Academic literature on the topic 'Actors – England – Fiction'

Medieval England was filled with history such as invasions by foreigners, The Wars of the Roses, and power struggles. A Song of Ice and Fire is a historical fiction novel that have a lot of in common with Medieval England. The aim of this study is to find the similarities between the novel and real medieval England in terms of Setting, Event, and the similarities within each of Character. The author uses the Qualitative Research with Mimetic approach by Abrams. The authors found that there are several similarities in terms of Setting between the novel and the real world, one of them is the geographical condition between two countries, Westeros and England. The Event in the story also resembles the historical event such as Aegon Conquest that resembles William Conquest in 1066, And the Characters also brought the same attribute that resembles the original actors in medieval England.

In this article, Erika T. Lin explores theatrical performance as a material medium by considering which elements might have been privileged in the dramaturgy of Shakespeare and his contemporaries. After considering the strengths and weaknesses of Robert Weimann’s influential concepts of locus and platea, she offers an alternative model for understanding the authority of performance in early modern England, in which stage geography and actor–audience interactivity, two key components of Weimann’s formulation, are less important than the interplay between representation and presentation. Through an analysis of specific scenes from a number of Shakespeare’s plays, she argues that the moments most privileged in the early modern playhouse were those that foregrounded the semiotic system through which actions presented onstage came to signify within the represented fiction. Erika T. Lin is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English at the University of Louisville. She is currently writing a book entitled Shakespeare and the Materiality of Performance, and is also beginning work on a new project which examines seasonal festivities, folk drama, and professional theatre in early modern England.

Just as the imminence of the Second World War overshadowed the first production of J. B. Priestley's ‘modern morality play’, Johnson Over Jordan, in 1939, so did the disaster of 9/11 its only major revival, at the West Yorkshire Playhouse in 2001. Both productions boasted a major actor – respectively Ralph Richardson and Patrick Stewart – in the title role of a play which continued Priestley's search to find a theatrical style for his own metaphysical enquiries into the nature of time and the boundaries of human mortality. In this article, Alan W. Friedman sets the play in the context of western attitudes towards death and the nature of an afterworld, and relates these to Johnson's own journey after his funeral through rewindings of his past life towards some sort of reconciliation with its ending. Alan W. Friedman is Thaman Professor of English in the University of Texas, Austin, and has also taught at universities in England, Ireland, and France. He has published numerous articles and books, the latter including Multivalence: the Moral Quality of Form in the Modern Novel (Louisiana State UP, 1978), William Faulkner (Frederick Ungar, 1984), Fictional Death and the Modernist Enterprise (Cambridge UP, 1995), and (edited with Charles Rossman and Dina Sherzer) Beckett Translating/Translating Beckett (Pennsylvania State UP, 1987).

Goethe’s novel Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, published in 1795, provides a fictional account of a theatrical production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Its initiator is young Wilhelm, whose experiences with this project, in the context of the novel, mark a decisive stage in his education and personal development; as well as, on another level, in the formation of a German national theatre, the mapping out of a theatrical space peculiar to the German national character. To realize his project Wilhelm has to negotiate with his manager and his fellow-actors; these negotiations can be considered reflections of the cultural aspirations and constraints prevalent late 18th-century Germany: – The project itself, as represented by Wilhelm, appears to be informed by a cultural movement towards emancipation from French culture: The character of Hamlet was interpreted as representing a role model for young Germans. – Informed by a theatrical practice based on French conventions, the manager objects to the lack of dramaturgical coherence of the Shakespeare play. As a compromise, Wilhelm composes an adapted version in which references to Wittenberg, Poland, France and England as well as several minor characters are cut, but the Hamlet scenes and speeches are retained. – Wilhelm and his friends also take account of German audiences’ preferences and capacities.The Hamlet project in Wilhelm Meister can be considered a case study of cultural appropriation. Shakespeare becomes a cultural import, used to define and map a cultural space for the German middle class, which in the nineteenth century set store by the quality of its educational make-up.

"How can we know the dancer from the dance?" In poems such as "Javanese Dancers" and in many prose texts (including fiction) Symons (1865-1945) offers a gloss on that well-known line by his friend and fellow-Celt, Yeats. This paper explores the relationship between Symons's views on theatre and those of Edward Gordon Craig (1872-1966); the two men commented on each other's work. There is a trajectory from Symons's response to dance (owing something to the popular native English tradition of music-hall, as well as to the more sophisticated developments of French Symbolism), towards Craig's theory of the Übermarionette, which found so little favour in Edwardian England - Symons apart - but was hugely influential in mainland Europe, anticipating Brecht's Verfremdungseffekte and providing a strong intellectual basis for the avant-garde Polish theatre of Tadeusz Kantor. Symons is clearly a key figure in the challenge to naturalism and to other forms of naïve representationism, including crudely emotional identification with characters and 'star' actors. I conclude with a brief reference to the non-naturalistic (but didactic) Edinburgh 'masques' of the Scottish polymath Patrick Geddes (1854-1932).

Narratives of invasion have been stock in trade for science fiction in film and on TV for many years now. It's not hard to see how this began; at least at the conceptual level, visual SF tends not to be greatly innovative, drawing much of its iconography and subject matter from written SF produced in the 30s and 40s -- and in that time period, invasion and imperialism was something of a hot topic. But invasion narratives in visual SF are still extremely popular and prevalent even today (witness the X-Files' overarching storyline), which suggests the reasons may be not so much a matter of any lack of innovation and more an issue of some wider cultural value. To address some of the implications of this I want to turn to the British TV series, Doctor Who, which, in its twenty-five year run, explored practically every possible variation of the invasion narrative. One of the aspects of the show that both its native viewers and its "colonial" (I use the term here very loosely, and to describe fans and viewers in Australia, the US and NZ) fans seem to find especially valuable and interesting is what they invariably term its "Britishness". This Britishness manifests itself particularly in the persona of the lead character, the Doctor, an alien time-traveller who nevertheless is typically garbed in Edwardian jackets and is fond of cricket, tea, and jellybabies (though not all at the same time). Time and time again, the Doctor must save the Earth (and occasionally other planets, and sometimes the Universe) from hordes of monstrous foes. Well, when I say "Earth", I mostly mean England. In the greater London area. This is clearly demonstrated in an early story from 1964, featuring the Doctor's oldest foes, the Daleks, who have come to Earth in the 21st century to enslave humanity and mine the planet's core. The Daleks are depicted gliding unstoppably through an eerily deserted London, exterminating any stray humans they encounter. Nothing is shown of any other city or country on the planet -- we are therefore encouraged to view London as the paradigmatic representation of Earth. The image recurs through the course of the series: on every planet the Doctor visits, the inhabitants speak impeccable BBC English. The harsh budgetary restrictions and unforgiving production schedule undeniably shaped this seemingly complete insularity. And indeed the pluralistic humanism that informed the show's best episodes mitigated its insular tendencies a good deal. I think it is possible to see it as symptomatic of a wider cultural force -- the burden of Empire. It is almost inescapable that Britain's status as a fading colonial power becomes inscribed in its popular fiction texts -- and particularly SF offered avenues for the recuperation of this status through technology, for instance. Both Doctor Who and its near-contemporary, Quartermass, offered visions of Britain leading the space race with manned flights to Mars and the outer solar system. The Doctor's main foes, such as the Daleks, the Cybermen and the Sontarans, for instance, were frequently depicted in the course of the series as taking humans as slaves for labour work and experimentation. In one particular case, the slaves were all portrayed by white South African actors! Certainly a very tangled set of ideological interrelations operating out of this unease at the cost of colonialism. Ultimately, however, the vision of the Doctor, a capable British eccentric saving oppressed peoples from tyrannical governments and marauding invaders, must surely be another gesture towards the kind of cultural and moral recuperation that I've alluded to. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Nick Caldwell. "A Decolonising Doctor? British SF Invasion Narratives." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.2 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9903/who.php>. Chicago style: Nick Caldwell, "A Decolonising Doctor? British SF Invasion Narratives," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 2 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9903/who.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Nick Caldwell. (1999) A decolonising doctor? British SF invasion narratives. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(2). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9903/who.php> ([your date of access]).

Introduction Scholars, journalists, conspiracists, and public-facing groups have employed a variety of analogies to discuss the role that misleading content (conspiracy theory, disinformation, malinformation, and misinformation), plays in our everyday lives. Terms like the “disinformation war” (Hwang) or the “Infodemic” (United Nations) attempt to summarise the issues of misleading content to aide public understanding. This project studies the effectiveness of these analogies in conveying the movement of online conspiracy theory in social media networks by simulating them in a game. Building from growing comparisons likening conspiracy theories to game systems (Berkowitz; Kaminska), we used game design as a research tool to test these analogies against theory. This article focusses on the design process, rather than implementation, to explore where the analogies succeed and fail in replication. Background and Literature Review Conspiracy Theories and Games Online conspiracy theories reside in the milieu of misinformation (unintentionally incorrect), disinformation (intentionally incorrect), and malinformation (intentionally harmful) (Wardle and Derakhshan 45). They are puzzled together through the vast amount of information available online (Hannah 1) creating a “hunt” for truth (Berkowitz) that refracts information through deeply personal narratives that create paradoxical interpretations (Hochschild xi). Modern social media networks offer curated but fragmented content distribution where information discovery involves content finding users through biased sources (Toff and Nielsen 639). This puzzling together of theories gives conspiracy theorists agency in ‘finding the story’, giving them agency in a process with underlining goals (Kaminska). A contemporary example is QAnon, where the narrative of a “secret global cabal”, large-scale pedophile rings, and overstepping government power is pieced together through Q-drops or cryptic clues that users decipher (Bloom and Moskalenko 5). This puzzle paints a seemingly hidden reality for players to uncover (Berkowitz) and offers gripping engagement which connects “disparate data” into a visualised conspiracy (Hannah 3). Despite their harmful impacts, conspiracy theories are playful (Sobo). They can be likened to playful acts of make-belief (Sobo), reality-adjacent narratives that create puzzles for exploration (Berkowitz), and community building through playful discovery (Bloom and Moskalenko 169). Not only do conspiracies “game the algorithm” to promote content, but they put players into in a self-made digital puzzle (Bloom and Moskalenko 17, 18). This array of human and nonhuman actors allows for truth-spinning that can push people towards conspiracy through social bonds (Moskalenko). Mainstream media and academic institutions are seen as biased and flawed information sources, prompting these users to “do their own research” within these spaces (Ballantyne and Dunning). However, users are in fragmented worldviews, not binaries of right and wrong, which leaves journalism and fact-checkers in a digital world that requires complex intervention (De Maeyer 22). Analogies Analogies are one method of intervention. They offer explanation for the impact conspiracy has had on society, such as the polarisation of families (Andrews). Both conspiracists and public-facing groups have commonly used an analogy of war. The recent pandemic has also introduced analogies of virality (Hwang; Tardáguila et al.). A war analogy places truth on a battleground against lies and fiction. “Doing your own research” is a combat maneuver for conspiracy proliferation through community engagement (Ballantyne and Dunning). Similarly, those fighting digital conspiracies have embraced the analogy to explain the challenges and repercussions of content. War suggests hardened battlelines, the need for public mobilisation, and a victory where truth prevails, or defeat where fallacy reigns (Shackelford). Comparatively, a viral analogy, or “Infodemic” (United Nations), suggests misleading content as moving through a network like an infectious system; spreading through paths of least resistance or effective contamination (Scales et al. 678; Graham et al. 22). Battlelines are replaced with paths or invasion, where the goal is to infect the system or construct a rapid response vaccine that can stymie the ever-growing disease (Tardáguila et al.). In both cases, victorious battles or curative vaccinations frame conspiracy and disinformation as temporary problems. The idea of the rise and falls of a conspiracy’s prominence as link to current events emulates Byung-Chung Han’s notion of the digital swarm, or fragmented communities that coalesce, bubble up into volatile noise, and then dissipate without addressing the “dominant power relations” (Han 12). For Han, swarms arise in digital networks with intensive support before disappearing, holding an influential but ephemeral life. Recently, scholarship has applied a media ecology lens to recognise the interconnection of actors that contribute to these swarms. The digital-as-ecosystem approach suggests a network that needs to be actively managed (Milner and Phillips 8). Tangherlini et al.’s work on conspiracy pipelines highlights the various actors that move information through them to make the digital ecosystem healthy or unhealthy (Tangherlini et al.). Seeing the Internet, and the movement of information on it, as an ecology posits a consideration of processes that are visible (i.e., conspiracy theorists) and invisible (i.e., algorithms etc.) and is inclusive of human and non-human actors (Milner and Phillips). With these analogies as frames, we answer Sobo’s call for a playful lens towards conspiracy alongside De Maeyer’s request for serious interventions by using serious play. If we can recognise both conspiracy and its formation as game-like and understand these analogies as explanatory narratives, we can use simulation game design to ask: how are these systems of conspiracy propagation being framed? What gaps in understanding arise when we frame conspiracy theory through the analogies used to describe it? Method Research-Creation and Simulation Gaming Our use of game design methods reframed analogies through “gaming literacy”, which considers the knowledge put into design and positions the game as a set of practices relating to the everyday (Zimmerman 24). This process requires constant reflection. In both the play of the game and the construction of its parts we employed Khaled’s critical design framework (10-11). From March to December 2021 we kept reflective logs, notes from bi-weekly team meetings, playtest observations, and archives of our visual design to consistently review and reassess our progression. We asked how the visuals, mechanics, and narratives point to the affordances and drawbacks of these analogies. Visual and Mechanical Design Before designing the details of the analogies, we had to visualise their environment – networked social media. We took inspiration from existing visual representations of the Internet and social media under the hypothesis that employing a familiar conceptual model could improve the intelligibility of the game (figs. 1 and 2). In usability design, this is referred to as "Jakob's law" (Nielsen), in which, by following familiar patterns, the user can focus better on content, or in our case, play. Fig. 1: “My Twitter Social Ego Networks” by David Sousa-Rodrigues. A visual representation of Sousa-Rodrigues’s social media network. <https://www.flickr.com/photos/11452351@N00/2048034334>. We focussed on the networked publics (Itō) that coalesce around information and content disclosure. We prioritised data practices that influence community construction through content (Bloom and Moskalenko 57), and the larger conspiracy pipelines of fragmented data (Tangherlini et al. 30). Fig. 2: "The Internet Map" by Ruslan Enikeev. A visual, 2D, interactive representation of the Internet. <http://internet-map.net/>. Our query focusses on how play reciprocated, or failed to reciprocate, these analogies. Sharp et al.’s suggestion that obvious and simple models are intuitively understood allowed us to employ simplification in design in the hopes of parsing down complex social media systems. Fig. 3 highlights this initial attempt where social media platforms became “networks” that formed proximity to specific groups or “nodes”. Fig. 3: Early version of the game board, with a representation of nodes and networks as simplified visualisations for social networks. This simplification process guided the scaling of design as we tried to make the seemingly boundless online networks accessible. Colourful tokens represented users, placed on the nodes (fig. 4). Tokens represented portions of the user base, allowing players to see the proliferation of conspiracy through the network. Unfortunately, this simplification ignores the individual acts of users and their ability to bypass these pipelines as well as the discovery-driven collegiality within these communities (Bloom and Moskalenko 57). To help offset this, we designed an overarching scenario and included “flavour text” on cards (fig. 5) which offered narrative vignettes that grounded player actions in dynamic story. Fig. 4: The first version for the printed playtest for the board, with the representation of “networks” formed by a clustering of "nodes". The movement of conspiracy was indicated by colour-coded tokens. Fig. 5: Playing cards. They reference a particular action which typically adds or removes token. They also reference a theory and offer text to narrativise the action. Design demonstrates that information transmission is not entirely static. In the most recent version (fig. 6), this meant having the connections between nodes become subverted through player actions. Game mechanics, such as playing cards (fig. 5), make these pipelines interactive and visible by allowing players to place and move content throughout the space in response to each other’s actions. Fig. 6: The most updated version of the board, now named "Lizards and Lies". Red regions are initial starting points for conspiracy to enter mainstream social media (purple). Design adaptations focussed on making conspiracy theory dynamic. Player choice (i.e. where to add conspiracy) had to consider a continuously changing board created by other actors to reflect the adaptive nature of conspiracy theories. In this way, analogies came alive or died through the actions of players within a visually responsive system. This meant that each game had different swarms of conspiracy, where player decisions “wrote” a narrative through play. By selecting how and where conspiracy might be placed or removed, players created a narrative distinct to their game. For example, a conspiracy theorist player (one playable character) might explain their placing of conspiracy theory within the Chrpr/Twitter network as a community response to fact-checking (second playable character) in the neighbouring Shreddit/Reddit community. Results War Analogy Initial design took inspiration from wargaming to consider battlelines, various combatants, and a simulated conflict. Two player characters were made. Conspiracy theorists were posited against fact-checkers, where nodes and networks functioned as battlelines of intervention. The war narrative was immediately challenged by the end-state. Either conspiracy overtook networks or the fact checkers completely stymied conspiracy’s ability to exist. Both end-states seemed wrong for players. Battle consistently felt futile as conspiracists could always add more content, and fact-checkers could always remove something. Simply put, war fell flat. While the game could depict communities and spaces of combat, it struggled to represent how fragmented conspiracy theories are. In play, conspiracy theory became stagnant, the flow of information felt compelled, and the actors entered uneven dynamics. Utopia was never achieved, and war always raged on. Even when players did overtake a network, the victory condition (needing to control the most networks) made this task, which would normally be compelling, feel lacklustre. To address this, we made changes. We altered the win condition to offer points at the end of each turn depending on what the player did (i.e., spreading conspiracy into networks). We expanded the number of networks and connections between them (fig. 3 and fig. 6) to include more fluid and fragmented pipelines of conspiracy dissemination. We included round-end events which shifted the state of the game based on other actors, and we pushed players to focus on their own actions more than those of the others on the board. These changes naturally shifted the battleground from hardened battle lines to a fragmented amorphous spread of disinformation; it moved war to virality. Viral Analogy As we transitioned towards the viral, we prioritised the reflexive, ephemeral movements of conspiracy proliferating through networks. We focussed less on adding and removing content and shifted to the movement of actors through the space. Some communities became more susceptible to conspiracy content, fact-checkers relied on flagging systems, and conspiracy theories followed a natural, but unexpected pipeline of content dissemination. These changes allowed players to feel like individual actors with specific goals rather than competing forces. Fact-checkers relied on mitigation and response while conspiracists evaluated the susceptibility of specific communities to conspiracy content. This change illuminated a core issue with fact-checking; it is entirely responsive, endless, and too slow to stop content from having an impact. While conspiracists could play one card to add content, fact-checkers had to flag content, move their token, and use a player card to eliminate content – all of which exacerbated this issue. In this manner, the viral approach rearticulated how systems themselves afford the spread of conspiracy, where truly effective means to stop the spread relied on additional system actors, such as training algorithms to help remove and flag content. While a more effective simulation, the viral analogy struggled in its presentation of conspiracy theory within social media. Play had a tipping point, where given enough resources, those stopping the spread of conspiracy could “vaccinate” it and clean the board. To alter this, our design began to consider actions and reactions, creating a push and pull of play focussed on balancing or offsetting the system. This transition naturally made us consider a media ecology analogy. Media Ecology Replacing utopic end-states with a need to maintain network health reframed the nature of engagement within this simulation. An ecological model recognises that harmful content will exist in a system and aims not at elimination, but at maintaining a sustainable balance. It is responsive. It considers the various human and non-human actors at play and focusses on varied actor goals. As our game shifted to an ecological model, homogenous actors of conspiracists or fact-checkers were expanded. We transitioned a two-player game into a four-player variant, testing options like literacy educators, content recommending algorithms, and ‘edgelords'. Rather than defeating or saving social media, play becomes focussed on actors in the system. Play and design demonstrated how actions would shape play decisions. Characters were seen as network actors rather than enemies, changing interaction. Those spreading conspiracy began to focus less on “viral paths”, or lines of battle, and instead on where or how they could impact system health. In some cases, conspiracists would build one network of support, in others they created pockets around the board from which they could run campaigns. Those stopping the spread came to see their job as management. Rather than try and eliminate all conspiracy, they determined which sites to engage with, what content held the greatest threat, and which tools would be most effective. Media ecology play focussed less on outsmarting opponents and instead on managing an actor’s, and other players’, goals within an evolving system. Challenging Swarms and a Turn to Digital Ecology Using games to evaluate analogies illuminates clear gaps in their use, and the value of a media ecology lens. A key issue across the two main analogies (war and virality) was a utopic endstate. The idea that conspiracy can be beaten back, or vaccinated, fails to consider the endless amount of conspiracy possible to be made, or the impossibility of vaccinating the entire system. As our transitionary design process shows, the notion of winners and losers misplaces the intent of various actors groups where conspiracy is better framed as community-building rather than “controlling” a space (Bloom and Moskalenko 57). In design, while Han’s notion of the swarm was helpful, it struggled to play out in our simulations because fragments of conspiracy always remained on the board. This lingering content suggests that fact-checking does not actually remove ideological support. Swarms could quickly regrow around lingering support presenting them not as ephemeral as Han argued. As design transitioned towards ecology, these “fragments” were seen as part of a system of actors. Gameplay shows a deep interplay between the removal of content and its spread, arguing that removing conspiracy is a band-aid solution to a larger problem. Our own simplification of analogy into a game is not without limitations. Importantly, the impact of user specific acts for interpreting a movement (Toff and Nielsen 640), and the underlying set of networks that create “dark platforms” (Zeng and Schäfer 122) were lost in the game’s translation. Despite this, our work provides directions for scholarship and those engaging with the public on these issues to consider. Reframing our lens to understand online conspiracy as an aspect of digital ecological health, asks us to move away from utopic solutions and instead focus on distinct actors as they relate to the larger system. Conclusion Employing serious play as a lens to our framing of digital conspiracy, this project emphasises a turn towards media ecology models. Game design functioned as a tool to consider the actors, behaviours, and interactions of a system. Our methodological approach for visualising war and viral analogies demonstrates how playful responses can prompt questions and considerations of theory. Playing in this way, offers new insights for how we think about and grapple with the various actors associated with conspiracy theory and scholarship should continue to embrace ecological models to weigh the assemblage of actors. References Andrews, Travis. “QAnon Is Tearing Families Apart.” Washington Post, 2020. <https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2020/09/14/qanon-families-support-group/>. Ballantyne, Nathan, and David Dunning. “Skeptics Say, ‘Do Your Own Research.’ It’s Not That Simple.” The New York Times, 3 Jan. 2022. <https://www.nytimes.com/2022/01/03/opinion/dyor-do-your-own-research.html>. Berkowitz, Reed. “QAnon Resembles the Games I Design. But for Believers, There Is No Winning.” Washington Post, 2021. <https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/qanon-game-plays-believers/2021/05/10/31d8ea46-928b-11eb-a74e-1f4cf89fd948_story.html>. Bloom, Mia, and Sophia Moskalenko. Pastels and Pedophiles: Inside the Mind of QAnon. Stanford University Press, 2021. De Maeyer, Juliette. “Taking Conspiracy Culture Seriously: Journalism Needs to Face Its Epistemological Trouble.” Journalism 20.1 (2019): 21–23. <https://doi.org/10.1177/1464884918807037>. Graham, Timothy, et al. Like a Virus: The Coordinated Spread of Coronavirus Disinformation. The Australia Institute, 2020. <https://apo.org.au/node/305864>. Han, Byung-Chul. In the Swarm: Digital Prospects. Trans. Erik Butler. MIT Press, 2017. Hannah, Matthew N. “A Conspiracy of Data: QAnon, Social Media, and Information Visualization.” Social Media + Society, 7.3 (2021). <https://doi.org/10.1177/20563051211036064>. Hochschild, Arlie Russell. Strangers in Their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right. The New Press, 2016. Hwang, Tim. “Deconstructing the Disinformation War.” MediaWell, Social Science Research Council 1 June 2020. <https://mediawell.ssrc.org/expert-reflections/deconstructing-the-disinformation-war/>. Itō, Mizuko. “Introduction.” Networked Publics. Ed. Kazys Varnelis. MIT Press, 2008. Kaminska, Izabella. “The ‘Game Theory’ in the Qanon Conspiracy Theory.” Financial Times 16 Oct. 2020. <https://www.ft.com/content/74f9d20f-9ff9-4fad-808f-c7e4245a1725>. Khaled, Rilla. “Questions over Answers: Reflective Game Design.” Playful Disruption of Digital Media. Ed. Daniel Cermak-Sassenrath. Singapore: Springer, 2018. 3–27. <https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-10-1891-6_1>. Milner, Ryan M., and Whitney Phillips. You Are Here. MIT Press, 2020. <https://you-are-here.pubpub.org/>. 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The Harry Potter (HP) Fan Fiction (FF) phenomenon offers an opportunity to explore the nature of fame and the work of fans (including the second author, a participant observer) in creating and circulating cultural products within fan communities. Matt Hills comments (xi) that “fandom is not simply a ‘thing’ that can be picked over analytically. It is also always performative; by which I mean that it is an identity which is (dis-)claimed, and which performs cultural work”. This paper explores the cultural work of fandom in relation to FF and fame. The global HP phenomenon – in which FF lists are a small part – has made creator J K Rowling richer than the Queen of England, according to the 2003 ‘Sunday Times Rich List’. The books (five so far) and the films (three) continue to accelerate the growth in Rowling’s fortune, which quadrupled from 2001-3: an incredible success for an author unknown before the publication of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone in 1997. Even the on-screen HP lead actor, Daniel Radcliffe, is now Britain’s second wealthiest teenager (after England’s Prince Harry). There are other globally successful books, such as the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and the Narnia collection, but neither of these series has experienced the momentum of the HP rise to fame. (See Endnote for an indication of the scale of fan involvement with HP FF, compared with Lord of the Rings.) Contemporary ‘Fame’ has been critically defined in relation to the western mass media’s requirement for ‘entertaining’ content, and the production and circulation of celebrity as opposed to ‘hard news’(Turner, Bonner and Marshall). The current perception is that an army of publicists and spin doctors are usually necessary, but not sufficient, to create and nurture global fame. Yet the HP phenomenon started out with no greater publicity investment than that garnered by any other promising first novelist: and given the status of HP as children’s publishing, it was probably less hyped than equivalent adult-audience publications. So are there particular characteristics of HP and his creator that predisposed the series and its author to become famous? And how does the fame status relate to fans’ incorporation of these cultural materials into their lives? Accepting that it is no more possible to predict the future fame of an author or (fictional) character than it is to predict the future financial success of a book, film or album, there is a range of features of the HP phenomenon that, in hindsight, helped accelerate the fame momentum, creating what has become in hindsight an unparalleled global media property. J K Rowling’s personal story – in the hands of her publicity machine – itself constituted a magical myth: the struggling single mother writing away (in longhand) in a Scottish café, snatching odd moments to construct the first book while her infant daughter slept. (Comparatively little attention was paid by the marketers to the author’s professional training and status as a teacher, or to Rowling’s own admission that the first book, and the outline for the series, took five years to write.) Rowling’s name itself, with no self-evident gender attribution, was also indicative of ambiguity and mystery. The back-story to HP, therefore, became one of a quintessentially romantic endeavour – the struggle to write against the odds. Publicity relating to the ‘starving in a garret’ background is not sufficient to explain the HP/Rowling grip on the popular imagination, however. Instead it is arguable that the growth of HP fame and fandom is directly related to the growth of the Internet and to the middle class readers’ Internet access. If the production of celebrity is a major project of the conventional mass media, the HP phenomenon is a harbinger of the hyper-fame that can be generated through the combined efforts of the mass media and online fan communities. The implication of this – evident in new online viral marketing techniques (Kirby), is that publicists need to pique cyber-interest as well as work with the mass media in the construction of celebrity. As the cheer-leaders for online viral marketing make the argument, the technique “provides the missing link between the [bottom-up] word-of-mouth approach and the top-down, advertainment approach”. Which is not to say that the initial HP success was a function of online viral marketing: rather, the marketers learned their trade by analysing the magnifier impact that the online fan communities had upon the exponential growth of the HP phenomenon. This cyber-impact is based both on enhanced connectivity – the bottom-up, word-of-mouth dynamic, and on the individual’s need to assume an identity (albeit fluid) to participate effectively in online community. Critiquing the notion that the computer is an identity machine, Streeter focuses upon (649) “identities that people have brought to computers from the culture at large”. He does not deal in any depth with FF, but suggests (651) that “what the Internet is and will come to be, then, is partly a matter of who we expect to be when we sit down to use it”. What happens when fans sit down to use the Internet, and is there a particular reason why the Internet should be of importance to the rise and rise of HP fame? From the point of view of one of us, HP was born at more or less the same time as she was. Eleven years old in the first book, published in 1997, Potter’s putative birth year might be set in 1986 – in line with many of the original HP readership, and the publisher’s target market. At the point that this cohort was first spellbound by Potter, 1998-9, they were also on the brink of discovering the Internet. In Australia and many western nations, over half of (two-parent) families with school-aged children were online by the end of 2000 (ABS). Potter would notionally have been 14: his fans a little younger but well primed for the ‘teeny-bopper’ years. Arguably, the only thing more famous than HP for that age-group, at that time, was the Internet itself. As knowledge of the Internet grew stories about it constituted both news and entertainment and circulated widely in the mass media: the uncertainty concerning new media, and their impact upon existing social structures, has – over time – precipitated a succession of moral panics … Established commercial media are not noted for their generosity to competitors, and it is unsurprising that many of the moral panics circulating about pornography on the Net, Internet stalking, Web addiction, hate sites etc are promulgated in the older media. (Green xxvii) Although the mass media may have successfully scared the impressionable, the Internet was not solely constructed as a site of moral panic. Prior to the general pervasiveness of the Internet in domestic space, P. David Marshall discusses multiple constructions of the computer – seen by parents as an educational tool which could help future-proof their children; but which their children were more like to conceptualise as a games machine, or (this was the greater fear) use for hacking. As the computer was to become a site for the battle ground between education, entertainment and power, so too the Internet was poised to be colonised by teenagers for a variety of purposes their parents would have preferred to prevent: chat, pornography, game-playing (among others). Fan communities thrive on the power of the individual fan to project themselves and their fan identity as part of an ongoing conversation. Further, in constructing the reasons behind what has happened in the HP narrative, and in speculating what is to come, fans are presenting themselves as identities with whom others might agree (positive affirmation) or disagree (offering the chance for engagement through exchange). The genuinely insightful fans, who apparently predict the plots before they’re published, may even be credited in their communities with inspiring J K Rowling’s muse. (The FF mythology is that J K Rowling dare not look at the FF sites in case she finds herself influenced.) Nancy Baym, commenting on a soap opera fan Usenet group (Usenet was an early 1990s precursor to discussion groups) notes that: The viewers’ relationship with characters, the viewers’ understanding of socioemotional experience, and soap opera’s narrative structure, in which moments of maximal suspense are always followed by temporal gaps, work together to ensure that fans will use the gaps during and between shows to discuss with one another possible outcomes and possible interpretations of what has been seen. (143) In HP terms the The Philosopher’s Stone constructed a fan knowledge that J K Rowling’s project entailed at least seven books (one for each year at Hogwarts School) and this offered plentiful opportunities to speculate upon the future direction and evolution of the HP characters. With each speculation, each posting, the individual fan can refine and extend their identity as a member of the FF community. The temporal gaps between the books and the films – coupled with the expanding possibilities of Internet communication – mean that fans can feel both creative and connected while circulating the cultural materials derived from their engagement with the HP ‘canon’. Canon is used to describe the HP oeuvre as approved by Rowling, her publishers, and her copyright assignees (for example, Warner Bros). In contrast, ‘fanon’ is the name used by fans to refer the body of work that results from their creative/subversive interactions with the core texts, such as “slash” (homo-erotic/romance) fiction. Differentiation between the two terms acknowledges the likelihood that J K Rowling or her assignees might not approve of fanon. The constructed identities of fans who deal solely with canon differ significantly from those who are engaged in fanon. The implicit (romantic) or explicit (full-action descriptions) sexualisation of HP FF is part of a complex identity play on behalf of both the writers and readers of FF. Further, given that the online communities are often nurtured and enriched by offline face to face exchanges with other participants, what an individual is prepared to read or not to read, or write or not write, says as much about that person’s public persona as does another’s overt consumption of pornography; or diet of art house films, in contrast to someone else’s enthusiasm for Friends. Hearn, Mandeville and Anthony argue that a “central assertion of postmodern views of consumption is that social identity can be interpreted as a function of consumption” (106), and few would disagree with them: herein lies the power of the brand. Noting that consumer culture centrally focuses upon harnessing ‘the desire to desire’, Streeter’s work (654, on the opening up of Internet connectivity) suggests a continuum from ‘desire provoked’; through anticipation, ‘excitement based on what people imagined would happen’; to a sense of ‘possibility’. All this was made more tantalising in terms of the ‘unpredictability’ of how cyberspace would eventually resolve itself (657). Thus a progression is posited from desire through to the thrill of comparing future possibilities with eventual outcomes. These forces clearly influence the HP FF phenomenon, where a section of HP fans have become impatient with the pace of the ‘official’/canon HP text. J K Rowling’s writing has slowed down to the point that Harry’s initial readership has overtaken him by several years. He’s about to enter his sixth year (of seven) at secondary school – his erstwhile-contemporaries have already left school or are about to graduate to University. HP is yet to have ‘a relationship’: his fans are engaged in some well-informed speculation as to a range of sexual possibilities which would likely take J K Rowling some light years from her marketers’ core readership. So the story is progressing more slowly than many fans would choose and with less spice than many would like (from the evidence of the web, at least). As indicated in the Endnote, the productivity of the fans, as they ‘fill in the gaps’ while waiting for the official narrative to resume, is prodigious. It may be that as the fans outstrip HP in their own social and emotional development they find his reactions in later books increasingly unbelievable, and/or out of character with the HP they felt they knew. Thus they develop an alternative ‘Harry’ in fanon. Some FF authors identify in advance which books they accept as canon, and which they have decided to ignore. For example, popular FF author Midnight Blue gives the setting of her evolving FF The Mirror of Maybe as “after Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and as an alternative to the events detailed in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, [this] is a Slash story involving Harry Potter and Severus Snape”. Some fans, tired of waiting for Rowling to get Harry grown up, ‘are doin’ it for themselves’. Alternatively, it may be that as they get older the first groups of HP fans are unwilling to relinquish their investment in the HP phenomenon, but are equally unwilling to align themselves uncritically with the anodyne story of the canon. Harry Potter, as Warner Bros licensed him, may be OK for pre-teens, but less cool for the older adolescent. The range of identities that can be constructed using the many online HP FF genres, however, permits wide scope for FF members to identify with dissident constructions of the HP narrative and helps to add to the momentum with which his fame increases. Latterly there is evidence that custodians of canon may be making subtle overtures to creators of fanon. Here, the viral marketers have a particular challenge – to embrace the huge market represented by fanon, while not disturbing those whose HP fandom is based upon the purity of canon. Some elements of fanon feel their discourses have been recognised within the evolving approved narrative . This sense within the fan community – that the holders of the canon have complimented them through an intertextual reference – is much prized and builds the momentum of the fame engagement (as has been demonstrated by Watson, with respect to the band ‘phish’). Specifically, Harry/Draco slash fans have delighted in the hint of a blown kiss from Draco Malfoy to Harry (as Draco sends Harry an origami bird/graffiti message in a Defence against the Dark Arts Class in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban) as an acknowledgement of their cultural contribution to the development of the HP phenomenon. Streeter credits Raymond’s essay ‘The Cathedral and the Bazaar’ as offering a model for the incorporation of voluntary labour into the marketplace. Although Streeter’s example concerns the Open Source movement, derived from hacker culture, it has parallels with the prodigious creativity (and productivity) of the HP FF communities. Discussing the decision by Netscape to throw open the source code of its software in 1998, allowing those who use it to modify and improve it, Streeter comments that (659) “the core trope is to portray Linux-style software development like a bazaar, a real-life competitive marketplace”. The bazaar features a world of competing, yet complementary, small traders each displaying their skills and their wares for evaluation in terms of the product on offer. In contrast, “Microsoft-style software production is portrayed as hierarchical and centralised – and thus inefficient – like a cathedral”. Raymond identifies “ego satisfaction and reputation among other [peers]” as a specific socio-emotional benefit for volunteer participants (in Open Source development), going on to note: “Voluntary cultures that work this way are not actually uncommon [… for example] science fiction fandom, which unlike hackerdom has long explicitly recognized ‘egoboo’ (ego-boosting, or the enhancement of one’s reputation among other fans) as the basic drive behind volunteer activity”. This may also be a prime mover for FF engagement. Where fans have outgrown the anodyne canon they get added value through using the raw materials of the HP stories to construct fanon: establishing and building individual identities and communities through HP consumption practices in parallel with, but different from, those deemed acceptable for younger, more innocent, fans. The fame implicit in HP fandom is not only that of HP, the HP lead actor Daniel Radcliffe and HP’s creator J K Rowling; for some fans the famed ‘state or quality of being widely honoured and acclaimed’ can be realised through their participation in online fan culture – fans become famous and recognised within their own community for the quality of their work and the generosity of their sharing with others. The cultural capital circulated on the FF sites is both canon and fanon, a matter of some anxiety for the corporations that typically buy into and foster these mega-media products. As Jim Ward, Vice-President of Marketing for Lucasfilm comments about Star Wars fans (cited in Murray 11): “We love our fans. We want them to have fun. But if in fact someone is using our characters to create a story unto itself, that’s not in the spirit of what we think fandom is about. Fandom is about celebrating the story the way it is.” Slash fans would beg to differ, and for many FF readers and writers, the joy of engagement, and a significant engine for the growth of HP fame, is partly located in the creativity offered for readers and writers to fill in the gaps. Endnote HP FF ranges from posts on general FF sites (such as fanfiction.net >> books, where HP has 147,067 stories [on 4,490 pages of hotlinks] posted, compared with its nearest ‘rival’ Lord of the rings: with 33,189 FF stories). General FF sites exclude adult content, much of which is corralled into 18+ FF sites, such as Restrictedsection.org, set up when core material was expelled from general sites. As an example of one adult site, the Potter Slash Archive is selective (unlike fanfiction.net, for example) which means that only stories liked by the site team are displayed. Authors submitting work are asked to abide by a list of ‘compulsory parameters’, but ‘warnings’ fall under the category of ‘optional parameters’: “Please put a warning if your story contains content that may be offensive to some authors [sic], such as m/m sex, graphic sex or violence, violent sex, character death, major angst, BDSM, non-con (rape) etc”. Adult-content FF readers/writers embrace a range of unexpected genres – such as Twincest (incest within either of the two sets of twin characters in HP) and Weasleycest (incest within the Weasley clan) – in addition to mainstream romance/homo-erotica pairings, such as that between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. (NB: within the time frame 16 August – 4 October, Harry Potter FF writers had posted an additional 9,196 stories on the fanfiction.net site alone.) References ABS. 8147.0 Use of the Internet by Householders, Australia. http://www.abs.gov.au/ausstats/abs@.nsf/ e8ae5488b598839cca25682000131612/ ae8e67619446db22ca2568a9001393f8!OpenDocument, 2001, 2001>. Baym, Nancy. “The Emergence of Community in Computer-Mediated Communication.” CyberSociety: Computer-Mediated Communication and Community. Ed. S. Jones. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1995. 138-63. Blue, Midnight. “The Mirror of Maybe.” http://www.greyblue.net/MidnightBlue/Mirror/default.htm>. Coates, Laura. “Muggle Kids Battle for Domain Name Rights. Irish Computer. http://www.irishcomputer.com/domaingame2.html>. Fanfiction.net. “Category: Books” http://www.fanfiction.net/cat/202/>. Green, Lelia. Technoculture: From Alphabet to Cybersex. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Hearn, Greg, Tom Mandeville and David Anthony. The Communication Superhighway: Social and Economic Change in the Digital Age. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1997. Hills, Matt. Fan Cultures. London: Routledge, 2002. Houghton Mifflin. “Potlatch.” Encyclopedia of North American Indians. http://college.hmco.com/history/readerscomp/naind/html/ na_030900_potlatch.htm>. Kirby, Justin. “Brand Papers: Getting the Bug.” Brand Strategy July-August 2004. http://www.dmc.co.uk/pdf/BrandStrategy07-0804.pdf>. Marshall, P. David. “Technophobia: Video Games, Computer Hacks and Cybernetics.” Media International Australia 85 (Nov. 1997): 70-8. Murray, Simone. “Celebrating the Story the Way It Is: Cultural Studies, Corporate Media and the Contested Utility of Fandom.” Continuum 18.1 (2004): 7-25. Raymond, Eric S. The Cathedral and the Bazaar. 2000. http://www.catb.org/~esr/writings/cathedral-bazaar/cathedral-bazaar/ar01s11.html>. Streeter, Thomas. The Romantic Self and the Politics of Internet Commercialization. Cultural Studies 17.5 (2003): 648-68. Turner, Graeme, Frances Bonner, and P. David Marshall. Fame Games: The Production of Celebrity in Australia. Melbourne: Cambridge UP. Watson, Nessim. “Why We Argue about Virtual Community: A Case Study of the Phish.net Fan Community.” Virtual Culture: Identity and Communication in Cybersociety. Ed. Steven G. Jones. London: Sage, 1997. 102-32. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Green, Lelia, and Carmen Guinery. "Harry Potter and the Fan Fiction Phenomenon." M/C Journal 7.5 (2004). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/14-green.php>. APA Style Green, L., and C. Guinery. (Nov. 2004) "Harry Potter and the Fan Fiction Phenomenon," M/C Journal, 7(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/14-green.php>.

In the age of digital transformations of images, communications, and storytelling, Marshall McLuhan's insight that "the medium is the message" can be augmented with the corollary that the media is the mix. Digital forms of narrative are not only characterized by their mixed, hybrid forms and content, but their recombinations 1 draw the spectator into the mix in unforeseen ways. By mixing varying degrees of non-linearity and interactivity in what are ultimately animations, digital narratives create new kinds of digital spectatorship. The examples I'll explore here are three films, Conceiving Ada, Gamer, and Time Code. In different yet interconnected ways, each privileges the mix of media over content, or rather, foregrounds the mix as content. These digital narratives divert the reader/spectator/ participant from the traditional ways of making meaning--or at least sense--of narrative. One way to illuminate the examples is to explore how they mix linearity and interactivity. In teaching The Theory and Practice of Digital Narrative, my students and I developed a model for analyzing how different works create new modes of storytelling, and fresh relations of looking at and within the frame.2 Extending some of the terms that Janet Murray develops in Hamlet on the Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in Cyberspace, the diagram posits an x axis of linearity and a y axis of agency.3 Click here for an animated version of this graph. The linearity axis spans narratives from most linear (one plot line that progresses chronologically through time and space to one outcome through a series of cause and effect occurrences represented from a singular point of view) to non-linear (narratives that could be circular, rhizome-shaped, achronological, synchronic, multiple plotlines, multiple points of view, multidimensional).4 The agency axis spans media that call for very little active participation from the reader/spectator/listener to media that demands a high level of interaction. Of course, all "reading" is in some way active, both in the physical acts of seeing and turning pages/clicking a mouse 5 and in comprehending, imagining, remembering, and making meaning. Nevertheless, there is a distinction between page-turning and making choices in a hypermedia work, and Murray uses the term agency to suggest an "active creation of belief" (as opposed to Coleridge's "willing suspension of belief"). Digital environments require that belief be created and reinforced; as William Gibson posited in Neuromancer, the imagined place of cyberspace is a "consensual hallucination," a social agreement to act as if the places in cyberspace exist. The willing creation of belief is a social agreement that relies on a like-minded community. The more self-reflexive and unconventional the narrative, the more it calls for the will to believe. These examples of digital cinema "interpellate," or hail, their spectators as willing agents in the common project of the creation of belief. The subjectivity that these films seek to create for their viewers is one of being an active, technologically-savvy spectator. Instead of encouraging participation in, to use Guy Debord's phrase, the society of the spectacle, these digital narratives perform a Brechtian function in a distinctly technological manner that derives from the mix of media that is digital cinema. The term "digital cinema" has acquired many meanings, ranging from movies shot on digital video in a manner we associate with film (i.e.: single camera) to digital exhibition of media in digitally-equipped movie theaters and streaming video on the web. Lev Manovich defines digital cinema as "a particular case of animation which uses live action footage as one of its many elements."6 Manovich's historical argument suggests commonalities between the earliest moving images and current developments in digital media; animation was marginalized in the development of cinema, and although some of its techniques were adopted by the avant garde, only now animation returns at the very center of digital cinema.7 Lynn Hershman Leeson's film Conceiving Ada explores digital media in both form and content. In the film Emmy, a contemporary computer software engineer, uses technology to make contact with Ada Lovelace, who invented the first computer language in Victorian England. The narrative moves between Emmy in the present day and Ada in the past as Emmy figures out how to send a software agent into the past to retrieve information. Although the plot doesn't really make sense scientifically, it resonates emotionally; despite the 150 years separating their lives, Emmy and Ada face some of the same issues as women working with technology. Instead of building sets, Leeson developed a technique of blending live action footage shot against a blue screen with digitized photographs of Victorian inns. As she explains in the technical notes of the DVD of the film (and also on the Conceiving Ada website): I felt it important to use the technology Ada pioneered. Virtual sets and digital sound . . . provided environments in which she moves freely through time, becomes liberated and, ultimately, moves into visibility. The actors and filmmaker collaborated in what amounts to a consensual hallucination: On the set, these images were maneuvered through several computers where mattes were added and images were put into perspective or enlarged. They were then laid onto digital videotape while the actors were performing. Actors could reference their location through a monitor that showed them their "virtual" environment. . . . The immediacy of shooting live action while simultaneously manipulating digitized backgrounds in real time was, remarkably, exhilarating. By mixing past and present, fact and fiction, personal and professional, digital and analog, live action and animation, Conceiving Ada tells its powerful story in both form and content. Although it is not immediately obvious that the sets are virtual rather than actual, much of the story takes place in front of and inside Emmy's computer equipment. There are many shots of Emmy gazing into the computer, trying to make her programs work, and when she does make contact with Ada, she can see her memories and talk with her on the computer screen. The film frame often encompasses the computer screen, so we too see the graphic interfaces Emmy designs and animates. By mixing some of the techniques of video art with film style and the malleability of the digital image, Leeson extends her trailblazing career in many directions at once in a work that is a mix about mix. A representation of intense digital interactivity, Conceiving Ada's heroines, creators, and spectators use technology, and specifically digital imaging technology, to create agency. Like Conceiving Ada, Time Code is also an example of digital cinema that calls attention to the digital techniques used in its production, and enlists its spectators as accomplices in creating the narrative. Time Code is itself the product of improvisation, and uses digital technology to capture "real time." Director Mike Figgis divides the screen into four frames; each quadrant contains a continuous 90-minute take of an unscripted, improvised performance, all shot simultaneously with four Sony Dvcam DSR-130s; the film was blocked out on music paper. Figgis describes his movie as a "black comedy about a 90-minute slice of life in Hollywood," and it takes filmmaking as one of its subjects along with jealousy, infidelity, and a fin-de-siecle philosophical and artistic exhaustion. The audio mix of the theatrical release of the film shifts its emphasis between the quadrants, thus directing the spectator's attention to a certain quadrant. Choosing to focus on a quadrant is a kind of spectator-editing. Looking at the entire frame means seeing a new kind of animation, created by multiple screens, encompassing multiple points of view. (See Time Code clip here.) The film folds in on itself self-reflexively. The plot centers around the intersecting lives of four characters involved personally and/or professionally with Red Mullet, Inc., a movie studio (which is the real-life name of Figgis's production company; see www.red-mullet.com), and becomes increasingly Brechtian as the movie builds to the climactic scene in which a hot young independent filmmaker pitches a movie that, like the one we are watching, splits the screen and follows the interactions between four characters. In what could be taken as a manifesto for digital cinema that counters the "chastity" of DOGME 95 with the passionate embrace of technology, the filmmaker announces, "Montage has created a fake reality. . . . Technology has arrived, digital video has arrived, and is demanding new expressions, new sensations. . . . It's time to say again: Art, Technology: a new union." She shows the studio executives storyboards of how four cameras will follow four characters, who are really four aspects of the same character at different points in their lives. But the filmmaker's passionate and theoretical speech is undercut by the context of black comedy that infuses the film: artistic praxis clashes with business practice, and all the plotlines peak as Stellan Skarsgard's Alex bursts into laughter and exclaims, "This is the most pretentious crap I've ever heard. . . . Do you think anybody around this table has a clue about what you're talking about?" Figgis assumes his audience does, that Bauhaus, Soviet montage, and Guy Debord are not as foreign to his spectators as they are to the executives; the filmmakers both within and outside the frames show their theoretical orientation. Time Code is the first major work of digital cinema. It creates a new kind of animation based on subjectivity and point of view, and calls for an active creation of belief from the spectator-editor who takes in and ultimately creates the narrative of the film. The DVD extends the spectator's agency even further. Among its special features is a documentary about how the film was shot 15 times, all four cameras operating simultaneously around the actors' improvisation. Figgis chose the fifteenth version for the theatrical release, but also includes the first version on the DVD. Because the making of the film, and how it uses digital technology, is so central to the spectator's experience, the director's commentary and interviews with the cast reinforce the spectator as an active creator of belief and meaning in the film. Moreover, by including a special audio mixing feature, the DVD gives the medium a new level of interactivity. Using the remote control of a DVD player, the spectator/participant can switch between the audio of the different quadrants. Because the audio is a major aspect of directing the spectator's attention (in addition to visual elements such as movement and stasis), being able to make choices in the audio mix is, to use the music metaphor that the film is based on conceptually, to become the conductor of the film.8 The medium is the mix. Like Time Code and Conceiving Ada, the new French film Gamer is also a particularly digital mix. Gamer moves between live action and digital environments as its main character Tony gets the idea for, designs, and then is swindled out of a computer game. The first time the film environment switches to the game environment is when the hero is in a car chase and his car morphs into a game graphic of a car. The shift between a reality created by conventional film style and the unconventional use of game graphics style reveals the main character's subjectivity, for his reality (and other characters' as well) are constructed through their interaction in the playing and making of games. Gamer is aesthetically and viscerally ambitious in the range of live action and computer graphic interfaces it moves between. The adrenalized state of game-playing mixes with a fictionalized account of game design. Gamer succeeds in creating an immersive text about two differently immersive mediums, film and computer games. When the film depicts how live action can be made digital, and both shows and denies the indexicality of the digital image, it explores the nature of digital cinema in a way that is complementary to the projects of Conceiving Ada and Time Code. In addition to fostering new relations of looking, these digital narratives make forays into nonlinearity. Conceiving Ada and Gamer both have discursive plots that revise the conventions of the linear plot, moving between nested narrative frames in time, space, and subjectivity. Time Code is in one way relentlessly linear, but its synchronic depiction of multiple physical and emotional points of view ruptures the cinematic conventions of time and space constructed by the dominant style of continuity editing. Taken separately, these three films hover around the center point of my diagram, raising the issues of agency and linearity that will continue to be at the center of digital narrative. Taken together the films offer a model of digital transformation that points the way to what is bound to be a medium that increasingly involves its audience in thinking about and then participating in increasingly immersive, nonlinear, and interactive experiences. Notes 1. In the “renew” issue of M/C, David Marshall suggests that one of the areas Cultural Studies can look to is how the culture industries that produce “recombinant culture,” make efforts “to incorporate new technologies into different forms in order to reconstitute audiences in ways that in their distinctiveness produce value that is exchangeable as capital.” This essay is part of a larger work that attempts to open up some of the avenues suggested by Marshall. P. David Marshall. "Renewing Cultural Studies." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.6 (2000). [22 February 2001] . 2. This diagram is a work in progress. My students and I have had much discussion about what to term the bottom of the agency axis. “Passive” seems too simple, yet other terms we’ve come up with such as structured, controlled, limited, voyeuristic, or (my favorite) enslaved don’t seem to work. Special thanks to my students Elliott Davis, Tom Mannino, and John O’Connell, for such discussions. 3. Janet H. Murray, Hamlet on the Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in Cyberspace, MIT Press, 1999, esp. 128. 4. For an interesting discussion and diagramming of story shapes, see Katherine Phelps, “Story Shapes for Digital Media.” [3/7/01] < http://www.glasswings.com.au/modern/shapes/>. Steven Johnson’s assertion that the hyperlink is the “first significant new form of punctuation to emerge in centuries” is an intriguing one for thinking about the connections possible in hypermedia. (Interface Culture: How New Technology Transforms the Way We Create and Communicate (San Francisco: HarperEdge, 1997), 110-111). 6. Lev Manovich, “What Is Digital Cinema?” http://jupiter.ucsd.edu/~manovich/text/digital-cinema.html 7. In a footnote, Manovich makes an interesting point on avant-garde strategies such as collage, painting on film, combining print with animation and live action footage, and combining many images in a single frame: “what used to be exceptions for traditional cinema became the normal, intended techniques of digital filmmaking, embedded in technology design itself.” Innovative forays into the mix of digital media like my examples illuminate not only the emergence of exceptional techniques but also of innovative narrative and spectatorial strategies. 8. Figgis is using the quadrant method once again in a new film, Hotel, which recently finished production in Florence. During the filming, there was a brilliant site that every day had a new page with the four-quadrant split. In addition to quicktimes of footage of the shoot and the actors in the hotel where the film is set, there were some of the cleverest animations I have ever seen on the web. Unfortunately the site shut down after the shoot finished, but it will be up again in May, most likely at www.filmfour.com/hotel, but check www.red-mullet.com as well.

This essay combines life writing with meditations on the significance of walking as integral to the ritual practice of pilgrimage, where the individual improves her soul or health through the act of walking to a shrine containing healing relics of a saint. Braiding together insights from medieval literature, contemporary ecocriticism, and memory studies, I reflect on my own pilgrimage practice as it impacts the land itself. Canterbury, England serves as the central shrine for four pilgrimages over decades: 1966, 1994, 1997, and 2003.The act of memory was not invented in the Anthropocene. Rather, the nonhuman world has taught humans how to remember. From ice-core samples retaining the history of Europe’s weather to rocks embedded with fossilized extinct species, nonhuman actors literally petrifying or freezing the past—from geologic sites to frozen water—become exposed through the process of anthropocentric discovery and human interference. The very act of human uncovery and analysis threatens to eliminate the nonhuman actor which has hospitably shared its own experience. How can humans script nonhuman memory?As for the history of memory studies itself, a new phase is arguably beginning, shifting from “the transnational, transcultural, or global to the planetary; from recorded to deep history; from the human to the nonhuman” (Craps et al. 3). Memory studies for the Anthropocene can “focus on the terrestrialized significance of (the historicized) forms of remembrance but also on the positioning of who is remembering and, ultimately, which ‘Anthropocene’ is remembered” (Craps et al. 5). In this era of the “self-conscious Anthropocene” (Craps et al. 6), narrative itself can focus on “the place of nonhuman beings in human stories of origins, identity, and futures point to a possible opening for the methods of memory studies” (Craps et al. 8). The nonhuman on the paths of this essay range from the dirt on the path to the rock used to build the sacred shrine, the ultimate goal. How they intersect with human actors reveals how the “human subject is no longer the one forming the world, but does indeed constitute itself through its relation to and dependence on the object world” (Marcussen 14, qtd. in Rodriguez 378). Incorporating “nonhuman species as objects, if not subjects, of memory [...] memory critics could begin by extending their objects to include the memory of nonhuman species,” linking both humans and nonhumans in “an expanded multispecies frame of remembrance” (Craps et al. 9). My narrative—from diaries recording sacred journey to a novel structured by pilgrimage—propels motion, but also secures in memory events from the past, including memories of those nonhuman beings I interact with.Childhood PilgrimageThe little girl with brown curls sat crying softly, whimpering, by the side of the road in lush grass. The mother with her soft brown bangs and an underflip to her hair told the story of a little girl, sitting by the side of the road in lush grass.The story book girl had forgotten her Black Watch plaid raincoat at the picnic spot where she had lunched with her parents and two older brothers. Ponchos spread out, the family had eaten their fresh yeasty rolls, hard cheese, apples, and macaroons. The tin clink of the canteen hit their teeth as they gulped metallic water, still icy cold from the taps of the ancient inn that morning. The father cut slices of Edam with his Swiss army knife, parsing them out to each child to make his or her own little sandwich. The father then lay back for his daily nap, while the boys played chess. The portable wooden chess set had inlaid squares, each piece no taller than a fingernail paring. The girl read a Junior Puffin book, while the mother silently perused Agatha Christie. The boy who lost at chess had to play his younger sister, a fitting punishment for the less able player. She cheerfully played with either brother. Once the father awakened, they packed up their gear into their rucksacks, and continued the pilgrimage to Canterbury.Only the little Black Watch plaid raincoat was left behind.The real mother told the real girl that the story book family continued to walk, forgetting the raincoat until it began to rain. The men pulled on their ponchos and the mother her raincoat, when the little girl discovered her raincoat missing. The story book men walked two miles back while the story book mother and girl sat under the dripping canopy of leaves provided by a welcoming tree.And there, the real mother continued, the storybook girl cried and whimpered, until a magic taxi cab in which the father and boys sat suddenly appeared out of the mist to drive the little girl and her mother to their hotel.The real girl’s eyes shone. “Did that actually happen?” she asked, perking up in expectation.“Oh, yes,” said the real mother, kissing her on the brow. The girl’s tears dried. Only the plops of rain made her face moist. The little girl, now filled with hope, cuddled with her mother as they huddled together.Without warning, out of the mist, drove up a real magic taxi cab in which the real men sat. For magic taxi cabs really exist, even in the tangible world—especially in England. At the very least, in the England of little Susie’s imagination.Narrative and PilgrimageMy mother’s tale suggests how this story echoes in yet another pilgrimage story, maintaining a long tradition of pilgrimage stories embedded within frame tales as far back as the Middle Ages.The Christian pilgrim’s walk parallels Christ’s own pilgrimage to Emmaus. The blisters we suffer echo faintly the lash Christ endured. The social relations of the pilgrim are “diachronic” (Alworth 98), linking figures (Christ) from the past to the now (us, or, during the Middle Ages, William Langland’s Piers Plowman or Chaucer’s band who set out from Southwark). We embody the frame of the vera icon, the true image, thus “conjur[ing] a site of simultaneity or a plane of immanence where the actors of the past [...] meet those of the future” (Alworth 99). Our quotidian walk frames the true essence or meaning of our ambulatory travail.In 1966, my parents took my two older brothers and me on the Pilgrims’ Way—not the route from London to Canterbury that Chaucer’s pilgrims would have taken starting south of London in Southwark, rather the ancient trek from Winchester to Canterbury, famously chronicled in The Old Road by Hilaire Belloc. The route follows along the south side of the Downs, where the muddy path was dried by what sun there was. My parents first undertook the walk in the early 1950s. Slides from that pilgrimage depict my mother, voluptuous in her cashmere twinset and tweed skirt, as my father crosses a stile. My parents, inspired by Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, decided to walk along the traditional Pilgrims’ Way to Canterbury. Story intersects with material traversal over earth on dirt-laden paths.By the time we children came along, the memories of that earlier pilgrimage resonated with my parents, inspiring them to take us on the same journey. We all carried our own rucksacks and walked five or six miles a day. Concerning our pilgrimage when I was seven, my mother wrote in her diary:As good pilgrims should, we’ve been telling tales along the way. Yesterday Jimmy told the whole (detailed) story of That Darn Cat, a Disney movie. Today I told about Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey, which first inspired me to think of walking trips and everyone noted the resemblance between Stevenson’s lovable, but balky, donkey and our sweet Sue. (We hadn’t planned to tell tales, but they just happened along the way.)I don’t know how sweet I was; perhaps I was “balky” because the road was so hard. Landscape certainly shaped my experience.As I wrote about the pilgrimage in my diary then, “We went to another Hotel and walked. We went and had lunch at the Boggly [booglie] place. We went to a nother hotel called The Swan with fether Quits [quilts]. We went to the Queens head. We went to the Gest house. We went to aother Hotle called Srping wells and my tooth came out. We saw some taekeys [turkeys].” The repetition suggests how pilgrimage combines various aspects of life, from the emotional to the physical, the quotidian (walking and especially resting—in hotels with quilts) with the extraordinary (newly sprung tooth or the appearance of turkeys). “[W]ayfaring abilities depend on an emotional connection to the environment” (Easterlin 261), whether that environment is modified by humans or even manmade, inhabited by human or nonhuman actors. How can one model an “ecological relationship between humans and nonhumans” in narrative (Rodriguez 368)? Rodriguez proposes a “model of reading as encounter [...] encountering fictional story worlds as potential models” (Rodriguez 368), just as my mother did with the Magic Taxi Cab story.Taxis proliferate in my childhood pilgrimage. My mother writes in 1966 in her diary of journeying along the Pilgrims’ Way to St. Martha’s on the Hill. “Susie was moaning and groaning under her pack and at one desperate uphill moment gasped out, ‘Let’s take a taxi!’ – our highborn lady as we call her. But we finally made it.” “Martha’s”, as I later learned, is a corruption of “Martyrs”, a natural linguistic decay that developed over the medieval period. Just as the vernacular textures pilgrimage poems in the fourteeth century, the common tongue in all its glorious variety seeps into even the quotidian modern pilgrim’s journey.Part of the delight of pilgrimage lies in the characters one meets and the languages they speak. In 1994, the only time my husband and I cheated on a strictly ambulatory sacred journey occurred when we opted to ride a bus for ten miles where walking would have been dangerous. When I ask the bus driver if a stop were ours, he replied, “I'll give you a shout, love.” As though in a P. G. Wodehouse novel, when our stop finally came, he cried out, “Cheerio, love” to me and “Cheerio, mate” to Jim.Language changes. Which is a good thing. If it didn’t, it would be dead, like those martyrs of old. Like Latin itself. Disentangling pilgrimage from language proves impossible. The healthy ecopoetics of languages meshes with the sustainable vibrancy of the land we traverse.“Nettles of remorse…”: Derek Walcott, The Bounty Once my father had to carry me past a particularly tough patch of nettles. As my mother tells it, we “went through orchards and along narrow woodland path with face-high nettles. Susie put a scarf over her face and I wore a poncho though it was sunny and we survived almost unscathed.” Certain moments get preserved by the camera. At age seven in a field outside of Wye, I am captured in my father’s slides surrounded by grain. At age thirty-five, I am captured in film by my husband in the same spot, in the identical pose, though now quite a bit taller than the grain. Three years later, as a mother, I in turn snap him with a backpack containing baby Sarah, grumpily gazing off over the fields.When I was seven, we took off from Detling. My mother writes, “set off along old Pilgrims’ Way. Road is paved now, but much the same as fifteen years ago. Saw sheep, lambs, and enjoyed lovely scenery. Sudden shower sent us all to a lunch spot under trees near Thurnham Court, where we huddled under ponchos and ate happily, watching the weather move across the valley. When the sun came to us, we continued on our way which was lovely, past sheep, etc., but all on hard paved road, alas. Susie was a good little walker, but moaned from time to time.”I seem to whimper and groan a lot on pilgrimage. One thing is clear: the physical aspects of walking for days affected my phenomenological response to our pilgrimage which we’d undertaken both as historical ritual, touristic nature hike, and what Wendell Berry calls a “secular pilgrimage” (402), where the walker seeks “the world of the Creation” (403) in a “return to the wilderness in order to be restored” (416). The materiality of my experience was key to how I perceived this journey as a spiritual, somatic, and emotional event. The link between pilgrimage and memory, between pilgrimage poetics and memorial methods, occupies my thoughts on pilgrimage. As Nancy Easterlin’s work on “cognitive ecocriticism” (“Cognitive” 257) contends, environmental knowledge is intimately tied in with memory (“Cognitive” 260). She writes: “The advantage of extensive environmental knowledge most surely precipitates the evolution of memory, necessary to sustain vast knowledge” (“Cognitive” 260). Even today I can recall snatches of moments from that trip when I was a child, including the telling of tales.Landscape not only changes the writer, but writing transforms the landscape and our interaction with it. As Valerie Allen suggests, “If the subject acts upon the environment, so does the environment upon the subject” (“When Things Break” 82). Indeed, we can understand the “road as a strategic point of interaction between human and environment” (Allen and Evans 26; see also Oram)—even, or especially, when that interaction causes pain and inflames blisters. My relationship with moleskin on my blasted and blistered toes made me intimately conscious of my body with every step taken on the pilgrimage route.As an adult, my boots on the way from Winchester to Canterbury pinched and squeezed, packed dirt acting upon them and, in turn, my feet. After taking the train home and upon arrival in London, we walked through Bloomsbury to our flat on Russell Square, passing by what I saw as a new, less religious, but no less beckoning shrine: The London Foot Hospital at Fitzroy Square.Now, sadly, it is closed. Where do pilgrims go for sole—and soul—care?Slow Walking as WayfindingAll pilgrimages come to an end, just as, in 1966, my mother writes of our our arrival at last in Canterbury:On into Canterbury past nice grassy cricket field, where we sat and ate chocolate bars while we watched white-flannelled cricketers at play. Past town gates to our Queen’s Head Inn, where we have the smallest, slantingest room in the world. Everything is askew and we’re planning to use our extra pillows to brace our feet so we won’t slide out of bed. Children have nice big room with 3 beds and are busy playing store with pounds and shillings [that’s very hard mathematics!]. After dinner, walked over to cathedral, where evensong was just ending. Walked back to hotel and into bed where we are now.Up to early breakfast, dashed to cathedral and looked up, up, up. After our sins were forgiven, we picked up our rucksacks and headed into London by train.This experience in 1966 varies slightly from the one in 1994. Jim and I walk through a long walkway of tall, slim trees arching over us, a green, lush and silent cloister, finally gaining our first view of Canterbury with me in a similar photo to one taken almost thirty years before. We make our way into the city through the West Gate, first passing by St. Dunstan’s Church where Henry II had put on penitential garb and later Sir Thomas More’s head was buried. Canterbury is like Coney Island in the Middle Ages and still is: men with dreadlocks and slinky didjeridoos, fire tossers, mobs of people, tourists. We go to Mercery Lane as all good pilgrims should and under the gate festooned with the green statue of Christ, arriving just in time for evensong.Imagining a medieval woman arriving here and listening to the service, I pray to God my gratefulness for us having arrived safely. I can understand the fifteenth-century pilgrim, Margery Kempe, screaming emotionally—maybe her feet hurt like mine. I’m on the verge of tears during the ceremony: so glad to be here safe, finally got here, my favorite service, my beloved husband. After the service, we pass on through the Quire to the spot where St. Thomas’s relic sanctuary was. People stare at a lit candle commemorating it. Tears well up in my eyes.I suppose some things have changed since the Middle Ages. One Friday in Canterbury with my children in 2003 has some parallels with earlier iterations. Seven-year-old Sarah and I go to evensong at the Cathedral. I tell her she has to be absolutely quiet or the Archbishop will chop off her head.She still has her head.Though the road has been paved, the view has remained virtually unaltered. Some aspects seem eternal—sheep, lambs, and stiles dotting the landscape. The grinding down of the pilgrimage path, reflecting the “slowness of flat ontology” (Yates 207), occurs over vast expanses of time. Similarly, Easterlin reflects on human and more than human vitalism: “Although an understanding of humans as wayfinders suggests a complex and dynamic interest on the part of humans in the environment, the surround itself is complex and dynamic and is frequently in a state of change as the individual or group moves through it” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 261). An image of my mother in the 1970s by a shady tree along the Pilgrims’ Way in England shows that the path is lower by 6 inches than the neighboring verge (Bright 4). We don’t see dirt evolving, because its changes occur so slowly. Only big time allows us to see transformative change.Memorial PilgrimageOddly, the erasure of self through duplication with a precursor occurred for me while reading W.G. Sebald’s pilgrimage novel, The Rings of Saturn. I had experienced my own pilgrimage to many of these same locations he immortalizes. I, too, had gone to Somerleyton Hall with my elderly mother, husband, and two children. My memories, sacred shrines pooling in familial history, are infused with synchronic reflection, medieval to contemporary—my parents’ periodic sojourns in Suffolk for years, leading me to love the very landscape Sebald treks across; sadness at my parents’ decline; hope in my children’s coming to add on to their memory palimpsest a layer devoted to this land, to this history, to this family.Then, the oddest coincidence from my reading pilgrimage. After visiting Dunwich Heath, Sebald comes to his friend, Michael, whose wife Anne relays a story about a local man hired as a pallbearer by the local undertaker in Westleton. This man, whose memory was famously bad, nevertheless reveled in the few lines allotted him in an outdoor performance of King Lear. After her relating this story, Sebald asks for a taxi (Sebald 188-9).This might all seem unremarkable to the average reader. Yet, “human wayfinders are richly aware of and responsive to environment, meaning both physical places and living beings, often at a level below consciousness” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 265). For me, with a connection to this area, I startled with recollection emerging from my subconscience. The pallbearer’s name in Sebald’s story was Mr Squirrel, the very same name of the taxi driver my parents—and we—had driven with many times. The same Mr Squirrel? How many Mr Squirrels can there be in this small part of Suffolk? Surely it must be the same family, related in a genetic encoding of memory. I run to my archives. And there, in my mother’s address book—itself a palimpsest of time with names and addressed scored through; pasted-in cards, names, and numbers; and looseleaf memoranda—there, on the first page under “S”, “Mr. Squirrel” in my mother’s unmistakable scribble. She also had inscribed his phone number and the village Saxmundum, seven miles from Westleton. His name had been crossed out. Had he died? Retired? I don’t know. Yet quick look online tells me Squirrell’s Taxis still exists, as it does in my memory.Making KinAfter accompanying a class on a bucolic section of England’s Pilgrims’ Way, seven miles from Wye to Charing, we ended up at a pub drinking a pint, with which all good pilgrimages should conclude. There, students asked me why I became a medievalist who studies pilgrimage. Only after the publication of my first book on women pilgrims did I realize that the origin of my scholarly, long fascination with pilgrimage, blossoming into my professional career, began when I was seven years old along the way to Canterbury. The seeds of that pilgrimage when I was so young bore fruit and flowers decades later.One story illustrates Michel Serres’s point that we should not aim to appropriate the world, but merely act as temporary tenants (Serres 72-3). On pilgrimage in 1966 as a child, I had a penchant for ant spiders. That was not the only insect who took my heart. My mother shares how “Susie found a beetle up on the hill today and put him in the cheese box. Jimmy put holes in the top for him. She named him Alexander Beetle and really became very fond of him. After supper, we set him free in the garden here, with appropriate ceremony and a few over-dramatic tears of farewell.” He clearly made a great impression on me. I yearn for him today, that beetle in the cheese box. Though I tried to smuggle nature as contraband, I ultimately had to set him free.Passing through cities, landscape, forests, over seas and on roads, wandering by fields and vegetable patches, under a sky lit both by sun and moon, the pilgrim—even when in a group of fellow pilgrims—in her lonesome exercise endeavors to realize Serres’ ideal of the tenant inhabitant of earth. Nevertheless, we, as physical pilgrims, inevitably leave our traces through photos immortalizing the journey, trash left by the wayside, even excretions discretely deposited behind a convenient bush. Or a beetle who can tell the story of his adventure—or terror—at being ensconced for a time in a cheese box.On one notorious day of painful feet, my husband and I arrived in Otford, only to find the pub was still closed. Finally, it became time for dinner. We sat outside, me with feet ensconced in shoes blessedly inert and unmoving, as the server brought out our salads. The salad cream, white and viscous, was presented in an elegantly curved silver dish. Then Jim began to pick at the salad cream with his fork. Patiently, tenderly, he endeavored to assist a little bug who had gotten trapped in the gooey sauce. Every attempt seemed doomed to failure. The tiny creature kept falling back into the gloppy substance. Undaunted, Jim compassionately ministered to our companion. Finally, the little insect flew off, free to continue its own pilgrimage, which had intersected with ours in a tiny moment of affinity. Such moments of “making kin” work, according to Donna Haraway, as “life-saving strateg[ies] for the Anthropocene” (Oppermann 3, qtd. in Haraway 160).How can narrative avoid the anthropocentric centre of writing, which is inevitable given the human generator of such a piece? While words are a human invention, nonhuman entities vitally enact memory. The very Downs we walked along were created in the Cretaceous period at least seventy million years ago. The petrol propelling the magic taxi cab was distilled from organic bodies dating back millions of years. Jurassic limestone from the Bathonian Age almost two hundred million years ago constitutes the Caen stone quarried for building Canterbury Cathedral, while its Purbeck marble from Dorset dates from the Cretaceous period. Walking on pilgrimage propels me through a past millions—billions—of eons into the past, dwarfing my speck of existence. Yet, “if we wish to cross the darkness which separates us from [the past] we must lay down a little plank of words and step delicately over it” (Barfield 23). Elias Amidon asks us to consider how “the ground we dig into and walk upon is sacred. It is sacred because it makes us neighbors to each other, whether we like it or not. Tell this story” (Amidon 42). And, so, I have.We are winding down. Time has passed since that first pilgrimage of mine at seven years old. Yet now, here, I still put on my red plaid wollen jumper and jacket, crisp white button-up shirt, grey knee socks, and stout red walking shoes. Slinging on my rucksack, I take my mother’s hand.I’m ready to take my first step.We continue our pilgrimage, together.ReferencesAllen, Valerie. “When Things Break: Mending Rroads, Being Social.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.———, and Ruth Evans. Introduction. Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.Alworth, David J. Site Reading: Fiction, Art, Social Form. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2016.Amidon, Elias. “Digging In.” Dirt: A Love Story. Ed. Barbara Richardson. Lebanon, NH: ForeEdge, 2015.Barfield, Owen. History in English Words. Grand Rapids: William B. 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Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2010. 257-274.Haraway, Donna. “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin.” Environmental Humanities 6 (2015): 159-65.James, Erin, and Eric Morel. “Ecocriticism and Narrative Theory: An Introduction.” English Studies 99.4 (2018): 355-365.Marcussen, Marlene. Reading for Space: An Encounter between Narratology and New Materialism in the Works of Virgina Woolf and Georges Perec. PhD diss. University of Southern Denmark, 2016.Oppermann, Serpil. “Introducing Migrant Ecologies in an (Un)Bordered World.” ISLE 24.2 (2017): 243–256.Oram, Richard. “Trackless, Impenetrable, and Underdeveloped? Roads, Colonization and Environmental Transformation in the Anglo-Scottish Border Zone, c. 1100 to c. 1300.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. 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Victorian readers, real and fictional, often claimed to throw immoral French novels into the fire, but their engagement with French literature was far more complex than such acts suggest. This book strives to bring clarity to the ongoing critical debate regarding the insularity and prudishness of nineteenth-century readers. The socio-historical context of Anglo-French relations, like attitudes to foreign literature, moved between attraction and distrust; politicians worked to strengthen an ‘entente cordiale’ and tourists rushed across the Channel, but there was also a wariness of French radicalism and imperial ambitions. The book explores reactions to the contemporary French fiction that circulated in England between 1830 and 1870, drawing on reviews, letters, novels, and bibliographical data to do so. It aims to challenge preconceptions about Victorian Gallophobia, reflect on complex contemporary notions of immorality, and argue that French literature was not simply ‘received’ but emerged through complex transnational networks.

Abstract Charitable support of the poor, ill, enslaved, and dispossessed became central to the Sharps’ sense of self and family identity. Given the Sharps’ strong collective identity, it is not surprising to discover how intertwined their charitable activities were. While Granville’s anti-slavery was well-known then and now, beyond his actions, the siblings participated in formal, institutional philanthropy and informal, personal charity as well as social and political reforms. In some ways these endeavors became outlets for fictive parenting conforming to eighteenth-century notions of paternalism (or maternalism). They continued such work throughout their lives, though after 1790 retirement from business, age, declining health, and death narrowed the scope of their philanthropic and reform activities.

A middle-aged spinster presides over the rural and urban landscapes of Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Lolly Willowes, or The Loving Huntsman (1926), E. H. Young’s Miss Mole (1930), and Winifred Holtby’s South Riding (1936). Each novel surveys a postwar community’s recovery from the war and ties its resiliency to a represented continuity between urban and rural England. In this chapter, Stella Deen finds in the three novels a progression from a libertarian to a communal notion of civilization. While Lolly Willowes’s representation of rural modernity is a manifesto for the right ‘to have a life of one’s own’ (243), Holtby’s protagonist arrives at the insight that ‘we are members of one another’ (490). Major elements of the ‘spinster in Eden’ pattern are repeated in novels such as F. M. Mayor’s The Rector’s Daughter (1924), Lettice Cooper’s National Provincial (1938), and Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts (1941).

The dangers posed by French novels were not simply moral: they were also literary. Critics throughout the period compulsively listed any indication that a Victorian novel had been influenced by French novelists. The many writers involved with the sensation fiction of the 1860s challenged the purity (both moral and formal) of English novels. Comparisons between sensation novels and their French antecedents led to a reconsideration of the assumed superiority of English life and culture. Sensation novelists did not always proclaim their French inspirations, but many were keen to identify themselves as followers of Balzac, who had set important precedents for the genre, and whose literary star was rising in England. The boundaries of the English novel were further tested by acts of plagiarism committed by novelists like Braddon and Reade; in challenging critics to untangle the composition of their work, they demonstrated the porous boundaries of domestic literary traditions.

The ‘bed-trick’) was a pervasive plot device in prose fiction and other forms of Renaissance literature but appeared late as a device in English drama. The arrival and proliferation of the bed-trick can be connected to the emergence of capitalism as a system founded on a basic structure of deception by means of substitution in an increasingly aggressive commodity exchange market. This chapter discusses those plays in which the substituted lover is a Moor. In each of these plays with a Moorish woman substitute, we encounter the Moor as placeholder, a degraded substitute and commodity, the monstrous and demonized version of what women had become in bourgeois marriage. By looking at erotic trickery, at dangerous or dubious economic transactions, and religious or racial instability in Elizabethan and Early Stuart plays, we can begin to glimpse a broad pattern, one in which the fundamental anxieties and instabilities produced by new economic practices in early modern England were projected into stage actions involving rape, theft, swindles and racial or religious infidelity.

This chapter shifts attention from reference in space to reference in time, in order to extend the argument about realism and metaphysics to a consideration of genres as ideological formations which must both engage with recognizable circumstances and possess an innate desire to defamiliarize, even contravene, the givens of the cultural symbolic world. The social problem novel highlights this paradox, because it can only imagine possible futures through extrapolation from present conditions. The future acts as another boundless context against which realist representation must be pivoted. Chapter 4 explores this temporal paradox in the novels of H. G. Wells, whose background in evolutionary biology and investment in performative socialist politics means he depicts contemporary society as already, in a sense, prescient. The conclusions drawn about the operation of temporality in Wells’s fiction—particularly his use of tenses and the odd, recurrent topos of metanarrative intrusion—are used to think through some of the implications for ‘condition of England’ writing as an oracular and dialectical tradition within realism.

Chapter 3 turns to the records of parliament, examining measures that crossed the thin line between litigation and legislation. Parliament passed acts both private and public that honed its ability to end failed marriages through death, either civil and fictive or all too real. The chapter focuses on the developments that followed the Foljambe decision of 1602 in trying to resolve the disagreements and differences that had arisen around divorce. It addresses the so-called Bigamy Act of 1604 that criminalized marriage of a second spouse in the lifetime of the first, putting it in the context of other, failed measures to make adultery a capital offence. Turning to look more directly at adultery and bigamy as discussed in parliament—the body claiming to be the highest court of the land—lets us see from another angle the ramifying effects of coverture and of jurisdictional pluralism on marital separations in post-Reformation England.

Readers in the mid-eighteenth century were increasingly invited to translate their knowledge about the social extension of mind learned in the experience of theatre to ‘new’ prose forms of the periodical and the novel. Women writers in these forms found opportunity to present women as cognitive agents rather than affective vehicles. Four works by women serve to illustrate this case: Eliza Haywood’s The Dramatic Historiographer (1735), Sarah Fielding and Jane Collier’s The Cry: a new dramatic fable (1754), Charlotte Lennox’s Shakespeare Illustrated (1753-4), and Frances Brooke’s The Old Maid (1755-6). These printed prose works invoke memories of performance – the co-presence of the real bodies of audience and actors. But they often do so to claim the superior cognitive experience of the reader’s engagement through print with a fictional persona in the ‘mind’. The prose work is imagined as a repository of socially extended mind for its audience, an opportunity not only to recreate the experience of communal consumption of the artwork which theatre affords, but also to provide a more sophisticated form of narrative scaffolding. Distance and reflection are enabled by the absence of the performer’s body and the judicious authority of a framing narrator.

One of the abiding fictions underwriting the history of international law is the idea of lines of amity, the premise that territorial conflicts, acts of piracy, and other forms of extraterritorial violence that took place west of the Canaries and south of the Tropic of Cancer, did not infringe on interstate treaties or otherwise affect the amity among European states. Chapter 3 explores an alternative framework for the lines of amity, examining the ways that interstate competition in the Americas enabled unexpected alliances, forms of amity that traversed lines of nation, confessional identity, and race. Sir Francis Drake’s alliance with the nation of Cimarrons in Panama in 1572 forges modes of amity that not only traverse colony and metropole but additionally complicate the extent to which nonstate agents and stateless persons could wield political agency in the unstable political domain ‘beyond the line’. An examination of Vitoria’s De Indis reveals the means through which the lines of amity remained entrenched in the European political imagination, a transformation accomplished through a narrative strategy that relegated colonial history to its own tragic register. Vitoria transforms amity from a model of similitude and alliance to a defence of Spanish colonialism under the guise of diplomacy, free trade, and the defence of the innocent. Finally, Davenent’s The History of Sir Francis Drake rewrites Drake’s alliance with the Cimarrons in order to provide a spectacular precedent for representing England’s nascent imperial identity, ensured through entrance into the Spanish Caribbean.

This paper highlights two important aspects regarding girl’s education in England from the early to the mideighteenth century when interpreted through Sarah Fielding’s The Governess (1749). Former exploration of differences in education on the basis of gender and class in institutions founded by the Church or established by the English government provide extensive information on the type of education given to girls. This chapter, however, explores the type of education deemed necessary for girls and establishes, one, proper instruction for directing their imagination and two, critical interpretation of every knowledge they receive to be the distinguishing features of a good education. Such an education not only helps them in becoming exemplary students whose investigative minds aim at interpreting reasons behind every line written in books but also dutiful citizens who aim for personal happiness and social development. Sarah Fielding through her ideal educator tries to persuade the eighteenth century educational institutions to redirect their objectives toward the betterment of young readers. According to her, teachers in such institutions should aim at the intellectual development of their students through proper instructional teaching rather than preaching religion that remains irrelevant as a subject for children to study. Fielding’s only children’s novel, The Governess, which was published in 1749 presents an educational practice that lays emphasis on improving students’ interpretative skills, especially of girls, in the eighteenth century. It alienates itself from the early eighteenth century educational ideas of Mary Astell and the later religious educational ideas of Hannah More. The Governess, which is also considered to be the first book in the genre of children’s literature, encapsulates the ideas of philosophers such as John Locke and the Bluestocking Elizabeth Montagu on good education and presents them in a much simplified form to her readers. Like Montagu, Sarah Fielding uses fairy tales, fictional autobiographies, fables and dramatic plays to communicate her message and asks her readers to interpret the actions of these characters for learning important morals. It is the induction of such genres of literature (fairy tales, plays) into the education of children which distinguish her novel from the complex and lengthy educational tracts of other prominent thinkers mentioned above, and which help us in understanding how teaching children to critically interpret the books they read strengthens the foundation of their intellectual development.