, p. 1. 4 Anonymous, ‘Shot Policeman’. The Daily Mail, 1 October 1927, p. 10. 5 N Connell, Walter Dew: the man who caught Crippen. Stroud: Sutton Publishing, 2005. 6 Ibid., pp. 38-9. 7 The National Trust, ‘Fox Talbot Museum’. Lacock Abbey, Fox Talbot Museum & Village, 29 August 2009, <http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-vh/w-visits/w-findaplace/w-lacockabbeyvillage/w-lacockabbeyvillage-talbotmuseum.htm>. 8 B Jay, ‘In the eyes of the dead’. British Journal of Photography, /January, viewed on 25 August 2008, <www.billjayonphotography.com>. 9 Ibid., unpaginated. 10 V Campion-Vincent, ‘The Tell-Tale Eye’. Folklore, Vol. 110/April, viewed on 25 August 2008, <http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2386/is_1999_Annual/ai_55983642/pg_1?tag=artBody;col1>, p. 4. 11 A B Evans, ‘Optograms and Fiction: photo in a dead man’s eye’. Science-Fiction Studies, Vol. XX:3/61, November, 1993, p. 342. 12 The College of Optometrists, ‘Optography and optograms’. The MusEYEum: online exhibitions, 24 August 2009, <http://www.college-optometrists.org/index.aspx/pcms/site.college.What_We_Do.museyeum.online_exhibitions.eye.optography/>; The Metropolitan Museum of Art, ‘William Henry Fox Talbot: [The Oriel Window, South Gallery, Lacock Abbey] (1997.382.1)’. Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History, 24 August 2009, <http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/tlbt/ho_1997.382.1.htm>. 13 Jay, ‘In the eyes of the dead’., unpaginated. 14 M Jay, Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought. Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994, p. 226.


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15 S Kent, The Folklore of Essex. Gloucester: Tempus Publishing, 2005, p. 150. 16 Anonymous, ‘Red Gleam in Dying Constable’s Eyes’. The Sunday News, 2 October 1927. 17 Anonymous, ‘Dying Man’s Eye as Crime Camera’. The Evening Standard, 1 October 1927, p. 1. 18 Anonymous, ‘Death in a Country Lane’. Murder Casebook, 7(97) 1991, p.3482. 19 W Benjamin, Illuminations. trans. H Arendt; New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1968, p. 242. 20 C R Huff, ‘Historical explanations of crime: from demons to politics’, in F R Scarpitti, A L Nielsen, and J M Miller (eds.), Crime and Criminals: Contemporary and Classic Readings in Criminology. (2nd edn.; New York: Oxford University Press, 2009; J Wiltenburg, ‘True crime: the origins of modern sensationalism’. American Historical Review, Vol. 109/5, December, 2004, p. 1378; A Biressi, Crime, Fear and the Law in True Crime Stories. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2001. 21 Wiltenburg, ‘True crime’. pp. 1379-80 & 96. 22 To borrow from T A Critchley, The Conquest of Violence: Order and Liberty in Britain. London: Constable, 1970.

Bibliography

Anonymous, ‘Dying Man’s Eye as Crime Camera’. The Evening Standard, 1 October 1927 p. 1.

Anonymous, ‘Mysterious Murder of A Policeman’. The Daily Mail, 28 September 1927 pp. 9-10.

Anonymous, ‘Red Gleam in Dying Constable’s Eyes’. The Sunday News, 2 October 1927.

Anonymous, ‘Shot Policeman’. The Daily Mail, 1 October 1927 pp. 9-10.

Anonymous, ‘Death in a Country Lane’. Murder Casebook, 7/97 1991, pp.3482-5.

Benjamin, W., Illuminations. trans. H. Arendt; New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1968.

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Berrett, J., When I Was at Scotland Yard. London: Sampson Low, Marston & Co, 1936.

Biressi, A., Crime, Fear and the Law in True Crime Stories. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2001.

Campion-Vincent, V., ‘The Tell-Tale Eye’. Folklore, April 1999, viewed on 25 August 2008, <http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2386/is_1999_Annual/ai_55983642/pg_1?tag=artBody;col1>.

Connell, N., Walter Dew: the man who caught Crippen. Stroud: Sutton Publishing, 2005.

Critchley, T.A., The Conquest of Violence: Order and Liberty in Britain. London: Constable, 1970.

Evans, A.B., ‘Optograms and Fiction: photo in a dead man’s eye’. Science-Fiction Studies, Vol. XX:3/61 November 1993, pp.341-61.

Huff, C.R., ‘Historical explanations of crime: from demons to politics’, in F.R. Scarpitti, A.L. Nielsen, and J.M. Miller (eds.), Crime and Criminals: Contemporary and Classic Readings in Criminology. 2nd edn.; New York: Oxford University Press, 2009, pp.13-23.

Jay, B., ‘In the eyes of the dead’. British Journal of Photography, January 1981, viewed on 25 August 2008, <www.billjayonphotography.com>.

Jay, M., Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought. Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994.

Kent, S., The Folklore of Essex. Gloucester: Tempus Publishing, 2005.

The College of Optometrists, ‘Optography and optograms’. The MusEYEum: online exhibitions, 2009, viewed on 24 August 2009, <http://www.college-optometrists.org/index.aspx/pcms/site.college.What_We_Do.museyeum.online_exhibitions.eye.optography/>.


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The Metropolitan Museum of Art, ‘William Henry Fox Talbot: [The Oriel Window, South Gallery, Lacock Abbey] (1997.382.1)’. Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History, 2006, viewed on 24 August 2009, <http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/tlbt/ho_1997.382.1.htm>.

The National Trust, ‘Fox Talbot Museum’. Lacock Abbey, Fox Talbot Museum & Village, 2009, viewed on 29 August 2009, <http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-vh/w-visits/w-findaplace/w-lacockabbeyvillage/w-lacockabbeyvillage-talbotmuseum.htm>.

Wiltenburg, J., ‘True crime: the origins of modern sensationalism’. American Historical Review, Vol. 109/5 December 2004, pp.1377-404. Jo Chipperfield is currently undertaking a PhD in the Department of English at the University of Sydney, while also working part-time as a freelance editor and writer. She has a BA (Hons, 1:1) and MA (Dist.) in English Language and Literatures (Hull University, UK 1995/1999). Her research interests centre on writing, film and art, and include modernism, gender studies and feminism, crime writing, media and communications, psychogeography, Fortean thought, Australian studies, and the impact of technology on society and culture. The working title of her PhD thesis is ‘In the Eyes of the Dead: Science, Superstition and the Murder of PC George Gutteridge.’

What killed Laura Palmer?: David Lynch’s Twin Peaks as a Dissection of American Fears

Anna Warso

Abstract There is no better subject for a poem than untimely death of a beautiful woman, a wise man once said, and indeed it seems that no other event could have better served David Lynch to focalise and disclose fears and trespasses hidden behind the serene facade of Twin Peaks than the murder of the town’s golden girl, Laura Palmer. In the following analysis I plan to focus on the patterns of desire, displacement and transgression that underpin Lynch’s narrative and permeate these works of American fiction, which, directly or indirectly, address some of the most severe cultural taboos. Laura Palmer herself will be approached an as a stylistic figure and a structural device necessary to trigger the developments of Lynch’s mock detective narrative. As the girl’s prom picture transforms into a Medusa-like image from the police photograph, we witnesses yet another take on what psychoanalysis identified as one of the two ‘universal’ taboos, disguised as crime fiction and linked to sources as varied as Puritan ideology, Emersonian philosophy and the gothic and grotesque of Edgar Allan Poe. Key Words: American culture, detective fiction, fear, popular culture, taboo, transgression.


This paper has two objectives: to focus on the symbolism and the patterns of transgression in David Lynch’s narrative and to examine the means by which Twin Peaks deconstructs the framework of the genre it feigns to promote.

A few reservations need to be made before I proceed, which will possibly narrow down the scope of our discussion and hopefully sharpen its focus: due to constraints I will be referring only to season 1 of the series and the feature movie Fire, Walk With Me. Throughout the paper I will also be referring to Veronica Mars, a more recent TV narrative which seems to display a number of characteristics I will attribute to Twin Peaks and confirm the perseverance of several cultural patterns I will discuss. Each show is constructed around events following the death of a beautiful female high school student. Both, directly and indirectly, refer to the universally recognized taboos: incest and murder.

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2. Argument In Eroticism: Death and Sensuality, Georges Bataille describes

taboo and transgression as two crucial, though contradictory, social experiences: the subjects of taboos represent the sphere of the sacred, to which the taboos are a negative reaction. To obey a taboo means to follow norms which regulate our behaviour regarding the subject of that taboo, to disobey these norms constitutes an act of transgression. Bataille pays special attention to the paradoxical relationship between the two, as ‘transgression transcends and completes the taboo.’1 In other words, while most cultures place human life in the sphere of the sacred, they also allow for certain forms or killing in a regulated context (such as ritual sacrifice). The purpose of taboos, says Bataille, is to contain violence and to preserve social structures by enabling work.

Among the ‘unauthorized’ transgressions triggering the chain of events which leads to the disruption or falling apart of social structures, Bataille lists the disappearance of a revered figure. On the structural level, laurel-crowned Laura Palmer appears to fit the profile: a volunteer and an obedient daughter, the town’s golden girl quickly turns into a saint like figure in the memories of the inhabitants of Twin Peaks, a trope further emphasized by the reappearing motif of her prom picture displayed (as if in a shrine) above the fireplace, by which the family (including the murderous father) and the visitors mourn her death. The choice of the shrine picture is not accidental - Laura was a homecoming queen, royal qualities implied by her very name, for Laura is the feminine form of Laurus, or Laurel tree, symbolic of honour and victory.

In Veronica Mars, the victim’s name is no less significant: the lily is a flower symbolizing virginity, beauty and innocence. For centuries, by placing a lily in a woman’s hand painters hinted at her chastity and purity. Furthermore, both Laura and Lilly are golden-haired and picture-pretty, representing a centuries-old stereotype that connects conventional beauty and virtue, a stereotype especially significant in the American, post-Puritan context, stereotype which evolved possibly from the concept of ‘visible saints’ and the idea of pre-destination. ‘Visible saints’ were supposed to display several signs of God’s affection: they would be prosperous and fair, hard working and successful. ‘God Almighty in His most holy and wise providence, hath so disposed of the condition of mankind, as in all times some must be rich, some poor, some high and eminent, others mean and in subjection (...)’- wrote John Winthrop, the leader of American Puritans in A Modell of Christian Charity.2 In fact, American culture has retained surprisingly many cultural perceptions which can be traced back to its originally strict religious morality.

But the problem with Laura and Lilly is that neither really was a saint: Laura (as victims of sexual abuse often do) engaged in self-destructive

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acts, including sexual orgies stimulated by drugs, Lilly (and since Veronica Mars is a show aimed at teenage audiences, the character portrayal is less direct) was openly promiscuous and flirty - behaviours that in the framework of Christian moral code deserve punishment. This is why Laura Palmer has to be simultaneously beatified and vilified on the formal and structural level: when her body, wrapped up in plastic is discovered on the river bank, the camera shots present only her head resembling the severed head of Medusa. (This one, and the prom picture, will remain the most iconic images of Laura Palmer.) In the repeatedly displayed police photograph her skin is inhumanly blue, her hair wet and tangled, like Medusa’s hair of snakes. Interestingly, in Ovid’s version of the myth, Medusa was a beautiful maiden changed into a monster as a form of ‘punishment’ for letting herself be seduced (or for being raped, depending on interpretation) by Poseidon. In fact, punishment of the perceived un-chastity seems to be a trope older than Christianity itself and resurfaces today, in a much simplified guise, in a number of popular genres, especially of the horror variety (no slasher movie connoisseur will be surprised to see the promiscuous girl die as the narrative begins to unfold). After all, there is no better subject for art than untimely death of a beautiful woman wrote the master of the gothic genre and the father of detective fiction, Edgar Allan Poe in The Philosophy of Composition.3

David Lynch cleverly interweaves several cultural patterns possibly not exclusive to, but undoubtedly crucial for, the American literary tradition. The setting of Twin Peaks mirrors the already iconic Sleepy Hollow. I quote from Washington Irving:

Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.4

Like Sleepy Hollow, Twin Peaks is a closed community lulled into a state of (deceptive) serenity, which strikes Agent Cooper of the FBI upon arrival: he cannot help but be awed by the surrounding, from the solemn mountain peaks to Douglas firs and ducks on a lake. His sense of childlike wonder and admiration for nature’s work reflects one of the most important characteristics of the first truly American philosophy. I quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson:

The lover of nature is he (...) who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with


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heaven and earth, becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows.5

Emphasis on the intricate connection between spirituality and nature, and the belief in its cleansing powers, resurface also in the writings of Henry David Thoreau, whose Walden, or Life in the Woods is a praise of honest life and a guide to spiritual rebirth, or return to innocence, possible only in natural surroundings, where the human being re-establishes its connection to the Over-soul.

Transcendentalists’ vision of nature differed dramatically from the Puritan one, emerging from the Pilgrim’s diaries and reappearing in the short stories of, for instance, Nathaniel Hawthorne, in which the forest is a foreboding setting of pagan rituals, orgies and witchcraft. For Transcendentalists, through the deepest woods ran a path to communion with God; for the Puritan mind, it was the Devil who waited at the end of the path. While Lynch pretends to steer clear of obvious Freudian symbolism, it is indeed in the forest where the Id takes over, where Laura engages in destructive (though at first voluntary) sex and where she is eventually murdered by BOB, a demon taking control of her father. Lynch’s ironic take on the significance of the forest and its symbolic role in American culture shows in his dual treatment of the theme: Agent Cooper’s sense of naive idealism is contrasted with the horrors of the real (and subsequently increasingly surreal) darkness falling over Twin Peaks. In fact, irony and the surreal quickly begin to dominate the show: the only witness to the crime, for instance, is a mynah bird named Waldo, brutally killed with a shotgun blast fired through the window of the police department.

Since most stories of the whodunnit genre, require a murder and the solving thereof, it might be interesting to see how Twin Peaks and Veronica Mars fulfil the promise implied by their premise. Both appear to flaunt easily recognizable features of classical detective fiction: leading investigators are outsiders entering a closed community (Dale Cooper is delegated to solve the murder of Laura Palmer by the Bureau; Veronica Mars, Lilly Kane’s best friend is a social outcast and the school’s weird kid). Like the first detective in the Western literary tradition, Poe’s brilliant and eccentric Dupin (or Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes), Cooper and Mars are perceived as peculiar characters and aided by their very straightforward, common-sense driven foils. Both narratives mix the scientific, rational approach with elements of the supernatural (Veronica is visited by Lilly’s ghost, and to discuss the supernatural in Twin Peaks would require a separate paper) and the first person perspective, typical of hard-boiled detective fiction (of for instance Raymond Chandler) is introduced to both stories (Veronica’s voice comments upon her actions from off-screen, Dale Cooper records his

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observations on a tape recorder, addressing his non-existent secretary, Diane). Finally, both narratives are to a large degree meta-fictional: Veronica’s narration is interspersed with quotations from the classics of pop-culture, whereas Twin Peaks draws attention to its awareness of its own fictional status and artifice through the element of the absurd and by ironically referencing the suspense building methods characteristic for the genre: For example, the tension of the scene with Laura Palmer’s secret deposit box, supposedly crucial for the investigation, is inevitably gone when Agent Cooper states flatly: ‘Diane, I am holding in my hand a box of chocolate bunnies.’

Already in the first scenes Twin Peaks subtly signals its ironic take on and subsequent departure from the norms of the genre: when Cooper leans to inspect Laura Palmer’s body, a malfunctioning lamp in the morgue seems to imply that science will be of little use (and logic will help inasmuch as pure chance) in the upcoming investigation. The portrayal of the morgue is very different from what contemporary audiences are conditioned to expect from the so called ‘police procedurals’ (in which similar scenes are usually filmed through a blue tinged filter, or lit with sharp white halogen lights glistening from the edges of steel instruments). Most cinematic depictions of evidence analysis seem, in fact, to be symptomatic of a broader phenomenon: the belief that science and the rational method can save humanity from its monsters. What these immensely popular shows (such as Law and Order or CSI), in which medics or lab workers analyse the collected data with the help of highly elaborate equipment, accompanied by the soothing background whirr of sophisticated machinery) seem to imply is that even though, when in the wrong hands, science can be a deadly weapon, once it is wielded by the right people, it will provide - sooner or later - solution to any problem. After all, as Gil Grissom of the CSI repeatedly asserts: people lie, but evidence never does.

Gil Grissom fails to acknowledge that evidence is gathered by precisely by people, who are far from infallible. Consequently, a potentially erroneous decision whether or not to categorize a finding as a trace, combined with the highly subjective nature of our perception, must underscore the unfaltering faith in the scientific method. Consequently, there resurfaces a growing distrust of rationalism (and scepticism itself) in David Lynch’s narrative: investigation of Laura Palmer’s death includes medical records as well as the recorded testimony of Waldo the mynah bird; agent Cooper approaches his dreams, intuition and completely random associations with equal attention. In a curious scene revealing his complete abandonment of the principle of causality, Cooper throws stones at bottles placed at a distance while his assistant utters the names of suspects. As one might have expected from David Lynch, the closer the stone lands to the bottle, the closer the suspect is tied to the murder. The rational approach is not enough,


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Lynch seems to be saying, to embrace the realm of irrational, from which we stem and the scientific method, postulated as a solution to the fear of the unknown is an ideological smoke screen. The irony of the failure of logic and reason is especially poignant in Veronica Mars: after 22 episodes filled with crime solving, Veronica discovers only that the person accused of and sentenced for Lilly Kane’s murder is a pawn in a game of which the actual killer is not even part of. In the final episode Veronica discovers the truth by a complete accident: her boyfriend is about to pour her a drink, the key to the cabinet breaks, forcing the boy to leave the room in search of alcohol. Bored, Veronica sits on the bed, stares at the ceiling and discovers a hidden camera. Upon recovering the tapes it is revealed that the barely 16 year old Lilly Kane was involved in an affair with her (then boyfriend’s) father who recorded their sexual encounters, and killed her in a fit of rage. Drama and legal issues aside, the answer to the question: who killed Lilly Kane, posed at the very beginning of the show, has nothing to do with the meticulous investigation carried out throughout the series: the solution appears suddenly and by pure chance. 3. Conclusion

In The Typology of Detective Fiction Tzvetan Todorov states that each detective story has a dual structure: it contains the story of the crime and the story of investigation.6 The first one tells how the crime was committed, the second explains how the detective (and the reader) finds out about it. While both narratives I discussed today depart from the same kernel, the ‘second story’ unravels in each case into more than the story of finding out whodunnit. Veronica Mars becomes a narrative maturation, almost a Bildungsroman presenting the social and psychological development of the main protagonist cast out of childhood by a traumatic event. Meanwhile, the labyrinthine plot of Twin Peaks becomes a testimony to the condition of indeterminacy, dissolving boundaries and return of the repressed. Both narratives seem to reflect the postmodern doubt in the possibility of attaining any stable knowledge of reality, as ‘the answer’ is either continually deferred or questionable while ‘the truth’ becomes accidental and highly volatile.

Notes 1 G Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality, City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1957, p. 63. 2 J Winthrop, ‘A Modell of Christian Charity’ in M. Werner (ed), American Sermons: The Pilgrims to Martin Luther King Jr., Penguin Putnam Inc., New York, 1999, p. 28.

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3 E A Poe, ‘Philosophy of Composition’ in R G Thompson (ed), Great Short Works of Edgar Allan Poe: Poems Tales Criticism, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, New York City, 2004, pp. 533 - 534. 4 W Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Filiquarian, 2007, p. 4. 5 R W Emerson, ‘Nature’ in L Ziff (ed), Nature and Selected Essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Penguin Classics, New York and London, 2003, p. 38. 6 T Todorov, ‘The Typology of Detective Fiction’ in D Lodge & N Wood (eds), Modern Criticism and Theory: A Reader, Longman, Harlow, Essex, 1999, p. 227.

Bibliography Bataille, G., Erotism: Death and Sensuality. City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1957. Emerson, R. W., ‘Nature’ in L Ziff (ed.), Nature and Selected Essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Penguin Classics, New York, 1982, pp. 35-82. Irving, W., The Legend of Sleepy Hollow & Other Tales. Filiquarian, 2007. Poe, E. A., ‘Philosophy of Composition’ in R G Thompson (ed.) Great Short Works of Edgar Allan Poe: Poems Tales Criticism, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, New York, 2004, pp. 533 - 534. Todorov, T., ‘The Typology of Detective Fiction’ in D Lodge & N. Wood (eds), Modern Criticism and Theory: A Reader. Longman, Harlow, Essex, 1999, pp. 157 – 165. J Winthrop, ‘A Modell of Christian Charity’ in M Werner (ed), American Sermons: The Pilgrims to Martin Luther King Jr. Library of America, 1999, pp 28-43. Anna Warso is a Ph.D. student at the Institute of English Studies, Warsaw University.

Fear and Terror at the Intersection of the Personal and Civilizational: An Integral Analysis

L. Michael Spath

Abstract Human consciousness evolves in stages, influenced both by personal cognitive and historical-cultural development. These stages (worldviews) build upon and incorporate the previous stages. Each believes itself uniquely true, the previous ones deficient; yet in recent decades there has arisen a new Integral stage that recognizes the potential value in all previous stages, but also their ‘shadow,’ resulting in differing experiences of fear, as well as manifestations of violence and terror (the focused application of violence to instil fear). It is a mistake to ascribe terror only to one stage of the Helix. There are many shadows present in each act of violence, often even unknown to the perpetrators of violence themselves. Terrorist acts are most often the ultimate act of courage and worship, incorporating various ‘positive’ aspects of different stages in the Helix (Traditional’s sense of self-sacrifice for a transcendent cause, or the desire for social, political, and economic Achievement). Therefore, recognizing the context of terror, i.e. the complex, multivariant stage of an organism, is necessary to identify an appropriate response (e.g. ‘What does the terrorists’ approach say about their worldview; and what response - conquer, confront, marginalize, convert, or another - will be most effective?’). Key Words: Consciousness, integral, meme, mortality salience, religion, spiral dynamics, terrorism, worldview.

***** 1. Introduction Research by scientists spanning more than three-quarters of a century reveals that human consciousness evolves in stages, influenced both by genetic, personal cognitive, and historical-cultural development. At the intersection of Spencerian evolutionary biology in social research; Dawkins’ study of the ‘meme;’ Mayr’s emphasis on contextualization and how evolutionary pressures act on the level of the organism; Gebser’s investigation into structures of consciousness as the basis of civilization; and finally the work of developmental theorists, e.g. Erikson (psychosocial), Loevinger (ego), Fowler (faith), and Kohlberg (moral). At this complex intersection we find the mutual impact of cultural, civilizational, socio-political and psychological contexts.1

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These meme-systems are manifest in ideologies, worldviews, and value-systems, and bind individuals together in social structures and communities. These macro- (human evolution), meso- (civilizational development), and micro- (personal maturation) patterns (like concentric circles or Russian nesting dolls), each builds upon, transcends, and incorporates the previous stages. Each of the stages believes itself uniquely legitimate, the previous ones deficient (in fact, each new stage a reaction to the previous stages unanswerable issues), with only the final Wholistic, Integral stage embracing all the previous stages.2 2. The Evolutionary Helix Briefly, here is represented the seven stages of the Evolutionary Helix model, beginning at the most primal, inner circle, smallest nesting doll, and reaching outward to its most expansive, integrative stage. I also list a short description, its internal ‘shadow,’ and the shadow’s possible manifestation in violent acts, with its attendant understandings of ‘peace’ and ‘truth.’ a. Pre-Tribal

Material needs met; instinctual; newborns Peace: I survive

b. Tribal

Talismans; guardian angels; sacred objects, places, totems, rituals; sports teams; service to the tribe Shadow: sacrifice for leader; blind obedience; superstition; gangs Violence: anti-Semitism; ethnic conflict; racial purity; ‘honour killing;’ holy land Truth: Tribal myths, shaman’s pronouncements; Peace: I am secure, pure

c. Power Self-centric, world is jungle; heroism; control; immediate gratification Shadow: shame; personal domination; retribution; grudges; vengeance Truth: Present distribution of power ; Peace: I win/conquer

d. Law and Order (Traditional) Divinely ordered plan; eternal law; stability; delayed gratification; live by the rules rewarded eternally Shadow: guilt-based obedience; rigidity; fundamentalism; us/them; rules

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Truth: traditional scriptures; Peace: I/You obey

e. Achievement (Modernity) Pragmatic; strategic; best practices; entrepreneurial; technology-focused Shadow: ‘Greed is good;’ environmental domination Truth: Reason; materially proven; Peace: I am successful

f. Community (Post-Modernity) Egalitarian; pluralistic; human rights; consensus; inclusivity; ‘green’ Shadow: political correctness; narcissism; intolerant; resists hierarchy Truth: Consensus; multiple truths; Peace: I/We care

g. Integral/Wholistic (Post Post-Modernity) Integration; spontaneity; inter-dependence; non-duality; synergy; global village Shadow: cynicism; elitism Truth: harmonization of science and spirituality; Peace: I am free

Each stage of development ushers in a new worldview, and different understandings of peace, truth, evaluations of the other, with its attendant shadow side and its manifestation in violence, with implications for peacemaking, conflict resolution, inter-religious and inter-civilizational dialogue, and even for foreign and domestic policies. Societies are complex organisms, made up of multi-layered cognitive, psychological, and value intelligences, shaped and influenced by contexts and issues both external and internal, and so these developmental stages can only describe metacentres, or as Steve McIntosh calls them, ‘centres of psychic gravity’, and such is the case for individuals, too. 3 Hence, one could be very Post-Modern with regard to one’s religious life, while exhibiting a Traditional political voting record and a more Modern approach to their professional life. Because the evolution from one stage to the next only happens when the solutions that that stage’s worldview provides prove inadequate to answer the questions that worldview raises (each stage undermines itself), in transcending the previous stage, each one is absolutely convinced that its value structure and worldview are the only legitimate ones; all others are either, at best, wrong, or at worst, evil. Because the new stage solves the problem of the previous one, it dismisses the values and contributions of the old stage. The new stage often looks at previous stages as less-advanced. The result: hostility and alienation among the stages.


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3. The Integral Stage Once Gandhi was asked what he thought of Western civilization; he famously responded: ‘It would be a good idea.’4 Presently in the West we live in a Modernist world in which there is a struggle between Traditional and Post-Modernist worldviews. In his Informatic Civilization: Promises, Prospects, Perils, Majid Tehranian, says:

… each civilization possesses a more or less coherent cosmology based on a long tradition of material and ideational creativity. Each civilization also displays unique ontological, epistemological, and praxiological perspectives…. All traditional civilizations have come under the impact of modern civilization and are facing their own crisis in reconciling their traditional values with the new technological imperatives. In this process, a new global civilization is being negotiated among competing worldviews.5

And then, Tehranian adds the next Integral insight: ‘In order to preserve diversity in unity, a global civilization needs to be based on the contributions of all past human civilizations.’6 This is the unique potency of the Integral Stage: it is the only one that recognizes, nurtures, and utilizes the life-affirming contributions of each of the other stages. But the shadow also is present at each stage giving rise to estrangement, distrust, and hostility among the stages perpetuating dysfunction within the entire system. Individuals, societies, the planet itself need leaders - in education, business and industry, politics, religion, and the arts - who bring an Integral worldview to interreligious and inter-civilizational dialogue and who fundamentally believe that their systemic support for the life-affirming values of each stage can bring a sense of harmony among the parts as well as strengthen the organism as a whole - an individual, institutions, a society, a world. Integral has the insight as well as the strategic prowess to integrate the salient values of: Tribal’s childlike innocence, wonder, and awe; Power’s heroic individualism; Traditional’s support for social and cosmic order and laws, as well as belief systems based in the world’s wisdom traditions; the embrace of technology and entrepreneurial spirit of Achievement; and Post-Modernity’s sense of the ‘spiritual’ and its focus on human rights. Each is necessary for the healthy functioning, management, indeed, for the health growth of the entire organism.7

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4. Fear, Violence, and Terror - Toward an Integral Understanding It is a mistake to ascribe the violence and terror only to one level of the Helix. There are many shadows present in each act of violence, often even unknown to the perpetrators of violence themselves. In his Terror in the Mind of God, sociologist Mark Juergensmeyer describes:

acts of religious terrorism – symbolic, dramatic, theatrical – suggest[s] that we look at them not as tactics but as performative violence…. Terrorism is the supreme act of dehumiliating the deeply humiliated. They become involved in terrorism not only to belittle their enemies but also to provide themselves a sense of power.8

It is simply the wrong question to ask, as we did after 9/11/01 (‘Why do they hate us?’) because hate is rarely the root cause. No, terrorist acts are most often the ultimate act of courage and worship, incorporating various ‘positive’ aspects of different stages in the Helix (Traditional’s sense of self-sacrifice for a transcendent cause, or the desire for social, political, and economic Achievement). The questions we must ask are, ‘Why did the terrorists choose their particular approach? What does it say about their worldview; and then what response - to conquer, confront, marginalize, or convert - does their worldview suggest?’ All too frequently, individuals, communities, and governments choose to deal with acts of terror by equal or greater shows of force, that is, at the Power level, often at the expense of other cherished values that they hold (e.g. civil rights, personal freedoms, defence mechanisms), which simply results in an escalation and protraction of conflict. A more effective response would take into consideration the complex root causes of the terrorists’ motives, intentions, and goals (e.g. heroic sacrifice, tribal blood feuds, absolutist apocalyptic images of the other, resentment of economic and political means) which would then increasingly marginalize terrorism as a less and less viable strategic tool. Finally, a fundamental truth of human existence is that the awareness of our mortality drives us, as both individual and social organisms, to create, what cultural anthropologist Ernst Becker, following Otto Rank, describes as ‘immortality ideologies,’ ‘immortality striving,’ and ‘immortality projects;’ to provide our individual and social lives with symbolic meaning; human beings create cultural worldviews to do just this, to minimize, control, even deny the anxiety associated with their mortality, as well as to infuse their own lives with a transcendent significance - as Robert Jay Lifton has identified, both literal immortality, as in a belief in an afterlife, as well as a symbolic immortality, through cultural creations. 9,10


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Psychologists Jeffrey Greenberg, Tom Pyszczynski, and Sheldon Solomon have spent the last 25 years demonstrating how ‘mortality salience’ heightens both worldview reinforcement and worldview defence, both living up to your worldview’s values as well as defending your values against the other, including the fear of the other’s mere existence as a threat to one’s worldview, leaving conversion, scapegoating, or death to the other as the only alternatives.11 The creation of scarcity, then, either real or perceived, either literal, economic, material, or cultural, symbolic can be powerful threats that lead to violence (the latter especially true of religious violence). Thomas Malthus’ An Essay on the Principle of Population (1798) contended that the world simply didn’t have enough resources for a growing population, that the scarcity of resources - food, water, land, energy supplies, etc. - creates conflict. 12 But let’s extend that to non-material resources, as religion does, like power, time, divine election, forgiveness, salvation. So there are two kinds of threats that can lead to violence: [1] material threats, and [2] symbolic threats. Even when we’ve accumulated a lot of resources, material or non-material, we can believe that they’re being threatened (if leaders are skilled at manipulating public opinion, like marketers, spin doctors, charismatic religious figures, etc.) - resources like security, love, even salvation. So we can say that scarcity, either real or perceived, is a major source of violence. And religion, particularly Western religion, has necessarily created these feelings of scarcity.13 So, the question becomes: How does religion create scarcity? Think about this - the scarcities created by religion are only real because people believe they exist; believers might die or kill over a perceived scarcity that is not scarce in reality. In other words, the scarcity, if believed, might be real even if it is not true. This is a major reason why religiously-inspired violence is so tragic - they are not based in reality, only in belief; they are ‘perceived scarcities.’ And here’s the integral insight, at each stage from Tribal to Post-Modern, politics and ideologies and theologies of fear work for this very reason - people can be manipulated in the face of mortality salience. Jessica Stern, of Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, in Terror in the Name of God: Why Religious Militants Kill, puts it like this:

Religious terrorism attempts to destroy moral ambiguities…. It is more than a threat to national security, it is psychological and spiritual warfare, requiring psychologically and spiritually informed response. And this psychologically and spiritually informed response demands that we understand that religious terrorists aim not only to frighten their victims in a physical sense but also … to shift their own existential dread of cultural and spiritual defeat

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onto their victims - they project their shadows. Thus, fighting religious terrorism also requires examining not only our propensity to overreact in the face of such fears, including by demonising the perpetrators and their supporters or coreligionists, but also how our actions and reactions play into their hands.14

Or as Greenberg, Pyszczynski, and Solomon conclude, quoting Becker,

We are more or less safely embedded in our own belief systems. These belief systems may be religious or secular, but they all function to imbue us with an ultimately fictitious sense that our lives have unshakable meaning and that we have enduring value. [As Ernst Becker states]: ‘Civilized society is a hopeful protest that science, money, and goods make man count more than any other animal . . . It doesn’t matter whether the cultural system is frankly magical, religious, and primitive, or secular, scientific, and civilized. It is still a mythical hero system in which people serve in order to feel of primary value, of cosmic specialness, of ultimate usefulness to creation, and of unshakeable meaning.15

Notes

1 See the following: H Spencer, Principles of Psychology, Longman, Brown, Green and Longamns, London, 1855; R Dawkins, The Selfish Gene, 30th Anniversary edn. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2006; E Mayr, Darwin’s Influence on Modern Thought, September 23, 1999, lecture at the Royal Swedish Academy of Science, <http://www.biologie.uni-hamburg.de/b- online/e36_2/darwin_influence.htm>; J Gebser, The Ever-Present Origin. Ohio University Press, Athens, 1986; E Erikson, The Life Cycle Completed, W. W. Norton & Co., New York, 1998; J Loevinger, Identity Development: Adolescence Through Adulthood, 2nd edition, Sage Publications, Thousand Oaks, 2006; J Fowler, Stages of Faith: The Psychology of Human Development, HarperOne, New York, 1995; L Kohlberg, The Psychology of Moral Development: The Nature and Validity of Moral Stages, Harper Collins, New York, 1984. 2 I am indebted for the basic structure of the Evolutionary Helix model to D Beck & C Cowan, Spiral Dynamics, Blackwell Publishing, Oxford, 1996, for their Spiral Dynamics paradigm, and S McIntosh, Integral Consciousness


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and the Future of Evolution, Paragon House, New York, 2007. I have expanded their model and applied it to both inter-religious and inter-civilizational dialogue, as well as the diagnosis of the factors that lead to exclusivism, prejudice, violence, and terrorism. 3 See S McIntosh, Integral Consciousness, ‘Chapter Three: Stages of Consciousness and Culture,’ <http://www.stevemcintosh.com/Excerpts_ CH3_Stages_of_Consciousness_and_Culture.php>. 4 F Dallmayr, ‘Christianity and Civilization’ in M Tehranian and D Chappell, eds., Dialogue of Civilizations: A New Peace Agenda for a New Millennium, IB Tauris, New York, 2002, p. 125. 5 M Tehranian, ‘Informatic Civilization: Promises, Prospects, Perils,’ in M Tehranian and D Chappell, eds., Dialogue of Civilizations: A New Peace Agenda for a New Millennium, IB Tauris, New York, 2002, p. 2. 6 Ibid., p. 2. 7 It is appropriate here to briefly address two common criticisms of this Evolutionary Helix model. The first criticism is that it is another incarnation of the Enlightenment’s optimistic view of history as ever-ascending human progress; the other is that this model is hierarchical and elitist. I have already alluded to the first; at each stage, the Shadow is insistently manifest in personal and social forms, resulting in maladies such as anxiety, depression, and prejudice, and increasing in dysfunction and intensity to that of malaise, terror, and violence. There is nothing automatic or natural about the ascension from one stage to the next. Indeed, the Shadow, in its personal and psychological as well as cultural, civilizational aspect is as real as the Light, the creative force operative in both, and the Shadow may, at any moment, be a regressive motivational and destructive factor in its micro- , meso- , and macrocosmic manifestations. Second, most of those who criticize the Evolutionary model for its hierarchical organization implying an elitist structure have no problem with hierarchy per se. They complain, however, only when the hierarchy does not end with their particular stage, when the stage of their ‘center of gravity’ is superseded by another. It is only then that we hear the criticisms of hierarchy and elitism. Indeed, even Post-Modernists who embrace consensus and seemingly non-hierarchical institutions and models of decision-making, nevertheless see themselves as the pinnacle of the evolution of human progress and can be intolerant of those places from which they’ve come. Not even the Post-Modern stage is ready to embrace the good from where we’ve come. It is only from the perspective of the Integral stage that we are able to see not only the shadow aspects but also those life-affirming, creative aspects of the previous stages.

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8 M Juergensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence, 3rd edition. University of California Press, Berkeley, 2003, p. 126, 187. 9 E Becker, Escape From Evil, Free Press, New York, 1975, pp.63-66. 10 See R Lifton, The Broken Connection: On Death and the Continuity of Life, Simon and Schuster, New York, 1983, pp. 18ff., where he discusses the ‘five general modes of immortality: biological, theological, creative (through ‘works’), natural, and the special mode of experiential transcendence.’ 11 See the results of their work in their very important J Greenberg, T Pyszczynski, & S. Solomon, In the Wake of 9/11: The Psychology of Terror, American Psychological Association, Washington, DC, 2003. 12 T Malthus, An Essay on the Principle of Population, G Gilbert (ed), Oxford World’s Classics, Oxford, 2008. 13 H Avalos’ thesis in Fighting Words: The Origins of Religious Violence, Prometheus Books, Amherst, 2005, is that religion is the most ‘effective’ in creating symbolic scarcity, and therefore, is the most dangerous cultural institution in fostering exclusivism and violence. Regina Schwartz makes a similar argument, albeit focusing only on the Abrahamic religions, in The Curse of Cain, The Violence Legacy of Monotheism, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1998. 14 J Stern, Terror in the Name of God: Why Religious Militants Kill, Harper Collins, New York, 2004, p. xxvii-xxviii. 15 Greenberg, Pyszczynski, & Solomon, op. cit., p. 196.

Bibliography Avalos, H., Fighting Words: The Origins of Religious Violence. Prometheus Books, Amherst, 2005. Beck, D. & C. Cowan., Spiral Dynamics: Mastering Values, Leadership, and Change. Blackwell Publishing, Oxford, 2006. Becker, E., The Denial of Death. Free Press, New York, 1997. ____ ., Escape from Evil. Free Press, New York, 1985. Blackmore, S., The Meme Machine. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2000. Csikszentmihalyi, M., The Evolving Self. Harper Collins, New York, 1993.


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Dallmayr, F., ‘Christianity and Civilization’ in M. Tehranian & D. Chappell (eds), Dialogue of Civilizations: A New Peace Agenda for a New Millennium. IB Tauris, New York, 2002. Davis, W., ‘The Psychology of Christian Fundamentalism’, Counterpunch, Weekend edn., 8/9 January 2005, retrieved 20 October 2009, <www.counterpunch.org/davis01082005.html>. Dawkins, R., The Selfish Gene, 30th Anniversary edn. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2006. Gebser, J., The Ever-Present Origin. Ohio University Press, Athens, 1986. Graves, C., How Human Values Change, in Futurist, April, 1974, as reprinted in D. Beck, Spiral Dynamics Integral, Level I Certification Course, Spiral Dynamics Group, Denton, pp. 283-286. Greenberg, J., T. Pyszczynski, and S. Solomon. In the Wake of 9/11: The Psychology of Terror. American Psychological Association, Washington, DC, 2002. Jones, J., Blood That Cries Out From the Earth: The Psychology of Religious Terrorism. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2008. Juergensmeyer, Mark. Terror in the Mind of God, University of California Press, Berkeley, 2001. Kegan, R., The Evolving Self: Problem and Process in Human Development. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1982. Kimball, C., When Religion Becomes Evil. Harper Collins, New York, 2002. Lifton, R. J., The Broken Connection: On Death and the Continuity of Life. American Psychiatric Press, Arlington, 1983. McIntosh, Steve. Integral Consciousness and the Future of Evolution. Paragon House, St. Paul, 2007. ____. ‘Integral Politics and the Evolution of Consciousness and Culture’. Tikkun, July/August, 2008, pp. 37-40, 76-77.

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Schwartz, R., The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism. University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1998. Stern, J., Terror in the Name of God: Why Religion Militants Kill. Harper Collins, New York, 2004. Tehranian, M., ‘Informatic Civilization: Promises, Prospects, Perils’ in M. Tehranian & D. Chappell (eds), Dialogue of Civilizations: A New Peace Agenda for a New Millennium. IB Tauris, New York, 2002. Wright, R., The Evolution of God. Little, Brown, and Company, New York, 2009. L. Michael Spath is a Continuing Professor of Religious Studies and Peace Studies at Indiana University Purdue University Fort Wayne, IN, USA. His current research interests include the impact of evolutionary psychology on the study of violence and terror. He is also the founding Director of the Indiana Center for Middle East Peace, and CONFLUENCE: Northeast Indiana Interfaith Alliance.

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