Articoli di riviste sul tema "Appearance (philosophy) – fiction"

In eighteenth-century France, scientific progress and its spreading met a growing interest among public, an enthusiasm that was to be reflected in literature. Fictional works including scientific knowledge in their narrative made their appearance, paving the ground for a genre promised to a growing success in the following centuries—science fiction. The article presents three eighteenth-century French literary works, each one centered on a different domain of science: Voltaire’s Micromégas (1752), Charles-François Tiphaigne’s Amilec, or the Seeds of Mankind (Amilec, ou la graine d’hommes, 1753) and François-Félix Nogaret’s The Mirror of Current Events, or Beauty to the Highest Bidder (Le miroir des événements actuels, ou la belle au plus offrant, 1790). The first one, an iconic Enlightenment work that promotes critical thinking, relies on discoveries made in astronomy and optics. Tiphaigne de la Roche is far from sharing the fame of Voltaire, but his odd Amilec is noteworthy as it is possibly the very first science-fiction work in which biology is central. Written in the unique atmosphere of the French revolution, Nogaret’s work The Mirror of Current Events depicts androids-like interacting with humans. Our purpose is to show that these works were a precursor (proto science fiction) of the science fiction genre in literature, to describe how and what science or technology was depicted in them, and how they influenced the view of Man (humans) in eighteenth-century France.

Throughout his life, Christopher Isherwood explored his sense of himself through a range of different genres of writing: autobiography, letters and journals, and fiction. The polysemic image of the mirror plays a major role in the structuring of his novels and other writings. Through the figure of the mirror, the writer signals many nearly imperceptible yet significant changes over time. This article explores this image in a range of Isherwood’s writings, and argues that, through its deployment, the artist very often questions himself about the dichotomy between appearance and reality. The presence of the mirror in the early writings assumes modalities which are distinct from those belonging to the conversion period to Vedanta, the Hindu-oriented philosophy and religion.

Abstract Masks are devices and symbols. In the first instance, they are artifacts that allow opposite poles to take each other’s place. They split the world into appearance and reality, manifest and repressed, sacred and profane. In this sense, they are dualistic. But by so doing they invert these terms. In this sense, they are dialectical. In the second instance, they exemplify doubt about people’s identities and the veracity of their words; they denote duplicity, inauthenticity, and hypocrisy. The conjunction of these two senses resides in the fact that masks are at the threshold between reality and fiction. Such a threshold makes possible the emergence of a space of play which asserts that the world does not express a determinate and final order but is infinitely open to the emergence of new, yet transient, forms of self-organization and open new spatiotemporal worlds.

This article represents the author's experience in the comparative study of one of the figures of expressive syntax - chiasmatic constructions, functioning in fiction texts. The object of study in this study are chiasmas extracted from texts of fiction in Russian and French, the subject – linguopragmatic characteristics of chiasmatic constructions. Chiasmatic construction, or the figure of crossing, is one of the most complex and multifaceted rhetorical figures. Its appearance is the result of the interaction and fusion of several syntactic structures; this includes expressive constructions of syntactic parallelism, repetition, antithesis or contraposition, and inversion. The name itself comes from the peculiarities of the structure of the chiasmus, in which the second part is an inverse repetition of the first, such an intersection of parts generates a figure similar to the letter "x" - hence the ancient Greek name of the structure. Such constructions are individual, occurring mostly in winged sayings, phraseological units, fiction prose and most often in poetry. The conclusions and provisions developed in these studies, due to their theoretical value and significance, allow us to see the specificity of this figure of expressive syntax. At the same time, the analysis of the corresponding literature and the requirements for scientific research put forward by the time itself and the changes taking place in the society, which are naturally reflected in the language and in its functional stratification, testify to the necessity of the research directed to the complex illumination of problems of the syntax of a fiction text in the comparative aspect.

The article is devoted to the problem of studying the history of feminism in China – from the activities of Christian missionaries to Chinese revolutionaries. The prerequisites and stages of the formation of the women's movement for their rights are considered on the example of the book “The Journey to the West” of a Chinese Woman or Feminism in China by Elvira A. Sinetskaya. This book actually presents the first for Russian science study of development of Chinese movement for women rights, as well as constitutes a try to describe its characteristic feature and to place it in the context of world feminism. The author begins from definition such core terms as “feminism”, “gender”, etc., and then considers the history of feminism beginning in China and possible causes of its appearance. She analyses an attitude to women in traditional Chinese society through the lens of family relationship, society and religion, which is viewed from historical perspective. The study is based on variety of sources, including fiction literature. E.A. Sinetskaya connects the first attempts of Chinese women to obtain equality of rights with spread of Cristianity, but in this paper another point of view on this problem is presented. Then Taoism gave equal rights and possibilities for its progeny regardless of sex and social status. In this religion one can find pantheon of female goddesses, etc. The issues of family and marriage, the right to education, the right to independent earnings and problems with the exercise of their rights by women are being raised in the article, it highlights the connection between the Chinese women’s movement and the problem of human freedom

Há na cena filosófica uma exclusão da aparência, pois a verdade é um conceito fundamental para a filosofia. No cenário contemporâneo tal conceito é posto em questionamento como valor filosófico. É Nietzsche quem faz uma reversão do valor da verdade como essência, como representação universal, com ele a verdade tem ligações com a vida e suas avaliações. O texto elabora algumas notas sobre essa questão, destacando o conceito de verdade e pontuando motivações que levam o temor ao ficcional. PALAVRAS-CHAVE: Verdade; Nietzsche; Ficcional. ABSTRACT There is, in the philosophical scenario, an exclusion of the appearance, because the truth is a fundamental concept in philosophy. In the contemporary world, the approach of such concept as philosophical value is questioned. Nietzsche is the one who reverses the value of the truth as an essence, as a universal representation, the truth for him is linked to life and its evaluations. The text elaborates some notes about this question, highlighting the concept of truth and pointing out motives that take fear to fiction. KEYWORDS: Truth; Nietzsche; Fiction. RESUMEN Existe la escena filosófica una exclusión de la apariencia, porque la verdad es un concepto fundamental para la filosofía. En el entorno contemporáneo tal concepto se pone en cuestión como un valor filosófico. Es Nietzsche que es una reversión del valor de la verdad como esencia y como una representación universal, con la que en realidad tiene lazos con la vida y sus evaluaciones. El texto desarrolla algunas notas sobre este tema, destacando el concepto de verdad y puntuando las motivaciones que conducen al temor de ficción. PALABRAS CLAVE: Verdad; Nietzsche; Ficticio.

The subject of the paper is prochronism, e.g. the teaching which says that the world was created with the appearance of old age. It is shown that the sources of prochronism could be traced to the medieval doctrine of double truth and philosophy of Descartes, who suggested that cosmological theories on the origin of the Universe are purely conditional, while in fact the world was instantly created complete and mature. The idea of apparent, but non-existent past gained much credence during the first half of the 19th century, when paleontological and geological discoveries raised a question on how to square the age of the Earth and the life on it with the six days of Genesis. The hypothesis of prochronism was most fully developed in «Omphalos: an attempt to untie the geological knot» (1857), the book by the English naturalist P. Gosse. During the Darwinian time the interest in this doctrine was shown not only by Christian thinkers, but also by secular philosophers and science fiction writers. Elements of prochronism were also present in the writings of Scriptural geologists in the 19th century and their successors, the young earth creationists in the 20th century. The main objections against prochronism are critically considered. According to the most popular of them, if God had made the world appear older that it is, He thus would have deceived people. But from the point of view of prochronism, the creation of traces of never existed past was necessitated by the logic of causality, which required God to actualize all the consequences of historical epochs skipped by Him. The link between prochronism and the problem of pre-human sufferings is outlined. The conclusion is made that this doctrine, despite being counter-intuitive and rather notorious, is intellectually consistent and immune to the criticism.

The paper is focused on the perception of the short story genre in the western literary theory of the 20th —21st centuries. At the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century, the term 'short story' was a neologism, and its appearance indicated the rethinking of established literary forms. This process led to the development of new literary theories. The works of Brander Matthews (“The Philosophy of the Short Story”, 1901) and Frank O’Connor (“The Lonely Voice”, 1962), prominent writers and literary scholars of the 20th century, established academic short story studies in the English-speaking countries. Charles E. May, Susan Lohafer, Mary Rohrberger, Austin Wright, Ian Reid, Clare Hanson, Florence Goyet, Hanna Meretoja, whose major publications are also within the scope of the paper, provided further investigation of numerous issues of the short story genre and other types of short fiction. The works of the mentioned scholars are widely known and serve as a basis for academic courses and as an introduction to the short story theory. Nevertheless, they are rarely considered as one of the possible theoretical perspectives in the relevant Ukrainian research works on a short story, and it gives a reason for a closer look at them. Due to rising attention to the short literary forms, involving different theoretical frames might be beneficial to the development of the discourse. The paper describes the key issues of modern discussions concerning the distinctive features of the short story, its scope, definitions, establishment as an independent genre, and meaning in axiological and ontological contexts. The issue is explored by comparing different theoretical experiences with the use of comparative and discursive analysis.

In his article, I examine the image of a political strategist, popular in Chinese historical cinema, the origin of which can be traced to historical chronicles and fiction. Analysis of their cinematographic representation allows to single out the characteristic features of this image, distinguishing it from the functionally close, yet not identical image of a noble minister. Further, I suggest that the literary and cinematic image of Zhuge Liang, the famous politician and strategist of the Three Kingdoms, serves as an archetype of a political and military advisor in general, and substantiate this hypothesis. Based on the analysis of sovereign-advisor relations, I make an assumption that the very image of an advisor, with their characteristic appearance, personality, and their relationship with their overlord, takes its origins in the self-presentation of shi— a social class of the Warring States period. The leading values in this class were intelligence, loyalty to the lord, and freedom. I suggest and support a hypothesis that there is a genetic connection between the image of an advisor and the teaching of Legalism. Counterbalancing and complement to this image in a costume series is the role of a noble minister, which has its ideological basis in the Confucian philosophy. Apart from that, I name some of the strategies of seizing and retaining power, as well as domestic and foreign policy strategies, frequently seen in TV shows. The analysis of political and administrative methods in many Chinese historical series indicates that foreign policy, as presented in these shows, allows for more manipulations, but also more variability. The internal political opposition, by contrast, is almost completely delegitimized, its goals are a priori recognized as immoral and self-serving, and, consequently, the only way left for the sovereign and their advisor is to directly suppress their internal opponents. The results of this study lead to a number of conclusions about the political culture of China as manifested in this type of TV products, and about the strategemic thinking underlying this culture.

Linguistics, at different times of its existence, has constantly raised the question of how and by what means a person designates the world around him, which, being, in essence, a dynamic and developing substance, always brings new phenomena that require designation by new words. However, the language already has a certain lexical system which imposes restrictions on the creative process of creating new words. As an object of study, we have selected the neologisms of the English and French languages, with a temporal arc from the beginning of the year 2010 to the present day. The objective of this research is to analyze the pragmatics of the functioning of neologisms in fiction and newspaper texts by comparing two distantly related languages: English and French. During the study, to achieve this objective, the following tasks were carried out: - determine the main groups of neologisms noted in the original literary texts and translated into French and English; - discover the purpose of the use of neologisms of various groups in original literary texts in comparative languages from the point of view of pragmalinguistics; - identify the role of the translator in the pragmatic chain of recipient-recipient when using various types of neoplasms to create stylistic effects in literary texts in French and English; - establish points of similarity and differences in the pragmatics of the functioning of the new vocabulary in the original texts of the French and English newspapers. The scientific novelty of this research lies in the systematization of theoretical approaches to the main provisions of neology and neography on the problems of the functioning of neologisms in the text and the discovery of similarities and differences in the use of new words in texts of different functional styles on the example of the comparison of two languages of different families (English and French) from the point of view of pragmalinguistics. The theoretical significance lies in the further development of a pragmalinguistic approach to the study of the lexical composition of a language in a comparative aspect using elements of functional analysis. At the same time, the reasons for the appearance of various types of neoplasms in the text are theoretically justified. The practical value of this work lies in the possibility of applying the results of the study at conferences on comparative linguistics, comparative lexicology of the French and English languages, the style of the French language, the style of the English language as well as in translation theory and translation practice courses at university.

According to Diogenes Laertius (7.49–51), the concept of ‘appearance’ (φαντασία) played a central role in Stoic philosophy. As staunch corporealists, the Stoics believed that appearances are physical structures in our corporeal soul which provide the foundation for all our thoughts (Sext. Emp. Math. 7.228–41). One of the crucial features of appearance is that it is a representational mental state that has the ability to provide us with accurate awareness of the world through causal interaction between our senses and external objects, and thus supply the means for acquiring knowledge about the reality. However, the Stoics recognized that we can also be aware and think of objects that are real but are not presently affecting our senses, as well as objects that are altogether fictional and thus incapable of ever interacting with our senses. Because of this, it was important for them to distinguish between representational mental states which are and those which are not caused by external objects at the moment in which they are formed. Chrysippus was one of the Stoics who paid special attention to this distinction; in a key text, Aet. 4.12, he is reported as reserving the name ‘appearance’ (φαντασία) only for the former states, while for the latter he used a different term, ‘imagination’ (φανταστικόν).

The fierce struggle for television audiences is greatest when the content shown is not strictly entertainment, such as, for example, when specialized knowledge is brought to a wide audience. However, the appearance of new television formats has enabled scientific and technical contents to be brought closer to an unprepared and very diverse audience. What resources do these programs use to achieve this? Is emotionalization, which is increasingly dominant in the media, an important strategy in programs that seek to spread scientific knowledge among the general public? Do they use the pluri-locutionary nature of their discourse to promote understanding of the contents and to capture the viewers’ attention? Our research, which forms part of a broader study of new television formats and the communication of knowledge, is the first study on the discourse of the mediatization of knowledge in Spain. The topic is of particular interest because it coincides with the production of innovative television formats that endeavor to capture the interest of sections of the population that usually do not access this type of content. They have an important social function since, as Semir (2011: 19) points out, the knowledge of the world they promote reduces the fear generated in human beings by that which is opaque or unknown, thereby increasing the ability to make decisions and increasing efficiency. Through the linguistic analysis of the statements uttered by the diverse voices of a popular communication program, Quèquicom (Whatwhohow), we will determine which emotions are more present in the program and, therefore, contribute towards its communicative success, and which speakers (presenters, experts or affected individuals) use them more. Determining the resources leading to the success of this program can provide effective tools for other programs with very diverse aims. Studies of this type in Spain have focused on the press but very little on television. This study forms part of a wider research project on new television formats and the communication of knowledge to different audiences and diverse levels of specialization. It has been proven that emotions join together to provide a dramatic progression, based on the tension-relaxation binomial, a progression that holds the audience’s interest, in a similar manner to dramatic fiction programs. Moreover, the emotions can be examined in three ways: they can be referred to as a fact in the reality being narrated, expressed by the speakers or triggered in the audience. Lastly, it was also observed that the emotional charge that justifies the presence of affected individuals or witnesses in the majority of television programs spreads to the voices of the presenters themselves. The transmission of emotions is almost as important as that of knowledge.

The article explores the Buddhist components of the image of Baron Roman Ungern von Sternberg in the works of Leonid Yuzefovich. The analysis is carried out within the framework of the concept of the “Buddhist text” in modern Russian literature. The author of the article discovers and comprehends Buddhist ideas and motifs present in the story Horsemen of the Sands and the documentary novel The Autocrat of the Desert. Indirectly, the article also uses the essay “The Six-Armed God and His ‘Sons’ ” from Yuzefovich’s The Most Famous Impostors. The story and the novel were reprinted several times, and each time the writer made significant edits to them, which fixed significant changes in the image of the main character and reflected the writer’s deepening knowledge about Buddhism. The image of Baron Ungern in the story and in the novel is a complex and synthetic image, it combines the signs of a positive hero and of an infernal being, each of which is rooted in Buddhist metaphysics. The image of the baron as a character in Yuzefovich’s fiction correlates with the image of the real Roman Ungern von Sternberg. The real Baron Ungern looks no less exotic than his literary reflection. He is a participant in the White Movement, a religiously motivated warrior for the Buddhist faith, who comes into conflict with the West. He realizes himself inspired by Buddhist hierarchies and exists in the space of the approaching apocalypse. At the same time, in connection with the image of Baron Ungern in the story Horsemen of the Sands, the writer turns to the problems rooted in Buddhist philosophy, in particular, he raises questions of the illusory nature of being, karma and nonviolence. The image of horsemen of the sands fixed in the title of the story is a metaphor of time absorbing people and events, of the illusory space, of the unreliable human ontology, and of the unseemly vanity. Another idea of the story is the impossibility of avoiding the consequences of what has been done both at the level of the history of nations and of the fate of an individual due to karma, that is, the Buddhist law of created causes and matured consequences. The writer interprets both the appearance of Ungern in Mongolia and his passing away as a manifestation of bad karma. Finally, another important idea of the story is the idea of the essential discrepancy between the ethics of Buddhism and the idea of its violent, military propagation. The convergence of Buddhism and war in Horsemen of the Sands looks wrong and inappropriate, and leads people who have embarked on such a road to collapse at the level of their own destiny and to a historical defeat.

To examine how the narrative structure of "The Artist of the Beautiful" leads up to the climactic moment of the butterfly's appearance is to recognize Hawthorne's endorsement not only of Owen Warland but also, more significantly, of the transcendent power of imagination over the empirical orientation of nineteenth-century America. When the tale is analyzed in relation to its contemporaneously composed counterpart, "Drowne's Wooden Image," it becomes clear that Hawthorne believes that imaginative art can make believers out of observers whose typically no-nonsense version of reality aligns them with Locke and the Scottish Common Sense philosopher. This belief extends to careful readers of Hawthorne, who can, with the help of Wolfgang Iser's work on the fictive and the imaginary, cast aside their dependence on mimesis and allow the momentous butterfly to work its magic.

Rawls scholarship has not paid much attention to Rawls's early methodological writings so far, pretty much focusing on the reflective equilibrium (RE) which he is understood to have adopted in A Theory of Justice. Nelson Goodman's coherence-theoretical formulations concerning the justification of inductive logic in Fact, Fiction and Forecast have been suggested as the source of the RE. Following Rawls's methodological development in his early works, we shall challenge both these views. Our analysis reveals that the basic elements of RE can be located in his ‘Two Concepts of Rules’ essay. We shall further show that the origins of RE go all the way back to Aristotle's methods of ethics, as RE accords with the methodology entitled saving the appearances (SA) in recent Aristotle scholarship.

Ismat Chughtai is undoubtedly one of the biggest names in Urdu Literature. The following research paper intends to analyse the appearance of social issues such as informal social control over women in a patriarchal structure, portrayal of a female body in the advertisement, relationship pattern of men and women, notions of women as inferior being of society, in the selected writings of Ismat Chughtai, in relation to symbolic-interaction paradigm. The core idea of Symbolic-interaction is that social realities are based on the social experiences, cognition and perception of an individual. The social understanding of an individual varies from situation to situation and depends on his/her experiences. Ismat Chughtai experienced society in her own way, which is portrayed in her fictional works, “Dil Ki Dunya”, a novel, “Khareed Lo”, “Paisha”, “Baykaar” and “Tera Haath”, the short stories and a non-fictional essay, “Aurat” which are chosen for the analysis of above-mentioned social issues in relation with the theory. It is concluded that Ismat’s writings are valuable, meaning full and relevant in as well in Sociology as in Psychology or Philosophy, in relation to Symbolic Interaction. Documents for analysis were chosen through Purposive sampling, the nature of research is inductive.

We are living in the Multiverse realized in artistic phenomena, ontological states, revolutionary scientific discoveries and assumptions, and other areas of being. For instance, contemporary popular and nongenre literature base on the plural structure of the fictional Universe. Interpersonal conflicts escalated into interworld battles, interplanetary collisions have become the base of the fantasy genre, and hidden parallel dimensions are more and more often collapsing in various forms and interpretations. Despite the fact that multiple Universe structure has a form and appearance of modern artifact, the vision of the Universe as a plurality is a deep and ancient tradition that stretches us back to the Middle Ages and beyond. The Medieval period marks the time of development of typography which made it possible to fix the contemporary worldview in a clearer way. The investigations of Nicholas of Cusa, Giordano Bruno, and other thinkers opened the closed structure of the Universe, assuming an existence of infinity of the worlds. The literature of the Middle Ages represented the worlds’ plurality in a similar way but due to the theological foundations of the epoch. The ideology was based on the duality and contrasting of antonymous principles such as Heaven and Hell, Light and Dark, Spiritual and Physical, Sacred and Sinful. One of the basic values of the Middle Ages lies in the establishing of the divine and spiritual as an “objective” form of reality. The current article reveals the paradigm of the development of the phenomenon of plural worlds in theology, philosophy, modal logic, and literature studies. Also, it highlights the main principles of multiple fictional Universe constructing. Lewis Carroll’s “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” and “Through the Looking-Glass” brightly reflect the multiple worlds’ structure. Considering all features of the principles of this plurality, we obtained the conclusions which demonstrate the function of multiple worlds, which not only discovers it in a decorative way but also has an identifying role at the personal level and at the level of the individual world.

This article seeks to explore the relationship between contemporary painting and fictioning practices, examining the implications for historicization, authenticity and authorship. Taking as a starting point the re-appearance of Walter Benjamin in 1986, I will trace the ways in which painting practice and fictioning discourse have intersected, drawing on recent interviews with the authors of these projects and ongoing research into artist novels. I will discuss Albert Oehlen’s 2021 film The Painter, which is set in Oehlen’s studio and documents the struggle to produce an abstract painting, asking why certain clichés are re-staged in fictional portrayals of artistic labour rather than re-imagined? I will develop a discussion of Oehlen’s use of parody by reading this film as a performance to camera, and will explore the ways that Oehlen plays with plausibility through the use of an actor, a semi-improvised script, and modelling the narrative on the historical precedent of Paul McCarthy’s 1995 video Painter. I will offer a case study from my recent practice-based Ph.D. research in which I worked with Bruce McLean to re-enact his 1969 artwork Underwater Watercolour to highlight the relationship of fictioning practices to archival practice and develop an understanding of fictioning as a performative form of historicization. I will situate these examples in relation to recent theory (specifically, David Burrow’s and Simon O’Sullivan’s survey of ‘Fictioning’ practices in art and philosophy and Carrie Lambert-Beaty’s concept of ‘Parafiction’), positioning my research within a broader discussion of a current trend towards fictioning practices in contemporary art.

For Mircea Eliade, Romanian historian of religion fiction writer philosopher of the 20th century Coincidentia oppositorum is coexistence of opposite parts without contradiction and it is the desire to recover the unification by understanding complimentary elements of opposite parts. What Eliade is pursuing is that we need to open a new perspective in this era with a total insight rather then practicality for humans. It is generally believed that existence and non-existence, reality and fantasy, day and night, history and mythology sacred and profane have opposite properties. However Eliade says that these opposing concepts meet each other totally and become the key to a New Humanism. Eliade depicted our existential desire for the mysteries of totality that is revealed in various dimensions in the narrative of his fantasy novel the Snake. According to Eliade human being determines his existence of opposite things by experience in his life. But the disguised appearance of discrepancy of good and evil makes man transcend beyond opposition and the harmony of anima and animus symbolize the sacred marriage. At the point of cosmos marriage between heaven and earth is an act of creation and creation of life. Sacred marriage are connection of man and woman, melting of opposite things, interaction oneness and connection between man and God. In this novel main character Andronic and Dorina live in paradise of freedom and richness like Adam and Eve in the Bible. Coincidentia oppositorum makes it possible to recognize the makeup of the constant holiness in the ever changing world. And Eliade's interpretation about Coincidentia oppositorum are realization of comprehensive understanding about human beings unbiased regardless of ages and creating New Humanism which values human life instead of isolating it.

This article analyzes the slang linguistic elements of Faïza Guène's entire fictional work. The writer inscribes her creations in the literary genre "beur" (literature of generations born of Algerian immigration) and urban (suburban) literature, two connected areas of modern French prose. It also studies the phenomenon of « contemporary French in cities » (a term introduced by argotologist J.-P. Goudaillier) as a variety of French argots. Indeed, the author's language is special in the sense that it is characterized by several marks of oral character at all levels. The wide use that she makes of different slang strata is motivated by the fact that, on the one hand, this vocabulary is part of her personal linguistic experience and that, on the other hand, these multiple processes make it possible to give her works the appearance most realistic and plausible that it is. Based on the analysis of a non-standard vocabulary (frequency of argot lexemes, means of their semantization, synonymic ranks, training procedures), the authors draw conclu-sions on the functions of slang in the novels of F. Guène. Although all the functions specific to French argots are present in his works, their hierarchy differs from one novel to another depending on the change of the subjects treated and the characteristics of the characters/narrators.

In the study of education, as in many more travelled regions of Classical scholarship, democratic Athens is something of a special case. The cautions formulation is appropriate: in the case of education, surprisingly few studies have sought to establish quite how special Athens was, and those which have, have often raised more questions than they answered. The subject itself is partly to blame. The history of education invites comparison with the present day, while those planning the future of education rarely fail to invoke the past. The place of Classical Athens in European culture has ensured a place for Athenian education in almost every debate from the relation between education and democracy to the value of education versus training, and as the original champion of causes as varied as mass education, co-education, and the national curriculum. Desirable as it is to be in demand, such treatment is not calculated to produce the most circumspect account of the subject. The study of education is further hampered by the fact that our knowledge of Athenian culture is so vibrant and diverse in some ways and so partial in others. Plato and Aristophanes present a vivid fictional picture of education in the late fifth century. If we add a few passages from Xenophon and Aristotle, a large number of vases depicting men, women, and children reading, playing the lyre, and doing athletics, and one or two archaeological finds of an educational appearance, it is tempting to take the result as a clear portrait of a society at school.

Lambakan filem daripada Barat di Malaysia mencetuskan kebimbangan dalam kalangan masyarakat. Hal ini kerana pembikinan filem-filem tersebut bukanlah sekadar cerita, namun sarat dengan elemen falsafah dan budaya daripada Barat, tidak terkecuali juga elemen agama. Perkara ini secara tidak langsung memberikan pengaruh yang cukup besar terhadap pemikiran dan pegangan umat Islam terutama kepada golongan yang belum memiliki akidah yang mantap terutama kanak-kanak. Kajian ini bertujuan mengkaji konsep pengakhiran dunia menurut kefahaman Barat dalam filem bertajuk “Terminator Salvation”. Kajian yang menggunakan pendekatan kajian perpustakaan ini menyoroti dan menyelami kandungan yang terdapat dalam filem ini dan menghubungkaitkan dengan konsep pengakhiran dunia menurut kefahaman agama yang dianuti di Barat. Hasil kajian mendapati babak-babak dalam filem ini mempunyai kaitan yang signifikan dengan pengakhiran dunia menurut ajaran yang pelbagai, saling bercampur aduk seperti Kristian, Yahudi dan lain-lain; tanda-tanda kedatangan kiamat, konsep salvation, kedatangan Mesiah, dan tarikh perkiraan berlakunya kiamat. Kajian ini berperanan penting dalam membongkar agenda tersembunyi khususnya dalam usaha menyebarkan ideologi-ideologi Barat ke dunia Islam.Abstract: The glut of western movies in Malaysia raised an alarm among the society. The movies depicted not only fictional stories, but they were heavily clouded by western philosophy and culture, including religion. This phenomenon indirectly influenced the thoughts and belief of the Muslims especially those who have yet established strong religious stand such as children. This paper examined the end of the world concept based on western thought in the movie “Terminator Salvation”. This library research scrutinized the content of the movie and related it to the end of the world concept as understood in religious thought in the West. The outcome of the study showed many significant scenes that depicted the end of the world according to various teaching which jumbled together like Christianity, Jews and extra; such as the signs of Armageddon, the concept of Salvation, the appearance of Jesus Christ, and the approximate date of the doomsday. This paper exposed the hidden agenda explicitly in part of disseminating western ideologies to Islam world.

There is a tendency in literature to poeticise rural settings over their urban counterparts based on the proposition that villages bring human beings closer to nature, whereas cities come between them. Problems born and accentuated in urban environments are often, in fiction and poetry, resolved in a more rural atmosphere. In his 1916 novella Chaturanga, Rabindranath Tagore seems to challenge this popular inclination. The story begins in Calcutta, moves to rural Bengal and then returns to the city. After his uncle, who was also his father-figure, philosopher and guide, dies, Sachish disappears from Calcutta. When his friend and the narrator of the text, Sribilash, finds him two years later in a village, Sachish has joined a so-called mystic named Leelananda Swami. He has also changed unrecognisably. Sribilash is shocked at his transformation and is distrustful of Leelananda Swami, but he cannot abandon his friend, so he too, joins the guru. He too seems to leave behind his old self and becomes engrossed and entranced in a new, unreal world. It is only when he returns to the city that Sribilash seems to come out of his trance and shake off the false skin; he misses or becomes his former hard-working and useful self again. Sachish’s path, however, is irrevocably changed. In this paper, I wish to examine why and how Tagore, who wrote so many thousands of lines in so many different forms eulogising nature, depicted an apparent divide between nature and human beings in this text: when the men are in the city, they are grounded in reality and engaged in meaningful activity; when they are in the lap of nature, so to speak, they seem to become disoriented escapists. I will also address the importance of the fact that these characters retire froity when they are bereaved and spend their mourning period in the villages, and that their return to Calcutta is closely linked to the appearance of a new love interest in their lives. The paper will explore how, in this particular text, people and places seem to affect each other and what they signify.

Abstract The Thought of Eternal Recurrence: From Discourse to Doctrine. This article gives a new interpretation of eternal recurrence, based on the observation that the central debate about this idea in Nietzsche studies is quite unique in the history of philosophy. This debate is based on a rather radical conflict between Lehre and Rede, doctrine and discourse. Purely doctrinal interpretations tend to underestimate the significance of the discursive form chosen by Nietzsche to express his thought in favor of the Nachlass, whereas discursive readings are generally characterized by an anti-doctrinal, parodic and purely critical function. However, it is possible to reconcile the specificity of the discourse of the eternal recurrence in Nietzsche’s published works with his attempt to establish a real philosophical doctrine. By considering the fictional structure of eternal recurrence in Nietzsche’s published works, we can reinterpret the meaning of Nietzsche’s philosophy of affirmation, which implies a new relationship with life, reality, and values, as well as a new kind of belief. Indeed, we find in fiction a paradigm for such an affirmation of life, which Nietzsche discusses in his analyses of appearance and Greek tragedy.

AbstractThis contribution includes three selected works from an exhibition on Cyborg Encounters. These works deal with hybrid connections of human and non-human species that (might) emerge as a result of enhancement technologies and bio-technological developments. They offer not only an artistic exploration of contemporary but also futuristic aspects of the subject. Followed by an introduction by Melike Şahinol, Critically Endangered Artwork (by Ayşe Melis Okay) highlights Turkey’s ongoing problems of food poverty and the amount of decreasing agricultural lands. It displays seeds of a promising endemic plant to mitigate these problems using the seeds of the Thermopsis Turcica, a herbaceous perennial endemic plant. Ecomasculinist Pregnancy (by Burak Taşdizen and Charles John McKinnon Bell) follows the design fiction methodology and illustrates a future scenario through a patient’s diary and the medical letters he receives during his pregnancy with an extinct sea-lion. Polluted Homes (by Beyza Dilem Topdal) is a fictional art installation consisting of polychaete species evolved in time under the ecological circumstances prevalent in the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara today. These works show, that manufacturing life has consequences, not only for the human body and its physical appearance, but also, for example, for gender orders, the social structure of society, and even the environment, and thus for (re)shaping (non)living matter and their environments. This Art-Science Collection intends to provide an impetus for debate about the extent to which cyborg encounters should be taken seriously.

En este ensayo, se realizan reflexiones sobre los movimientos STEM y STEAM, desde laperspectiva de la Etnomatemática. En prime r lugar, el asunto se ubica en el contexto de laurgencia que está experimentando la humanidad, debido a la aparición de un nuevo viruscorona que generó el COVID 19, que ha propiciado la pandemia que el mundo ha sufridodesde fines de 2019 y que para el m omento de la aparición de este número de la RevistaParadigma (junio de 2020) ha causado cientos de miles de muertes en casi todos los países.Posteriormente, se ofrece una visión crítica del movimiento STEM que generó la propuestaSTEAM, que difiere de ST EM al incluir la A de Artes. Con respecto a este cambio, el autor delensayo, desde la Filosofía de las Matemáticas, se pregunta si hay un lugar para la ficción y lafantasía en las Matemáticas, que son esenciales en las Artes. Para responder esto se neces itanalgunas preguntas preliminares: ¿qué es el conocimiento? ¿Cómo se genera ¿cómo estáorganizado? ¿Cómo se comparte y se transmite? que el autor responde desde el Programa deEtnomatemáticas y plantea su perspectiva personal para introducir el concepto de STEAM.Palabras clave: Historia de la matemática. Filosofía de la matemática. Dinámica de losencuentros culturales.Sobre as propostas curriculares STEM e STEAM e o Programa EtnomatemáticaResumoNeste ensaio são realizadas reflexões sobre os moviment os STEM e STEAM, na perspectivada Etnomatemática. Em primeiro lugar é posicionado o assunto no contexto da urgência queestá vivendo a Humanidade toda pelo aparecimento de um novo corona vírus gerador daCOVID 19 que propiciou a pandemia que o mundo sofre desde finais de 2019 e que para omomento da aparecimento deste número da revista Paradigma (junho 2020) tem causadocentenas de milhares de óbitos em quase todos os países. Após é oferecida uma visão críticado movimento STEM que gerou a proposta STEAM q ue diferencia se do STEM ao incluir Adas Artes. Relativo com essa mudança, o autor do ensaio, desde a Filosofia da Matemáticapergunta se se existe lugar para ficção e fantasia em Matemática, que são essenciais nas Artes?Responder i sso precisa de algumas perguntas preliminares: o que é conhecimento? como égerado? como é organizado? como é compartilhado e transmitido? Que o autor responde desdeo Programa Etnomatemática e planteia sua perspectiva pessoal para introduzir o conceito deSTEAM .Palavras Chave . História da Matemática. Filosofia da Matemática. Dinâmica dos EncontrosCulturais.About STEM and STEAM curricular proposals and the Ethnomathematics ProgramAbstractIn this essay, reflections on the STEM and STEAM movements are carried out, from thep erspective of Ethnomathematics. In the first place, the matter is placed in the context of theurgency that humanity is experiencing, due to the appearance of a new corona virus thatgenerates COVID 19, which has propitiated the pandemic that the world has suffered since theend of 2019 and that for the moment of the appearance of this edition of the RevistaParadigma (June 2020) has caused hundreds of thousands of deaths in almost all countries.Afterwards, it is offered a critical view of the STEM movemen t that generated the STEAMproposal, which differs from STEM by including A Artes )). Regarding this change, the authorof the essay, since the Philosophy of Mathematics, wonders if there is a place for fiction andfantasy in Mathematics, which are essentia l in the Arts? Answering this needs somepreliminary questions: what is knowledge? how is it generated? how is it organized? how is itshared and transmitted? That the author responds from the Ethnomathematics Program andplans his personal perspective to introduce the concept of STEAM.Key words. History of Mathematics. Philosophy of Mathematics. Dynamics of CulturalEncounters.

En este ensayo, se realizan reflexiones sobre los movimientos STEM y STEAM, desde laperspectiva de la Etnomatemática. En prime r lugar, el asunto se ubica en el contexto de laurgencia que está experimentando la humanidad, debido a la aparición de un nuevo viruscorona que generó el COVID 19, que ha propiciado la pandemia que el mundo ha sufridodesde fines de 2019 y que para el m omento de la aparición de este número de la RevistaParadigma (junio de 2020) ha causado cientos de miles de muertes en casi todos los países.Posteriormente, se ofrece una visión crítica del movimiento STEM que generó la propuestaSTEAM, que difiere de ST EM al incluir la A de Artes. Con respecto a este cambio, el autor delensayo, desde la Filosofía de las Matemáticas, se pregunta si hay un lugar para la ficción y lafantasía en las Matemáticas, que son esenciales en las Artes. Para responder esto se neces itanalgunas preguntas preliminares: ¿qué es el conocimiento? ¿Cómo se genera ¿cómo estáorganizado? ¿Cómo se comparte y se transmite? que el autor responde desde el Programa deEtnomatemáticas y plantea su perspectiva personal para introducir el concepto de STEAM.Palabras clave: Historia de la matemática. Filosofía de la matemática. Dinámica de losencuentros culturales.Sobre as propostas curriculares STEM e STEAM e o Programa EtnomatemáticaResumoNeste ensaio são realizadas reflexões sobre os moviment os STEM e STEAM, na perspectivada Etnomatemática. Em primeiro lugar é posicionado o assunto no contexto da urgência queestá vivendo a Humanidade toda pelo aparecimento de um novo corona vírus gerador daCOVID 19 que propiciou a pandemia que o mundo sofre desde finais de 2019 e que para omomento da aparecimento deste número da revista Paradigma (junho 2020) tem causadocentenas de milhares de óbitos em quase todos os países. Após é oferecida uma visão críticado movimento STEM que gerou a proposta STEAM q ue diferencia se do STEM ao incluir Adas Artes. Relativo com essa mudança, o autor do ensaio, desde a Filosofia da Matemáticapergunta se se existe lugar para ficção e fantasia em Matemática, que são essenciais nas Artes?Responder i sso precisa de algumas perguntas preliminares: o que é conhecimento? como égerado? como é organizado? como é compartilhado e transmitido? Que o autor responde desdeo Programa Etnomatemática e planteia sua perspectiva pessoal para introduzir o conceito deSTEAM .Palavras Chave . História da Matemática. Filosofia da Matemática. Dinâmica dos EncontrosCulturais.About STEM and STEAM curricular proposals and the Ethnomathematics ProgramAbstractIn this essay, reflections on the STEM and STEAM movements are carried out, from thep erspective of Ethnomathematics. In the first place, the matter is placed in the context of theurgency that humanity is experiencing, due to the appearance of a new corona virus thatgenerates COVID 19, which has propitiated the pandemic that the world has suffered since theend of 2019 and that for the moment of the appearance of this edition of the RevistaParadigma (June 2020) has caused hundreds of thousands of deaths in almost all countries.Afterwards, it is offered a critical view of the STEM movemen t that generated the STEAMproposal, which differs from STEM by including A Artes )). Regarding this change, the authorof the essay, since the Philosophy of Mathematics, wonders if there is a place for fiction andfantasy in Mathematics, which are essentia l in the Arts? Answering this needs somepreliminary questions: what is knowledge? how is it generated? how is it organized? how is itshared and transmitted? That the author responds from the Ethnomathematics Program andplans his personal perspective to introduce the concept of STEAM.Key words. History of Mathematics. Philosophy of Mathematics. Dynamics of CulturalEncounters.

IntroductionIt has been nearly half a century since the appearance of Susan Sontag’s landmark essay “The Imagination of Disaster.” The critic wrote of the public fascination with science fiction disaster films, claiming that, on the one hand “from a psychological point of view, the imagination of disaster does not greatly differ from one period in history to another [but, on the other hand] from a political and moral point of view, it does” (224). Even if Sontag is right about aspects of the imagination of disaster not changing, the types, frequency, and magnitude of disasters and their representation in media and popular culture suggest that dynamic conditions prevail on both counts. Disaster has become a significantly urban phenomenon, and highly publicised “worst case” scenarios such as Hurricane Katrina and the Haiti earthquake highlight multiple demographic, cultural, and environmental contexts for visualising cataclysm. The 1950s and 60s science fiction films that Sontag wrote about were filled with marauding aliens and freaks of disabused science. Since then, their visual and dramatic effects have been much enlarged by all kinds of disaster scenarios. Partly imagined, these scenarios have real-life counterparts with threats from terrorism and the war on terror, pan-epidemics, and global climate change. Sontag’s essay—like most, if not all of the films she mentions—overlooked the aftermath; that is, the rebuilding, following extra-terrestrial invasion. It ignored what was likely to happen when the monsters were gone. In contrast, the psychological as well as the practical, social, and economic aspects of reconstruction are integral to disaster discourse today. Writing about how architecture might creatively contribute to post-conflict (including war) and disaster recovery, for instance, Boano elaborates the psychological background for rebuilding, where the material destruction of dwellings and cities “carries a powerful symbolic erosion of security, social wellbeing and place attachment” (38); these are depicted as attributes of selfhood and identity that must be restored. Similarly, Hutchison and Bleiker (385) adopt a view evident in disaster studies, that disaster-struck communities experience “trauma” and require inspired responses that facilitate “healing and reconciliation” as well as material aid such as food, housing, and renewed infrastructure. This paper revisits Sontag’s “The Imagination of Disaster,” fifty years on in view of the changing face of disasters and their representation in film media, including more recent films. The paper then considers disaster recovery and outlines the difficult path that “creative industries” like architecture and urban planning must tread when promising a vision of rebuilding that provides for such intangible outcomes as “healing and reconciliation.” We find that hopes for the seemingly positive psychologically- and socially-recuperative outcomes accompanying the prospect of rebuilding risk a variety of generalisation akin to wish-fulfilment that Sontag finds in disaster films. The Psychology of Science Fiction and Disaster FilmsIn “The Imagination of Disaster,” written at or close to the height of the Cold War, Sontag ruminates on what America’s interest in, if not preoccupation with, science fiction films tell us about ourselves. Their popularity cannot be explained in terms of their entertainment value alone; or if it can, then why audiences found (and still find) such films entertaining is something that itself needs explanation.Depicted in media like photography and film, utopian and dystopian thought have at least one thing in common. Their visions of either perfected or socially alienated worlds are commonly prompted by criticism of the social/political status quo and point to its reform. For Sontag, science fiction films portrayed both people’s worst nightmares concerning disaster and catastrophe (e.g. the end of the world; chaos; enslavement; mutation), as well as their facile victories over the kinds of moral, political, and social dissolution the films imaginatively depicted. Sontag does not explicitly attribute such “happy endings” to wish-fulfilling phantasy and ego-protection. (“Phantasy” is to be distinguished from fantasy. It is a psychoanalytic term for states of mind, often symbolic in form, resulting from infantile wish-fulfilment, desires and instincts.) She does, however, describe the kinds of fears, existential concerns (like annihilation), and crises of meaning they are designed (purpose built) to allay. The fears are a product of the time—the down and dark side of technology (e.g. depersonalisation; ambivalence towards science, scientists, and technology) and changes wrought in our working and personal lives by urbanisation. In short, then as now, science fictions films were both expressions of deep and genuine worries and of the pressing need to inventively set them to rest.When Sontag claims that “the imagination of disaster does not greatly differ” (224) from one period to another, this is because, psychologically speaking, neither the precipitating concerns and fears (death, loss of love, meaninglessness, etc.), nor the ways in which people’s minds endeavour to assuage them, substantively differ. What is different is the way they are depicted. This is unsurprisingly a function of the political, social, and moral situations and milieus that provide the context in which the imagination of disaster unfolds. In contemporary society, the extent to which the media informs and constructs the context in which the imagination operates is unprecedented.Sontag claims that there is little if any criticism of the real social and political conditions that bring about the fears the films depict (223). Instead, fantasy operates so as to displace and project the actual causes away from their all too human origins into outer space and onto aliens. In a sense, this is the core and raison d’etre for such films. By their very nature, science fiction films of the kind Sontag is discussing cannot concern themselves with genuine social or political criticism (even though the films are necessarily expressive of such criticism). Any serious questioning of the moral and political status quo—conditions that are responsible for the disasters befalling people—would hamper the operation of fantasy and its production of temporarily satisfying “solutions” to whatever catastrophe is being depicted.Sontag goes on to discuss various strategies science fiction employs to deal with such fears. For example, through positing a bifurcation between good and evil, and grossly oversimplifying the moral complexity of situations, it allows one to “give outlet to cruel or at least amoral feelings” (215) and to exercise feelings of superiority—moral and otherwise. Ambiguous feelings towards science and technology are repressed. Quick and psychologically satisfying fixes are sought for these by means of phantasy and the imaginative construction of invulnerable heroes. Much of what Sontag says can straightforwardly be applied to catastrophe in general. “Alongside the hopeful fantasy of moral simplification and international unity embodied in the science fiction films lurk the deepest anxieties about contemporary existence” (220). Sontag writes:In the films it is by means of images and sounds […] that one can participate in the fantasy of living through one’s own death and more, the death of cities, the destruction of humanity itself. Science fiction films are not about science. They are about disaster, which is one of the oldest subjects in art. In science fiction films disaster is rarely viewed intensively; it is always extensive. It is a matter of quality and ingenuity […] the science fiction film […] is concerned with the aesthetics of disaster […] and it is in the imagery of destruction that the core of a good science fiction film lies. (212–13)In science fiction films, disaster, though widespread, is viewed intensively as well as extensively. The disturbances constitutive of the disaster are moral and emotional as well as material. People are left without the mental or physical abilities they need to cope. Government is absent or useless. We find ourselves in what amounts to what Naomi Zack (“Philosophy and Disaster”; Ethics for Disaster) describes as a Hobbesian second state of nature—where government is inoperative and chaos (moral, social, political, personal) reigns. Science fiction’s way out is to imaginatively construct scenarios emotionally satisfying enough to temporarily assuage the distress (anomie or chaos) experienced in the film.There is, however, a tremendous difference in the way in which people who face catastrophic occurrences in their lives, as opposed to science fiction, address the problems. For one thing, they must be far closer to complex and quickly changing realities and uncertain truths than are the phantastic, temporarily gratifying, and morally unproblematic resolutions to the catastrophic scenarios that science fiction envisions. Genuine catastrophe, for example war, undermines and dismantles the structures—material structures to be sure but also those of justice, human kindness, and affectivity—that give us the wherewithal to function and that are shown to be inimical to catastrophe as such. Disaster dispenses with civilization while catastrophe displaces it.Special Effects and Changing StorylinesScience fiction and disaster film genres have been shaped by developments in visual simulation technologies providing opportunities for imaginatively mixing fact and fiction. Developments in filmmaking include computer or digital techniques for reproducing on the screen what can otherwise only be imagined as causal sequences of events and spectacles accompanying the wholesale destruction of buildings and cities—even entire planets. Indeed films are routinely promoted on the basis of how cinematographers and technicians have advanced the state of the art. The revival of 3-D movies with films such as Avatar (2009) and Prometheus (2012) is one of a number of developments augmenting the panoramas of 1950s classics featuring “melting tanks, flying bodies, crashing walls, awesome craters and fissures in the earth, plummeting spacecraft [and] colourful deadly rays” (Sontag 213). An emphasis on the scale of destruction and the wholesale obliteration of recognisable sites emblematic of “the city” (mega-structures like the industrial plant in Aliens (1986) and vast space ships like the “Death Star” in two Star Wars sequels) connect older films with new ones and impress the viewer with ever more extraordinary spectacle.Films that have been remade make for useful comparison. On the whole, these reinforce the continuation and predictability of some storylines (for instance, threats of extra-terrestrial invasion), but also the attenuation or disappearance of other narrative elements such as the monsters and anxieties released by mid-twentieth century atomic tests (Broderick). Remakes also highlight emerging themes requiring novel or updated critical frameworks. For example, environmental anxieties, largely absent in 1950s science fiction films (except for narratives involving colliding worlds or alien contacts) have appeared en masse in recent years, providing an updated view on the ethical issues posed by the fall of cities and communities (Taylor, “Urban”).In The Invasion of the Bodysnatchers and its remakes (1956, 1978, 1993), for example, the organic and vegetal nature of the aliens draws the viewer’s attention to an environment formed by combative species, allowing for threats of infestation, growth and decay of the self and individuality—a longstanding theme. In the most recent version, The Invasion (2007), special effects and directorial spirit render the orifice-seeking tendrils of the pod creatures threateningly vigorous and disturbing (Lim). More sanctimonious than physically invasive, the aliens in the 1951 version of The Day the Earth Stood Still are fed up with humankind’s fixation with atomic self-destruction, and threaten global obliteration on the earth (Cox). In the 2008 remake, the suave alien ambassador, Keanu Reeves, targets the environmental negligence of humanity.Science, including science as fiction, enters into disaster narratives in a variety of ways. Some are less obvious but provocative nonetheless; for example, movies dramatising the arrival of aliens such as War of the Worlds (1953 and 2005) or Alien (1979). These more subtle approaches can be personally confronting even without the mutation of victims into vegetables or zombies. Special effects technologies have made it possible to illustrate the course of catastrophic floods and earthquakes in considerable scientific and visual detail and to represent the interaction of natural disasters, the built environment, and people, from the scale of buildings, homes, and domestic lives to entire cities and urban populations.For instance, the blockbuster film The Day After Tomorrow (2004) runs 118 minutes, but has an uncertain fictional time frame of either a few weeks or 72 hours (if the film’s title is to taken literally). The movie shows the world as we know it being mostly destroyed. Tokyo is shattered by hailstones and Los Angeles is twisted by cyclones the likes of which Dorothy would never have seen. New York disappears beneath a mountainous tsunami. All of these events result from global climate change, though whether this is due to human (in) action or other causes is uncertain. Like their predecessors, the new wave of disaster movies like The Day After Tomorrow makes for questionable “art” (Annan). Nevertheless, their reception opens a window onto broader political and moral contexts for present anxieties. Some critics have condemned The Day After Tomorrow for its scientific inaccuracies—questioning the scale or pace of climate change. Others acknowledge errors while commending efforts to raise environmental awareness (Monbiot). Coincident with the film and criticisms in both the scientific and political arena is a new class of environmental heretic—the climate change denier. This is a shadowy character commonly associated with the presidency of George W. Bush and the oil lobby that uses minor inconsistencies of science to claim that climate change does not exist. One thing underlying both twisting facts for the purposes of making science fiction films and ignoring evidence of climate change is an infantile orientation towards the unknown. In this regard, recent films do what science fiction disaster films have always done. While freely mixing truths and half-truths for the purpose of heightened dramatic effect, they fulfil psychological tasks such as orchestrating nightmare scenarios and all too easy victories on the screen. Uncertainty regarding the precise cause, scale, or duration of cataclysmic natural phenomena is mirrored by suspension of disbelief in the viability of some human responses to portrayals of urban disaster. Science fiction, in other words, invites us to accept as possible the flight of Americans and their values to Mexico (The Day After Tomorrow), the voyage into earth’s molten core (The Core 2003), or the disposal of lava in LA’s drainage system (Volcano 1997). Reinforcing Sontag’s point, here too there is a lack of criticism of the real social and political conditions that bring about the fears depicted in the films (223). Moreover, much like news coverage, images in recent natural disaster films (like their predecessors) typically finish at the point where survivors are obliged to pick up the pieces and start all over again—the latter is not regarded as newsworthy. Allowing for developments in science fiction films and the disaster genre, Sontag’s observation remains accurate. The films are primarily concerned “with the aesthetics of destruction, with the peculiar beauties to be found in wreaking havoc, in making a mess” (213) rather than rebuilding. The Imagination of Disaster RecoverySontag’s essay contributes to an important critical perspective on science fiction film. Variations on her “psychological point of view” have been explored. (The two discourses—psychology and cinema—have parallel and in some cases intertwined histories). Moreover, in the intervening years, psychological or psychoanalytical terms and narratives have themselves become even more a part of popular culture. They feature in recent disaster films and disaster recovery discourse in the “real” world.Today, with greater frequency than in the 1950s and 60s films arguably, representations of alien invasion or catastrophic global warming serve to background conflict resolutions of a more quotidian and personal nature. Hence, viewers are led to suspect that Tom Cruise will be more likely to survive the rapacious monsters in the latest The War of the Worlds if he can become less narcissistic and a better father. Similarly, Dennis Quaid’s character will be much better prepared to serve a newly glaciated America for having rescued his son (and marriage) from the watery deep-freezer that New York City becomes in The Day After Tomorrow. In these films the domestic and familial comprise a domain of inter-personal and communal relations from which victims and heroes appear. Currents of thought from the broad literature of disaster studies and Western media also call upon this domain. The imagination of disaster recovery has come to partly resemble a set of problems organised around the needs of traumatised communities. These serve as an object of urban governance, planning, and design conceived in different ways, but largely envisioned as an organic unity that connects urban populations, their pasts, and settings in a meaningful, psychologically significant manner (Furedi; Hutchison and Bleiker; Boano). Terms like “place” or concepts like Boano’s “place-attachment" (38) feature in this discourse to describe this unity and its subjective dimensions. Consider one example. In August 2006, one year after Katrina, the highly respected Journal of Architectural Education dedicated a special issue to New Orleans and its reconstruction. Opening comments by editorialist Barbara Allen include claims presupposing enduring links between the New Orleans community conceived as an organic whole, its architectural heritage imagined as a mnemonic vehicle, and the city’s unique setting. Though largely unsupported (and arguably unsupportable) the following proposition would find agreement across a number of disaster studies and resonates in commonplace reasoning:The culture of New Orleans is unique. It is a mix of ancient heritage with layers and adaptations added by successive generations, resulting in a singularly beautiful cultural mosaic of elements. Hurricane Katrina destroyed buildings—though not in the city’s historic core—and displaced hundreds of thousands of people, but it cannot wipe out the memories and spirit of the citizens. (4) What is intriguing about the claim is an underlying intellectual project that subsumes psychological and sociological domains of reasoning within a distinctive experience of community, place, and memory. In other words, the common belief that memory is an intrinsic part of the human condition of shock and loss gives form to a theory of how urban communities experience disaster and how they might re-build—and justify rebuilding—themselves. This is problematic and invites anachronistic thinking. While communities are believed to be formed partly by memories of a place, “memory” is neither a collective faculty nor is it geographically bounded. Whose memories are included and which ones are not? Are these truly memories of one place or do they also draw on other real or imagined places? Moreover—and this is where additional circumspection is inspired by our reading of Sontag’s essay—does Allen’s editorial contribute to an aestheticised image of place, rather than criticism of the social and political conditions required for reconstruction to proceed with justice, compassionately and affectively? Allowing for civil liberties to enter the picture, Allen adds “it is necessary to enable every citizen to come back to this exceptional city if they so desire” (4). However, given that memories of places and desires for their recovery are not univocal, and often contain competing visions of what was and should be, it is not surprising they should result in competing expectations for reconstruction efforts. This has clearly proven the case for New Orleans (Vederber; Taylor, “Typologies”)ConclusionThe comparison of films invites an extension of Sontag’s analysis of the imagination of disaster to include the psychology, politics, and morality of rebuilding. Can a “psychological point of view” help us to understand not only the motives behind capturing so many scenes of destruction on screen and television, but also something of the creative impulses driving reconstruction? This invites a second question. How do some impulses, particularly those caricatured as the essence of an “enterprise culture” (Heap and Ross) associated with America’s “can-do” or others valorised as positive outcomes of catastrophe in The Upside of Down (Homer-Dixon), highlight or possibly obscure criticism of the conditions which made cities like New Orleans vulnerable in the first place? The broad outline of an answer to the second question begins to appear only when consideration of the ethics of disaster and rebuilding are taken on board. If “the upside” of “the down” wrought by Hurricane Katrina, for example, is rebuilding of any kind, at any price, and for any person, then the equation works (i.e., there is a silver lining for every cloud). If, however, the range of positives is broadened to include issues of social justice, then the figures require more complex arithmetic.ReferencesAllen, Barbara. “New Orleans and Katrina: One Year Later.” Journal of Architectural Education 60.1 (2006): 4.Annan, David. Catastrophe: The End of the Cinema? London: Lorrimer, 1975.Boano, Camillo. “‘Violent Space’: Production and Reproduction of Security and Vulnerabilities.” The Journal of Architecture 16 (2011): 37–55.Broderick, Mick, ed. Hibakusha Cinema: Hiroshima, Nagasaki and the Nuclear Image in Japanese Film. London: Kegan Paul, 1996.Cox, David. “Get This, Aliens: We Just Don’t Care!” The Guardian 15 Dec. 2008 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/filmblog/2008/dec/15/the-day-the-earth-stood-still›. Furedi, Frank. “The Changing Meaning of Disaster.” Area 39.4 (2007): 482–89.Heap, Shaun H., and Angus Ross, eds. Understanding the Enterprise Culture: Themes in the Work of Mary Douglas. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1992. Homer-Dixon, Thomas. The Upside of Down: Catastrophe, Creativity and the Renewal of Civilization. Washington, DC: Island Press, 2006.Hutchison, Emma, and Roland Bleiker. “Emotional Reconciliation: Reconstituting Identity and Community after Trauma.” European Journal of Social Theory 11 (2008): 385–403.Lim, Dennis. “Same Old Aliens, But New Neuroses.” New York Times 12 Aug. 2007: A17.Monbiot, George. “A Hard Rain's A-gonna Fall.” The Guardian 14 May 2004.Sontag, Susan. “The Imagination of Disaster” (1965). Against Interpretation and Other Essays. New York: Dell, 1979. 209–25.Taylor, William M. “Typologies of Katrina: Mnemotechnics in Post-Disaster New Orleans.” Interstices 13 (2012): 71–84.———. “Urban Disasters: Visualising the Fall of Cities and the Forming of Human Values.” Journal of Architecture 11.5 (2006): 603–12.Verderber, Stephen. “Five Years After – Three New Orleans Neighborhoods.” Journal of Architectural Education 64.1 (2010): 107–20.Zack, Naomi. Ethics for Disaster. New York: Rowman and Littlefield, 2009.———. “Philosophy and Disaster.” Homeland Security Affairs 2, article 5 (April 2006): ‹http://www.hsaj.org/?article=2.1.5›.FilmographyAlien. Dir. Ridley Scott. Brandywine Productions, 1979.Aliens. Dir. James Cameron. Brandywine Productions, 1986.Avatar. Dir. James Cameron. Lightstorm Entertainment et al., 2009.The Core. Dir. Jon Amiel. Paramount Pictures, 2003.The Day after Tomorrow. Dir. Roland Emmerich. 20th Century Fox, 2004.The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Dir. Don Siegel. Allied Artists, 1956; also 1978 and 1993.The Invasion. Dirs. Oliver Hirschbiegel and Jame McTeigue. Village Roadshow et al, 2007.Prometheus. Dir. Ridley Scott. Scott Free and Brandywine Productions, 2012Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. Dir. George Lucas. Lucasfilm, 1977.Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi. Dir. George Lucas. Lucasfilm, 1983.Volcano. Dir. Mick Jackson. 20th Century Fox, 1997.War of the Worlds. Dir. George Pal. Paramount, 1953; also Steven Spielberg. Paramount, 2005.Acknowledgments The authors are grateful to Oenone Rooksby and Joely-Kym Sobott for their assistance and advice when preparing this article. It was also made possible in part by a grant from the Australian Research Council.

The traditional German tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin inhabits an ambiguous narrative borderland, a liminal space between fact and fiction, fantasy and horror, concrete details and elusive mystery. In his study of the Pied Piper in Tradition and Innovation in Folk Literature, Wolfgang Mieder describes how manuscripts and other evidence appear to confirm the historical base of the story. Precise details from a fifteenth-century manuscript, based on earlier sources, specify that in 1284 on the 26th of June, the feast-day of Saints John and Paul, 130 children from Hamelin were led away by a piper clothed in many colours to the Koppen Hill, and there vanished (Mieder 48). Later manuscripts add details familiar today, such as a plague of rats and a broken bargain with burghers as a motive for the Piper’s actions, while in the seventeenth century the first English-language version advances what might also be the first attempt at a “rational” explanation for the children’s disappearance, claiming that they were taken to Transylvania. The uncommon pairing of such precise factual detail with enigmatic mystery has encouraged many theories. These have ranged from references to the Children’s Crusade, or other religious fervours, to the devastation caused by the Black Death, from the colonisation of Romania by young German migrants to a murderous rampage by a paedophile. Fictional interpretations of the story have multiplied, with the classic versions of the Brothers Grimm and Robert Browning being most widely known, but with contemporary creators exploring the theme too. This includes interpretations in Hamelin itself. On 26 June 2015, in Hamelin Museum, I watched a wordless five-minute play, entirely performed not by humans but by animatronic stylised figures built out of scrap iron, against a montage of multilingual, confused voices and eerie music, with the vanished children represented by a long line of small empty shirts floating by. The uncanny, liminal nature of the story was perfectly captured. Australia is a world away from German fairy tale mysteries, historically, geographically, and culturally. Yet, as Lisa M. Fiander has persuasively argued, contemporary Australian fiction has been more influenced by fairy tales than might be assumed, and in this essay it is proposed that major motifs from the Pied Piper appear in several Australian novels, transformed not only by distance of setting and time from that of the original narrative, but also by elements specific to the Australian imaginative space. These motifs are lost children, the enigmatic figure of the Piper himself, and the power of a very particular place (as Hamelin and its Koppen Hill are particularised in the original tale). Three major Australian novels will be examined in this essay: Joan Lindsay’s Picnic at Hanging Rock (1967), Christopher Koch’s The Doubleman (1985), and Ursula Dubosarsky’s The Golden Day (2011). Dubosarsky’s novel was written for children; both Koch’s and Lindsay’s novels were published as adult fiction. In each of these works of fiction, the original tale’s motifs have been developed and transformed to express unique evocations of the Pied Piper theme. As noted by Fiander, fiction writers are “most likely to draw upon fairy tales when they are framing, in writing, a subject that generates anxiety in their culture” (158). Her analysis is about anxieties of place within Australian fiction, but this insight could be usefully extended to the motifs which I have identified as inherent in the Pied Piper story. Prominent among these is the lost children motif, whose importance in the Australian imagination has been well-established by scholars such as Peter Pierce. Pierce’s The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety explores this preoccupation from the earliest beginnings of European settlement, through analysis of fiction, newspaper reports, paintings, and films. As Pierce observed in a later interview in the Sydney Morning Herald (Knox), over time the focus changed from rural children and the nineteenth-century fear of the vast impersonal nature of the bush, where children of colonists could easily get lost, to urban children and the contemporary fear of human predators.In each of the three novels under examination in this essay, lost children—whether literal or metaphorical—feature prominently. Writer Carmel Bird, whose fiction has also frequently centred on the theme of the lost child, observes in “Dreaming the Place” that the lost child, the stolen child – this must be a narrative that is lodged in the heart and imagination, nightmare and dream, of all human beings. In Australia the nightmare became reality. The child is the future, and if the child goes, there can be no future. The true stories and the folk tales on this theme are mirror images of each other. (7) The motif of lost children—and of children in danger—is not unique to the Pied Piper. Other fairy tales, such as Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood, contain it, and it is those antecedents which Bird cites in her essay. But within the Pied Piper story it has three features which distinguish it from other traditional tales. First, unlike in the classic versions of Hansel and Gretel or Red Riding Hood, the children do not return. Neither are there bodies to find. The children have vanished into thin air, never to be seen again. Second, it is not only parents who have lost them, but an entire community whose future has been snatched away: a community once safe, ordered, even complacent, traumatised by loss. The lack of hope, of a happy ending for anyone, is striking. And thirdly, the children are not lost or abandoned or even, strictly speaking, stolen: they are lured away, semi-willingly, by the central yet curiously marginal figure of the Piper himself. In the original story there is no mention of motive and no indication of malice on the part of the Piper. There is only his inexplicable presence, a figure out of fairy folklore appearing in the midst of concrete historical dates and numbers. Clearly, he links to the liminal, complex world of the fairies, found in folklore around the world—beings from a world close to the human one, yet alien. Whimsical and unpredictable by human standards, such beings are nevertheless bound by mysteriously arbitrary rules and taboos, and haunt the borders of the human world, disturbing its rational edges and transforming lives forever. It is this sense of disturbance, that enchanting yet frightening sudden shifting of the border of reality and of the comforting order of things, the essence of transformation itself, which can also be seen at the core of the three novels under examination in this essay, with the Piper represented in each of them but in different ways. The third motif within the Pied Piper is a focus on place as a source of uncanny power, a theme which particularly resonates within an Australian context. Fiander argues that if contemporary British fiction writers use fairy tale to explore questions of community and alienation, and Canadian fiction writers use it to explore questions of identity, then Australian writers use it to explore the unease of place. She writes of the enduring legacy of Australia’s history “as a settler colony which invests the landscape with strangeness for many protagonists” (157). Furthermore, she suggests that “when Australian fiction writers, using fairy tales, describe the landscape as divorced from reality, they might be signalling anxiety about their own connection with the land which had already seen tens of thousands of years of occupation when Captain James Cook ‘found’ it in 1770” (160). I would argue, however, that in the case of the Pied Piper motifs, it is less clear that it is solely settler anxieties which are driving the depiction of the power of place in these three novels. There is no divorce from reality here, but rather an eruption of the metaphysical potency of place within the usual, “normal” order of reality. This follows the pattern of the original tale, where the Piper and all the children, except for one or two stragglers, disappear at Koppen Hill, vanishing literally into the hill itself. In traditional European folklore, hollow hills are associated with fairies and their uncanny power, but other places, especially those of water—springs, streams, even the sea—may also be associated with their liminal world (in the original tale, the River Weser is another important locus for power). In Joan Lindsay’s Picnic at Hanging Rock, it is another outcrop in the landscape which holds that power and claims the “lost children.” Inspired partly by a painting by nineteenth-century Australian artist William Ford, titled At the Hanging Rock (1875), depicting a group of elegant people picnicking in the bush, this influential novel, which inspired an equally successful film adaptation, revolves around an incident in 1900 when four girls from Appleyard College, an exclusive school in Victoria, disappear with one of their teachers whilst climbing Hanging Rock, where they have gone for a picnic. Only one of their number, a girl called Irma, is ever found, and she has no memory of how and why she found herself on the Rock, and what has happened to the others. This inexplicable event is the precursor to a string of tragedies which leads to the violent deaths of several people, and which transforms the sleepy and apparently content little community around Appleyard College into a centre of loss, horror, and scandal.Told in a way which makes it appear that the novelist is merely recounting a true story—Lindsay even tells readers in an author’s note that they must decide for themselves if it is fact or fiction—Picnic at Hanging Rock shares the disturbingly liminal fact-fiction territory of the Piper tale. Many readers did in fact believe that the novel was based on historical events and combed newspaper files, attempting to propound ingenious “rational” explanations for what happened on the Rock. Picnic at Hanging Rock has been the subject of many studies, with the novel being analysed through various prisms, including the Gothic, the pastoral, historiography, and philosophy. In “Fear and Loathing in the Australian Bush,” Kathleen Steele has depicted Picnic at Hanging Rock as embodying the idea that “Ordered ‘civilisation’ cannot overcome the gothic landscapes of settler imaginations: landscapes where time and people disappear” (44). She proposes that Lindsay intimates that the landscape swallows the “lost children” of the novel because there is a great absence in that place: that of Aboriginal people. In this reading of the novel, it is that absence which becomes, in a sense, a malevolent presence that will reach out beyond the initial disappearance of the three people on the Rock to destroy the bonds that held the settler community together. It is a powerfully-made argument, which has been taken up by other scholars and writers, including studies which link the theme of the novel with real-life lost-children cases such as that of Azaria Chamberlain, who disappeared near another “Rock” of great Indigenous metaphysical potency—Uluru, or Ayers Rock. However, to date there has been little exploration of the fairy tale quality of the novel, and none at all of the striking ways in which it evokes Pied Piper motifs, whilst transforming them to suit the exigencies of its particular narrative world. The motif of lost children disappearing from an ordered, safe, even complacent community into a place of mysterious power is extended into an exploration of the continued effects of those disappearances, depicting the disastrous impact on those left behind and the wider community in a way that the original tale does not. There is no literal Pied Piper figure in this novel, though various theories are evoked by characters as to who might have lured the girls and their teacher, and who might be responsible for the disappearances. Instead, there is a powerful atmosphere of inevitability and enchantment within the landscape itself which both illustrates the potency of place, and exemplifies the Piper’s hold on his followers. In Picnic at Hanging Rock, place and Piper are synonymous: the Piper has been transformed into the land itself. Yet this is not the “vast impersonal bush,” nor is it malevolent or vengeful. It is a living, seductive metaphysical presence: “Everything, if only you could see it clearly enough, is beautiful and complete . . .” (Lindsay 35). Just as in the original tale, the lost children follow the “Piper” willingly, without regret. Their disappearance is a happiness to them, in that moment, as it is for the lost children of Hamelin, and quite unlike how it must be for those torn apart by that loss—the community around Appleyard, the townspeople of Hamelin. Music, long associated with fairy “takings,” is also a subtle feature of the story. In the novel, just before the luring, Irma hears a sound like the beating of far-off drums. In the film, which more overtly evokes fairy tale elements than does the novel, it is noteworthy that the music at that point is based on traditional tunes for Pan-pipes, played by the great Romanian piper Gheorge Zamfir. The ending of the novel, with questions left unanswered, and lives blighted by the forever-inexplicable, may be seen as also following the trajectory of the original tale. Readers as much as the fictional characters are left with an enigma that continues to perplex and inspire. Picnic at Hanging Rock was one of the inspirations for another significant Australian fiction, this time a contemporary novel for children. Ursula Dubosarsky’s The Golden Day (2011) is an elegant and subtle short novel, set in Sydney at an exclusive girls’ school, in 1967. Like the earlier novel, The Golden Day is also partly inspired by visual art, in this case the Schoolgirl series of paintings by Charles Blackman. Combining a fairy tale atmosphere with historical details—the Vietnam War, the hanging of Ronald Ryan, the drowning of Harold Holt—the story is told through the eyes of several girls, especially one, known as Cubby. The Golden Day echoes the core narrative patterns of the earlier novel, but intriguingly transformed: a group of young girls goes with their teacher on an outing to a mysterious place (in this case, a cave on the beach—note the potent elements of rock and water, combined), and something inexplicable happens which results in a disappearance. Only this time, the girls are much younger than the characters of Lindsay’s novel, pre-pubertal in fact at eleven years old, and it is their teacher, a young, idealistic woman known only as Miss Renshaw, who disappears, apparently into thin air, with only an amber bead from her necklace ever found. But it is not only Miss Renshaw who vanishes: the other is a poet and gardener named Morgan who is also Miss Renshaw’s secret lover. Later, with the revelation of a dark past, he is suspected in absentia of being responsible for Miss Renshaw’s vanishment, with implications of rape and murder, though her body is never found. Morgan, who could partly figure as the Piper, is described early on in the novel as having “beautiful eyes, soft, brown, wet with tears, like a stuffed toy” (Dubosarsky 11). This disarming image may seem a world away from the ambiguously disturbing figure of the legendary Piper, yet not only does it fit with the children’s naïve perception of the world, it also echoes the fact that the children in the original story were not afraid of the Piper, but followed him willingly. However, that is complicated by the fact that Morgan does not lure the children; it is Miss Renshaw who follows him—and the children follow her, who could be seen as the other half of the Piper. The Golden Day similarly transforms the other Piper motifs in its own original way. The children are only literally lost for a short time, when their teacher vanishes and they are left to make their own way back from the cave; yet it could be argued that metaphorically, the girls are “lost” to childhood from that moment, in terms of never being able to go back to the state of innocence in which they were before that day. Their safe, ordered school community will never be the same again, haunted by the inexplicability of the events of that day. Meanwhile, the exploration of Australian place—the depiction of the Memorial Gardens where Miss Renshaw enjoins them to write poetry, the uncomfortable descent over rocks to the beach, and the fateful cave—is made through the eyes of children, not the adolescents and adults of Picnic at Hanging Rock. The girls are not yet in that liminal space which is adolescence and so their impressions of what the places represent are immediate, instinctive, yet confused. They don’t like the cave and can’t wait to get out of it, whereas the beach inspires them with a sense of freedom and the gardens with a sense of enchantment. But in each place, those feelings are mixed both with ordinary concerns and with seemingly random associations that are nevertheless potently evocative. For example, in the cave, Cubby senses a threateningly weightless atmosphere, a feeling of reality shifting, which she associates, apparently confusedly, with the hanging of Ronald Ryan, reported that very day. In this way, Dubosarsky subtly gestures towards the sinister inevitability of the following events, and creates a growing tension that will eventually fade but never fully dissipate. At the end, the novel takes an unexpected turn which is as destabilising as the ending of the Pied Piper story, and as open-ended in its transformative effects as the original tale: “And at that moment Cubby realised she was not going to turn into the person she had thought she would become. There was something inside her head now that would make her a different person, though she scarcely understood what it was” (Dubosarsky 148). The eruption of the uncanny into ordinary life will never leave her now, as it will never leave the other girls who followed Miss Renshaw and Morgan into the literally hollow hill of the cave and emerged alone into a transformed world. It isn’t just childhood that Cubby has lost but also any possibility of a comforting sense of the firm borders of reality. As in the Pied Piper, ambiguity and loss combine to create questions which cannot be logically answered, only dimly apprehended.Christopher Koch’s 1985 novel The Doubleman, winner of the Miles Franklin Award, also explores the power of place and the motif of lost children, but unlike the other two novels examined in this essay depicts an actual “incarnated” Piper motif in the mysteriously powerful figure of Clive Broderick, brilliant guitarist and charismatic teacher/guru, whose office, significantly, is situated in a subterranean space of knowledge—a basement room beneath a bookshop. Both central yet peripheral to the main action of the novel, touched with hints of the supernatural which never veer into overt fantasy, Broderick remains an enigma to the end. Set, like The Golden Day, in the 1960s, The Doubleman is narrated in the first person by Richard Miller, in adulthood a producer of a successful folk-rock group, the Rymers, but in childhood an imaginative, troubled polio survivor, with a crutch and a limp. It is noteworthy here that in the Grimms’ version of the Pied Piper, two children are left behind, despite following the Piper: one is blind, one is lame. And it is the lame boy who tells the townspeople what he glimpsed at Koppen Hill. In creating the character of Broderick, the author blends the traditional tropes of the Piper figure with Mephistophelian overtones and a strong influence from fairy lore, specifically the idea of the “doubleman,” here drawn from the writings of seventeenth-century Scottish pastor, the Reverend Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle. Kirk’s 1691 book The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies is the earliest known serious attempt at objective description of the fairy beliefs of Gaelic-speaking Highlanders. His own precisely dated life-story and ambiguous end—it is said he did not die but is forever a prisoner of the fairies—has eerie parallels to the Piper story. “And there is the uncanny, powerful and ambiguous fact of the matter. Here is a man, named, born, lived, who lived a fairy story, really lived it: and in the popular imagination, he lives still” (Masson).Both in his creative and his non-fiction work Koch frequently evoked what he called “the Otherland,” which he depicted as a liminal, ambiguous, destabilising but nevertheless very real and potent presence only thinly veiled by the everyday world. This Otherland is not the same in all his fictions, but is always part of an actual place, whether that be Java in The Year of Living Dangerously, Hobart and Sydney in The Doubleman, Tasmania, Vietnam and Cambodia in Highways to a War, and Ireland and Tasmania in Out of Ireland. It is this sense of the “Otherland” below the surface, a fairy tale, mythical realm beyond logic or explanation, which gives his work its distinctive and particular power. And in The Doubleman, this motif, set within a vividly evoked real world, complete with precise period detail, transforms the Piper figure into one which could easily appear in a Hobart lane, yet which loses none of its uncanny potency. As Noel Henricksen writes in his study of Koch’s work, Island and Otherland, “Behind the membrane of Hobart is Otherland, its manifestations a spectrum stretched between the mystical and the spiritually perverted” (213).This is Broderick’s first appearance, described through twelve-year-old Richard Miller’s eyes: Tall and thin in his long dark overcoat, he studied me for the whole way as he approached, his face absolutely serious . . . The man made me uneasy to a degree for which there seemed to be no explanation . . . I was troubled by the notion that he was no ordinary man going to work at all: that he was not like other people, and that his interest couldn’t be explained so simply. (Koch, Doubleman 3)That first encounter is followed by another, more disturbing still, when Broderick speaks to the boy, eyes fixed on him: “. . . hooded by drooping lids, they were entirely without sympathy, yet nevertheless interested, and formidably intelligent” (5).The sense of danger that Broderick evokes in the boy could be explained by a sinister hint of paedophilia. But though Broderick is a predator of sorts on young people, nothing is what it seems; no rational explanation encompasses the strange effect of his presence. It is not until Richard is a young man, in the company of his musical friend Brian Brady, that he comes across Broderick again. The two young men are looking in the window of a music shop, when Broderick appears beside them, and as Richard observes, just as in a fairy tale, “He didn’t seem to have changed or aged . . .” (44). But the shock of his sudden re-appearance is mixed with something else now, as Broderick engages Brady in conversation, ignoring Richard, “. . . as though I had failed some test, all that time ago, and the man had no further use for me” (45).What happens next, as Broderick demonstrates his musical prowess, becomes Brady’s teacher, and introduces them to his disciple, young bass player Darcy Burr, will change the young men’s lives forever and set them on a path that leads both to great success and to living nightmare, even after Broderick’s apparent disappearance, for Burr will take on the Piper’s mantle. Koch’s depiction of the lost children motif is distinctively different to the other two novels examined in this essay. Their fate is not so much a mystery as a tragedy and a warning. The lost children of The Doubleman are also lost children of the sixties, bright, talented young people drawn through drugs, immersive music, and half-baked mysticism into darkness and horrifying violence. In his essay “California Dreaming,” published in the collection Crossing the Gap, Koch wrote about this subterranean aspect of the sixties, drawing a connection between it and such real-life sinister “Pipers” as Charles Manson (60). Broderick and Burr are not the same as the serial killer Manson, of course; but the spell they cast over the “lost children” who follow them is only different in degree, not in kind. In the end of the novel, the spell is broken and the world is again transformed. Yet fittingly it is a melancholy transformation: an end of childhood dreams of imaginative potential, as well as dangerous illusions: “And I knew now that it was all gone—like Harrigan Street, and Broderick, and the district of Second-Hand” (Koch, Doubleman 357). The power of place, the last of the Piper motifs, is also deeply embedded in The Doubleman. In fact, as with the idea of Otherland, place—or Island, as Henricksen evocatively puts it—is a recurring theme in Koch’s work. He identified primarily and specifically as a Tasmanian writer rather than as simply Australian, pointing out in an essay, “The Lost Hemisphere,” that because of its landscape and latitude, different to the mainland of Australia, Tasmania “genuinely belongs to a different region from the continent” (Crossing the Gap 92). In The Doubleman, Richard Miller imbues his familiar and deeply loved home landscape with great mystical power, a power which is both inherent within it as it is, but also expressive of the Otherland. In “A Tasmanian Tone,” another essay from Crossing the Gap, Koch describes that tone as springing “from a sense of waiting in the landscape: the tense yet serene expectancy of some nameless revelation” (118). But Koch could also write evocatively of landscapes other than Tasmanian ones. The unnerving climax of The Doubleman takes place in Sydney—significantly, as in The Golden Day, in a liminal, metaphysically charged place of rocks and water. That place, which is real, is called Point Piper. In conclusion, the original tale’s three main motifs—lost children, the enigma of the Piper, and the power of place—have been explored in distinctive ways in each of the three novels examined in this article. Contemporary Australia may be a world away from medieval Germany, but the uncanny liminality and capacious ambiguity of the Pied Piper tale has made it resonate potently within these major Australian fictions. Transformed and transformative within the Australian imagination, the theme of the Pied Piper threads like a faintly-heard snatch of unearthly music through the apparently mimetic realism of the novels, destabilising readers’ expectations and leaving them with subversively unanswered questions. ReferencesBird, Carmel. “Dreaming the Place: An Exploration of Antipodean Narratives.” Griffith Review 42 (2013). 1 May 2016 <https://griffithreview.com/articles/dreaming-the-place/>.Dubosarsky, Ursula. The Golden Day. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2011.Fiander, Lisa M. “Writing in A Fairy Story Landscape: Fairy Tales and Contemporary Australian Fiction.” Journal of the Association for the Study of Australian Literature 2 (2003). 30 April 2016 <http://openjournals.library.usyd.edu.au/index.php/JASAL/index>.Henricksen, Noel. Island and Otherland: Christopher Koch and His Books. Melbourne: Educare, 2003.Knox, Malcolm. “A Country of Lost Children.” Sydney Morning Herald 15 Aug. 2009. 1 May 2016 <http://www.smh.com.au/national/a-country-of-lost-children-20090814-el8d.html>.Koch, Christopher. The Doubleman. 1985. Sydney: Minerva, 1996.Koch, Christopher. Crossing the Gap: Memories and Reflections. 1987. Sydney: Vintage, 2000. Lindsay, Joan. Picnic at Hanging Rock. 1967. Melbourne: Penguin, 1977.Masson, Sophie. “Captive in Fairyland: The Strange Case of Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle.” Nation and Federation in the Celtic World: Papers from the Fourth Australian Conference of Celtic Studies, University of Sydney, June–July 2001. Ed. Pamela O’Neil. Sydney: University of Sydney Celtic Studies Foundation, 2003. Mieder, Wolfgang. “The Pied Piper: Origin, History, and Survival of a Legend.” Tradition and Innovation in Folk Literature. 1987. London: Routledge Revivals, 2015.Pierce, Peter. The Country of Lost Children: An Australian Anxiety. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999.Steele, Kathleen. “Fear and Loathing in the Australian Bush: Gothic Landscapes in Bush Studies and Picnic at Hanging Rock.” Colloquy 20 (2010): 33–56. 27 July 2016 <http://artsonline.monash.edu.au/wp-content/arts/files/colloquy/colloquy_issue_20_december_2010/steele.pdf>.

Since its return in 2005 the science fiction series Doctor Who (BBC1) has featured many alien creatures which bear a striking similarity to non-human Earth species: the Judoon in “Smith and Jones” (2007) have heads like rhinoceroses; the nurses in “New Earth” (2006) are cats in wimples; the Tritovores in “Planet of the Dead” (2009) are giant flies in boilersuits. Yet only one non-human animal has appeared twice in the series, in unrelated stories: the pig. Furthermore, alien races such as the Judoon and the Tritovores simply happen to look like human species, and the series offers no narrative explanation as to why such similarities exist. When the pig has appeared, however, it has instead been as the consequence of experimentation and mutation, and in both cases the appearance of such porcine hybrids is signalled as horrific, unsettling and, in the end, to be pitied. The fact that the pig has appeared in this way twice suggests there is something about the human understanding of this animal which means it can fulfil a role in fiction unavailable to other Earth species. The pig’s appearance has been in two stories, both two-parters. In “Aliens of London”/“World War Three” (2005) a spaceship crashes into London’s Thames river, and the pilot inside, thought to be dead, is sent to be scientifically examined. Alone in the laboratory, the pathologist Doctor Sato is startled to find the creature is alive and, during its attempt to escape, it is shot by the military. When the creature is examined The Doctor reveals it is “an ordinary pig, from Earth.” He goes on to explain that, “someone’s taken a pig, opened up its brain, stuck bits on, then they’ve strapped it in that ship and made it dive-bomb. It must have been terrified. They’ve taken this animal and turned it into a joke.” The Doctor’s concern over the treatment of the pig mirrors his earlier reprimand of the military for shooting it; as he cradles the dying creature he shouts at the soldier responsible, “What did you do that for? It was scared! It was scared.” On the commentary track for the DVD release of this episode Julie Gardner (executive producer) and Will Cohen (visual effects producer) note how so many people told them they had a significant emotional reaction to this scene, with Gardner adding, “Bless the pig.” In that sense, what begins as a moment of horror in the series becomes one of empathy with a non-human being, and the pig moves from being a creature of terror to one whose death is seen to be an immoral act. This movement from horror to empathy can be seen in the pig’s other appearance, in “Daleks in Manhattan”/“Evolution of the Daleks” (2007). Here the alien Daleks experiment on humans in order to develop the ability to meld themselves with Earthlings, in order to repopulate their own dwindling numbers. Humans are captured and then tested; as Laszlo, one of the outcomes of the experimentation, explains, “They’re divided into two groups: high intelligence and low intelligence. The low intelligence are taken to becomes Pig Slaves, like me.” These Pig Slaves look and move like humans except for their faces, which have prolonged ears and the pig signifier of a snout. At no point in the story is it made clear why experimentations on low intelligence humans should result in them looking like pigs, and a non-hybrid pig is not seen throughout the story. The appearance of the experiments’ results is therefore not narratively explained, and it does not draw on the fact that “in digestive apparatus and nutrient requirements pigs resemble humans in more ways than any mammal except monkeys and apes, which is why pigs are much in demand for [human] medical research” (Harris 70); indeed, considering the story is set in the 1930s such a justification would be anachronistic. The use of the pig, therefore, draws solely on its cultural, not its scientific, associations. These associations are complex, and the pig has been used to connote many things in Western culture. Children’s books such as The Sheep-Pig (King-Smith) and Charlotte’s Web (White) suggest the close proximity of humans and pigs can result in an affinity capable of communication. The use of pigs to represent Poles in Maus: A Survivor’s Tale (Spiegelman), on the other hand, has been read as offensive, drawing on the animal’s association with dirt and greed (Weschler). These depictions are informed by debates about pigs in the real world, whereby an animal which, as mentioned above, is similar enough to humans to be useful in medical research can also, for the food industry, go through a slaughtering process described by Bob Torres as “horribly cruel” (47). Such cruelty can only be justified if the boundaries between the pig and the human are maintained, and this is why pig-human representations are capable of being shocking and horrific. The hybrid nature of the human-pig creature draws on the horror trope that Noël Carroll refers to as “fusion” which works because it “unites attributes held to be categorically distinct” such as “inside/outside, living/dead, insect/human, flesh/machine” (43). He explains that this is why characters in horror narratives do not find such creatures simply fearful, but also “repellent, loathsome, disgusting, repulsive and impure” (54); their failure to conform to accepted cultural categories destabilises assumed norms and, perhaps most horrifically, undermines ‘the human’ as a stable, natural and superior category. As Donna Haraway notes, “‘The species’ often means the human race, unless one is attuned to science fiction, where species abound” (18). Science fiction therefore commonly plays with ideas of species because it is often interested in “the image of the scientist ‘playing god’” (Jones 51) and the horrific outcomes of “the total severing of scientific concerns from ethical concerns” (53). That the result of human/non-human experimentation should be regarded as horrific is evidence of the need to maintain the distinctions between humans and other creatures; after all, a pig/human can only be thought of as horrific if it as assumed that there is something unnatural about the destabilisation of the human category. And it is precisely the human which matters in this equation; it is not really as if anyone cares about the pig’s categorical stability in all of this. In both these stories, the appearance of the pig-creature is narratively structured to be surprising and shocking, and is withheld from the audience for as long as possible. The first appearance of a Pig Slave in “Daleks in Manhattan” constitutes that episode’s pre-credits cliff-hanger, with the creature appearing out of the shadows and bearing down upon the camera, directly towards the audience viewing at home. At this point, the audience has no idea why such a creature exists; the meaning of the pig-human hybrid is contained purely in its visual appearance, with the horrific fact of its contradictory appearance perhaps drawing on the pig’s historical association with evil and the Devil (Sillar and Meyler 82). Similarly, in “Aliens of London” we see Sato’s shocked reaction to the pig far earlier than we actually see the creature ourselves, and Sato’s scream is clearly intended to construct what we have yet to encounter as horrific. The Doctor’s search for the creature is similarly signalled, as he roams dimly-lit corridors trying to find it, following the trail of the grunts and noises that it makes. That the pig might constitute a horrific—or at least unsettling—site for humans is unsurprising considering the cultural roles it has often played. There is, after all, an “opposition between civilization and piggishness” (Ashley, Hollows, Jones and Taylor 2) in which (incorrect) assumptions about pigs’ filthy behaviour helps mark out humanity’s cleaner and more civilised way of living. While this is true of all human/non-human interactions, it is argued that the pig occupies a particular role within this system as it is a “familiar beast” (4) because for centuries it has been a domesticated animal which has often lived alongside humans, usually in quite close proximity. In that sense, humans and pigs are very similar. Demarcating the human as a stable and natural “conceptual category ... in which we place all members of our own species and from which we exclude all non-members” (Milton 265-66) has therefore required the denigration of non-humans, at least partly to justify the dominion humans have decided they have the right to hold over other creatures such as pigs. The difficulties in maintaining this demarcation can be seen in the documentary The Private Life of Pigs (BBC2 2010) in which the farmer Jimmy Docherty carries out a number of tests on animals in order to better understand the ‘inner life’ of the pig. Docherty acknowledges the pig’s similarity to humans in his introductory piece to camera; “When you look in their piggy little eyes with their piggy little eyelashes you see something that reflects back to you—I don’t know—it makes you feel there’s a person looking back.” However, this is quickly followed by a statement which works to reassert the human/non-human boundary; “I know we have this close relationship [with pigs], but I’m often reminded that just beneath the surface of their skin, they’re a wild animal.” Perhaps the most telling revelation in the programme is that pigs have been found to make certain grunting noises only when humans are around, which suggests they have developed a language for ‘interacting’ with humans. That Docherty is uncomfortably startled by this piece of information shows how the idea of communication troubles ideas of human superiority, and places pigs within a sphere hitherto maintained as strictly human. Of course, humans often willingly share domestic spaces with other species, but these are usually categorised as pets. The pet exists “somewhere between the wild animal and the human” (Fudge 8), and we often invest them with a range of human characteristics and develop relationships with such animals which are similar, but not identical, to those we have with other humans. The pig, however, like other food animals, cannot occupy the role afforded to the pet because it is culturally unacceptable to eat pets. In order to legitimise the treatment of the pig as a “strictly utilitarian object; a thing for producing meat and bacon” (Serpell 7) it must be distinguished from the human realm as clearly as possible. It is worth noting, though, that this is a culturally-specific process; Dwyer and Minnegal, for example, show how in New Guinea “pigs commonly play a crucial role in ceremonial and spiritual life” (37-8), and the pig is therefore simultaneously a wild animal, a source of food, and a species with which humans have an “attachment” (45-54) akin to the idea of a pet. Western societies commonly (though not completely) have difficulty uniting this range of animal categories, and analogous ideas of “civilization” often rest on assumptions about animals which require them to play specific, non-human roles. That homo sapiens define their humanity in terms of civilization is demonstrated by the ways in which ideas of brutality, violence and savagery are displaced onto other species, often quite at odds with the truth of such species’ behaviour. The assumption that non-human species are violent, and constitute a threat, is shown in Doctor Who; the pig is shot in “Aliens of London” for assumed security reasons (despite it having done nothing to suggest it is a threat), while humans run in fear from the Pig Slaves in “Evolution of the Daleks” purely because of their non-human appearance. Mary Midgley refers to this as “the Beast Myth” (38) by which humans not only reduce other species to nothing other than “incarnations of wickedness, … sets of basic needs, … crude mechanical toys, … [and] idiot children” (38), but also lump all non-human species together thereby ignoring the specificity of any particular species. Midgley also argues that “man shows more savagery to his own kind than most other mammal species” (27, emphasis in original), citing the need for “law or morality to restrain violence” (26) as evidence of the social structures required to uphold a myth of human civilization. In that sense, the use of pigs in Doctor Who can be seen as conforming to centuries-old depictions of non-human species, by which the loss of humanity symbolised by other species can be seen as the ultimate punishment. After all, when the Daleks’ human helper, Mr Diagoras, fears that the aliens are going to experiment on him, he fearfully exclaims, “What do you mean? Like those pig-men things? You’re not going to turn me into one of those? Oh, God, please don’t!” In the next episode, when all the Pig Slaves are killed by the actions of the Doctor’s companion Martha, she regrets her actions, only to be told, “No. The Daleks killed them. Long ago”, for their mutation into a ‘pig-man thing’ is seen to be a more significant loss of humanity than death itself. The scene highlights how societies are often “confused about the status of such interspecies beings” (Savulescu 25). Such confusion is likely to recur considering we are moving into a “posthumanist” age defined by the “decentering of the human” (Wolfe xv), whereby critiques of traditional cultural categories, alongside scientific developments that question the biological certainty of the human, result in difficulties in defining precisely what it is that is supposedly so special about homo sapiens. This means that it is far too easy to write off these depictions in Doctor Who as merely drawing on, and upholding, those simplistic and naturalised human/non-human distinctions which have been criticised, in a manner similar to sexism and racism, as “speciesist” (Singer 148-62). There is, after all, consistent sympathy for the pig in these episodes. The shooting of the pig in “Aliens of London” is outrageous not merely because it gives evidence of the propensity of human violence: the death of the pig itself is presented as worth mourning, in a manner similar to the death of any living being. Throughout the series the Doctor is concerned over the loss of life for any species, always aiming to find a non-violent method for solving conflicts and repeatedly berating other characters who resort to bloodshed for solutions. Indeed, the story’s narrative can be read as one in which the audience is invited to reassess its own response to the pig’s initial appearance, shifting from fear at its alien-ness to sympathy for its demise. This complication of the cultural meanings of pigs is taken even further in the two-part Dalek story. One of the key plots of the story is the relationship between Laszlo, who has been transmuted into a Pig Slave, and his former lover Tallulah. Tallulah spends much of the story thinking Laszlo has disappeared, when he has, in fact, gone into hiding, certain that she will reject him because of his post-experimentation porcine features. When they finally reunite, Laszlo apologises for what has happened to him, while Tallulah asks, “Laszlo? My Laszlo? What have they done to you?” At the end of the story they decide to try re-establishing their relationship, despite Laszlo’s now-complicated genetic make-up. In response to this Martha asks the Doctor, “Do you reckon it’s going to work, those two?” The Doctor responds that while such an odd pairing might be problematic pretty much anywhere else, as they were in New York they might just get away with it. He reflects, “That’s what this city’s good at. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, and maybe the odd Pig Slave Dalek mutant hybrid too.” While there is an obvious playfulness to this scene, with the programme foregrounding the kinds of narrative available to the science fiction genre, it is also clear that we are invited to find this a good narrative conclusion, a suitable resolution to all that has preceded it. In that sense, the pig and the human come together, dissolving the human/non-human divide at a stroke, and this is offered to the audience as something to be pleased about. In both narratives, then, the pig moves from being understood as alien and threatening to something if not quite identical to human, then certainly akin to it. Certainly, the narratives suggest that the lives, loves and concerns of pigs—even if they have been experimented upon—matter, and can constitute significant emotional moments in primetime mainstream family television. This development is a result of the text’s movement from an interest in the appearance of the pig to its status as a living being. As noted above, the initial appearances of the pigs in both stories is intended to be frightening, but such terror is dependent on understanding non-human species by their appearance alone. What both of these stories manage to do is suggest that the pig—like all non-human living things, whether of Earth or not—is more than its physical appearance, and via acknowledgment of its own consciousness, and its own sense of identity, can become something with which humans are capable of having sympathy; perhaps more than that, that the pig is something with which humans should have sympathy, for to deny the interior life of such a species is to engage in an inhuman act in itself. This could be seen as an interesting—if admittedly marginal—corrective to the centuries of cultural and physical abuse the pig, like all animals, has suffered. Such representations can be seen as evoking “the dreaded comparison” (Spiegel) which aligns maltreatment of animals with slavery, a comparison that is dreaded by societies because to acknowledge such parallels makes justifying humans’ abusive treatment of other species very difficult. These two Doctor Who stories repeatedly make such comparisons, and assume that to morally and emotionally distinguish between living beings based on categories of species is nonsensical, immoral, and fails to acknowledge the significance and majesty of all forms of life. That we might, as Gardner suggests, “Bless the pig”—whether it has had its brain stuffed full of wires or been merged with a human—points towards complex notions of human/non-human interaction which might helpfully destabilise simplistic ideas of the superiority of the human race. References Ashley, Bob, Joanne Hollows, Steve Jones and Ben Taylor. Food and Cultural Studies. London and New York: Routledge, 2004. Carroll, Noël. The Philosophy of Horror, or, Paradoxes of the Heart. New York and London: Routledge, 1990. Dwyer, Peter D. and Monica Minnegal. “Person, Place or Pig: Animal Attachments and Human Transactions in New Guinea.” Animals in Person: Cultural Perspectives on Human-Animal Intimacies. Ed. John Knight. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005. 37-60. Fudge, Erica. Pets. Stocksfield: Acumen, 2008. Haraway, Donna J. When Species Meet. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2008. Harris, Marvin. “The Abominable Pig.” Food and Culture: A Reader. Ed. Carole Counihan and Penny Van Esterik. New York and London: Routledge, 1997. 67-79. Jones, Darryl. Horror: A Thematic History in Fiction and Film. London: Arnold, 2002. King-Smith, Dick. The Sheep-Pig. London: Puffin, 1983. Midgley, Mary. Beast and Man. London and New York: Routledge, 1979/2002. Milton, Kay. “Anthropomorphism or Egomorphism? The Perception of Non-Human Persons by Human Ones.” Animals in Person: Cultural Perspectives on Human-Animal Intimacies. Ed. John Knight. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005. 255-71. Savulescu, Julian. “Human-Animal Transgenesis and Chimeras Might be an Expression of our Humanity.” The American Journal of Bioethics 3.3 (2003): 22-5. Serpell, James. In the Company of Animals: A Study of Human-Animal Relationships. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Sillar, Frederick Cameron and Ruth Mary Meyler. The Symbolic Pig: An Anthology of Pigs in Literature and Art. Edinburgh and London: Oliver and Boyd, 1961. Singer, Peter. “All Animals are Equal.” Animal Rights and Human Obligations. Ed. Tom Regan and Peter Singer. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1989. 148-62. Spiegel, Marjorie. The Dreaded Comparison: Human and Animal Slavery. London and Philadelphia: Heretic Books, 1988. Speigelman, Art. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale. New York: Pantheon Books, 1986/1991. Torres, Bob. Making a Killing: The Political Economy of Animal Rights. Edinburgh, Oakland and West Virginia: AK Press, 2007. Weschler, Lawrence. “Pig Perplex.” Lingua France: The Review of Academic Life 11.5 (2001): 6-8. White, E.B. Charlotte’s Web. London: Harper Collins, 1952. Wolfe, Cary. What is Posthumanism? Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2010.

Since Virgil, there has been a discrete but constant association of beekeeping with some sort of epicurean wisdom. Living a frugal live in the quietness of Nature, far from the urban whirl of agitation, the beekeeper was supposed to experience the happiness of the philosopher detached from the world. This old vision, as illusory as it might be, seems to have encountered a new popularity in the contemporary novel. Many current writers tend indeed to depict beekeepers characters in their fictions as philosophing misfits, good-hearted wise men or anti-modernity fighters. This article tries to make an inventory of all these textual appearances and to define what could possibly be a beekeeper’s wisdom.

Futuristic fiction almost by definition enters into a dialogue with the present as a future past. As a consequence, history haunts even the most inane visions of the future in often quite subtle ways. An excellent prompt to speculate on this issue is provided by Luc Besson's popular film The Fifth Element (1997). Like many science-fiction films, it is about a future troubled by its own promises. It almost goes without saying that while not specifically figured around Y2K, the attention to dates and time in the film combined with its late '90s release date also inscribe it within Millennial anxieties about the end of the world. History plays a series of roles in The Fifth Element. In common with many science-fiction fables, the film stages an inverted fictional genealogy, in which the viewer is actively encouraged to revel in identifying extrapolated features and concerns of the present. This heralds a basic historicity: that is, it invites us to grasp our present as history through its defamiliarisation. Moreover, like another futuristic film of the same year, Gattaca, it is aesthetically marked by the pathos of what might be called millennial "nostalgia for the future" -- that lost utopian real of Modernist aesthetic desire which seems to haunt these "post-post-apocalyptic", Space-Age futures1. This is only enhanced by quoting generously from earlier moments of the science fiction genre (such as Blade Runner). Striking, however, is that despite all of this, everyday America -- globalised and projected two hundred and fifty years hence -- is not so much dystopian or utopian as just ordinary. People still smoke, but filters makes up three-quarters of a cigarette's length; we still get stuck in chaotic traffic, even if it flies above the ground; we still eat Chinese takeaway, only now the restaurants fly to you; and cops still eat take-away at drive-through McDonald's, which are now floating fixtures in the cityscape. That individuals are so stylish (thanks to costume design, everyone is wearing Jean-Paul Gaultier) also seems significant, because this aestheticised ordinariness helps focus attention on the lived time of everyday utopian yearnings. In these ways and more, our contemporary moment is immanent in the film. However, at certain other crucial moments in the film, History is directly presented as an excess. Let me explain. Two hundred and fifty years into the future, a "Supreme Being" -- Leeloo (Milla Jovovich) -- is genetically reconstructed by scientists. Dubbed the missing "fifth element", she belongs to a highly developed extra-terrestrial species who have a protectoral relation to humanity. In the beginning, Leeloo is cut off from human language -- speaking in a tongue that combines a mixture of European dialects with baby-speak (her favourite phrase, as anyone who has seen the film will recall, is "[Big] badda-boo!"). She speaks what a priest in the film calls the "Divine language", "spoken before time was time" -- evoking the theological dream of a universal pre-symbolic language, of a pure speech that speaks the world rather than speaks of it. Her very first English word is "Help!" -- which she reads off a taxi sticker advertisement for starving black orphans. And it is perhaps no accident that she identifies with this future's expropriated. Leeloo is a body cast into marginality. Caged as an exhibit from the moment of her arrival on Earth, with her exotic appearance, wide-eyed wonderment and capacity for mimicry, she displays all the tropes of the infantilised and sexualised Other. Romanticised as a primitivist fantasy, she represents a classically vulnerable redemptive figure2. Two hundred and fifty years into the future, a "Supreme Being" -- Leeloo (Milla Jovovich) -- is genetically reconstructed by scientists. Dubbed the missing "fifth element", she belongs to a highly developed extra-terrestrial species who have a protectoral relation to humanity. In the beginning, Leeloo is cut off from human language -- speaking in a tongue that combines a mixture of European dialects with baby-speak (her favourite phrase, as anyone who has seen the film will recall, is "[Big] badda-boo!"). She speaks what a priest in the film calls the "Divine language", "spoken before time was time" -- evoking the theological dream of a universal pre-symbolic language, of a pure speech that speaks the world rather than speaks of it. Her very first English word is "Help!" -- which she reads off a taxi sticker advertisement for starving black orphans. And it is perhaps no accident that she identifies with this future's expropriated. Leeloo is a body cast into marginality. Caged as an exhibit from the moment of her arrival on Earth, with her exotic appearance, wide-eyed wonderment and capacity for mimicry, she displays all the tropes of the infantilised and sexualised Other. Romanticised as a primitivist fantasy, she represents a classically vulnerable redemptive figure2. Leaving aside for the moment the perhaps inevitably romantic resolution to this predicament, we can interpret this scene as a critique of the Enlightenment pretension to "total History". The "arbitrary" order of alphabetisation, which replaces the seemingly determined disorder of historical narratives, is akin to the Kantian dream of a cosmopolitan state of "universal history". Think, too, of the aging Hegel, writing in 1830: We witness a vast spectacle of events and actions, of infinitely varied constellations of nations, states and individuals, in restless succession. ... Everywhere we see a motley confusion ... But ... we grow weary of particulars and ask ourselves to what end they all contribute. We cannot accept that their significance is exhausted by their own particular ends; everything must be part of a single enterprise. (325-7) Leaving aside for the moment the perhaps inevitably romantic resolution to this predicament, we can interpret this scene as a critique of the Enlightenment pretension to "total History". The "arbitrary" order of alphabetisation, which replaces the seemingly determined disorder of historical narratives, is akin to the Kantian dream of a cosmopolitan state of "universal history". Think, too, of the aging Hegel, writing in 1830: We witness a vast spectacle of events and actions, of infinitely varied constellations of nations, states and individuals, in restless succession. ... Everywhere we see a motley confusion ... But ... we grow weary of particulars and ask ourselves to what end they all contribute. We cannot accept that their significance is exhausted by their own particular ends; everything must be part of a single enterprise. (325-7) If The Fifth Element critiques the universal history lesson, it also revolves around a dialectical relation between past and present. Although the opening scene in late colonial Egypt locates the film's narrative historically, these later scenes suggest a break with conventional, clean historiographical separations between the past and the present5. Leeloo's reading of History implies that embodied historical reception is in a perpetual in-between state. Not only the representation of the past as History but the experience of Time itself becomes less a matter of chronology than of a Freudian retroactivity, a "present past" with everyday variations which belong as much to future possibilities as to what we perceive as the present. The necessary absence of a determinate "past object" (referent) in historical understanding means that historicity is a traumatic process of deferral. In psychoanalytic terms, Leeloo's forced recognition of the unnatural deaths of Others is a traumatic encounter which generates a hole in the symbolic order of Leeloo's "real". Leeloo's traumatised body metaphorically becomes the singular "truth" of the symbolic world6. A global history is in fact nobody's history in particular -- belonging to everybody and nobody. This is the fate of the CD-ROM: a "memory" overwhelmingly composed of media images, and an allegory for our own situation of image saturation (whose stereotypical symbol is the isolated individual glued to a flickering screen). Yet when Leeloo enters history with a kiss, a fragile dialogical exchange in which her own life "story" begins, the fate of media images is to become socialised as part of non-synchronous particular narratives7. The grand "nightmare" of History has become comprehensible through her particular access to universal History -- and the result is an appropriated, ongoing experience with an undisclosed future. The Fifth Element thus presents a distinctly everyday solution to the problem of historical time -- and is this not how media history is experienced? No doubt in the future no less than the present, history will be less a matter of the Past itself, than of the allegorical reverberation of events documented and encountered in the everyday mediasphere. Footnotes Mark Dery recently berated the trend for retro-futurism as a Wallpaper-inspired plot, poised to generate a nostalgia for ironic dreams of fading technological utopias, while revealing the banality of design fashions that demand the ever new. See "Back to the Future", posted to Nettime (5 Sep. 1999) It is also worth noting the sublime role of the Diva in the film, whose pained operatic performance embodies what Slavoj Zizek once called the jouissance of modernity. Humanity's potential will to "creative destruction" has previously been embodied in Gary Oldman's evil business figure of Zorg, who undoubtedly represents the excesses of corporate capitalism (he illustrates his Ayn Rand-style vitalist philosophy at one point by letting a glass fall from his desk and shatter on to the ground: gleefully watching as a team of mechanical robots whiz around the floor sweeping it up, he croons: "see -- a lovely ballet ensues, adding to the great chain of life -- by creating a little destruction, I am in fact encouraging life". See Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi. Vol. 10, Theory and History of Literature. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1984; Jacques Derrida, Spectres of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International, trans. Peggy Kamuf. London: Routledge, 1994. Historiographical time can be distinguished from psychoanalytic time on the basis of two different ways of organising the space of memory. While the former conceives the temporal relation as one of succession and correlation, the latter treats the relation as one of imbrication and repetition. Michel de Certeau, Heterologies: Discourse on the Other. Translated by Brian Massumi. Vol. 17, Theory and History of Literature. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1986. 4. An interesting sf intertext here is Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris, in which a woman who is a projection of a man's memory unsuccessfully attempts to kill herself to prove that she is made of historical reality. In this traumatic scene, she consumes liquid nitrogen and writhes on a metallic floor in a frozen state until she gradually thaws into human movement. Leeloo is finally brought into the "un-Historical" time of everyday embodied subjectivity with a single kiss. To borrow the language of psychoanalytic film studies, her "screen memories" are reconfigured by an imaginary resolution in the present. I use the term screen memories with a nod to both the computer screen and Freud's compelling if problematic account of repressed mnemic material. Freud writes: "As the indifferent memories owe their preservation not to their own content but to an associative relation between their content and another which is repressed, they have some claim to be called 'screen memories'". Sigmund Freud, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life. Vol. 5, The Pelican Freud Library. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1960. 83. References Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. New York: Avon Books, 1992. Hegel, G.W.F. "The Philosophical History of the World: Second Draft (1830)." German Idealist Philosophy. Ed. Rüdiger Buber. London: Penguin, 1997. 317-39. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Daniel Palmer. "Nostalgia for the Future: Everyday History and The Fifth Element." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.9 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0001/nostalgia.php>. Chicago style: Daniel Palmer, "Nostalgia for the Future: Everyday History and The Fifth Element," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 9 (2000), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0001/nostalgia.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Daniel Palmer. (2000) Nostalgia for the future: everyday history and The Fifth Element. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(9). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0001/nostalgia.php> ([your date of access]).

The interpretation of time has been a challenge to philosophers, writers, and common people alike since the dawn of mankind, more precisely, since the appearance of ancient, natural religions. This paper, after giving an overview of the various responses in the history of philosophy to the challenge of the concept of time since Augustine and Averroës, analyses the circular notion of history expounded in Anthony Burgess’s 1962 novel, The Wanting Seed. Linear time, the roots of which are found in both Antiquity and Judeo-Christian religious texts such as the Bible, is mainly the prerogative of “modern man,” whilst circularity is more engraved in the (sub)conscious of natural religions, “primitive societies,” as Mircea Eliade calls them. In Burgess’s book the protagonist, a fictive teacher describes a view of history in cycles that change according to the anthropological aspects of the dominant ideology. The holders of power may either view their citizens optimistically as essentially good-willing and obedient, or through the lenses of Augustinian pessimism. The novel demonstrates through quick changes in the approaches of the governing groups how the lives of individuals are influenced by such changes, while the paper investigates how human freedom is impacted through a cyclical, hence deterministic view of history. The paper examines the central question whether the circular, paradoxical historical pattern described in The Wanting Seed, which deletes most opportunities for human freedom, free will and progress, can be called history at all.

A slash manip is a photo remix that montages visual signs from popular media with those from gay pornography, creating a new cultural artefact. Slash (see Russ) is a fannish practice that homoeroticises the bonds between male media characters and personalities—female pairings are categorised separately as ‘femslash’. Slash has been defined almost exclusively as a female practice. While fandom is indeed “women-centred” (Bury 2), such definitions have a tendency to exclude male contributions. Remix has been well acknowledged in discussions on slash, most notably video remix in relation to slash vids (Kreisinger). Non-written slash forms such as slash vids (see Russo) and slash fanart (see Dennis) have received increased attention in recent years. This article continues the tradition of moving beyond fiction by considering the non-written form of slash manips, yet to receive sustained scholarly attention. Speaking as a practitioner—my slash manips can be found here—I perform textual analysis from an aca–fan (academic and fan) position of two Merlin slash manips by male Tumblr artist wandsinhand. My textual analysis is influenced by Barthes’s use of image semiotics, which he applies to the advertising image. Barthes notes that “all images are polysemous”, that underlying their signifiers they imply “a ‘floating chain’ of signifieds, the reader able to choose some and ignore others” (274). That said, the advertising image, he argues, constructs an “undoubtedly intentional […] signification”, making it ideally suited for analysis (270). By supplementing my analysis with excerpts from two interviews I conducted with wandsinhand in February and April 2013 (quoted here with permission), I support my readings with respect to the artist’s stated ‘intentional reading’. I then contextualise these readings with respect to canon (Merlin) representations and gay pornography—via the chosen sexual acts/positions, bukkake and doggystyle, of the pornographic base models, as selected by the artist. This approach allows me to examine the photo remix qualities of slash manips with respect to the artist’s intentions as well as how artistic choices of inclusion function to anchor meaning in the works. I describe these choices as the ‘semiotic significance of selection’. Together the readings and interviews in this article help illustrate the value of this form and the new avenues it opens for slash scholars, such as consideration of photo remix and male production, and the importance of gay pornography to slash. My interviews also reveal, via the artist’s own assessment of the ‘value’ of his practice, a tendency to devalue or overlook the significance of this particular slash form, affirming a real need for further critical engagement with this under-examined practice. Slash Photo Remix: Famous Faces, Porny Bodies Lessig defines remix culture as based on an activity of “rip, mix and burn” (12–5); while Navas describes it as a “practice of cut/copy and paste” (159)—the latter being more applicable to photo remix. Whereas Lessig is concerned primarily with issues of copyright, Navas is interested in remix’s role in aesthetics and the political economy. Within fan studies, slash vids—a form of video remix—has been a topic of considerable academic interest in recent years. Slash manips—a form of photo or image remix—however, has not attracted the same degree of interest. Stasi’s description of slash as “a non-hierarchical, rich layering of genres” points to the usefulness of slash manips as an embodiment of the process of slash; whereby artists combine, blend and mutate graphic layers from popular media with those from gay pornography. Aesthetics and the slash manip process are central concerns of this article’s consideration of slash photo remix. Slash manips, or slash photo montage, use image manipulation software (Adobe Photoshop being the community standard, see wandsinhand’s tutorial) to layer the heads of male fictional characters from stills or promotional images with scenes—static or moving—from gay pornography. Once an artist has selected pornographic ‘base models’ anatomically suited to canon characters, these models are often then repositioned into the canon universe, which in the case of Merlin means a medieval setting. (Works not repositioned and without added details from canon are generally categorised as ‘male celebrity fakes’ rather than ‘slash manips’.) Stedman contends that while many fan studies scholars are interested in remix, “studies commonly focus on examples of remixed objects rather than the compositional strategies used by remix composers themselves” (107). He advocates moving beyond an exclusive consideration of “text-centred approaches” to also consider “practice-” and “composer-centred” approaches. Such approaches offer insight into “the detailed choices composers actually make when composing” (107). He refers to recognition of the skills required by a remix composer as “remix literacy” (108). This article’s consideration of the various choices and skills that go into the composition of slash manips—what I term the ‘semiotic significance of selection’—is explored with respect to wandsinhand’s practice, coupling my reading—informed by my experience as a practitioner—with the interpretations of the artist himself. Jenkins defines slash as “reaction against” constructions of male sexuality in both popular media and pornography (189). By their very nature, slash manips also make clear the oft-overlooked connections between slash and gay pornography, and in turn the contributions of gay male participants, who are well represented by the form. This contrasts with a tendency within scholarship to compare slash with heterosexual female forms, such as the romance genre (Salmon and Symons). Gay pornography plays a visible role in slash manips—and slash vids, which often remix scenes from popular media with gay cinema and pornography. Slash as Romance, Slash as Pornography Early scholarship on slash (see Russ; Lamb and Veith) defines it as a form of erotica or pornography, by and for women; a reductive definition that fails to take into account men’s contribution, yet one that many researchers continue to adopt today. As stated above, there has also been a tendency within scholarship to align the practice with heterosexual female forms such as the romance genre. Such a tendency is by and large due to theorisation of slash as heterosexual female fantasy—and concerned primarily with romance and intimacy rather than sex (see Woledge). Weinstein describes slash as more a “fascination with” than a “representation of” homosexual relationships (615); while MacDonald makes the point that homosexuality is not a major political motivator for slash (28–9). There is no refuting that slash—along with most fannish practice—is female dominated, ethnographic work and fandom surveys reveal that is the case. However there is great need for research into male production of slash, particularly how such practices might challenge reigning definitions and assumptions of the practice. In similar Japanese practices, for example, gay male opposition to girls’ comics (shōjo) depicting love between ‘pretty boys’ (bishōunen) has been well documented (see Hori)—Men’s Love (or bara) is a subgenre of Boys’ Love (or shōnen’ai) predominately created by gay men seeking a greater connection with the lived reality of gay life (Lunsing). Dennis finds male slash fanart producers more committed to muscular representations and depiction of graphic male/male sex when compared with female-identifying artists (14, 16). He also observes that male fanart artists have a tendency of “valuing same-sex desire without a heterosexual default and placing it within the context of realistic gay relationships” (11). I have observed similar differences between male and female-identifying slash manip artists. Female-identifying Nicci Mac, for example, will often add trousers to her donor bodies, recoding them for a more romantic context. By contrast, male-identifying mythagowood is known for digitally enlarging the penises and rectums of his base models, exaggerating his work’s connection to the pornographic and the macabre. Consider, for example, mythagowood’s rationale for digitally enlarging and importing ‘lips’ for Sam’s (Supernatural) rectum in his work Ass-milk: 2012, which marks the third anniversary of the original: Originally I wasn’t going to give Sammy’s cunt any treatment (before I determined the theme) but when assmilk became the theme I had to go find a good set of lips to slap on him and I figured, it’s been three years, his hole is going to be MUCH bigger. (personal correspondence, used with permission) While mythagowood himself cautions against gendered romance/pornography slash arguments—“I find it annoying that people attribute certain specific aspects of my work to something ‘only a man’ would make.” (ibid.)—gay pornography occupies an important place in the lives of gay men as a means for entertainment, community engagement and identity-construction (see McKee). As one of the only cultural representations available to gay men, Fejes argues that gay pornography plays a crucial role in defining gay male desire and identity. This is confirmed by an Internet survey conducted by Duggan and McCreary that finds 98% of gay participants reporting exposure to pornographic material in the 30-day period prior to the survey. Further, the underground nature of gay pornographic film (see Dyer) aligns it with slash as a subcultural practice. I now analyse two Merlin slash manips with respect to the sexual positions of the pornographic base models, illustrating how gay pornography genres and ideologies referenced through these works enforce their intended meaning, as defined by the artist. A sexual act such as bukkake, as wandsinhand astutely notes, acts as a universal sign and “automatically generates a narrative for the image without anything really needing to be detailed”. Barthes argues that such a “relation between thing signified and image signifying in analogical representation” is unlike language, which has a much more ‘arbitrary’ relationship between signifier and signified (272). Bukkake and the Assertion of Masculine Power in Merlin Merlin (2008–12) is a BBC reimagining of the Arthurian legend that focuses on the coming-of-age of Arthur and his close bond with his manservant Merlin, who keeps his magical identity secret until Arthur’s final stand in the iconic Battle of Camlann. The homosexual potential of Merlin and Arthur’s story—and of magic as a metaphor for homosexuality—is something slash fans were quick to recognise. During question time at the first Merlin cast appearance at the London MCM Expo in October 2008—just one month after the show’s pilot first aired—a fan asked Morgan and James, who portray Merlin and Arthur, is Merlin “meant to be a love story between Arthur and Merlin?” James nods in jest. Wandsinhand, who is most active in the Teen Wolf (2011–present) fandom, has produced two Merlin slash manips to date, a 2013 Merlin/Arthur and a 2012 Arthur/Percival, both untitled. The Merlin/Arthur manip (see Figure 1) depicts Merlin bound and on his knees, Arthur ejaculating across his face and on his chest. Merlin is naked while Arthur is partially clothed in chainmail and armour. They are both bruised and dirty, Arthur’s injuries suggesting battle given his overall appearance, while Merlin’s suggesting abuse, given his subordinate position. The setting appears to be the royal stables, where we know Merlin spends much of his time mucking out Arthur’s horses. I am left to wonder if perhaps Merlin did not carry out this duty to Arthur’s satisfaction, and is now being punished for it; or if Arthur has returned from battle in need of sexual gratification and the endorsement of power that comes from debasing his manservant. Figure 1: wandsinhand, Untitled (Merlin/Arthur), 2013, photo montage. Courtesy the artist. Both readings are supported by Arthur’s ‘spent’ expression of disinterest or mild curiosity, while Merlin’s face emotes pain: crying and squinting through the semen obscuring his vision. The artist confirms this reading in our interview: “Arthur is using his pet Merlin to relieve some stress; Merlin of course not being too pleased about the aftermath, but obedient all the same.” The noun ‘pet’ evokes the sexual connotations of Merlin’s role as Arthur’s personal manservant, while also demoting Merlin even further than usual. He is, in Arthur’s eyes, less than human, a sexual plaything to use and abuse at will. The artist’s statement also confirms that Arthur is acting against Merlin’s will. Violence is certainly represented here, the base models having been ‘marked up’ to depict sexualisation of an already physically and emotionally abusive relationship, their relative positioning and the importation of semen heightening the humiliation. Wandsinhand’s work engages characters in sadomasochistic play, with semen and urine frequently employed to degrade and arouse—“peen wolf”, a reference to watersports, is used within his Teen Wolf practice. The two wandsinhand works analysed in this present article come without words, thus lacking a “linguistic message” (Barthes 273–6). However even so, the artist’s statement and Arthur’s stance over “his pet Merlin” mean we are still able to “skim off” (270) the meanings the image contains. The base models, for example, invite comparison with the ‘gay bukkake’ genre of gay pornography—admittedly with a single dominant male rather than a group. Gay bukkake has become a popular niche in North American gay pornography—it originated in Japan as a male–female act in the 1980s. It describes a ritualistic sexual act where a group of dominant men—often identifying as heterosexual—fuck and debase a homosexual, submissive male, commonly bareback (Durkin et al. 600). The aggression on display in this act—much like the homosocial insistency of men who partake in a ‘circle jerk’ (Mosher 318)—enables the participating men to affirm their masculinity and dominance by degrading the gay male, who is there to service (often on his knees) and receive—in any orifice of the group’s choosing—the men’s semen, and often urine as well. The equivalencies I have made here are based on the ‘performance’ of the bukkake fantasy in gay niche hazing and gay-for-pay pornography genres. These genres are fuelled by antigay sentiment, aggression and debasement of effeminate males (see Kendall). I wish here to resist the temptation of labelling the acts described above as deviant. As is a common problem with anti-pornography arguments, to attempt to fix a practice such as bukkake as deviant and abject—by, for example, equating it to rape (Franklin 24)—is to negate a much more complex consideration of distinctions and ambiguities between force and consent; lived and fantasy; where pleasure is, where it is performed and where it is taken. I extend this desire not to label the manip in question, which by exploiting the masculine posturing of Arthur effectively sexualises canon debasement. This began with the pilot when Arthur says: “Tell me Merlin, do you know how to walk on your knees?” Of the imported imagery—semen, bruising, perspiration—the key signifier is Arthur’s armour which, while torn in places, still ensures the encoding of particular signifieds: masculinity, strength and power. Doggystyle and the Subversion of Arthur’s ‘Armoured Self’ Since the romanticism and chivalric tradition of the knight in shining armour (see Huizinga) men as armoured selves have become a stoic symbol of masculine power and the benchmark for aspirational masculinity. For the medieval knight, armour reflects in its shiny surface the mettle of the man enclosed, imparting a state of ‘bodilessness’ by containing any softness beneath its shielded exterior (Burns 140). Wandsinhand’s Arthur/Percival manip (see Figure 2) subverts Arthur and the symbolism of armour with the help of arguably the only man who can: Arthur’s largest knight Percival. While a minor character among the knights, Percival’s physical presence in the series looms large, and has endeared him to slash manip artists, particularly those with only a casual interest in the series, such as wandsinhand: Why Arthur and Percival were specifically chosen had really little to do with the show’s plot, and in point of fact, I don’t really follow Merlin that closely nor am I an avid fan. […] Choosing Arthur/Percival really was just a matter of taste rather than being contextually based on their characterisations in the television show. Figure 2: wandsinhand, Untitled (Arthur/Percival), 2012, photo montage. Courtesy the artist. Concerning motivation, the artist explains: “Sometimes one’s penis decides to pick the tv show Merlin, and specifically Arthur and Percival.” The popularity of Percival among manip artists illustrates the power of physicality as a visual sign, and the valorisation of size and muscle within the gay community (see Sánchez et al.). Having his armour modified to display his muscles, the implication is that Percival does not need armour, for his body is already hard, impenetrable. He is already suited up, simultaneously man and armoured. Wandsinhand uses the physicality of this character to strip Arthur of his symbolic, masculine power. The work depicts Arthur with a dishevelled expression, his armoured chest pressed against the ground, his chainmail hitched up at the back to expose his arse, Percival threading his unsheathed cock inside him, staring expressionless at the ‘viewer’. The artist explains he “was trying to show a shift of power”: I was also hinting at some sign of struggle, which is somewhat evident on Arthur’s face too. […] I think the expressions work in concert to suggest […] a power reversal that leaves Arthur on the bottom, a position he’s not entirely comfortable accepting. There is pleasure to be had in seeing the “cocky” Arthur forcefully penetrated, “cut down to size by a bigger man” (wandsinhand). The two assume the ‘doggystyle’ position, an impersonal sexual position, without eye contact and where the penetrator sets the rhythm and intensity of each thrust. Scholars have argued that the position is degrading to the passive party, who is dehumanised by the act, a ‘dog’ (Dworkin 27); and rapper Snoop ‘Doggy’ Dogg exploits the misogynistic connotations of the position on his record Doggystyle (see Armstrong). Wandsinhand is clear in his intent to depict forceful domination of Arthur. Struggle is signified through the addition of perspiration, a trademark device used by this artist to symbolise struggle. Domination in a sexual act involves the erasure of the wishes of the dominated partner (see Cowan and Dunn). To attune oneself to the pleasures of a sexual partner is to regard them as a subject. To ignore such pleasures is to degrade the other person. The artist’s choice of pairing embraces the physicality of the male/male bond and illustrates a tendency among manip producers to privilege conventional masculine identifiers—such as size and muscle—above symbolic, nonphysical identifiers, such as status and rank. It is worth noting that muscle is more readily available in the pornographic source material used in slash manips—muscularity being a recurrent component of gay pornography (see Duggan and McCreary). In my interview with manip artist simontheduck, he describes the difficulty he had sourcing a base image “that complimented the physicality of the [Merlin] characters. […] The actor that plays Merlin is fairly thin while Arthur is pretty built, it was difficult to find one. I even had to edit Merlin’s body down further in the end.” (personal correspondence, used with permission) As wandsinhand explains, “you’re basically limited by what’s available on the internet, and even then, only what you’re prepared to sift through or screencap yourself”. Wandsinhand’s Arthur/Percival pairing selection works in tandem with other artistic decisions and inclusions—sexual position, setting, expressions, effects (perspiration, lighting)—to ensure the intended reading of the work. Antithetical size and rank positions play out in the penetration/submission act of wandsinhand’s work, in which only the stronger of the two may come out ‘on top’. Percival subverts the symbolic power structures of prince/knight, asserting his physical, sexual dominance over the physically inferior Arthur. That such a construction of Percival is incongruent with the polite, impeded-by-my-size-and-muscle-density Percival of the series speaks to the circumstances of manip production, much of which is on a taste basis, as previously noted. There are of course exceptions to this, the Teen Wolf ‘Sterek’ (Stiles/Derek) pairing being wandsinhand’s, but even in this case, size tends to couple with penetration. Slash manips often privilege physicality of the characters in question—as well as the base models selected—above any particular canon-supported slash reading. (Of course, the ‘queering’ nature of slash practice means at times there is also a desire to see such identifiers subverted, however in this example, raw masculine power prevails.) This final point is in no way representative—my practice, for example, combines manips with ficlets to offer a clearer connection with canon, while LJ’s zdae69 integrates manips, fiction and comics. However, common across slash manip artists driven by taste—and requests—rather than connection with canon—the best known being LJ’s tw-31988, demon48180 and Tumblr’s lwoodsmalestarsfakes, all of whom work across many fandoms—is interest in the ‘aesthetics of canon’, the blue hues of Teen Wolf or the fluorescent greens of Arrow (2012–present), displayed in glossy magazine format using services such as ISSUU. In short, ‘the look’ of the work often takes precedent over canonical implications of any artistic decisions. “Nothing Too Serious”: Slash Manips as Objects Worth Studying It had long been believed that the popular was the transient, that of entertainment rather than enlightenment; that which is manufactured, “an appendage of the machinery”, consumed by the duped masses and a product not of culture but of a ‘culture industry’ (Adorno and Rabinbach 12). Scholars such as Radway, Ang pioneered a shift in scholarly practice, advancing the cultural studies project by challenging elitism and finding meaning in traditionally devalued cultural texts and practices. The most surprising outcome of my interviews with wandsinhand was hearing how he conceived of his practice, and the study of slash: If I knew I could get a PhD by writing a dissertation on Slash, I would probably drop out of my physics papers! […] I don’t really think too highly of faking/manip-making. I mean, it’s not like it’s high art, is it? … or is it? I guess if Duchamp’s toilet can be a masterpiece, then so can anything. But I mainly just do it to pass the time, materialise fantasies, and disperse my fantasies unto others. Nothing too serious. Wandsinhand erects various binaries—academic/fan, important/trivial, science/arts, high art/low art, profession/hobby, reality/fantasy, serious/frivolous—as justification to devalue his own artistic practice. Yet embracing the amateur, personal nature of his practice frees him to “materialise fantasies” that would perhaps not be possible without self-imposed, underground production. This is certainly supported by his body of work, which plays with taboos of the unseen, of bodily fluids and sadomasochism. My intention with this article is not to contravene views such as wandsinhand’s. Rather, it is to promote slash manips as a form of remix culture that encourages new perspectives on how slash has been defined, its connection with male producers and its symbiotic relationship with gay pornography. I have examined the ‘semiotic significance of selection’ that creates meaning in two contrary slash manips; how these works actualise and resist canon dominance, as it relates to the physical and the symbolic. This examination also offers insight into this form’s connection to and negotiation with certain ideologies of gay pornography, such as the valorisation of size and muscle. 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The ontological equality and material vitality of all things, and efforts to remove “the human” from its apical position in a hierarchy of being, are Object-Oriented Ontology theory (OOO) concepts. These axioms are useful in a discussion of the aesthetics of augmented robotic art, alongside speculations regarding any interagency between the human/non-human and possible co-evolutionary relationships. In addition, they help to wash out the sticky habits of conventional art writing, such as removed critique or an authoritative expert voice. This article aims to address the robotic work Accomplice by Sydney-based artists Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders as a means of interrogating the independence and agency of robots as non-human species, and as a mode of investigating how we see these relationships changing for the futureFor Accomplice, an artwork exhibited at Artspace, Sydney, in 2013, Gemeinboeck and Saunders built robots, strategised properties, and programmed their performative actions. Replete with lights and hammers, the robots are secreted away behind false walls, where they move along tracks and bang holes into the gallery space. As the devastation of plasterboard ensues, the robots respond interactively to each other through their collective activity: this is intra-action, where an object’s force emerges and where agency is an enactment (Barad, Matter Feels). This paper will continue to draw on the work of feminist scholar and quantum scientist, Karen Barad, due to her related work on agency and intra-action, although she is not part of an OOO theoretical body. Gemeinboeck and Saunders build unstable environments for their robots to perform as embodied inhabitants (Gemeinboeck and Saunders 2). Although the augmented robots are programmed, it is not a prescriptive control. Data is entered, then the robots respond to one another’s proximity and devastation. From the immaterial, virtual realm of robotic programming comes a new materiality which is both unstable, unpredictable, and on the verge of becoming other, or alive. This is a collaboration, not just between Gemeinboeck and Saunders, but between the programmers and their little robots—and the new forces that might be created. Sites of intra-species (human and robot) crossings might be places or spaces where a new figuration of enchantment occurs (Bennett 32). Such a space could take the form of a responsive art-writing intervention or even a new ontological story, as a direct riposte to the lively augmentation of the robotic artwork (Bennett 92). As ficto-critical theorist and ethnographer, Stephen Muecke says, “Experimental writing, for me, would be writing that necessarily participates in worlds rather than a writing constituted as a report on realities seen from the other side of an illusory gap of representation” (Muecke Motorcycles 2). Figure 1: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, Artspace, Sydney, 2013. (Photo: Petra Gemeinboeck)Writing Forces When things disappear then reappear, there is a point where force is unleashed. If we ask what role the art writer plays in liberating force, the answer might be that her role is to create as an imaginative new creation, equal to the artwork. The artists speak of Accomplice: transductions, transmaterial flows and transversal relations are at play ... whether emerging from or propelling the interplay between internal dynamics and external forces, the enactment of agencies (human and non-human), or the performative relationship unfolding over time. (Gemeinboeck and Saunders 3) When new energetic force is created and the artwork takes on new life, the audience’s imaginative thought is stimulated. This new force might cause an effect of a trans-fictional flow. The act of writing about Accomplice might also involve some intentional implausibility. For instance, whilst in the exhibition gallery space, witnessing Accomplice, I decided to write a note to one of the robots. I could see it, just visible beyond the violently hammered hole in the wall. Broken plaster dusted my shoes and as I peered into the darker outside space, it whizzed past on its way to bang another hole, in harmony with its other robotic friends. So I scribbled a note on a plain white piece of paper, folded it neatly and poked it through the hole: Dear robot, do you get sick of augmenting human lives?Do you get on well with your robotic friends?Yours sincerely, Prue. I waited a few minutes and then my very same piece of paper was thrust back through the hole. It was not folded but was crumpled up. I opened it and noticed a smudged mark in the corner. It looked like an ancient symbol, a strange elliptical script of rounded shapes, but was too small to read. An intergalactic message, a signal from an alien presence perhaps? So I borrowed a magnifying glass from the Artspace gallery attendant. It read: I love opera. Robot Two must die. This was unexpected! As I pondered the robot’s reply, I noticed the robots did indeed make strange bird-like noises to one another; their tapping was like rhythmic woodpeckers. Their hammering was a kind of operatic symphony; it was not far-fetched that these robots were appreciative of the sound patterns they made. In other words, they were responding to stimuli in the environment, and acting in response. They had agency beyond the immaterial computational programming their creators had embedded. It wasn’t difficult to suspend disbelief to allow the possibility that interaction between the robots might occur, or that one might have gone rogue. An acceptance of the possibility of inter-agency would allow the fantastical reality of a human becoming short-term pen pals with an augmented machine. Karen Barad might endorse such an unexpected intra-action act. She discourages conventional critique as, “a tool that keeps getting used out of habit” (Matter Feels). Art writing, in an era of robots and awareness of other non-human sentient life-forms can be speculative invention, have a Barad-like imaginative materiality (Matter Feels), and sense of suspended disbelief. Figure 2: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, Artspace, Sydney, 2013. (Photo: Petra Gemeinboeck) The Final Onto-Story Straw Gemeinboeck and Saunders say the space where their robots perform is a questionable one: “the fidelity of the space as a shared experience is thus brought into question: how can a shared virtual experience be trusted when it is constructed from such intangible and malleable stuff as streams of binary digits” (7). The answer might be that it is not to be trusted, particularly in an OOO aesthetic approach that allows divergent and contingent fictive possibilities. Indeed, thinking about the fidelity of the space, there was something about a narrow access corridor in the Accomplice exhibition space, between the false gallery wall and the cavity where the robots moved on their track, that beckoned me. I glanced over my shoulder to check that the Artspace attendant wasn’t watching and slipped behind the wall. I took a few tentative steps, not wanting to get knocked on the nose by a zooming robot. I saw that one robot had turned away from the wall and was attacking another with its hammer. By the time I arrived, the second robot (could it be Robot Two?) had been badly pummeled. Not only did Robot One attack Robot Two but I witnessed it using its extended hammer to absorb metal parts: the light and the hammer. It was adapting, like Philip K. Dick’s robots in his short story ‘Preserving Machine’ (See Gray 228-33). It was becoming more augmented. It now had two lights and two hammers and seemed to move at double speed. Figure 3: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, Artspace, Sydney, 2013. (Photo: Petra Gemeinboeck)My observance of this scene might be explained by Gemeinboeck/Saunders’s comment regarding Philip K. Dick-style interference and instability, which they actively apply to their work. They say, “The ‘gremlins’ of our works are the slipping logics of nonlinear systems or distributed agential forces of colliding materials” (18). An audience response is a colliding material. A fictional aside is a colliding material. A suspension of disbelief must also be considered a colliding material. This is the politics of the para-human, where regulations and policies are in their infancy. Fears of artificial intelligence seem absurd, when we consider how startled we become when the boundaries between fiction/truth become as flimsy and slippery as the boundaries between human/non-human. Art writing that resists truth complements Gemeinboeck/Saunders point that, “different agential forces not only co-evolve but perform together” (18).The DisappearanceBefore we are able to distinguish any unexpected or enchanted ontological outcomes, the robots must first appear, but for things to truly appear to us, they must first disappear. The robots disappear from view, behind the false walls. Slowly, through the enactment of an agented force (the action of their hammers upon the wall), they beat a path into the viewer’s visual reality. Their emergence signals a performative augmentation. Stronger, better, smarter, longer: these creatures are more-than-human. Yet despite the robot’s augmented technological improvement upon human ability, their being (here, meaning their independent autonomy) is under threat in a human-centred world environment. First they are threatened by the human habit of reducing them to anthropomorphic characteristics: they can be seen as cute little versions of humans. Secondly, they are threatened by human perception that they are under the control of the programmers. Both points are arguable: these robots are undoubtedly non-human, and there are unexpected and unplanned outcomes, once they are activated. These might be speculative or contestable outcomes, which are not demonstrably an epitome of truth (Bennett 161). Figure 4: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, Artspace, Sydney, 2013. (Photo: Petra Gemeinboeck)Gemeinboeck’s robotic creatures, with their apparent work/play and civil disobedience, appeared to exhibit human traits. An OOO approach would discourage these anthropomorphic tendencies: by seeing human qualities in inanimate objects, we are only falling back into correlational habits—where nature and culture are separate dyads and can never comprehend each other, and where humankind is mistakenly privileged over all other entities (Meillassoux 5). This only serves to inhibit any access to a reality outside the human-centred view. This kind of objectivity, where we see ourselves as nature, does no more than hold up a mirror to our inescapably human selves (Barad, Matter Feels). In an object-oriented approach the unpredictable outcomes of the robots’s performance is brought to attention. OOO proponent and digital media theorist Ian Bogost, has a background in computational media, especially video and social media games, and says, “computers are plastic and metal corpses with voodoo powers” (9). This is a non-life description, hovering in the liminal space between being and not being. Bogost’s view is that a strange world stirs within machinic devices (9). A question to ask: what’s it like to be a robot? Perhaps the answer lies somewhere between what it does and how we see it. It is difficult not to think of twentieth century philosopher Martin Heidegger’s tool analysis theory when writing of Gemeinboeck/Saunders’s work because Heidegger, and OOO scholar Graham Harman after him, uses the hammer as his paradigmatic tool. In his analysis, things are only present-at-hand (consciously perceived without utility) once they break (Harman, Heidegger Explained 63). However, Gemeinboeck and Saunders’s installation Accomplice straddles Heidegger’s dual present-at-hand and read-at-hand (the utility of the thing) because art raises the possibility that we might experience these divergent qualities of the robotic entities, simultaneously. The augmented robot, existing in its performative exhibition ecology, is the bridge between sentient life and utility. Robotic Agency In relation to the agency of robots, Ian Bogost refers to the Tableau Machine which was a non-human actor system created by researchers at Georgia Tech in 1998 (Bogost 106). It was a house fitted with cameras, screens, interfaces, and sensors. This was an experimental investigation into ambient intelligence. The researchers’s term for the computational agency was ‘alien presence,’ suggesting a life outside human comprehension. The data-collator sensed and interpreted the house and its occupants, and re-created that recorded data as abstract art, by projecting images on its own plasma screens. The implication was that the home was alive, vital, and autonomously active, in that it took on a sentient life, beyond human control. This kind of vital presence, an aliveness outside human programming, is there in the Accomplice robots. Their agency becomes materialized, as they violate the polite gallery-viewing world. Karen Barad’s concept of agency works within a relational ontology. Agency resists being granted, but rather is an enactment, and creates new possibilities (Barad, Matter Feels). Agency is entangled amongst “intra-acting human and non-human practices” (6). In Toward an Enchanted Materialism, Jane Bennett describes primordia (atoms) as “not animate with divine spirit, and yet they are quite animated - this matter is not dead at all” (81). This then is an agency that is not spiritual, nor is there any divine purpose. It is a matter of material force, a subversive action performed by robotic entities, not for any greater good, in fact, for no reason at all. This unpredictability is OOO contingency, whereby physical laws remain indifferent to whether an event occurs or not (Meillassoux 39). Figure 5: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, Artspace, Sydney, 2013. (Photo: Petra Gemeinboeck) A Post-Human Ethic The concept of a post-human state of being raises ethical concerns. Ethics is a human construct, a criteria of standards fixed within human social systems. How should humans respond, without moral panic, to robots that might have life and sentient power outside human control? If an OOO approach is undertaken, the implication is that all things exist equally and ethics, as fixed standards, might need to be dismantled and replaced with a more democratic set of guidelines. A flat ontology, argued for by Bogost, Levi Bryant and other OOO advocates, follows that all entities have equal potential for independent energy and agency (although OOO theorists disagree on many small technical issues). The disruption of the conventional hierarchical model of being is replaced by a flat field of equality. This might cause the effect of a more ethical, ontological ecology. Quentin Meillassoux, an influential figure in the field of Speculative Realism, from which OOO is an offshoot, finds philosophical/mathematical solutions to the problems of human subjectivity. His eschewing of Kantian divisions between object/subject and human/world, is accompanied by a removal from Kantian and Cartesian critique (Meillassoux 30). This turn from critique, and its related didactic authority and removed judgment, marks an important point in the culture of philosophy, but also in the culture of art writing. If we can escape the shackles of divisive critique, then the pleasures of narrative might be given space. Bogost endorses collapsing the hierarchical model of being and converting conventional academic writing (89). He says, “for the computers to operate at all for us first requires a wealth of interactions to take place for itself. As operators or engineers, we may be able to describe how such objects and assemblages work. But what do they “experience” (Bogost 10)? This view is complementary to an OOO view of anti-subjectivity, an awareness of things that might exist irrespective of human life, from both inside and outside the mind (Harman 143). Figure 6: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, Artspace, Sydney, 2013. (Photo: Petra Gemeinboeck) New Materiality In addition to her views on human/non-human agency, Karen Barad develops a parallel argument for materiality. She says, “matter feels, converses, suffers, desires, yearns and remembers.” Barad’s agential realism is predicated on an awareness of the immanence of matter, with materiality that subverts conventions of transcendence or human-centredness. She says, “On my agential realist account, all bodies, not merely human bodies, come to matter through the world’s performativity - its iterative intra-activity.” Barad sees matter, all matter, as entangled parts of phenomena that extend across time and space (Nature’s Queer Performativity 125). Barad argues against the position that acts against nature are moral crimes, which occur when the nature/culture divide is breached. She questions the individuated categorizations of ‘nature’ and ‘culture’ inherent in arguments like these (Nature’s Queer Performativity, 123-5). Likewise, in robotic and machinic aesthetics, it could be seen as an ethical breach to consider the robots as alive, sentient, and experiential. This confounds previous cultural separations, however, object-oriented theory is a reexamination of these infractions and offers an openness to discourse of different causal outcomes. Figure 7: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, Artspace, Sydney, 2013. (Photo: Petra Gemeinboeck) Co-Evolution Artists Gemeinboeck/Saunders are artists and scholarly researchers investigating new notions of co-evolution. If we ascribe human characteristics to robots, might they ascribe machinic properties to us? It is possible to argue that co-evolution is already apparent in the world. Titanium knees, artificial arteries, plastic hips, pacemakers, metallic vertebrae pins: human medicine is a step ahead. Gemeinboeck/Saunders in turn make a claim for the evolving desires of their robots (11). Could there be performative interchangeability between species: human and robot? Barad asks us not to presume what the distinctions are between human and non-human and not to make post-humanist blurrings, but to understand the materializing effects of the boundaries between humans and nonhumans (Nature’s Queer Performativity 123). Vital matter emerges from acts of reappearance, re-performance, and interspecies interaction. Ian Bogost begins his Alien Phenomenology by analysing Alan Turing’s essay, Computing Machinery and Intelligence and deduces that it is an approach inextricably linked to human understanding (Bogost 14). Bogost seeks to avoid distinctions between things or a slippage into an over-determination of systems operations, and instead he adopts an OOO view where all things are treated equally, even cheeky little robots (Bogost 17).Figure 8: Accomplice by Petra Gemeinboeck and Rob Saunders, installation view, Artspace, Sydney. (Photo: silversalt photography) Intra-Active ReappearanceIf Barad describes intra-action as enacting an agential cut or separation of object from subject, she does not mean a distinction between object and subject but instead devises an intra-active cutting of things together-apart (Nature’s Queer Performativity 124). This is useful for two reasons. First it allows confusion between inside and outside, between real and unreal, and between past and future. In other words it defies the human/world correlates, which OOO’s are actively attempting to flee. Secondly it makes sense of an idea of disappearance as being a re-appearance too. If robots, and all other species, start to disappear, from our consciousness, from reality, from life (that is, becoming extinct), this disappearance causes or enacts a new appearance (the robotic action), and this action has its own vitality and immanence. If virtuality (an aesthetic of being that grew from technology, information, and digital advancements) meant that the body was left or abandoned for an immaterial space, then robots and robotic artwork are a means of re-inhabiting the body in a re-materialized mode. This new body, electronic and robotic in nature, might be mastered by a human hand (computer programming) but its differential is its new agency which is one shared between human and non-human. Barad warns, however, against a basic inversion of humanism (Nature’s Queer Performativity 126). Co-evolution is not the removal of the human. While an OOO approach may not have achieved the impossible task of creating a reality beyond the human-centric, it is a mode of becoming cautious of an invested anthropocentric view, which robotics and diminished non-human species bring to attention. The autonomy and agency of robotic life challenges human understanding of ontological being and of how human and non-human entities relate.References Barad, Karen. "Nature’s Queer Performativity." Qui Parle 19.2 (2011): 121-158. ———. Interview. In Rick Dolphijn and Van Der Tuin. “Matter Feels, Converses, Suffers, Desires, Yearns and Remembers: Interview with Karen Barad.” New Materialism: Interviews and Cartographies. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan; Open Humanities Press, 2012. ———. "Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter." Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 28.3 (2003): 801-831. Bennett, Jane. The Enchantment of Modern Life: Attachments, Crossings, and Ethics. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2001. Bogost, Ian. Alien Phenomenology. Minneapolis: Minnesota Press, 2012. Bryant, Levi. The Democracy of Objects. University of Michigan Publishing: Open Humanities Press, 2011. ———, N. Srnicek, and GHarman. The Speculative Turn: Continental Materialism and Realism. Melbourne: re:press, 2011. Gemeinboeck, Petra, and Rob Saunders. “Other Ways of Knowing: Embodied Investigations of the Unstable, Slippery and Incomplete.” Fibreculture Journal 18 (2011). ‹http://eighteen.fibreculturejournal.org/2011/10/09/fcj-120-other-ways-of-knowing-embodied-investigations-of-the-unstable-slippery-and-incomplete/›. Gray, Nathan. "L’object sonore undead." In A. Barikin and H. Hughes. Making Worlds: Art and Science Fiction. Melbourne: Surpllus, 2013. 228-233. Harman, Graham. The Quadruple Object. Winchester UK: Zero Books, 2011. ———. Guerilla Metaphysics: Phenomenology and the Carpentry of Things. Chicago: Open Court, 2005. ———. Heidegger Explained: From Phenomenon to Thing. Chicago: Open Court Publishing, 2007. Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1962. Meillassoux, Quentin. After Finitude: An Essay on the Necessity of Contingency. New York: Continuum, 2008. Muecke, Stephen. "The Fall: Ficto-Critical Writing." Parallax 8.4 (2002): 108-112. ———. "Motorcycles, Snails, Latour: Criticism without Judgment." Cultural Studies Review 18.1 (2012): 40-58. ———. “The Writing Laboratory: Political Ecology, Labour, Experiment.” Angelaki 14.2 (2009): 15-20. Phelan, Peggy. Unmarked: The Politics of Performance. London: Routledge, 1993.

Introduction Amidst ecological collapse and environmental catastrophe, humankind is surrounded by indications that our habitat is turning against us in monstrous ways. The very environments we live within now evoke existential terror, and this state of ecological monstrosity has permeated popular media, including video games. Such cultural manifestations of planetary catastrophe are particularly evident in video game monsters. These virtual figures continue monsters’ long-held role in reflecting the socio-cultural anxieties of their particular era. The horrific figures that monsters present play a culturally reflexive role, echoing the fears and anxieties of their social, political and cultural context. Media monsters closely reflect their surrounding cultural conditions (Cohen 47), representing “a symptom of or a metaphor for something bigger and more significant than the ostensible reality of the monster itself” (Hutchings 37). Society’s deepest anxieties culminate in these figures in forms that are “threatening and impure” (Carroll 28), “unnatural, transgressive, obscene, contradictory” (Kearney 4–5), and abject (Kristeva 4). In this article I ask how the appearance of the monstrous within contemporary video games reflects an era of climate change and ecological collapse, and how this could inform the engagement of players with discourse concerning climate change. Central to this inquiry is the literary practice of ecocriticism, which seeks to examine environmental rather than human representation in cultural artefacts, increasingly including accounts of contemporary ecological decay and disorder (Bulfin 144). I build on such perspectives to address play encounters that foreground figures of monstrosity borne of the escalating climate crisis, and summarise case studies of two recent video games undertaken as part of this project — The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (Nintendo EPD) and The Last of Us Part II (Naughty Dog). An ecocritical approach to the monsters that populate these case studies reveals the emergence of a ludic form of ecological monstrosity tied closely to our contemporary climatic conditions and taking two significant forms: one accentuating a visceral otherness and aberrance, and the other marked by the uncanny recognition of human authorship of climate change. Horrors from the Anthropocene A growing climate emergency surrounds us, enveloping us in the abject and aberrant conditions of what could be described as an ecological monstrosity. Monstrous threats to our environment and human survival are experienced on a planetary scale and research evidence plainly illustrates a compounding catastrophe. The United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), a relatively cautious and conservative body (Parenti 5), reports that a human-made emergency has developed since the Industrial Revolution. The multitude of crises that confront us include: changes in the Earth’s atmosphere driving up global temperatures, ice sheets in retreat, sea levels rising, natural ecosystems and species in collapse, and an unprecedented frequency and magnitude of heatwaves, droughts, flooding, winter storms, hurricanes, and wildfires (United Nations Environment Programme). Further human activity, including a post-war addiction to the plastics that have now spread their way across our oceans like a “liquid smog” (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 258), or short-sighted enthusiasm for pesticides, radiation energy, and industrial chemicals (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 254), has ensured a damaging shift in the nature of the feedback loops that Earth’s ecosystems depend upon for stability (Parenti 6). Climatic equilibrium has been disrupted, and growing damage to the ecosystems that sustain human life suggests an inexorable, entropic path to decay. To understand Earth’s profound crisis requires thinking beyond just climate and to witness the interconnected “extraordinary burdens” placed on our planet by “toxic chemistry, mining, nuclear pollution, depletion of lakes and rivers under and above ground, ecosystem simplification, vast genocides of people” which will continue to lead to the recursive collapse of interlinked major systems (Haraway 100). To speak of climate change is really to speak of the ruin of ecologies, those “living systems composed of many moving parts” that make up the tapestry of organic life on Earth (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 251). The emergency that presents itself, as Renata Tyszczuk observes, comprises a pervasiveness, uncertainty, and interdependency that together “affect every aspect of human lives, politics and culture” (47). The emergence of the term Anthropocene (or the Age of the Humans) to describe our current geological epoch (and to supersede the erstwhile and more stable Holocene) (Zalasiewicz et al. 1036–7; Chang 7) reflects a contemporary impossibility with talking about planet Earth without acknowledging the damaging impact of humankind on its ecosystems (Bulfin 142). This recognition of human complicity in the existential crisis engulfing our planet once again connects ecological monstrosity to the socio-cultural history of the monstrous. Monsters, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen points out, “are our children” and despite our repressive efforts, “always return” in order to “ask us why we have created them” (20). Ecological monstrosity declares to us that our relegation of greenhouse gases, rising sea levels, toxic waste, species extinction, and much more, to the discursive periphery has only been temporary. Monsters, when examined closely, start to look a lot like ourselves in terms of biological origins (Perron 357), as well as other abject cultural and social markers that signal these horrific figures as residing “too close to the borders of our [own] subjectivity for comfort” (Spittle 314). Isabel Pinedo sees this uncanny nature of the horror genre’s antagonists as a postmodern condition, a ghoulish reminder of the era’s breakdown of categories, blurring of boundaries, and collapse of master narratives that combine to ensure “mastery is lost … and the stable, unified, coherent self acquires the status of a fiction” (17–18). In standing in for anxiety, the other, and the aberrant, the figure of the monster deftly turns the mirror back on its human victims. Ecocritical Play The vast scale of ecological collapse has complicated effective public communication on the subject. The scope involved is unsettling, even paralysing, to its audiences: climate change might just be “too here, too there, too everywhere, too weird, too much, too big, too everything” to bring oneself to engage with (Tyszczuk 47). The detail involved has also been captured by scientific discourse, a detached communicative mode which too easily obviates the everyday human experience of the emergency (Bulfin 140; Abraham and Jayemanne 74–76). Considerable effort has been focussed upon producing higher-fidelity models of ecological catastrophe (Robles-Anderson and Liboiron 248), rather than addressing the more significant “trouble with representing largely intangible linkages” between micro-environmental actions and macro-environmental repercussions (Chang 86). Ecocriticism is, however, emerging as a cultural means by which the crisis, and restorative possibilities, may be rendered more legible to a wider audience. Representations of ecology and catastrophe not only sustain genres such as Eco-Disaster and Cli-Fi (Bulfin 140), but are also increasingly becoming a precondition for fiction centred upon human life (Tyszczuk 47). Media artefacts concerned with environment are able to illustrate the nature of the emergency alongside “a host of related environmental issues that the technocratic ‘facts and figures’ approach … is unlikely to touch” (Abraham and Jayemanne 76) and encourage in audiences a suprapersonal understanding of the environmental impact of individual actions (Chang 70). Popular culture offers a chance to foster ‘ecological thought’ wherein it becomes “frighteningly easy … to join the dots and see that everything is interconnected” (Morton, Ecological Thought 1) rather than founder before the inexplicability of the temporalities and spatialities involved in ecological collapse. An ecocritical approach is “one of the most crucial—yet under-researched—ways of looking into the possible cultural impact of the digital entertainment industry” upon public discourse relating to the environment crisis (Felczak 185). Video games demand this closer attention because, in a mirroring of the interconnectedness of Earth’s own ecosystems, “the world has also inevitably permeated into our technical artefacts, including games” (Chang 11), and recent scholarship has worked to investigate this very relationship. Benjamin Abraham has extended Morton’s arguments to outline a mode of ecological thought for games (What Is an Ecological Game?), Alenda Chang has closely examined how games model natural environments, and Benjamin Abraham and Darshana Jayemanne have outlined four modes in which games manifest players’ ecological relationships. Close analysis of texts and genres has addressed the capacity of game mechanics to persuade players about matters of sustainability (Kelly and Nardi); implicated Minecraft players in an ecological practice of writing upon landscapes (Bohunicky); argued that Final Fantasy VII’s plot fosters ecological responsibility (Milburn); and, identified in ARMA III’s ambient, visual backdrops of renewable power generation the potential to reimagine cultural futures (Abraham, Video Game Visions). Video games allow for a particular form of ecocriticism that has been overlooked in existing efforts to speak about ecological crisis: “a politics that includes what appears least political—laughter, the playful, even the silly” (Morton, Dark Ecology 113). Play is liminal, emergent, and necessarily incomplete, and this allows its various actors—players, developers, critics and texts themselves—to come together in non-authoritarian, imaginative and potentially radical ways. Through play, audiences are offered new and novel modes for envisioning ecological problems, solutions, and futures. To return, then, to encounters with ecological monstrosity, I next consider the visions of crisis that emerge through the video game monsters that draw upon the aberrant nature of ecological collapse, as well as those that foreground our own complicity as humans in the climate crisis, declaring that we players might ourselves be monstrous. The two case studies that follow are necessarily brief, but indicate the value of further research and textual analysis to more fully uncover the role of ecological monstrosity in contemporary video games. Breath of the Wild’s Corrupted Ecology The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (Nintendo EPD) is a fantasy action-adventure game in which players adopt the role of the games series’ long-running protagonist, Link, and explore the virtual landscapes of fictional Hyrule in unstructured and nonlinear ways. Landscape is immediately striking to players of Breath of the Wild, with the game using a distinctive, high-definition cel-shaded animation style to vividly render natural environments. Within the first ten minutes of play, lush green grass sways around the player’s avatar, densely treed forests interrupt rolling vistas, and finely detailed mountains tower over the player’s perspective. The player soon learns, however, that behind these inviting landscapes lies a catastrophic corruption of natural order, and that their virtual enemies will manifest a powerful monstrosity that seems to mirror Earth’s own ecological crises. The game’s backstory centres around the Zelda series’ persistent antagonist, Ganon, and his use of a primal form of evil to overwhelm a highly evolved and industrialised Hyrulian civilisation, in an event dubbed the Great Calamity. Hyrule’s dependency on mechanical technology in its defences is misjudged, and Ganon’s re-appearance causes widespread devastation. The parallel between Hyrule’s fate and humankind’s own unsustainable commitment to heavy industry and agriculture, and faith in technological approaches to mitigation in the face of looming catastrophe, are immediately recognisable. Visible, too, is the echo of the revenge of Earth’s climate in the organic and primal force of Ganon’s destructive power. Ganon leaves in his wake an array of impossible, aberrant creatures hostile to the player, including the deformed humanoid figure of the Bokoblin (bearing snouts, arrow-shaped tails, and a horn), the sand-swimming spike-covered whale known as a Molduga, and the Stone Talus, an anthropomorphic rock formation that bursts into life out of otherwise innocuous geological features. One particularly apposite monster, known simply as Malice, is a glowing black and purple substance that oozes its way through environments in Hyrule, spreading to cover and corrupt organic material. Malice is explained by in-game introductory text as “poisonous bogs formed by water that was sullied during the Great Calamity”—an environmental element thrown out of equilibrium by pollution. Monstrosity in Breath of the Wild is decidedly ecological, and its presentation of unstable biologies, poisoned waters, and a collapsed natural order offer a conspicuous display of our contemporary climate crisis. Breath of the Wild places players in a traditional position in relation to its virtual monsters: direct opposition (Taylor 31), with a clear mandate to eliminate the threat(s) and restore equilibrium (Krzywinska 12). The game communicates its collection of biological impossibilities and inexorable corruptions as clear aberrations of a once-balanced natural order, with Hyrule’s landscapes needing purification at the player’s hands. Video games are driven, according to Jaroslav Švelch, by a logic of informatic control when it comes to virtual monsters, where our previously “inscrutable and abject” antagonists can be analysed, defined and defeated as “the medium’s computational and procedural nature makes monstrosity fit into databases and algorithms” (194). In requiring Link, and players, to scrutinise and come to “know” monsters, the game suggests a particular ecocritical possibility. Ecological monstrosity becomes educative, placing the terrors of the climate crisis directly before players’ avatars, screens, and eyes and connecting, in visceral ways, mastery over these threats with pleasure and achievement. The monsters of Breath of the Wild offer the possibility of affectively preparing players for versions of the future by mediating such engagements with disaster and catastrophe. Recognising the Monstrosity Within Set in the aftermath of the outbreak of a mutant strain of the Cordyceps fungus (through exposure to which humans transform into aggressive, zombified ‘Infected’), The Last of Us Part II (Naughty Dog) is a post-apocalyptic action-adventure game. Players alternate between two playable human characters, Ellie and Abby, whose travels through the infection-ravaged states of Wyoming, Washington, and California overlap and intertwine. At first glance, The Last of Us Part II appears to construct similar forms of ecology and monstrosity as Breath of the Wild. Players are thrust into an experience of the sublime in the game’s presentation of natural environments that are vastly capacious and highly fidelitous in their detailing. Players begin the game scrambling across snowbound ranges and fleeing through thick forests, and later encounter lush grass, rushing rivers, and wild animals reclaiming once-urban environments. And, as in Breath of the Wild, monstrosity in this gameworld appears to embody impurity and corruption, whether through the horrific deformations of various types of zombie bodies, or the fungal masses that carpet many of the game’s abandoned buildings in a reclamation of human environments by nature. Closer analysis, however, demonstrates that the monstrosity that defines the play experience of The Last of Us Part II uncannily reflects the more uncomfortable truths of the Anthropocentric era. A key reason why zombies are traditionally frightening is because they are us. The semblance of human faces and bodies that remain etched into these monsters’ decaying forms act as portents for our own fates when faced with staggering hordes and overwhelmingly poor odds of survival. Impure biologies are presented to players in these zombies, but rather than represent a distant ‘other’ they stand as more-than-likely futures for the game’s avatars, just as Earth’s climate crisis is intimately bound up in human origins and inexorable futures. The Last of Us Part II further pursues its line of anthropocentric critique, as both Ellie and Abby interact during the game with different groupings of human survivors, including hubristic militia and violent religious cultists. The player comes to understand through these encounters that it is the distrust, dogmatism, and depravity of their fellow humans that pose immediate threats to avatarial survival, rather than the scrutable, reliable, and predictable horrors of the mindless zombies. In keeping with the appearance of monsters in both interactive and cinematic texts, monsters’ most important lessons emerge when the boundaries between reality and fiction, human and nonhuman, and normality and abnormality become blurred. The Last of Us Part II utilises this underlying ambiguity in monstrosity to suggest a confronting ecological claim: that monstrous culpability belongs to us—the inhabitants of Earth. For video game users in particular, this is a doubly pointed accusation. As Thomas Apperley and Darshana Jayemanne observe of digital games, “however much their digital virtuality is celebrated they are enacted and produced in strikingly visceral—ontologically virtual—ways”, and such a materialist consideration “demands that they are also understood as objects in the world” (15). The ecological consequences of the production of such digital objects are too often taken for granted, despite critical work examining the damaging impact of resource extraction, electronic waste, energy transfer, telecommunications transfer, and the logics of obsolescence involved (Dyer-Witheford and de Peuter; Newman; Chang 152). By foregrounding humanity’s own monstrosity, The Last of Us Part II illustrates what Timothy Morton describes as the “weirdly weird” consequences of human actions during the Anthropocene; those uncanny, unexpected, and planetarily destructive outcomes of the post-industrial myth of progress (Morton, Dark Ecology 7). The ecocritical work of video games could remind players that so many of our worst contemporary nightmares result from human hubris (Weinstock 286), a realisation played out in first-person perspective by Morton: “I am the criminal. And I discover this via scientific forensics … I’m the detective and the criminal!” (Dark Ecology 9). Playing with Ecological Monstrosity The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild and The Last of Us Part II confront players with an ecological form of monstrosity, which is deeply recursive in its nature. Players encounter monsters that stand in for socio-political anxieties about ecological disaster as well as those that reflect humanity’s own monstrously destructive hubris. Attention is further drawn to the player’s own, lived role as a contributor to climate crisis, a consequence of not only the material characteristics of digital games, but also their broader participation in the unsustainable economics of the post-industrial age. To begin to make the connections between these recursive monsters and analogies is to engage in the type of ecological thought that lets us see the very interconnectedness that defines the ecosystems we have damaged so fatally. In understanding that video games are the “point of convergence for a whole array of technical, cultural, and promotional dynamics of which [players] are, at best, only partially aware” (Kline, Dyer-Witheford, and de Peuter 19), we see that the nested layering of anxieties, fears, fictions, and realities is fundamental to the very fabric of digital games. Recursion, Donna Haraway observes in relation to the interlinked failure of ecosystems, “can be a drag” (100), but I want to suggest that playing with ecological monstrosity instead turns recursion into opportunity. An ecocritical approach to the examination of contemporary videogame monsters demonstrates that these horrific figures, through their primordial aesthetic and affective impacts, are adept at foregrounding the ecosystemic nature of the relationship between games and our own world. Videogames play a role in representing both desirable and objectionable versions of the world, and such “utopian and dystopian projections of the future can shape our acts in the present” (Fordyce 295). By confronting players with viscerally accessible encounters with the horror of an aberrant and abjected near future (so near that it is, in fact, already the present), games such as Breath of the Wild and The Last of Us Part II can critically position players in relation to discourse and wider public debate about ecological issues and climate change (and further research could more closely examine players’ engagements with ecological monstrosity). Drawing attention to the symmetry between monstrosity and ecological catastrophe is a crucial way that contemporary games might encourage players to untangle the recursive environmental consequences of our anthropocentric era. Morton argues that beneath the abjectness that has come to define our human co-existence with other ecological actors there lies a perverse form of pleasure, a “delicious guilt, delicious shame, delicious melancholy, delicious horror [and] delicious sadness” (Dark Ecology 129). This bitter form of “pleasure” aptly describes an ecocritical encounter with ecological monstrosity: the pleasure of battling and defeating virtual monsters, complemented by desolate (and possibly motivating) reflections of the ongoing ruination of our planet provided through the development of ecological thought on the part of players. References Abraham, Benjamin. “Video Game Visions of Climate Futures: ARMA 3 and Implications for Games and Persuasion.” Games and Culture 13.1 (2018): 71–91. Abraham, Benjamin. “What Is an Ecological Game? Examining Gaming’s Ecological Dynamics and Metaphors through the Survival-Crafting Genre.” TRACE: A Journal of Writing Media and Ecology 2 (2018). 1 Oct. 2021 <http://tracejournal.net/trace-issues/issue2/01-Abraham.html>. Abraham, Benjamin, and Darshana Jayemanne. “Where Are All the Climate Change Games? Locating Digital Games’ Response to Climate Change.” Transformations 30 (2017): 74–94. Apperley, Thomas H., and Darshana Jayemane. “Game Studies’ Material Turn.” Westminster Papers in Communication and Culture 9.1 (2012). 1 Oct. 2021 <http://www.westminsterpapers.org/article/10.16997/wpcc.145/>. Bohunicky, Kyle Matthew. “Ecocomposition: Writing Ecologies in Digital Games.” Green Letters 18.3 (2014): 221–235. Bulfin, Ailise. “Popular Culture and the ‘New Human Condition’: Catastrophe Narratives and Climate Change.” Global and Planetary Change 156 (2017): 140–146. Carroll, Noël. The Philosophy of Horror, or, Paradoxes of the Heart. New York: Routledge, 1990. Chang, Alenda Y. Playing Nature: Ecology in Video Games. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2019. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses)”. Monster Theory: Reading Culture. Ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1996. 3–25. Dyer-Witheford, Nick, and Greig de Peuter. Games of Empire: Global Capitalism and Video Games. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2009. Felczak, Mateusz. “Ludic Guilt, Paidian Joy: Killing and Ecocriticism in the TheHunter Series.” Journal of Gaming & Virtual Worlds 12.2 (2020): 183–200. Fordyce, Robbie. “Play, History and Politics: Conceiving Futures beyond Empire.” Games and Culture 16.3 (2021): 294–304. Haraway, Donna J. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham: Duke UP, 2016. Hutchings, Peter. The Horror Film. Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2002. Kearney, Richard. Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness. London: Routledge, 2002. Kelly, Shawna, and Bonnie Nardi. “Playing with Sustainability: Using Video Games to Simulate Futures of Scarcity.” First Monday 19.5 (2014). 1 Oct. 2021 <https://firstmonday.org/ojs/index.php/fm/article/view/5259>. Kline, Stephen, Nick Dyer-Witheford, and Greig de Peuter. Digital Play: The Interaction of Technology, Culture, and Marketing. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s UP, 2003. Kristeva, Julia. Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. New York: Columbia UP, 1982. Krzywinska, Tanya. “Hands-on Horror.” Spectator 22.2 (2003): 12–23. Milburn, Colin. “’There Ain’t No Gettin’ offa This Train’: Final Fantasy VII and the Pwning of Environmental Crisis.” Sustainable Media. Ed. Nicole Starosielski and Janet Walker. New York: Routledge, 2016. 77–93. Morton, Timothy. Dark Ecology: For a Logic of Future Coexistence. New York: Columbia UP, 2016. Morton, Timothy. The Ecological Thought. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 2010. Newman, James. Best Before: Videogames, Supersession and Obsolescence. New York: Routledge, 2012. Nintendo EPD. The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. Kyoto, Japan: Nintendo, 2017. Parenti, Christian. Tropic of Chaos: Climate Change and the New Geography of Violence. New York: Nation Books, 2011. Perron, Bernard. The World of Scary Video Games: A Study in Videoludic Horror. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018. Pinedo, Isabel. “Recreational Terror: Postmodern Elements of the Contemporary Horror Film.” Journal of Film and Video 48.1 (1996): 17–31. Robles-Anderson, Erica, and Max Liboiron. “Coupling Complexity: Ecological Cybernetics as a Resource for Nonrepresentational Moves to Action.” Sustainable Media. Ed. Nicole Starosielski and Janet Walker. New York: Routledge, 2016. 248–263. Spittle, Steve. “‘Did This Game Scare You? Because It Sure as Hell Scared Me!’ F.E.A.R., the Abject and the Uncanny.” Games and Culture 6.4 (2011): 312–326. Švelch, Jaroslav. “Monsters by the Numbers: Controlling Monstrosity in Video Games.” Monster Culture in the 21st Century: A Reader. Eds. Marina Levina and Diem-My T. Bui. New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013. 193–208. Taylor, Laurie N. “Not of Woman Born: Monstrous Interfaces and Monstrosity in Video Games.” PhD Thesis. University of Florida, 2006. 1 Oct. 2021 <http://ufdcimages.uflib.ufl.edu/uf/00/08/11/73/00001/taylor_l.pdf>. The Last of Us Part II. Naughty Dog. San Mateo, California: Sony Interactive Entertainment, 2020. Tyszczuk, Renata. “Cautionary Tales: The Sky Is Falling! The World Is Ending!” Culture and Climate Change: Narratives. Eds. Joe Smith, Renata Tyszczuk, and Robert Butler. Cambridge: Shed, 2014. 45–57. United Nations Environment Programme. “Facts about the Climate Emergency.” UNEP – UN Environment Programme. 1 Oct. 2021 <http://www.unep.org/explore-topics/climate-change/facts-about-climate-emergency>. Weinstock, Jeffrey Andrew. “Invisible Monsters: Vision, Horror, and Contemporary Culture.” The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous. Eds. Asa Simon Mittman and Peter J. Dendle. Abingdon: Routledge, 2013. 275–289. Zalasiewicz, Jan, et al. “Stratigraphy of the Anthropocene.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society A: Mathematical, Physical and Engineering Sciences 369.1938 (2011): 1036–1055.

Animations, in their various genres, are an important amalgamation of art and technology that suggest new ways of thinking, feeling, and experiencing contemporary issues (Wells; Whitley). Animations can provide a commentary on the current planetary crisis, such as climate change, by offering a radically altered reality (Lundberg et al. 9). In the case of environmental animations, these issues become more evident because at their core is the production of knowledge, subjectivities, and speculations about the future of the planet and humanity. These problematisations usually arise from the centrality of non-human entities as narrative subjects (Starosielski). However, even in other genres of animation, such as fantasy, superhero fiction, and comedy, where non-human beings may or may not be at the narrative’s centre, it is possible to find suggestions regarding environmental issues emerging from characters, episodes, and specific events (see, for example, Vital, “Lapis Lazuli”; Vital, “Water”). Such is the case with Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir (2015–Present), where climate change is addressed in the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2 with the supervillain Climatika, offering an original commentary on human responsibility in causing climate changes. This article examines how climate change in this animated series is constructed as black magic through these episodes, shown between Seasons 1 and 3. Black magic is understood as where people will use non-human phenomena to fulfil their dark intentions against the forces of light, often to the individuals’ benefit (Thacker). Despite its anthropocentric roots, the relationship between climate change and black magic in the animation is analysed using Jane Bennett’s concept of enchantment in the modern world. According to this concept, nature—often perceived as inert, passive, and instrumental—actively impacts on human life, regardless of human beings’ alienation from non-human entities’ affective power (Bennett). Thus, in the animation, although Aurore Beauréal, driven by selfish motivations, seeks to control time by becoming the supervillain Climatika, the effect of this manipulation proves to be completely contingent on fostering a world-without-us feeling, which has also been present in other animations and media. Negative Emotions, Akumatisation, and Black Magic Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir (Miraculous: Les aventures de Ladybug et Chat Noir) is a French 3D animated series created by Thomas Astruc, co-produced with South Korea, Japan, Italy, Brazil, and Portugal, and involving the studios Zagtoon, Method Animation, Toei Animation, SAMG Animation, SK Broadband, TF1, and Gloob. It is a superhero fiction series that tells the adventures of Marinette Dupain-Cheng (Ladybug) and Adrien Agreste (Cat Noir), two teenage students who possess jewels (Miraculous) that connect them to magical creatures (Kwamis). These characters mostly lead normal lives, keeping their superhero identities a secret (including from each other, fuelling a confused platonic love from Cat Noir for Ladybug and Marinette for Adrien). During crises, the Kwamis grant superpowers to both of them to protect Paris from the evil villain Hawk Moth (whose alter ego is Gabriel Agreste, Adrien’s father). The series is one of the most popular animations today, aired in over 120 countries and winner of several international awards (Aguasanta-Regalado). Hawk Moth possesses the Butterfly Miraculous, which enables him to create akumas (butterflies with the power to sense individuals with intense negative emotions, such as anger, distress, envy, and sadness, and akumatise them). At first, this butterfly grants Moth the ability to communicate telepathically with its target when it lands on and possesses an important object of the victim. Therefore, the villain makes an irresistible proposal to grant superpowers to the victim (usually in an attempt to reverse an unfortunate situation the victim faces) and, in return, the victim is expected to defeat Ladybug and Cat Noir. Akumatisation is a clear allegorical reference to demonic possession in the mythological terms of Judeo-Christian culture, while the akumatised villains are, less evidently, related to the image of the witch in Renaissance Europe. According to Carolyn Merchant, there was a consensus in the sixteenth century that witches, by making a pact with the devil, acquired the power to alter the weather drastically, produce diseases, destroy crops, and spread famine. Furthermore, some scientists of the time connected the behaviour of witches to an excess of melancholic humour, which was related to anxieties, sadness, and other extreme negative emotions that made them vulnerable to the devil’s attacks (Merchant 140). Therefore, in the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2 there appears to be a manifestation of two out of the three levels of possession in the akumatised character, as indicated in the main demonology manuals of the sixteenth century. The first level, which is that of individual possession, affects the victim on psychological and physical levels, and their intentions and actions become controlled or inspired by the evil spirit. The third level involves the possibility of climatological possession, with the induction of extreme weather phenomena such as droughts and floods (Thacker 62). Aurore Beauréal—the villain of episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2—transforms into Climatika, resembling the witches of Renaissance Europe with all their powers of black magic. That is, a psychological and moral disposition induces Aurore Beauréal to undergo a radical metamorphosis to gain control over the world and achieve her objectives. This world control, driven by selfish objectives, which could be achieved through technological and scientific artifices, is depicted in the series as something stemming from the darkest depths of our beings—an innate desire for dominance and control for personal ends, a form of black magic. One of the dilemmas found in superhero fiction series and films in addressing climate change is the exploitation of exceptionally catastrophic weather events but concealing the long-term human actions that lead to transformations in the environment (McGowan). The other dilemma is the simplification of the environmental issue by transferring the possibility of its resolution to a hero. One interpretation is that the hero of these texts represents the status quo of corporations that contribute to the problem, but in sponsoring these series or films are not held accountable, or the climate problem is too readily fixed (Chatterji). However, the Miraculous animation addresses these dilemmas by examining extreme weather events and placing them directly in the hands of a character who is an ordinary yet ambitious individual, and like any person has emotional instabilities. Miraculous, then, explicitly expresses the anthropogenic nature of climate change and indicates the impossibility of effectively controlling the cosmos by those who, driven by their negative desires, resort to artifices to dominate planetary forces. Finally, the efforts of the superheroes Ladybug and Cat Noir prove insufficient to prevent Climatika’s return, who emerges as even more powerful due to a set of factors that promote and intensify the negative emotions of Aurore Beauréal. Therefore, Miraculous can highlight the human face of climate change and its inability to be easily overcome. Climatika: Revenge of the Weather Witch The first season starts with the story of Aurore Beauréal, a young student who dreams of becoming the weather girl for the KIDZ+ channel. In a contest involving numerous candidates, only she and Mireille Caquet (another student) entered the final. The fact that Caquet is an extremely shy and calm young woman led Beauréal to believe that she would easily win the competition over Caquet, due to Beauréal having a more outgoing nature and assertive exploration of her physical appearance. Nevertheless, Aurore suffered an unexpected and humiliating defeat (with a difference of half a million votes) that was seen nationwide. Hawk Moth senses the vibrations of extreme anger and sadness from Aurore Beauréal and sends an akuma to her, transforming her into Climatika (Stormy Weather). The aesthetics of Climatika are related to the stereotype of the modern teenage witch in contemporary fantasy stories. She is depicted wearing a pleated mini skirt and a short dark blue blouse with puffy sleeves—a retro trend from the 1980s lending a romantic and feminine touch to the composition. The wand or the magic broomstick is replaced by an umbrella, from which she casts her weather control powers, and her expression is that of a person possessed by a demon. In this sense, there are similarities with the character Lapis Lazuli from Steven Universe, who also had an aesthetic related to the witch stereotype, but within the 1960s–1970s hippie culture. Moreover, Lapis Lazuli’s powers are associated with the occult and evil, as she can control the entire hydrological cycle (Vital, “Water”). The similarities end here, as Lapis Lazuli herself is an alien and water elemental who destabilises and disrupts the attempts of control and domination promoted by the characters representing modern science and the State. However, Climatika uses a technical device (black magic) to control the weather and achieve her revenge goals. She causes catastrophic climatic events and promotes horror in the name of a global order that satisfies her desires. The instrumentalisation that Climatika promotes through black magic subtly brings her closer to the scientists who sought to investigate and control nature for human progress during the early days of the Scientific Revolution. In the sixteenth century, scientists such as Francis Bacon commonly used metaphors involving the torture of witches and the exploitation of nature to uncover their secrets, to control and alter the world for the advancement and well-being of humans (Merchant). However, black magic, whether through a satanic or pagan path, also has anthropocentric roots, manifesting as a tool that humans can use to enforce their intentions or as an internal force available for self-benefit (Thacker 29). In the case of Climatika, the hydrological cycle was understood as a tool responsive to her emotions and supposedly at her service. The presence of the phenomenon brings it closer to the stereotype of the witch serving the forces of evil and can also act as an allegory for the scientist who fulfils the State’s or private corporations’ obscure purposes at the expense of others. Not by chance, Hawk Moth, when transforming Aurore into Climatika, proclaims, “tu vas devenir ma miss méteór” (you will become my weather girl), a sentence that plays on Aurore’s work in scientific journalism for weather forecasts, while the hidden meaning behind the statement is about the witch manipulating the weather. Climatika will boast about being the only weather girl who gets all the forecasts right (as she is the one who influences the weather events). Although Climatika takes an anthropocentric stance towards the climate, her case highlights how hydro-meteorological phenomena affect Aurore Beauréal to the point where she aspires to be the weather girl and, if not possible, to become a witch who controls the hydrological cycle. Aurore, at first, wished to be the spokesperson for meteorology, studying the weather and climate. When she fails, she aspires for more: to become the weather girl, merging herself with meteorological phenomena and using climatic factors to organise the world to satisfy her desires. She appears oblivious to the way the weather affects her, although it is central to her life. She considers herself free and in control of herself and the world. The perception of the modern world as disenchanted, characterised by reason, freedom, and control, results in an alienation from the affective power of non-human phenomena (Bennett). This alienation leads to an arrogant attitude, such as that of Aurore Beauréal, who transforms into Climatika and believes she can finally be recognised as the weather girl with her new hydrokinesis powers. However, despite all the chaos that Climatika promotes by inducing hurricanes, hailstorms, and lightning, dramatically affecting the lives of the inhabitants of Paris and all of France, she fails in the face of Ladybug and Cat Noir. Finally, Aurore will have to deal with the defeat against Mireille Caquet and public censorship for transforming into Climatika, the weather witch. Cosmic Pessimism and Planetary Catastrophe in the Return of Climatika In the seventeenth episode of the third season, there is a prime example of what Aurore Beauréal went through after being defeated and the akumatisation being undone. Her schoolmate, Chloé Bourgeois, publicly humiliates her for having low grades and not having emotional control, becoming a failed villain. Hawk Moth takes advantage of the opportunity left by Bourgeois and tells Aurore that she will always be and continue to grow in power as Climatika, transforming her once again. Being emotionally affected, Climatika’s powers amplify significantly, and she uses volcanic explosions and moves the planet away from the sun’s orbit to cool it down, destroying all of humanity and proving her true power. In this episode, Stormy Weather 2, Climatika manages to establish herself as a global threat, inducing a dramatic climate change. Fear and horror spread throughout the world as people embrace each other to stay alive in the apocalyptic cold. Even the heroes, Ladybug and Cat Noir, feel haunted by the immense power of Climatika and find themselves in an intimate moment reminiscing about all the challenges they have overcome in the past, and the growth they have experienced over time while fighting together against the forces of evil. It is in sharing these memories that they find the power to come together once again, regaining the trust and confidence that help them to face and defeat Climatika. Thus, because of suppressed affections, unfulfilled desires, the combined force of words, and extreme social and meteorological events, negative and selfish emotions emerged and re-emerged, fuelling the return of Climatika—the regional and later planetary climate threat. Moreover, in the case of Ladybug and Cat Noir, the affective power of their bodily and physical encounter generated memories, along with deep positive emotions and words of trust, affection, and unity. These provided the means to change the course of events and prevent the realisation of the climate catastrophe (they no longer felt overcome and could battle Climatika). The two episodes suggest that the emergence of the climate catastrophe is a result of the feelings of disenchantment amongst people in the world and the combination of human alienation from the affective power of things, and the power that events and things gain in their encounters worldwide. The suggestion is the development of an ethics of generosity as a response to climate change that involves sharpening the perception of the affective power of things and encounters between humans in public spaces, as well as between humans and non-humans in everyday life (Bennett). Nonetheless, the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2 display a type of cosmic pessimism perceptible through the emotional failures and revenge of Aurore Beauréal and Climatika. Cosmic pessimism indicates distrust regarding the impossibility of controlling and organising a world that does not require order. This world does not manifest itself for us or in itself but as a world-without-us (Thacker, Cosmic). Control does not make Aurore more respected, although she is feared when she manifests as Climatika. As Climatika, she inflicts on other people the suffering caused by the catastrophic disruption of their routines due to the manifestation of the effects of climate change. Conversely, the disappointment of the double failure to become the weather girl and the subsequent bullying becomes an oppressive reality for Aurore that induces more fear and horror due to her inability of being able to organise the world according to her desires. Thus, climate change is manifested in Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir as a result of the failed attempt to control the world (represented by the metaphor of black magic) and the impossibility of organising the world according to human desires. Conclusions Ladybug and Cat Noir manage to save the day in the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2. However, the return of Climatika manifests itself as persistence, which suggests two important points. First, heroes or exceptional individuals cannot handle the complexity involved in the climate crisis because the crisis results from multiple factors, including human emotions, under the pressure of a system emphasising competition for prominence, efficiency, and social recognition. Climatika was defeated but returned for the same reason: the primacy of the ideal of success and recognition in a universe of pure abstract value that is based on the alienation of emotions. Second, profound uncertainties arise from the current climate crisis. Anthropogenic climate change is manifested through completely contingent effects, where the expectation of controlling and ordering the world according to human desires is disrupted, resulting in a sense of cosmic pessimism due to the world-without-us feeling. The indifference of the universe to human desires becomes explicit, exposing the failure of the abstraction of self and world control—the foundation of modern ontology and capitalism. Therefore, Climatika highlights climate change as a form of black magic: an intensive attempt to control and manipulate the world driven by selfish feelings that deepen the alienation regarding the power and indifference of the elements that compose the planetary atmosphere. References Aguasanta-Regalado, Miriam E., Ángel San Martín Alonso, and Isabel M. Gallardo-Fernández. “Analysis of the Narratives with Characters That Make Ethnic Diversity Visible—Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir.” Education Sciences 13.5 (2023): 460-470. Bennett, Jane. The Enchantment of Modern Life: Attachments, Crossing, and Ethics. Princeton UP, 2016. Chatterji, Roma. “Gaia and the Environmental Apocalypse in Superhero Comics and Science Fantasy.” Perspectives – A Peer-Reviewed, Bilingual, Interdisciplinary E-Journal 2 (2022): 1-30. Lundberg, Anita, André Vasques Vital, and Shruti Das. “Tropical Imaginaries and Climate Crisis: Embracing Relational Climate Discourses.” Etropic: Electronic Journal of Studies in the Tropics 20.2 (2021): 1-31. McGowan, Andrew. "Superhero Ecologies: An Environmental Reading of Contemporary Superhero Cinema." Honors Projects 110 (2019). <https://digitalcommons.bowdoin.edu/honorsprojects/110>. Merchant, Carolyn. The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology and the Scientific Revolution. Harper & Row, 1990. Starosielski, Nicole. “Movements That Are Drawn: A History of Environmental Animation from The Lorax to FernGully to Avatar.” The International Communication Gazette 73.1-2 (2011): 145-163. “Stormy Weather.” Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir. Created by Thomas Astruc. Season 1, episode 1. Zagtoon and Method Animation et al., 19 Oct. 2015. “Stormy Weather #2.” Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir. Created by Thomas Astruc. Season 3, episode 17. Zagtoon and Method Animation et al., 2 June 2019. Thacker, Eugene. Cosmic Pessimism. U of Minnesota P, 2016. ———. Thacker, Eugene. In The Dust of This Planet: Horror of Philosophy. Vol. 1. Zero Books, 2011. Vital André Vasques. “Lapis Lazuli: Politics and Aqueous Contingency in the Animation Steven Universe.” Series – International Journal of TV Serial Narratives 4.1 (2018): 51–62. ———. “Water, Gender, and Modern Science in the Steven Universe Animation.” Feminist Media Studies 20.8 (2020): 1144-1158. ———. “Water Spells: New Materialist Theoretical Insights from Animated Fantasy and Science Fiction.” Historia Ambiental Latinoamericana y Caribeña (HALAC) Revista de la Solcha 12.1 (2022): 246–269. Wells, Paul. Understanding Animation. Routledge, 1998. Whitley, David. The Idea of Nature in Disney Animation. Ashgate, 2008.

Art Imitating ArtThis article discusses the global, historical and literary references that are present in the video game franchise Bayonetta. In particular, references to Dante’s Divine Comedy, the works of Dr John Dee, and European traditions of witchcraft are examined. Bayonetta is modern in the sense that she is a woman of the world. Her character shows how history and literature may be used, re-used, and evolve into new formats, and how modern games travel abroad through time and space.Drawing creative inspiration from other works is nothing new. Ideas and themes, art and literature are frequently borrowed and recast. Carmel Cedro cites Northrop Frye in the example of William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. These writers created stories and characters that have developed a level of acclaim and resonated with many individuals, resulting in countless homages over the years. The forms that these appropriations take vary widely. Media formats, such as film adaptations and even books, take the core characters or narrative from the original and re-work them into a different context. For example, the novel Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson published in 1883 was adapted into the 2002 Walt Disney animated film Treasure Planet. The film maintained the concepts of the original narrative and retained key characters but re-imaged them to fit the science fiction genre (Clements and Musker).The video-game franchise Bayonetta draws inspiration from distinct sources creating the foundation for the universe and some plot points to enhance the narrative. The main sources are Dante’s Divine Comedy, the projections of John Dee and his mystical practices as well as the medieval history of witches.The Vestibule: The Concept of BayonettaFigure 1: Bayonetta Concept ArtBayonetta ConceptsThe concept of Bayonetta was originally developed by video game designer Hideki Kamiya, known previously for his work including The Devil May Cry and the Resident Evil game series. The development of Bayonetta began with Kamiya requesting a character design that included three traits: a female lead, a modern witch, and four guns. This description laid the foundations for what was to become the hack and slash fantasy heroine that would come to be known as Bayonetta. "Abandon all hope ye who enter here"The Divine Comedy, written by Dante Alighieri during the 1300s, was a revolutionary piece of literature for its time, in that it was one of the first texts that formalised the vernacular Italian language by omitting the use of Latin, the academic language of the time. Dante’s work was also revolutionary in its innovative contemplations on religion, art and sciences, creating a literary collage of such depth that it would continue to inspire hundreds of years after its first publication.Figure 2: Domenico di Michelino’s fresco of Dante and his Divine Comedy, surrounded by depictions of scenes in the textBayonetta explores the themes of The Divine Comedy in a variety of ways, using them as an obvious backdrop, along with subtle homages and references scattered throughout the game. The world of Bayonetta is set in the Trinity of Realities, three realms that co-exist forming the universe: Inferno, Paradiso and the Chaos realm—realm of humans—and connected by Purgitorio—the intersection of the trinity. In the game, Bayonetta travels throughout these realms, primarily in the realm of Purgitorio, the area in which magical and divine entities may conduct their business. However, there are stages within the game where Bayonetta finds herself in Paradiso and the human realm. This is a significant factor relating to The Divine Comedy as these realms also form the areas explored by Dante in his epic poem. The depth of these parallels is not exclusive to factors in Dante’s masterpiece, as there are also references to other art and literature inspired by Dante’s legacy. For example, the character Rodin in Bayonetta runs a bar named “The Gates of Hell.” In 1917 French artist Auguste Rodin completed a sculpture, The Gates of Hell depicting scenes and characters from The Divine Comedy. Rodin’s bar in Bayonetta is manifested as a dark impressionist style of architecture, with an ominous atmosphere. In early concept art, the proprietor of the bar was to be named Mephisto (Kamiya) derived from “Mephistopheles”, another name for the devil in some mythologies. Figure 3: Auguste Rodin's Gate of Hell, 1917Aspects of Dante’s surroundings and the theological beliefs of his time can be found in Bayonetta, as well as in the 2013 anime film adaptation Bayonetta, Bloody Fate. The Christian virtues, revered during the European Middle Ages, manifest themselves as enemies and adversaries that Bayonetta must combat throughout the game. Notably, the names of the cardinal virtues serve as “boss ranked” foes. Enemies within a game, usually present at the end of a level and more difficult to defeat than regular enemies within “Audito Sphere” of the “Laguna Hierarchy” (high levels of the hierarchy within the game), are named in Italian; Fortitudo, Temperantia, Lustitia, and Sapientia. These are the virtues of Classical Greek Philosophy, and reflect Dante’s native language as well as the impact the philosophies of Ancient Greece had on his writings. The film adaption of Bayonetta incorporated many elements from the game. To adjust the game effectively, it was necessary to augment the plot in order to fit the format of this alternate media. As it was no longer carried by gameplay, the narrative became paramount. The diverse plot points of the new narrative allowed for novel possibilities for further developing the role of The Divine Comedy in Bayonetta. At the beginning of the movie, for example, Bayonetta enters as a nun, just as she does in the game, only here she is in church praying rather than in a graveyard conducting a funeral. During her prayer she recites “I am the way into the city of woe, abandon all hope, oh, ye who enter here,” which is a Canto of The Divine Comedy. John Dee and the AngelsDr John Dee (1527—1608), a learned man of Elizabethan England, was a celebrated philosopher, mathematician, scientist, historian, and teacher. In addition, he was a researcher of magic and occult arts, as were many of his contemporaries. These philosopher magicians were described as Magi and John Dee was the first English Magus (French). He was part of a school of study within the Renaissance intelligensia that was influenced by the then recently discovered works of the gnostic Hermes Trismegistus, thought to be of great antiquity. This was in an age when religion, philosophy and science were intertwined. Alchemy and chemistry were still one, and astronomers, such as Johannes Kepler and Tyco Brahe cast horoscopes. John Dee engaged in spiritual experiments that were based in his Christian faith but caused him to be viewed in some circles as dangerously heretical (French).Based on the texts of Hermes Trismegistas and other later Christian philosophical and theological writers such as Dionysius the Areopagite, Dee and his contemporaries believed in celestial hierarchies and levels of existence. These celestial hierarchies could be accessed by “real artificial magic,” or applied science, that included mathematics, and the cabala, or the mystical use of permutations of Hebrew texts, to access supercelestial powers (French). In his experiments in religious magic, Dee was influenced by the occult writings of Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486—1535). In Agrippa’s book, De Occulta Philosophia, there are descriptions for seals, symbols and tables for summoning angels, to which Dee referred in his accounts of his own magic experiments (French). Following his studies, Dee constructed a table with a crystal placed on it. By use of suitable rituals prescribed by Agrippa and others, Dee believed he summoned angels within the crystal, who could be seen and conversed with. Dee did not see these visions himself, but conversed with the angels through a skryer, or medium, who saw and heard the celestial beings. Dee recorded his interviews in his “Spiritual Diaries” (French). Throughout Bayonetta there are numerous seals and devices that would appear to be inspired by the work of Dee or other Renaissance Magi.In these sessions, John Dee, through his skryer Edward Kelley, received instruction from several angels. The angels led him to believe he was to be a prophet in the style of the biblical Elijah or, more specifically like Enoch, whose prophesies were detailed in an ancient book that was not part of the Bible, but was considered by many scholars as divinely inspired. As a result, these experiments have been termed “Enochian conversations.” The prophesies received by Dee foretold apocalyptic events that were to occur soon and God’s plan for the world. The angels also instructed Dee in a system of magic to allow him to interpret the prophesies and participate in them as a form of judge. Importantly, Dee was also taught elements of the supposed angelic language, which came to be known as “Enochian” (Ouellette). Dee wrote extensively about his interviews with the angels and includes statements of their hierarchy (French, Ouellette). This is reflected in the “Laguna Hierarchy” of Bayonetta, sharing similarities in name and appearance of the angels Dee had described. Platinum Games creative director Jean-Pierre Kellams acted as writer and liaison, assisting the English adaptation of Bayonetta and was tasked by Hideki Kamiya to develop Bayonetta’s incantations and subsequently the language of the angels within the game (Kellams).The Hammer of WitchesOne of the earliest and most integral components of the Bayonetta franchise is the fact that the title character is a witch. Witches, sorcerers and other practitioners of magic have been part of folklore for centuries. Hideki Kamiya stated that the concept of” classical witches” was primarily a European legend. In order to emulate this European dimension, he had envisioned Bayonetta as having a British accent which resulted in the game being released in English first, even though Platinum Games is a Japanese company (Kamiya). The Umbra Witch Clan hails from Europe within the Bayonetta Universe and relates more closely to the traditional European medieval witch tradition (Various), although some of the charms Bayonetta possesses acknowledge the witches of different parts of the world and their cultural context. The Evil Harvest Rosary is said to have been created by a Japanese witch in the game. Bayonetta herself and other witches of the game use their hair as a conduit to summon demons and is known as “wicked weaves” within the game. She also creates her tight body suit out of her hair, which recedes when she decides to use a wicked weave. Using hair in magic harks back to a legend that witches often utilised hair in their rituals and spell casting (Guiley). It is also said that women with long and beautiful hair were particularly susceptible to being seduced by Incubi, a form of demon that targets sleeping women for sexual intercourse. According to some texts (Kramer), witches formed into the beings that they are through consensual sex with a devil, as stated in Malleus Maleficarum of the 1400s, when he wrote that “Modern Witches … willingly embrace this most foul and miserable form of servitude” (Kramer). Bayonetta wields her sexuality as proficiently as she does any weapon. This lends itself to the belief that women of such a seductive demeanour were consorts to demons.Purgitorio is not used in the traditional sense of being a location of the afterlife, as seen in The Divine Comedy, rather it is depicted as a dimension that exists concurrently within the human realm. Those who exist within this Purgitorio cannot be seen with human eyes. Bayonetta’s ability to enter and exit this space with the use of magic is likened to the myth that witches were known to disappear for periods of time and were purported to be “spirited away” from the human world (Kamiya).Recipes for gun powder emerge from as early as the 1200s but, to avoid charges of witchcraft due to superstitions of the time, they were hidden by inventors such as Roger Bacon (McNab). The use of “Bullet Arts” in Bayonetta as the main form of combat for Umbra Witches, and the fact that these firearm techniques had been honed by witches for centuries before the witch hunts, implies that firearms were indeed used by dark magic practitioners until their “discovery” by ordinary humans in the Bayonetta universe. In addition to this, that “Lumen Sages” are not seen to practice bullet arts, builds on the idea of guns being a practice of black magic. “Lumen Sages” are the Light counterpart and adversaries of the Umbra Witches in Bayonetta. The art of Alchemy is incorporated into Bayonetta as a form of witchcraft. Players may create their own health, vitality, protective and mana potions through a menu screen. This plays on the taboo of chemistry and alchemy of the 1500s. As mentioned, John Dee's tendency to dabble in such practices was considered by some to be heretical (French, Ouellette).Light and dark forces are juxtaposed in Bayonetta through the classic adversaries, Angels and Demons. The moral flexibility of both the light and dark entities in the game leaves the principles of good an evil in a state of ambiguity, which allows for uninhibited flow in the story and creates a non-linear and compelling narrative. Through this non-compliance with the pop culture counterparts of light and dark, gamers are left to question the foundations of old cultural norms. This historical context lends itself to the Bayonetta story not only by providing additional plot points, but also by justifying the development decisions that occur in order to truly flesh out Bayonetta’s character.ConclusionCompelling story line, characters with layered personality, and the ability to transgress boundaries of time and travel are all factors that provide a level of depth that has become an increasingly important aspect in modern video gameplay. Gamers love “Easter eggs,” the subtle references and embellishments scattered throughout a game that make playing games like Bayonetta so enjoyable. Bayonetta herself is a global traveller whose journeying is not limited to “abroad.” She transgresses cultural, time, and spatial boundaries. The game is a mosaic of references to spatial time dimensions, literary, and historical sources. This mix of borrowings has produced an original gameplay and a unique storyline. Such use of literature, mythology, and history to enhance the narrative creates a quest game that provides “meaningful play” (Howard). This process of creation of new material from older sources is a form of renewal. As long as contemporary culture presents literature and history to new audiences, the older texts will not be forgotten, but these elements will undergo a form of renewal and restoration and the present-day culture will be enhanced as a result. In the words of Bayonetta herself: “As long as there’s music, I’ll keep on dancing.”ReferencesCedro, Carmel. "Dolly Varden: Sweet Inspiration." Australasian Journal of Popular Culture 2.1 (2012): 37-46. French, Peter J. John Dee: The World of an Elizabethan Magus. London: London, Routledge and K. Paul, 1972. Guiley, Rosemary. The Encyclopedia of Demons and Demonology. Infobase Publishing, 2009. Howard, Jeff. Quests: Design, Theory, and History in Games and Narratives. Wellesley, Mass.: A.K. Peters, 2008. Kamiya, Hideki.Bayonetta. Bayonetta. Videogame. Sega, Japan, 2009.Kellams, Jean-Pierre. "Butmoni Coronzon (from the Mouth of the Witch)." Platinum Games 2009.Kramer, Heinrich. The Malleus Maleficarum of Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger. Eds. Sprenger, Jakob, or joint author, and Montague Summers. New York: Dover, 1971.McNab, C. Firearms: The Illustrated Guide to Small Arms of the World. Parragon, 2008.Ouellette, Francois. "Prophet to the Elohim: John Dee's Enochian Conversations as Christian Apocalyptic Discourse." Master of Arts thesis. ProQuest Dissertations Publishing, 2004.Treasure Planet. The Walt Disney Company, 2003.Various. "Bayonetta Wikia." 2016.

Historically, the Barbie doll has embodied all things stereotypically feminine, ranging from fashion trends to societal roles, and reflected the contemporary image of “the perfect woman”. However, beneath the surface of Barbie’s seemingly innocent portrayal of femininity lies a complex web of societal expectations and norms, and the toy’s potential for instilling such norms within young girls. This function of the doll ties into Judith Butler’s concept of gender performativity, in which gender is masked as a pre-existing condition while being a construct constantly produced and reproduced by society (“Performative Acts” 522). Moreover, the various caretaking-centred roles of Barbie dolls and their frequent portrayal alongside Ken dolls reinforce performativity with the use of heteronormativity, subtly implying that a woman’s fulfilment is connected to her ability to attract and maintain a heterosexual partnership, as well as her role within a heteronormative family structure, which reinforces the socially cultivated idea that femininity is inherently linked to heterosexual desire (Butler “Performative Acts” 524). Consequently, the Barbie doll serves as both a reflection and a reinforcement of societal expectations surrounding femininity, highlighting the intricacies of gender performance, compulsory heterosexuality, and the construction of identity within modern culture. Greta Gerwig’s Barbie (2023), however, tries to divorce the doll from the unachievable standard of a “perfect woman” and instead to use it as a tool for rethinking what constitutes femininity and what it means to be a woman in the contemporary world. The film offers a subversive take on Barbie’s cultural significance, portraying her as a symbol of empowerment and self-discovery rather than a narrow representation of the idealised idea of femininity. Through the narrative of the film, Greta Gerwig attempts to challenge traditional gender norms and explore the complexities of identity, inviting a rethinking of the societal status quo. This article aims to answer, through analysis of the film’s various themes connected to gender and feminism, whether Gerwig’s Barbie succeeds at redefining the doll and making it a feminist symbol of empowerment. The analysis consists of three main sections that examine the themes most crucial for answering this question. The first section, centred around gender performativity, will discuss the cultural symbolism and significance of the doll as well as analyse the portrayal of the Barbies in Barbieland. In the second section, the focus is on deconstructing the connection between femininity, performativity, and heteronormativity in the film, and link these concepts to the film’s take on choice feminism. The last section examines the storyline’s potential in depicting identity outside of performativity and compulsory heterosexuality and analyse the film’s take on empowerment through the resistance to the stereotypical construct of femininity. Building upon this analysis, it is suggested that while Barbie attempts to break down conventional gender norms, deconstruct the stereotypical perception of femininity, and transform the doll into a tool for women’s empowerment, its endeavour is, at times, superficial, and inadvertently perpetuates the very constructs it tries to undermine. To Be a Barbie Is to Perform To analyse the film’s take on the transformation of the role of Barbie, it is essential to establish the link between the doll and the concept of gender performativity. Throughout the toy’s history, Barbie dolls have embodied specific roles or professions, examples of which include President Barbie, Doctor Barbie, Journalist Barbie, and numerous others. These representations aim to show young girls the diverse societal roles available to them, serving as symbols of the empowering slogan used by Mattel for the promotion of the doll, “you can be anything”, a message also central to Gerwig’s Barbie. However, the dolls simultaneously carry a set of predetermined characteristics, mostly connected to their appearance, that include the clothes they wear, the accompanying accessories, the shape of their body, or the colour of their skin. Each one of these characteristics reflects the contemporary standard of what a woman in a particular position is imagined to look like, connecting to a phenomenon described by Glenda MacNaughton where toys such as Barbie are used as powerful tools to instil gender roles and sexism in girls during childhood (22). The 1993 Doctor Barbie is an example of a toy that aims to discreetly reinforce stereotypically feminine performance. While, at first glance, the doll conveys the message that a doctor’s career is within every girl’s reach, the accessories, which include a baby, baby bottle, and rattle, and the writing on the box, which says “everything you need for taking care of baby!”, clearly define what type of doctor the girl is supposed to become, and connect to the gender stereotypes that define the role of women as mothers and “natural” caretakers. Additionally, even though Barbie does not have a child of her own, nearly all Doctor Barbies, including those who are not meant to be paediatricians, such as the more recent 2015 Eye Doctor Barbie, are equipped with a child and a set of child-related accessories. With their childcare-centred purpose and their immaculate, conventionally attractive appearance, the Doctor Barbie dolls perpetuate what Stephanie Coontz, building on Betty Friedan’s concept of the feminine mystique, calls the “new feminine mystiques”. Particularly, they uphold the “supermom mystique”, in which women are not only reduced to their role as caretakers but are also expected to be perfect at it, while simultaneously remaining attractive and professionally active (170), creating unachievable standards of femininity. The example of the Doctor Barbies shows how the doll can convey the stereotypical, socially desired, and often unachievable image of womanhood hidden behind illusory female empowerment. As a result, by playing with the Barbie dolls, girls learn how to perform femininity through an object that is in itself an embodiment of the stereotypical, idealised performance of femininity, creating the circle that reinstates the societal status quo. Greta Gerwig’s film tries to, and at least partially does, undermine this notion. The Barbies in Barbieland can be considered to be very diverse, representing different races, ethnicities, and body types, as well as including transgender and disabled individuals. The dolls are also excellent at an extremely wide range of social roles and jobs and create an ideal society – a feminist utopia. While initially appearing as a progressive departure from stereotypical depictions of idealised femininity, this portrayal is not free from underlying issues. One significant concern is the less obvious, but still present, assumption that femininity is synonymous with a certain set of universal characteristics that all women possess. “This makes me emotional and I’m expressing it. I have no difficulty holding both logic and feeling at the same time”, says the lawyer Barbie in her speech, emphasising the socially accepted idea that women are naturally more capable of expressing their emotions and that such a quality is desirable for them (Kachel et al. 10). Some qualities that the movie intertwines with femininity are connected to the aforementioned “natural” caretaker characteristics that stereotypically make women less prone to conflict and more successful at building and protecting a united community, playing into the stereotype described by Prime, Carter, and Welbourne where women “take care” and perform emotional labour, and men “take charge” by acting individualistically and in a way that asserts their power over others (32), a notion especially visible in the final act of the film, when Barbies unite to end the rule of Kens. While the film’s portrayal of feminine qualities might appear to be positive, when engaging in feminist criticism through the lens of gender performativity theory, the very assumption that these characteristics are universal and innate to every woman can be considered incorrect and a product of the phenomenon of performativity, in which gender is neither an internal, pre-existing condition nor a reflection of an individual choice, but rather a set of “acts” required by society that fulfil various, constantly produced and reproduced social norms (Butler “Performative Acts” 526). Therefore, there are no universally feminine qualities because femininity as such is a social construct, a performance, not an innate condition. The seemingly positive qualities assigned to Barbies in the utopian Barbieland are a product of this very performance and perpetuate the view that certain elements of femininity are shared by all women because of their gender, undermining the film’s feminist message. The deconstruction of the mechanism of performativity is also crucial for answering the question of whether or not Barbie’s portrayal of a “feminist utopia” can be helpful for the feminist fight and has the power to challenge the societal status quo. According to Butler, to truly undermine patriarchal structures of oppression and constructs such as compulsory heterosexuality, performativity and the mechanisms sustaining it has to be fully unmasked (Gender Trouble 180). This can be achieved through the re-examination and questioning of the very core of each social performance of the so-called “true” femininity, even when the image of it and the characteristics connected to it are perceived as vastly positive, something at which Barbie fails when it comes to its portrayal of the different characters. The film, therefore, risks reproducing the phenomenon described by Veronica Hollinger, in which the critiques of gender norms and societal status quo inadvertently reinstate them (25). While discussing the characters of the utopian Barbieland and the film’s potential to challenge gender norms, it is also crucial to analyse the case of the Barbie who visibly does not conform to gender performativity – the Weird Barbie. Weird Barbie is unique in many ways, from her messy, short haircut through her unconventional clothing and makeup to her unusual behaviour. The way she looks and acts does not fit within the acceptable social norms of femininity, and consequently she is ostracised and removed from the community. Referring to her looks and place within Barbieland, Stereotypical Barbie comments: “either you’re brainwashed or you’re weird and ugly, there is no in-between”, highlighting the connection between societal indoctrination into widely embraced, often gender-related, norms of behaviour and appearance, and the perception and treatment of an individual as an “other” within society. The portrayal of how Weird Barbie is treated by other Barbies strongly connects to Butler’s idea of discrete genders, which are sets of often subconscious societal beliefs and expectations that allow for the categorisation of individuals into binary genders. While discrete genders enable survival in society and humanise its members, they simultaneously have punitive consequences for those who do not conform to the stereotypical ways of gender performance (Gender Trouble 178). Weird Barbie’s nonconformity, even though central to the story, is still punished. She is never considered a true part of society, is feared by others, and is treated as a freak. This highlights that in Barbieland, correct and incorrect ways to perform gender exist, undermining the image of a feminist utopia and revealing that despite the veneer of empowerment, gender performativity has a significant influence on the characters living in Barbieland. Choice Feminism and the Consequences of Gender Performativity When Stereotypical Barbie comes back to Barbieland, or rather, at that point in the story, Kendom, she realises all her fellow Barbies have seemingly lost their minds. They gave up all of their significant roles and decided to serve the Kens instead, embracing patriarchy. This storyline breaks up with the perfect image of the feminist utopia and allows the movie to become, to a certain extent, self-reflexive. The Barbies, who never had to fight for their rights and only knew how to perform their roles in a “vacuum” of a perfectly matriarchal society, have no defence against the destructive influence of patriarchy. Their identities are shown as deeply performative. Before Barbieland’s transformation into Kendom, they were too preoccupied with performing their assigned roles to ever question why they performed them or whether they wanted to perform them; as a result, when different roles are assigned to them based on the newly introduced patriarchal system, they accept them without any hesitation. This particular plot line can be interpreted as a criticism of choice feminism, the least political and most palatable form of feminism that only provides an illusion of empowerment through choice and exists as a response to common criticism of feminism as too radical (Ferguson 248). Despite having the freedom to resist the new order, the Barbies momentarily conform to a clearly oppressive set of social norms, seemingly out of their own free will. Such a portrayal satirises and exaggerates choice feminism to underline the complex issues connected to its philosophy. This storyline provides very relevant social commentary, especially in the current era of the rise of the so-called tradwife trend and glamorisation of the housewife lifestyle, and in addition to criticising the premise of choice feminism exposes the potential pitfalls of uncritical acceptance of traditional gender roles and the superficial empowerment that comes with them. As Stereotypical Barbie delves deeper into the new reality of Kendom, she confronts another pervasive force shaping the lives of the inhabitants – compulsory heterosexuality. In the new reality, heteronormativity reigns supreme, dictating not only romantic relationships but also societal norms and expectations. Stereotypical Barbie observes how her fellow Barbies, once successful and self-confident, give up their jobs and houses and willingly conform to the narrow confines of compulsory heterosexuality, prioritising relationships with Kens above all else and accepting them as patriarchal rulers whom they need to obey. This limiting, degrading power of compulsory heterosexuality is described by Adrienne Rich, who explains that societal pressure to conform to this concept pervades every aspect of life, from academic discourse to personal relationships, influences all interactions, and affects every label assigned within society, confining many women to a prescribed script and preventing them from exploring their true identities beyond societal norms (657). The film connects to this premise and satirises compulsory heterosexuality by portraying it as a “brainwashing” practice that makes Barbies forget everything about their true identities and purposes and deconstructs the intertwining of heterosexuality with femininity through the perspective of Stereotypical Barbie, who witnesses the disastrous effects of compulsory heterosexuality from an outside perspective. Consequently, the film succeeds at exposing the performative nature of heterosexuality and reveals how it can stifle authentic expression and impose rigid binaries on women’s identities and desires. Stereotypical Barbie and Feminist Empowerment Stereotypical Barbie’s journey to finding her identity and purpose is perhaps the most important theme of the movie, and one that offers the most direct commentary on performativity. Stereotypical Barbie does not have an assigned role; she is a blank slate, which is a double-edged sword. On one hand, she is free to decide who she wants to be; on the other hand, she has no sense of purpose and struggles to find her place in the world. Throughout the film, Stereotypical Barbie learns that the real experience of girlhood and womanhood and her perception of femininity are vastly different. She sees the self-contradictory notion of women “always doing it wrong”, and the issue of never being able to fit within the unachievable standards. This observation deeply resonates with the aforementioned concept of “the new feminine mystiques” in which the societal expectations imposed on women require them, for example, to be sexy, yet not “too sexy”, to avoid being labelled as promiscuous, or to focus on their families and be fully committed to their role as mothers, but still have successful careers (Coontz 170), shedding light on the pressures women face. Additionally, Barbie’s experience with the unattainable, idealised image of womanhood and the internal conflict she goes through, realising she does not want to perform Barbieland’s “perfect” version of femininity, also connect to the concept of liveable life described by Wendy Gay Pearson. Pearson juxtaposes the societal pressure to conform to the accepted norms of gender performance, and the equating of such conformism with survival, with a sense of identity and personhood, claiming that “a normative conception of gender can undo one’s personhood, undermining the capacity to persevere in a liveable life” (76). For the main character, engaging in the same activities as other Barbies and adhering to performativity caused depression and a lack of a sense of self, making her life unliveable. “Do you guys ever think about dying?”, she asks, interrupting a joyful party, visibly shocking other Barbies, and giving voice to the “irrepressible thoughts of death” she has been experiencing as a result of the dissonance between how she is supposed to act and feel and how she truly does. Stereotypical Barbie’s life, however, becomes liveable and her personhood is fully affirmed when at the end of the film, she decides to give up her role and place in Barbieland and becomes a “real person”, equating the rejection of performativity with agency and empowerment, and underlining that there is no one universal experience of womanhood. The answer to the question of whether Stereotypical Barbie resists compulsory heterosexuality along with performativity, however, remains unclear. The character initially strongly rejects conforming to compulsory heterosexuality by rejecting Ken; therefore, at first glance, a normative, heterosexual romantic relationship does not define her. However, simultaneously, heterosexuality plays a discreet yet crucial role in the film. It is because of Ken’s actions that Barbie manages to discover her identity and go through the journey of finding her purpose. Ken is the driving force of the plot; if it were not for him, Barbie would not have many of her moments of reflection on femininity and womanhood. Finally, Barbieland is saved because the Barbies, led by Stereotypical Barbie, decide to perform heterosexuality in a weaponised way and use it as a tool of power over Kens. The film’s ending and Barbie’s apology for not appreciating Ken enough even further complicate the commentary on compulsory heterosexuality. While she rejects Ken romantically, she admits that Kens are crucial to society and that Barbies could not live happily without them. The struggle of the film to take a clear, more radical stance against compulsory heterosexuality again connects to the idea of Hollinger that the critiques of the societal status quo are often tainted by compulsory heterosexuality and reinstate the very social norms they try to challenge (25). By its avoidance of adopting a more radical position, the film inadvertently conforms to aspects of compulsory heterosexuality and reproduces the heteronormative, patriarchal norms that it simultaneously tries to criticise. Conclusions While Greta Gerwig’s Barbie attempts to deconstruct patriarchy and undermine the constructs that sustain it, such as gender performativity and compulsory heterosexuality, its efforts often remain superficial. The film’s portrayal of Barbies in Barbieland partially succeeds at transforming the symbolism of the doll and detaching it from the most stereotypical image of femininity, but does not fully free the doll from preconceived notions surrounding gender. Similarly, the main character’s journey, although a transformative exploration of womanhood that leads her to the discovery of feminism as a tool of both personal and common empowerment, is still limited and tainted by the stereotypical, normative conception of gender. Consequently, some of the constructs and polarities that the movie tries to undermine are instead reinforced by it. Despite its shortcomings, however, the film succeeds at providing a satirical lens for re-examining some of the deeply ingrained elements of the societal status quo and is not completely unsuccessful at redefining the doll as a feminist symbol. References Butler, Judith. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal 40.4 (1988): 519. ———. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge, 1989. Coontz, Stephanie. A Strange Stirring: The Feminine Mystique and American Women at the Dawn of the 1960s. Basic Books, 2012. Ferguson, Michaele L. “Choice Feminism and the Fear of Politics.” Perspectives on Politics 8.1 (2010): 247–253. Gerwig, Greta. Barbie. Warner Bros, 2023. Hollinger, Veronica. “(Re)reading Queerly: Science Fiction, Feminism, and the Defamiliarization of Gender.” Science Fiction Studies 26.1 (1999): 23–40. Kachel, Sven, Melanie C. Steffens, and Claudia Niedlich. “Traditional Masculinity and Femininity: Validation of a New Scale Assessing Gender Roles.” Frontiers in Psychology 7 (2016). MacNaughton, Glenda. “Is Barbie to Blame? Reconsidering How Children Learn Gender.” Australasian Journal of Early Childhood 21.4 (1996): 18–24. Pearson, Wendy Gay. “Towards a Queer Genealogy of SF.” Queer Universes (2010): 72–100. Prime, Jeanine L., Nancy M. Carter, and Theresa M. Welbourne. “Women ‘Take Care,’ Men ‘Take Charge’: Managers’ Stereotypic Perceptions of Women and Men Leaders.” The Psychologist-Manager Journal 12.1 (2009): 25–49. Rich, Adrienne. “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence.” Signs 5.4 (1980): 631–660.

Introduction Many people interpret the word ‘cult’ through specific connotations, including, but not limited to, a community of like-minded people on the edge of civilization, often led by a charismatic leader, with beliefs that are ‘other’ to societal ‘norms’. Cults are often perceived as deviant, regularly incorporating elements of crime, especially physical and sexual violence. The adoption by some cults of a special uniform or dress code has been readily picked up by popular culture and has become a key ‘defining’ characteristic of the nature of a cult. In this article, we use the semiotic framework of myth, as discussed by Barthes, to demonstrate how cult uniforms become semiotic myths of popular culture. Narratively, the myth of the cult communicates violence, deviance, manipulation, and brainwashing. The myth of on-screen cults has derived itself from a reflexive pop culture foundation. From popular culture inspiring cults to cults inspiring popular culture and back again, society generates its cult myth through three key mechanisms: medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. This means we are at risk of misrepresenting the true nature of cults, creating a definition incongruent with reality. This article traces the history of cults, the expectations of cult behaviour, and the semiotics of uniforms to start the discussion on why society is primed to accept a confusion between nature and the semiotic messaging of “what-goes-without-saying” (Barthes Mythologies 11). Semiotics and Myth Following the basic groundwork of de Saussure in the early 1900s, semiotics is the study of signs and how we use signs to derive meaning from the external world (de Saussure). Barthes expanded on this with his series of essays in Mythologies, adding a layer of connotation that leads to myth (Barthes Mythologies). Connotation, as described by Barthes, is the interaction between signs, feelings, and values. The connotations assigned to objects and concepts become a system of communication that is a message, the message becomes myth. The myth is not defined by the object or concept, but by the way society collectively understands it and all its connotations (Barthes Elements of Semiology 89-91). For scholars like Barthes, languages and cultural artifacts lend themselves to myth because many of our concepts are vague and abstract. Because the concept is vague, it is easy to impose our own values and ideologies upon it. This also means different people can interpret the same concept in different ways (Barthes Mythologies 132). The concept of a cult is no exception. Cults mean different things to different people and the boundaries between cults and religious or commercial organisations are often contested. As a pop culture artifact, the meaning of cults has been generated through repeated exposure in different media and genres. Similarly, pop culture (tv, films, news, etc.) often has the benefit of fiction, which separates itself from the true nature of cults (sensu Barthes Mythologies). Yet, through repeated exposure, we begin to share a universal meaning for the term and all the behaviours understood within the myth. Our repeated exposure to the signs of cults in pop culture is the combined effect of news media and fiction slowly building upon itself in a reflexive manner. We hear news reports of cults behaving in obscure ways, followed by a drama, parody, critique, or satire in a fictitious story. The audience then begins to see the repeated narrative as evidence to the true nature of cults. Over time the myth of the cult naturalises into the zeitgeist as concretely as any other sign, word, or symbol. Once the myth is naturalised, it is better used as a narrative device when affixed to a universally recognised symbol, such as the uniform. The uniform becomes an efficient device for communicating meaning in a short space of time. We argue that the concept of cult as myth has entered a collective understanding, and so, it is necessary to reflect on the mechanisms that drove the correlations which ultimately created the myth. Barthes’s purpose for analysing myth was “to track down, in the decorative display of what-goes-without-saying, the ideological abuse which, in my view, is hidden there” (Barthes Mythologies 11). For this reason, we must briefly look at the history of cults and their relationship with crime. A Brief History of Cults ‘Cult’ derives from the Latin root, cultus, or cultivation, and initially referred to forms of religious worship involving special rituals and ceremonies directed towards specific figures, objects, and/or divine beings. Early to mid-twentieth century sociologists adopted and adapted the term to classify a kind of religious organisation and later to signal new forms of religious expression not previously of primary or singular interest to the scholar of religion (Campbell; Jackson and Jobling; Nelson). The consequences were such that ‘cult’ came to carry new weight in terms of its meaning and reception, and much like other analytical concepts developed an intellectual significance regarding religious innovation it had not previously possessed. Unfortunately, this was not to last. By the early 1990s, ‘cult’ had become a term eschewed by scholars as pejorative, value-laden, and disparaging of its supposed subject matter; a term denuded of technical and descriptive meaning and replaced by more value-neutral alternatives (Dillon and Richardson; Richardson; Chryssides and Zeller). Results from well-published surveys (Pfeifer; Olson) and our own experience in teaching related subject matter revealed predominantly negative attitudes towards the term ‘cult’, with the inverse true for the alternative descriptors. Perhaps more importantly, the surveys revealed that for the public majority, knowledge of ‘cults’ came via media reportage of particularly the sensational few, rather than from direct experience of new religions or their members more generally (Pfeifer). For example, the Peoples Temple, Branch Davidian, and Heaven’s Gate groups featured heavily in news and mass media. Importantly, reporting of each of the tragic events marking their demise (in 1978, 1993, and 1997 respectively) reinforced a burgeoning stereotype and escalated fears about cults in our midst. The events in Jonestown, Guyana (Peoples Temple), especially, bolstered an anticult movement of purported cult experts and deprogrammers offering to save errant family members from the same fate as those who died [there]. The anticult movement portrayed all alleged cults as inherently dangerous and subject only to internal influences. They figured the charismatic leader as so powerful that he could take captive the minds of his followers and make them do whatever he wanted. (Crockford 95) While the term ‘new religious movement’ (NRM) has been used in place of cults within the academic sphere, ‘cult’ is still used within popular culture contexts precisely because of the connotations it inspires, with features including charismatic leaders, deprogrammers, coercion and mind-control, deception, perversion, exploitation, deviance, religious zealotry, abuse, violence, and death. For this reason, we still use the word cult to mean the myth of the cult as represented by popular culture. Representations of Cults and Expectations of Crime Violence and crime can be common features of some cults. Most NRMs “stay within the boundaries of the law” and practice their religion peacefully (Szubin, Jensen III, and Gregg 17). Unfortunately, it is usually those cults that are engaged in violence and crime that become newsworthy, and thus shape public ‘knowledge’ about the nature of cults and drive public expectations. Two of America’s most publicised cults, Charles Manson and the Manson Family and the Peoples Temple, are synonymous with violence and crime. Prior to committing mass suicide by poison in Jonestown, the Peoples Temple accumulated many guns as well as killing Congressman Leo Ryan and members of his party. Similarly, Charles Manson and the Manson Family stockpiled weapons, participated in illegal drug use, and murdered seven people, including Hollywood actor Sharon Tate. The high-profile victims of both groups ensured ongoing widespread media attention and continuous popular culture interest in both groups. Other cults are more specifically criminal in nature: for example, the Constanzo group in Matamoros, while presenting as a cult, are also a drug gang, leading to many calling these groups narco-cults (Kail 56). Sexual assault and abuse are commonly associated with cults. There have been numerous media reports worldwide on the sexual abuse of (usually) women and/or children. For example, a fourteen-year-old in the Children of God group alleged that she was raped when she disobeyed a leader (Rudin 28). In 2021, the regional city of Armidale, Australia, became national news when a former soldier was arrested on charges of “manipulating a woman for a ‘cult’ like purpose” (McKinnell). The man, James Davis, styles himself as the patriarch of a group known as the ‘House of Cadifor’. Police evidence includes six signed “slavery contracts”, as well as 70 witnesses to support the allegation that Mr Davis subjected a woman to “ongoing physical, sexual and psychological abuse and degradation” as well as unpaid prostitution and enslavement (McKinnell). Cults and Popular Culture The depiction of cults in popular culture is attracting growing attention. Scholars Lynn Neal (2011) and Joseph Laycock (2013) have initiated this research and identified consistent stereotypes of 'cults’ being portrayed throughout popular media. Neal found that cults began to be featured in television shows as early as the 1950s and 1960s, continually escalating until the 1990s before dropping slightly between 2000 and 2008 (the time the research was concluded). Specifically, there were 10 episodes between 1958-1969; 19 in the 1970s, which Neal attributes to the “rise of the cult scare and intense media scrutiny of NRMs” (97); 25 in the 1980s; 72 in the 1990s; and 59 between 2000 and 2008. Such academic research has identified that popular culture is important in the formation of the public perception, and social definition, of acceptable and deviant religions (Laycock 81). Laycock argues that representations of cults in popular culture reinforces public narratives about cults in three important ways: medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. Medicalisation refers to the depiction of individuals becoming brainwashed and deprogrammed. The medicalisation of cults can be exacerbated by the cult uniform and clinical, ritualistic behaviours. Deviance amplification, a term coined by Leslie Wilkins in the 1960s, is the phenomenon of ‘media hype’, where the media selects specific examples of deviant behaviour, distorting them (Wilkins), such that a handful of peripheral cases appears representative of a larger social problem (Laycock 84). Following the deviance amplification, there is then often a 'moral panic' (a term coined by Stanley Cohen in 1972) where the problem is distorted and heightened within the media. Cults are often subject to deviance amplification within the media, leading to moral panics about the ‘depraved’, sexual, criminal, and violent activities of cults preying on and brainwashing innocents. Convergence “is a rhetorical device associated with deviance amplification in which two or more activities are linked so as to implicitly draw a parallel between them” (Laycock 85). An example of convergence occurred when the Branch Davidians were compared to the Peoples Temple, ultimately leading the FBI “to end the siege through an aggressive ‘dynamic entry’ in part because they feared such a mass suicide” (Laycock 85). The FBI transferred responsibility for the deaths to ‘mass suicide’, which has become the common narrative of events at Waco. Each of the three mechanisms have an important role to play in the popular culture presentation of cults to audiences. Popular media sources, fictional or not, are incentivised to present the most diabolical cult to the audience – and this often includes the medicalised elements of brainwashing and manipulation. This presentation reinforces existing deviance amplification and moral panics around the depraved activities of cults, and in particular sexual and criminal activities. And finally, convergence acts as a 'cultural script’ where the portrayal of these types of characteristics (brainwashing, criminal or violent behaviour, etc.) is automatically associated with cults. As Laycock argues, “in this way, popular culture has a unique ability to promote convergence and, by extension, deviance amplification” (85). The mechanisms of medicalisation, deviance amplification and convergence are important to the semiotic linking of concepts, signs, and signifiers in the process of myth generation. In efficiently understanding the message of the myth, the viewer must have a sign they can affix to it. In the case of visual mediums this must be immediate and certain. As many of the convergent properties of cults are behavioural (acts of violence and depravity, charismatic leaders, etc.), we need a symbol that audiences can understand immediately. Uniforms achieve this with remarkable efficiency. Upon seeing a still, two-dimensional image of people wearing matching garb it can be made easily apparent that they are part of a cult. Religious uniforms are one of the first visual images one conjures upon hearing the word cult: “for most people the word ‘cult’ conjures up ‘60s images of college students wearing flowing robes, chanting rhythmically and spouting Eastern philosophy” (Salvatore cited in Petherick 577; italics in original). The impact is especially pronounced if the clothes are atypical, anachronistic, or otherwise different to the expected clothes of the context. This interpretation then becomes cemented through the actions of the characters. In Rick and Morty, season 1, episode 10, Morty is imprisoned with interdimensional versions of himself. Despite some morphological differences, each Morty is wearing his recognisable yellow top and blue pants. While our Morty’s back is turned, five hooded, robed figures in atypical garb with matching facial markings approach Morty. The audience is immediately aware that this is a cult. The comparison between the uniform of Morty and the Morty cult exemplifies the use of cult uniform in the myth of Cults. The cult is then cemented through chanting and a belief in the “One true Morty” (Harmon et al.). Semiotics, Clothes, and Uniforms The semiotics of clothes includes implicit, explicit, and subliminal signs. The reasons we choose to wear what we wear is governed by multiple factors both within our control and outside of it: for instance, our body shape, social networks and economic status, access to fashion and choice (Barthes The Fashion System; Hackett). We often choose to communicate aspects of our identity through what we wear or what we choose not to wear. Our choice of clothing communicates aspects of who we are, but also who we want to be (Hackett; Simmel; Veblen) Uniforms are an effective and efficient communicative device. Calefato’s classification of uniforms is not only as those used by military and working groups, but also including the strictly coded dress of subcultures. Unlike other clothes which can be weakly coded, uniforms differentiate themselves through their purposeful coded signalling system (Calefato). To scholars such as Jennifer Craik, uniforms intrigue us because they combine evident statements as well as implied and subliminal communications (Craik). Theories about identity predict that processes similar to the defining of an individual are also important to group life, whereby an individual group member's conceptualisation of their group is derived from the collective identity (Horowitz; Lauger). Collective identities are regularly emphasised as a key component in understanding how groups gain meaning and purpose (Polletta and Jasper). The identity is generally constructed and reinforced through routine socialisation and collective action. Uniforms are a well-known means of creating collective identities. They restrict one’s clothing choices and use boundary-setting rituals to ensure commitment to the group. In general, the more obvious the restriction, the easier it is to enforce. Demanding obvious behaviours from members, unique to the community, simultaneously generates a differentiation between the members and non-members, while enabling self-enforcement and peer-to-peer judgments of commitment. Leaders of religious movements like cults and NRMs will sometimes step back from the punitive aspects of nonconformity. Instead, it falls to the members to maintain the discipline of the collective (Kelley 109). This further leads to a sense of ownership and therefore belonging to the community. Uniforms are an easy outward-facing signal that allows for ready discrimination of error. Because they are often obvious and distinctive dress, they constrain and often stigmatise members. In other collective situations such as with American gangs, even dedicated members will deny their gang affiliation if it is advantageous to do so (Lauger Real Gangstas). While in uniform, individuals cannot hide their membership, making the sacrifice more costly. Members are forced to take one hundred percent of the ownership and participate wholly, or not at all. Through this mechanism, cults demonstrate the medicalisation of the members. Leaders may want their members to be unable to escape or deny affiliation. Similarly, their external appearances might invite persecution and therefore breed resilience, courage, and solidarity. It is, in essence, a form of manipulation (see for instance Iannaccone). Alternatively, as Melton argues, members may want to be open and proud of their organisation, as displayed through them adopting their uniforms (15). The uniform of cults in popular media is a principal component of medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. The uniform, often robes, offers credence to the medicalisation aspect: members of cults are receiving ‘treatment’ — initially, negative treatment while being brainwashed, and then later helpful/saving treatment when being deprogrammed, providing they survive a mass suicide attempt and/or, criminal, sexual, or violent escapades. Through portraying cult members in a distinctive uniform, there is no doubt for the audience who is receiving or in need of treatment. Many of the cults portrayed on screen can easily communicate the joining of a cult by changing the characters' dress. Similarly, by simply re-dressing the character, it is communicated that the character has returned to normal, they have been saved, they are a survivor. In Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, while three of the four ‘Mole women’ integrate back into society, Gretchen Chalker continues to believe in their cult; as such she never takes of her cult uniform. In addition, the employment of uniforms for cult members in popular culture enables an instant visual recognition of ‘us’ and ‘them’, or ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’, and reinforces stereotypical notions of social order and marginalised, deviant (religious) groups (Neal 83). The clothing differences are obvious in The Simpsons season 9, episode 13, “Joy of Sect”: ‘Movementarian’ members, including the Simpsons, don long flowing robes. The use of cult uniform visualises their fanatical commitment to the group. It sets them apart from the rest of Springfield and society (Neal 88-89). The connection between uniforms and cults derives two seemingly paradoxical meanings. Firstly, it reduces the chances of the audience believing that the cult employed ‘deceptive recruiting’ techniques. As Melton argues, because of the association our society has with uniforms and cults, “it is very hard for someone to join most new religions, given their peculiar dress and worship practices, without knowing immediately its religious nature” (14). As such, within popular media, the presence of the uniform increases the culpability of those who join the cult. Contrarily, the character in uniform is a sign that the person has been manipulated and/or brainwashed. This reduces the culpability of the cult member. However, the two understandings are not necessarily exclusive. It is possible to view the cult member as a naïve victim, someone who approached the cult as an escape from their life but was subsequently manipulated into behaving criminally. This interpretation is particularly powerful because it indicates cults can prey on anyone, and that anyone could become a victim of a cult. This, in turn, heightens the moral panic surrounding cults and NRMs. The on-screen myth of the cult as represented by its uniform has a basis in the real-life history of NRMs. Heaven’s Gate members famously died after they imbibed fatal doses of alcohol and barbiturates to achieve their ‘final exit’. Most members were found laid out on beds covered in purple shrouds, all wearing matching black shirts, black pants, and black and white Nike shoes. The famous photos of Warren Jeffs’s polygamous Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, the subject of Netflix’s Keep Sweet: Pray and Obey, depict multiple women in matching conservative dresses with matching hairstyles gathered around a photo of Jeffs. The image and uniform are a clear influence on the design of Unbreakable’s ‘Mole women’. A prime example of the stereotype of cult uniforms is provided by the Canadian comedy program The Red Green Show when the character Red tells Harold “cults are full of followers, they have no independent thought, they go to these pointless meetings ... they all dress the same” (episode 165). The statement is made while the two main characters Red and Harold are standing in matching outfits. Blurring Nature and Myth Importantly, the success of these shows very much relies on audiences having a shared conception of NRMs and the myth of the cult. This is a curious combination of real and fictional knowledge of the well-publicised controversial events in history. Fictional cults frequently take widely held perspectives of actual religious movements and render them either more absurd or more frightening (Laycock 81). Moreover, the blurring of fictional and non-fictional groups serves to reinforce the sense that all popular culture cults and their real-world counterparts are the same; that they all follow a common script. In this, there is convergence between the fictional and the real. The myth of the cult bleeds from the screen into real life. The Simpsons’ “The Joy of Sect” was televised in the year following the suicide of the 39 members of the Heaven’s Gate group, and the storyline in part was influenced by it. Importantly, as a piercing, satirical critique of middle-class America, the “Joy of Sect” not only parodied traditional and non-traditional religion generally (as well as the ‘cult-like’ following of mass media such as Fox); scholars have shown that it also parodied the ‘cult’ stereotype itself (Feltmate). While Heaven’s Gate influenced to a greater or lesser extent each of the TV shows highlighted thus far, it was also the case that the group incorporated into its eschatology aspects of popular culture linked primarily to science fiction. For example, group members were known to have regularly watched and discussed episodes of Star Trek (Hoffmann and Burke; Sconce), adopting aspects of the show’s vernacular in “attempts to relate to the public” (Gate 163). Words such as ‘away-team’, ‘prime-directive’, ‘hologram’, ‘Captain’, ‘Admiral’, and importantly ‘Red-Alert’ were adopted; the latter, often signalling code-red situations in Star Trek episodes, appeared on the Heaven’s Gate Website in the days just prior to their demise. Importantly, allusions to science fiction and Star Trek were incorporated into the group’s self-styled ‘uniform’ worn during their tragic ritual-suicide. Stitched into the shoulders of each of their uniforms were triangular, Star Trek-inspired patches featuring various celestial bodies along with a tagline signalling the common bond uniting each member: “Heaven’s Gate Away Team” (Sconce). Ironically, with replica patches readily for sale online, and T-shirts and hoodies featuring modified though similar Heaven’s Gate symbolism, this ‘common bond’ has been commodified in such a way as to subvert its original meaning – at least as it concerned ‘cult’ membership in the religious context. The re-integration of cult symbols into popular culture typifies the way we as a society detachedly view the behaviours of cults. The behaviour of cults is anecdotally viewed through a voyeuristic lens, potentially exacerbated by the regular portrayals of cults through parody. Scholars have demonstrated how popular culture has internationally impacted on criminological aspects of society. For instance, there was a noted, international increase in unrealistic expectations of jurors wanting forensic evidence during court cases after the popularity of forensic science in crime dramas (Franzen; Wise). After the arrest of James Davis in Armidale, NSW, Australia, the Sydney Morning Herald reported that Davis was the patriarch of the “House of Cadifor” and he was part of a “cult” (both reported in inverted commas). The article also includes an assumption from Davis's lawyer that, in discussing the women of the group, “the Crown might say ‘they’ve been brainwashed’”. Similarly, the article references the use of matching collars by the women (Mitchell). Nine News reported that the “ex-soldier allegedly forced tattooed, collared sex slave into prostitution”, bringing attention to the clothing as part of the coercive techniques of Davis. While the article does not designate the House of Cadifor as a cult, they include a quote from the Assistant Commissioner Justine Gough, “Mr Davis' group has cult-like qualities”, and included the keyword ‘cults’ for the article. Regrettably, the myth of cults and real-world behaviours of NRMs do not always align, and a false convergence is drawn between the two. Furthermore, the consistent parodying and voyeuristic nature of on-screen cults means we might be at fault of euphemising the crimes and behaviours of those deemed to be part of a ‘cult’. Anecdotally, the way Armidale locals discussed Davis was through a lens of excitement and titillation, as if watching a fictional story unfold in their own backyard. The conversations and news reporting focussed on the cult-like aspects of Davis and not the abhorrence of the alleged crimes. We must remain mindful that the cinematic semiology of cults and the myth as represented by their uniform dress and behaviours is incongruent with the nature of NRMs. However, more work needs to be done to better understand the impact of on-screen cults on real-world attitudes and beliefs. Conclusion The myth of the cult has entered a shared understanding within today’s zeitgeist, and the uniform of the cult stands at its heart as a key sign of the myth. Popular culture plays a key role in shaping this shared understanding by following the cultural script, slowly layering fact with fiction, just as fact begins to incorporate the fiction. The language of the cult as communicated through their uniforms is, we would argue, universally understood and purposeful. The ubiquitous representation of cults portrays a deviant group, often medicalised, and subject to deviance amplification and convergence. When a group of characters is presented to the audience in the same cult dress, we know what is being communicated to us. Fictional cults in popular culture continue to mirror the common list of negative features attributed to many new religious movements. Such fictional framing has come to inform media-consumer attitudes in much the same way as news media, reflecting as they do the cultural stock of knowledge from which our understandings are drawn, and which has little grounding in the direct or immediate experience of the phenomena in question. In short, the nature of NRMs has become confused with the myth of the cult. More research is needed to understand the impact of the myth of the cult. However, it is important to ensure “what-goes-without-saying” is not obfuscating, euphemising, or otherwise misrepresenting nature. References Barthes, Roland. Elements of Semiology. London: Jonathon Cape, 1967. ———. The Fashion System. U of California P, 1990. ———. Mythologies. Trans. 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SCULLY: I said, I got the lab to rush the results of the Szczesny autopsy, if you're interested.MULDER: I heard you, Scully.SCULLY: And Szczesny did indeed drown, but not as the result of the inhalation of ectoplasm as you so vehemently suggested.MULDER: Well, what else could she possibly have drowned in?SCULLY: Margarita mix, upchucked with about 40 ounces of Corcovado Gold tequila which, as it turns out, she and her friends rapidly consumed in the woods while trying to reenact the Blair Witch Project.MULDER: Well, I think that demands a little deeper investigation, don't you?SCULLY: No, I don't.— The X-Files, “All Things” (0717) IntroductionMikel J. Koven argues that “The X-Files [1993-2002, films 2005, 2010, revived 2016-2018] was the American television series that defined the zeitgeist of the 1990s” (337) by tapping into “pre-millenium paranoia and the collapse of traditional beliefs” (338). In each episode, “True Believer” and FBI agent Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) and his partner, the skeptical and rational Dr Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson), travel through a post-Cold War American landscape that is manifesting varying levels of anxiety about the century to come. The series is preoccupied with a series of questions that have, by the second decade of the twenty-first century, come to be answered fairly definitively. Have aliens visited Earth? (Well, if you believe a team of Harvard scientists, maybe [see Freeman], but there is no evidence of alien colonisation just yet.) Does the US government have its citizens’ best interests at heart? (In its current incarnation, no.) Will climate change have monstrous consequences? (Yes, we’re seeing them.) What do we do about the shady forces operating in post-Soviet Union Russia? (God knows, but they seem to be doing a good job of changing the shape of “democracy” in an increasing number of countries.)These broader socio-political aspects of The X-Files have been explored in a number of studies (see Koven; Moses; Wildermuth). In this article, I focus in more closely on some of the ways in which the character of Scully can be read as a complex engagement with a particularly 1990s version of third-wave feminism. I suggest that the type of feminism embodied in the character of Scully taps into the zeitgeist of the 1990s, a decade characterised not only by a growing media-driven “backlash” against feminism (see Faludi), but also by emergent third wave of feminism driven by movements such as “Riot Grrrl” (centred on openly feminist bands like Bikini Kill and Huggy Bear) and the various, and often contested, feminisms endorsed by a new generation of writers like Susan Faludi, Naomi Wolf, and even Katie Roiphe. Part of Scully’s longevity as a feminist icon can be attributed to the fact that while she is not without her own contradictions and complexities, she emerged from a televisual landscape dominated by particularly insipid representations of professional women. Scully, with her combination of lively wit and serious scientific mind, represented a radical imagining of professional femininity in the 1990s.Working against the Backlash: Scully and the Power of ProfessionalismBy the late 1980s, the political gains made by the second-wave feminism in the 1960s and early 1970s had come increasingly under fire in a “backlash” that “worked to revoke the gains made by the feminist movement” (Genz and Brabon 53). L.S. Kim argues this backlash is reflected in the fact that while strong female characters had always been a feature of US television (e.g. Mary Tyler Moore), in the 1990s televisual landscape feminism was often made popular in a type of “postfeminist discourse in which it is acceptable to be pro-woman but not to be feminist” (319). The quintessential example of this trend was David E. Kelley’s series about a Boston lawyer, Ally McBeal (1997-2002), in which McBeal’s primary dilemma is presented as being that she has “too many choices, too much freedom, and too much desire” which leads to “never-ending searching and even to depression and dysfunction” (Kim 319). McBeal’s professional success never seems to compensate for her various romantic disappointments and these remain the focal point of Kelley’s series.Part of what sets Scully apart from a character like McBeal is her unerring professionalism, and her strong commitment to equality in her relationship with Mulder. Scully displays none of McBeal’s neuroses, and she is unapologetically feminist in her disposition. She also understands implicitly the pivotal role she plays in the partnership at the heart of the X-Files. Scully is, then, a capable, professional woman who not only remains professional at all times, but who also works as a powerful grounding force to her partner’s more outlandish approaches and theories. As series creator Chris Carter has been forced to concede on numerous occasions, without the rational and practical figure of Scully in the morgue to (usually) prove and (sometimes) disprove Mulder’s theories, The X-Files as we know them would cease to exist. In fact, and somewhat paradoxically, in order to best understand Scully as a character, one needs to recognise the significance of the relationship between Scully and Mulder that lies at the heart of the series. The sheer force of Scully’s professionalism, and its resistance to being conscripted straightforwardly into a traditional romantic plot, becomes an important contributor to the powerful sexual tension between Mulder and Scully that came to define the series. Scully also, as critics and commentators were quick to point out, takes on the traditionally masculine role of skeptical scientist on the series, with Mulder positioned in the typically feminine role of intuitive “believer” (in, among other things, aliens, Chupacabra, big foot, and psychic powers). There are, of course, problems with this approach, but for now it is enough to simply point out that this positioning of Mulder and Scully is an important feature of the internal structure of The X-Files and speaks to an awareness of, and desire to challenge, the traditional association of women with intuition and men with rationality. Indeed, Linda Badley points out that the relationship between the two agents is “remarkably egalitarian, challenging traditional gender roles as portrayed on television” (63).Scully and Mulder’s relationship, a relationship that is at once personal and professional, is also grounded in genuine equality and respect. Mulder never undermines Scully, he (occasionally) knows when to bow to her superior scientific reasoning, and his eventual love for his partner is based in his understanding that Scully’s skepticism offers the perfect counterpart to his openness to the paranormal. In fact, one might say that Mulder, at least in part, falls in love with Scully’s professionalism and with her commitment to scientific reasoning. Mulder admits as much himself in the film The X-Files: Fight the Future (1998): “as difficult and frustrating as it’s been sometimes, your goddamn strict rationalism and science have saved me a thousand times over. You kept me honest. You made me a whole person.” In this calculation, Scully is not only Mulder’s equal, she is his missing piece. While she might sometimes grumble about merely playing Watson to Mulder’s Holmes (see “Fight Club” [0720]), Scully’s role is much more important than this, and Mulder (and the viewer) knows it.In the context of the televisual landscape of the 1990s, this representation of Scully as a character who is every bit as intelligent and as integral to the action of the series as her male partner, was incredibly powerful. It marked Scully as a third-wave feminist character in an era dominated by women who seemed to conform to the kind of problematic post-feminism embodied by Ally McBeal. In a recent interview, Gillian Anderson acknowledged the significant role Scully played in opening up possibilities for the representation of women on television in the 1990s. She observed, “a lot of women felt that they saw something recognisable for the first time [in Scully and] there were a lot of young women whose eyes were opened to feeling like they were finally represented in some way on television” (Anderson in Idato n.p.) Many women saw themselves in this character, and there can be little doubt The X-Files spearheaded a shift towards a more representative approach to the writing of female roles in US television in which layered and complex characters such as Scully became the norm rather than the exception. Rosalind Gill, for example, notes that “quality television” has “evolved since the 1990s into a site of rich and complex representations of gender including Homeland, Veep, House of Cards, Orange is the New Black, Transparent, and The Good Wife” (620).One of the other pervasive positive effects associated with the character of Scully is that she functioned, and indeed continues to function, as a role model for women in STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics). A recent report commissioned by 21st Century Fox, the Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media, and J. Walter Thompson Intelligence found that “Scully’s media depiction of a high-achieving woman in STEM asked a generation of girls and women to imagine new professional options… Scully also influenced a generation of young women to study and pursue careers in STEM” (3). Although this report is not entirely impartial (21th Century Fox owns The X-Files), it found that “among women who are familiar with Scully’s character, 91% say she is a role model for girls and women” (5). This finding tallies with those of a variety of earlier online observers who noticed Scully had become a touchstone character “who inspired an entire generation of young women to pursue medical, scientific, and law enforcement degrees as positions” (Consalvi). To an extent not seen before in the history of television, Scully became an important role model for young women in the STEM professions. Scully’s fictional professionalism helped to create a new generation of real-life female STEM professionals.But it is worth remembering that in other respects, Scully is a complicated feminist heroine. This is largely because The X-Files’ production team’s own feminist credentials were often less-than-inspiring. The series was created by a man, and was written and directed predominantly by men in all of its various filmic and televisual incarnations. As Anderson herself pointed out on her Twitter feed for 29 June 2017, of the 207 episodes of X-Files produced, only 2 were directed by women (fig. 1). Famously, when the X-Files began in the early 1990s, Anderson was paid far less than her co-star Duchovny and was even asked to stand behind him on camera. The actor agitated successfully for equal pay after three years in the role, and for the right to stand beside her televisual partner, rather than behind him, even if, somewhat astonishingly, Twenty First Century Fox also offered Anderson less than Duchovny to reprise her famous role in 2016. (Anderson eventually received equal pay for equal billing.)Fig. 1: Gillian Anderson tweet, 29 June 2017.It ought to be remembered, then, that Scully’s feminism is predominantly a construction of men, overlaid with the undoubted feminine empowerment brought to the role by Anderson. As far back as 1998, Linda Badley noticed that for Scully/Anderson “the transference of ‘feminist’ characteristics between character and star is unusually strong—to the extent that a discussion of one must refer to the other. And Anderson/Scully is instantly recognisable as an icon of popular feminism” (62). But in more recent years, Anderson has made even clearer her own feminist leanings. She has done this through the publication (with Jennifer Nadel) of the explicitly feminist We: The Uplifting Manuel for Women Seeking Happiness (2017); by taking up more explicitly feminist roles, such as that of Stella Gibson in the acclaimed BBC series The Fall (2013-present); and through her Twitter feed. The significance of Anderson’s online feminist presence is highlighted by Lauren Modery, who notes: “the next time you’re having a day where you’re not sure if you’re being the best feminist you can be, just ask yourself “what would Gillian Anderson do?” and go to her Twitter account” (Modery). Scully’s 1990s Feminism in a Twenty-First Century ContextFor much of the series, Scully’s feminism can be viewed as a form of the “New Feminism” that Stephanie Genz and Benjamin Brabon associate with the late 1990s and with Natasha Walter’s book The New Feminism (1998). This “New Feminism” attempts to break from second-wave feminism by decoupling the personal from the political (64). Badley, for example, points out that Scully’s feminism is strictly based on individual empowerment: “rather than challenge patriarchy directly or join forces with women activists, Scully channels her anger/ambition into fitting into the system” (70). But equally, Scully’s feminism could be seen as a prototype of the kind of “neo-liberal” feminism that theorists such as Angela McRobbie associate with the present moment, a feminism which “discards the older, welfarist and collectivist feminism of the past, in favour of individualist striving” (4). Certainly, over the course of the 25 years, The X-Files has been in existence, we have seen little evidence that Scully has female friends (or indeed, that she interacts with anyone much outside of Mulder and her family).When other women do enter the picture, such as when Mulder’s one-time lover and co-founder of the X-Files, Diana Fowley appears in the fifth season of the series (see “The End” [0520]), Scully is often positioned in an antagonistic relationship with them. In this context, it is notable that “All Things,” a seventh-season episode directed and written by Anderson, places Scully’s interaction with Colleen Azar, a woman from the American Taoist Healing Centre, at the centre of the narrative. Azar’s exhortations to Scully to “slow down” are presented as the wise words of a female ally in this episode, and Scully does well to heed them. This episode, consciously I think, works as a counter to the more typical representation of Scully as being in competition with women for Mulder’s interest, evident in episodes like “Alpha” (0616) and “Syzygy” (0313). In this respect, Anderson appears to be aligning Scully with a feminism that is much more inclusive than it appears in other, male-written, episodes.From the vantage point of the second decade of the twenty-first century, one of the more problematic elements The X-Files has to do with its representation of sex and sexuality. Sex, in the world of The X-Files, is very 1990s in orientation. In fact, it echoes the way in which sex operated in the Clinton impeachment: denial, denial, denial, even in the face of clear evidence it took place. We see this most obviously in “All Things,” which begins with a shot of Scully getting dressed in front of a mirror, that pans to a shot of an undressed Mulder in bed. This opening seems to suggest the two had spent the night together, but nothing overtly sexual actually takes place in the episode. Indeed, any sexual activity that ever takes place in the X-Files happens off camera, but it is nonetheless worth pointing out that while the equally solitary Mulder is repeatedly characterised in the series by his porn fetish, Scully’s sexuality is repeatedly denied or diminished in the series. Moreover, any overt expression of Scully’s sexuality (such as in “Milagro,” [0618] where she falls for a writer living next door to Mulder) typically ends badly, with Scully placed in peril by her sexual desires.Scully’s continued presence in the twenty-first century, however, means that while her character is rooted in what we might call a “1990s feminist disposition” (she prides herself on being a “woman in a man’s world”; she demonstrates little interest in stereotypically feminine pursuits such as shopping or make up; her focus is on work, rather than romance), she has also been allowed the room to grow and develop. Perhaps most notably, the 2018 Scully is allowed to embrace her sexuality. Sexual activity still appears off screen, of course, but in “Plus One” (1103), we see her actively pursue sex with Mulder (twice!), while her vibrator makes an unapologetic cameo appearance in “Rm9sbG93ZXJz” (1107). Given that we live in a decade saturated in sexual imagery, it makes no sense for 2018 Scully to be as chaste and buttoned up as she was in the 1990s.Finally, in a series in which the wild speculation of the conspiracy theories is almost always true, Scully’s feminist commitment to rationality, science and the power of logic might appear to be undermined at every turn. Badley, for example, reminds us that while Scully may “have medicine and the law on her side ... Mulder’s vision is validated by Chris Carter, as the prologue to nearly every episode reminds us” (67). This is highlighted in “Field Trip” (0621) when Scully wonders, “Mulder, can’t you just for once, just ... for the novelty of it, come up with the simplest explanation, the most logical one instead of automatically jumping to UFOs or Bigfoot or…” Mulder simply counters with:Scully, in six years, how … how often have I been wrong? No seriously, I mean, every time I bring you a case we go through this perfunctory dance. You tell me that I’m not being scientifically rigorous and that I’m off my nut, and then in the end who turns out to be right like 98.95 of the time? I just think I’ve ... earned the benefit of the doubt here.Interestingly enough, however, it is Scully who solves the mystery at the heart of this particular episode of X-Files—Mulder and Scully are indeed trapped inside a giant fungus, being slowly digested by its gooey secretions.And while Mulder’s viewpoint is most often endorsed in the series, the chaos of the Trump administration illustrates perfectly the dangers behind the valorisation of the irrational over the rational. In a decade in which rationality itself is coming under increasing threat—by “fake news”; through a hostility towards the science of climate change; in the desire to wind back further the gains of the feminist movement—we need to remember the importance of the strong and abiding relationship between rationality and feminism. This is a relationship that goes at least as far back as Mary Wollstonecraft’s (1759-1797) Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), is at the heart of the feminist gothic writings of women like Ann Radcliffe (1764-1823) and Mary Shelley (1797-1851). This commitment to the power of rationality lives on in the character of Dana Scully.Conclusion: Scully as Twenty-First-Century Feminist IconI have argued throughout this article that there are limitations of the kind of feminism embodied in Scully, but it is clear that she has come to represent a type of woman who refuses to let men dictate her behaviour, and who maintains her professionalism even under the most difficult of circumstances. A host of Scully memes now circulating on the web celebrate the character’s competence, intelligence, and compassion (figs. 2, 3, and 4). The character of Scully now exists far beyond the confines of the television screen and the imaginations of her predominantly male authors. Scully’s continuing relevance to twenty-first century feminists is reflected in this meme recently placed by Anderson on her Twitter account in response to the allegations of sexual misconduct directed at US Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanagh (fig. 5). Rarely have the 1990s seemed so relevant to the present moment.Fig. 2: Scully meme, Meme Generator.Fig. 3: Rustnsplinters, “Scully Motivational.” Deviant Art.Fig. 4: E.H. Redlum, “Scully: Meme Style.” Deviant Art.Fig. 5: Gillian Anderson tweet.ReferencesBadley, Linda. “Scully Hits the Glass Ceiling: Postmodernism, Postfeminism, Posthumanism, and The X-Files.” Fantasy Girls: Gender in the New Universe of Science Fiction and Fantasy Television. Ed. Elyce Rae Helford. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000. 61-90.Consalvi, Sydney. “The Scully Effect Continues: How The X-Files’ Dana Scully Changed Television Forever.” Odyssey. 9 Aug. 2016. 1 Dec. 2018 <https://www.theodysseyonline.com/scully-effect>.Faludi, Susan. Backlash: The Undeclared War against Women. London: Vintage, 1991.Freeman, David. “Scientists Say Mysterious ‘Oumuamua’ Object Could Be an Alien Spacecraft: Harvard Researchers Raise the Possibility That It’s a Probe Sent by Extraterrestrials.” NBCNews.com. 6 Nov. 2018. 1 Dec. 2018 <https://www.nbcnews.com/mach/science/scientists-say-mysterious-oumuamua-object-could-be-alien-spacecraft-ncna931381>.Genz, Stéphanie, and Benjamin A. Brabon. Postfeminism: Cultural Texts and Theories. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2009.Gill, Rosalind. “Post-Postfeminism? New Feminist Visibilities in Postfeminist Times.” Feminist Media Studies 16.4 (2016): 610-30.Idato, Michael. “Gillian Anderson on Why She’s Closing The X-Files after 25 Years.” The Sydney Morning Herald. 15 Jan. 2018. 1 Dec. 2018 <https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/tv-and-radio/times-up-gillian-anderson-on-why-shes-closing-the-xfiles-after-25-years-20180115-h0iapf.html>.Kim, L.S. “‘Sex and the Single Girl’ in Postfeminism: The F Word on Television.” Television and New Media 2.4 (Nov. 2001): 319-334.Koven, Mikel J. “The X-Files.” Essential Cult TV Reader. Ed. David Lavery. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 2010. 337-343.McRobbie, Angela. “Notes on the Perfect: Competitive Femininity in Neoliberal Times.” Australian Feminist Studies 30:83 (2015): 3-20.Modery, Lauren. “Gillian Anderson Is the Feminist Twitter Hero We Need Right Now.” Birth. Movies. Death. 25 Jan. 2018. 1 Dec. 2018 <https://birthmoviesdeath.com/2018/01/25/gillian-anderson-is-the-feminist-twitter-hero-we-need-right-now>.Moses, Michael Valdez. “Kingdom of Darkness: Autonomy and Conspiracy in The X-Files and Millenium.” The Philosophy of TV Noir. Eds. Steven M. Sanders and Aeon J. Skoble. Lexington: U. of Kentucky P., 2008. 203-228.21stCentury Fox, the Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media, and J. Walter Thompson Intelligence. The ‘Scully Effect’: I Want to Believe… in STEM. 2018. <https://impact.21cf.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/ScullyEffectReport_21CF_1-1.pdf>.Wildermuth, Mark E. Gender, Science Fiction Television, and the American Security State: 1958-Present. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014.X-Files: Fight the Future. Dir. Rob Bowman. Perf. Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. 20th Century Fox. 1998.

Introduction Ever-enduring advancements in science and technology promise to offer solutions to problems or simply to make life a bit easier. However, not every advancement has only positive effects, but can also have undesired, negative ramifications. This article will take a closer look at Deus Ex: Human Revolution (DXHR), a dystopian video game which promises to put players in the position of deciding whether the science of human enhancement is a way to try to play God, or whether it enables us “to become the Gods we’ve always been striving to be” (Eidos Montreal, “Deus Ex: Human Revolution”). In this article I will argue that DXHR creates a space in which players can virtually witness future technologies for human performance enhancement without the need to alter their own bodies. DXHR is special particularly in two respects: first, the developers have achieved a high credibility and scientific realism of the enhancement technologies depicted in the game which can be described as being “diegetic prototypes” (Kirby, “The Future Is Now ” 43); second, the game directly invites players to reflect upon the impact and morality of human enhancement. It does so through a story in line with the cyberpunk genre, which envisions not only the potential benefits of an emergent technology, but has an even stronger focus on the negative contingencies. The game and its developers foresee a near-future society that is split into two fractions due to human enhancement technologies which come in the form of neuro-implants and mechanical prosthetics; and they foresee a near-future setting in which people are socially and economically forced to undergo enhancement surgery in order to keep up with the augmented competition. DXHR is set in the year 2027 and the player takes control of Adam Jensen, an ex-SWAT police officer who is now the chief of security of Sarif Industries, one of the world's leading biotechnology companies that produce enhancement technologies. Augmented terrorists attack Sarif Industries, abduct the head scientists, and nearly kill Jensen. Jensen merely survives because his boss puts him through enhancement surgery, which replaces many parts of his body with mechanical augmentations. In the course of the game it becomes clear that Jensen has been augmented beyond any life-saving necessity that grants him superhuman abilities and allows him to find and defeat the terrorists, but the augmentations also challenge his humanity. Is Jensen a human, a cyborg, or has he become more machine than man? DXHR grants players the illusion of immersion into a virtual world in which augmentations exist as a matter of fact and in which a certain level of control can be practiced. Players take up the role of a character distinctly more powerful and capable than the person in control, exceeding the limits of human abilities. The superior abilities are a result of scientific and technological advancements implying that every man or woman is able to attain the same abilities by simply acquiring augmentations. Thus, with the help of the playable character, Adam Jensen, the game lets players experience augmentations without any irreparable damages done to their bodies, but the experience will leave a lasting impression on players regarding the science of human enhancement. The experience with augmentations happens through and benefits from the effect of “virtual witnessing”: The technology of virtual witnessing involves the production in a reader’s mind of such an image of an experimental scene as obviates the necessity for either direct witness or replication. Through virtual witnessing the multiplication of witnesses could be, in principle, unlimited. (Shapin and Schaffer 60) In other words, simply by reading about and/or seeing scientific advancements, audiences can witness them without having to be present at the site of creation. The video game, hereby, is itself the medium of virtual witnessing whereby audiences can experience scientific advancements. Nevertheless, the video game is not just about reading or seeing potential future enhancement technologies, but permits players to virtually test-drive augmentations—to actually try out three-dimensionally rendered prototypes on a virtual body. In order to justify this thesis, a couple of things need to be clarified that explain in which ways the virtual witnessing of fictional enhancements in DXHR is a valid claim. Getting into the Game First I want to briefly describe how I investigated the stated issue. I have undertaken an auto-ethnography (Ellis, Adams, and Bochner) of DXHR, which concretely means that I have analytically played DXHR in an explorative fashion (Aarseth) trying to discover as many elements on human enhancement that the game has to offer. This method requires not only close observation of the virtual environment and documentation through field notes and screenshots, but also self-reflection of the actions that I chose to take and that were offered to me in the course of the game. An essential part of analytically playing a game is to be aware that the material requires “the activity of an actual player in order to be accessible for scrutiny” (Iversen), and that the player’s input fundamentally shapes the gaming experience (Juul 42). The meaning of the game is contingent upon the contribution of the player, especially in times in which digital games grant players more and more freedom in terms of narrative construction. In contrast to traditional narrative, the game poses an active challenge to the player which entails the need to become better in relation to the game’s mechanics and hence “studying games … implies interacting with the game rules and exploring the possibilities created by these rules, in addition to studying the graphical codes or the narration that unfolds” (Malliet). It is important to highlight that, although the visual representation of human enhancement technologies has an enormous potential impact on the player’s experience, it is not the only crucial element. Next to the representational shell, the core of the game, i.e. “how game rules and interactions with game objects and other players are structured” (Mäyrä 165), shapes the virtual witnessing of the augmentations in just an important way. Finally, the empirical material that was collected was analyzed and interpreted with the help of close-reading (Bizzocchi and Tanenbaum 395). In addition to the game itself, I have enriched my empirical material with interviews of developers of the game that are partly freely available on the Internet, and with the promotional material such as the trailers and a website (Eidos Montreal, “Sarif Industries”) that was released prior to the game. Sociotechnical Imaginaries In this case study of DXHR I have not only investigated how augmented bodies and enhancement technologies are represented in this specific video game, but also attempted to uncover which “sociotechnical imaginaries” (Jasanoff and Kim) underlie the game and support the virtual witnessing experience. Sociotechnical imaginaries are defined as “collectively imagined forms of social life and social order reflected in the design and fulfillment of nation-specific scientific and/or technological projects” (Jasanoff and Kim 120). The concept appeared to be suitable for this study as it covers and includes “promises, visions and expectations of future possibilities” (Jasanoff and Kim 122) of a technology as well as “implicit understandings of what is good or desirable in the social world writ large” (Jasanoff and Kim 122–23). The game draws upon several imaginaries of human enhancement. For example, the most basic imaginary in the game is that advanced engineered prosthetics and implants will be able to not only remedy dysfunctional parts of the human body, but will be able to upgrade these. Apart from this idea, the two prevailing sociotechnical imaginaries that forward the narrative can be subsumed as the transhumanist and the purist imaginary. The latter views human enhancement, with the help of science and technology, as unnatural and as a threat to humanity particularly through the power that it grants to individuals, while the former transports the opposing view. Transhumanism is: the intellectual and cultural movement that affirms the possibility and desirability of fundamentally improving the human condition through applied reason, especially by developing and making widely available technologies to eliminate aging and to greatly enhance human intellectual, physical, and psychological capacities. (Chrislenko et al.) The transhumanist imaginary in the game views technological development of the body as another step in the human evolution, not as something abhorrent to nature, but a fundamental human quality. Similar ideas can be found in the writings of Sigmund Freud and Arnold Gehlen, who both view the human being’s need to improve as part of its culture. Gehlen described the human as a “Mängelwesen”—a ‘deficient’ creature—who is, in contrast to other species, not specialized to a specific environment, but has the ability to adapt to nearly every situation because of this deficiency (Menne, Trutwin, and Türk). Freud even denoted the human as a “Prothesengott”—a god of prostheses: By means of all his tools, man makes his own organs more perfect—both the motor and the sensory—or else removes the obstacles in the way of their activity. Machinery places gigantic power at his disposal which, like his muscles, he can employ in any direction; ships and aircraft have the effect that neither air nor water can prevent his traversing them. With spectacles he corrects the defects of the lens in his own eyes; with telescopes he looks at far distances; with the microscope he overcomes the limitations in visibility due to the structure of his retina. (Freud 15) Returning to DXHR, how do the sociotechnical imaginaries matter for the player? Primarily, the imaginaries cannot be avoided as they pervade nearly every element in the game, from the main story that hinges upon human enhancement over the many optional side missions, to contextual elements such as a conference on “the next steps in human evolution” (Eidos Montreal, “Deus Ex: Human Revolution”). Most importantly, it impacts the player’s view in a crucial way. Human enhancement technologies are presented as controversial, neither exclusively good nor bad, which require reflection and perhaps even legal regulation. In this way, DXHR can be seen as offering the player a restricted building set of sociotechnical imaginaries of human enhancement, whereby the protagonist, Adam Jensen, becomes the player’s vessel to construct one’s own individual imaginary. In the end the player is forced to choose one of four outcomes to complete the game, and this choice can be quite difficult to make. Anticipation of the Future It is not unusual for video games to feature futuristic technologies that do not exist in the real world, but what makes DXHR distinct from others is that the developers have included an extent of information that goes beyond any game playing necessity (see Figures 1 & 2). Moreover, the information is not fictional but the developers have taken strategic steps to make it credible. Mary DeMarle, the narrative designer, explained at the San Diego Comic-Con in 2011, that a timeline of augmentation was created during the production phase in which the present state of technology was extrapolated into the future. In small incremental steps the developers have anticipated which enhancement technologies might be potentially feasible by the year 2027. Their efforts were supported by the science consultant, Will Rosellini, who voluntarily approached the development team to help. Being a neuroscientist, he could not have been a more fitting candidate for the job as he is actively working and researching in the biotechnology sector. He has co-founded two companies, MicroTransponder Inc., which produces tiny implantable wireless devices to interface with the nervous system to remedy diseases (see Rosellini’s presentation at the 2011 Comic-Con) and Rosellini Scientific, which funds, researches and develops advanced technological healthcare solutions (Rosellini; Rosellini Scientific). Due to the timeline which has been embedded explicitly and implicitly, no augmentation appears as a disembodied technology without history in the game. For example, although the protagonist wears top-notch military arm prostheses that appear very human-like, this prosthesis is depicted as one of the latest iterations and many non-playable characters possess arm prostheses that appear a lot older, cruder and more industrial than those of Jensen. Furthermore, an extensive description employing scientific jargon for each of the augmentations can be read on the augmentation overview screen, which includes details about the material composition and bodily locations of the augmentations. Figure 1: More Info Section of the Cybernetic Arm Prosthesis as it appears in-game (all screenshots taken with permission from Deus Ex: Human Revolution (2011), courtesy of Eidos Montreal) More details are provided through eBooks, which are presented in the form of scientific articles or conference proceedings, for which the explorative gamer is also rewarded with valuable experience points upon finding which are used to activate and upgrade augmentations. The eBooks also reflect the timeline as each eBook is equipped with a year of publication between 2001 and 2022. Despite the fact that these articles have been supposedly written by a fictional character, the information is authentic and taken from actual scientific research papers, whereby some of these articles even include a proper scientific citation. Figure 2: Example of a Darrow eBook The fact that a scientist was involved in the production of the game allows classifying the augmentations as “diegetic prototypes” which are “cinematic depictions of future technologies … that demonstrate to large public audiences a technology’s need, benevolence and viability” (“The Future Is Now” 43). Diegetic prototypes are fictional, on-screen depictions of technologies that do not exist in that form in real life and have been created with the help of a science consultant. They have been placed in movies to allay anxieties and doubts and perhaps to even provoke a longing in audiences to see depicted technologies become reality (Kirby, “The Future Is Now” 43). Of course the aesthetic appearance of the prototypes has an impact on audiences’s desire, and particularly the artificial arms of Jensen that have been designed in an alluring fashion as can be seen in the following figure: Figure 3: Adam Jensen and arm prosthesis An important fact about diegetic prototypes—and about prototypes (see Suchman, Trigg, and Blomberg) in general—is that they are put to specific use and are embedded and presented in an identifiable social context. Technological objects in cinema are at once both completely artificial—all aspects of their depiction are controlled—and normalized as practical objects. Characters treat these technologies as a ‘natural’ part of their landscape and interact with these prototypes as if they are everyday parts of their world. … fictional characters are ‘socializing’ technological artifacts by creating meanings for the audience, ‘which is tantamount to making the artifacts socially relevant’. (Kirby, “Lab Coats” 196) The power of DXHR is that the diegetic prototypes—the augmentations—are not only based on real world scientific developments and contextualized in a virtual social space, but that the player has the opportunity to handle the augmentations. Virtual Testing Virtual witnessing of the not-yet-existent augmentations is supported by scientific descriptions, articles, and the appearance of the technologies in DXHR, but the moral and ethical engagement is established by the player’s ability to actively use the augmentations and by the provision of choice how to use them. As mentioned, most of the augmentations are inactive and must first be activated by accumulating and spending experience points on them. This requires the player to make reflections on the potential usage and how a particular augmentation will lead to the successful completion of a mission. This means that the player has to constantly decide how s/he wants to play the game. Do I want to be able to hack terminals and computers or do I rather prefer getting mission-critical information by confronting people in conversation? Do I want to search for routes where I can avoid enemy detection or do I rather prefer taking the direct route through the enemy lines with heavy guns in hands? This recurring reflection of which augmentation to choose and their continuous usage throughout the game causes the selected augmentations to become valuable and precious to the player because they transform from augmentations into frequently used tools that facilitate challenge and reduce difficulty of certain situations. In addition, the developers have ensured that no matter which approach is taken, it will always lead to success. This way the role-playing elements of the game are accentuated and each player will construct their own version of Jensen. However, it may be argued that DXHR goes beyond mere character building. There is a breadth of information and opinions on human enhancement offered, but also choices that are made invite players to reflect upon the topic of human enhancement. Among the most conspicuous instances in the game, that involve the player’s choice, are the conversations with other non-playable characters. These are events in the game which require the player to choose one out of three responses for Jensen, and hence, these determine to some extent Jensen’s attitude towards human enhancement. Thus, in the course of the game players might discover their own conviction and might compose their own imaginary of human enhancement. Conclusion This article has explored that DXHR enables players to experience augmentations without being modified themselves. The game is filled with various sociotechnical imaginaries of prosthetic and neurological human enhancement technologies. The relevance of these imaginaries is increased by a high degree of credibility as a science consultant has ensured that the fictional augmentations are founded upon real world scientific advancements. The main story, and much of the virtual world, hinge upon the existence and controversy of these sorts of technologies. Finally, the medium ‘videogame’ allows taking control of an individual, who is heavily augmented with diegetic prototypes of future enhancement technologies, and it also allows using and testing the increased abilities in various situations and challenges. All these elements combined enable players to virtually witness not-yet-existent, future augmentations safely in the present without the need to undertake any alterations of their own bodies. This, in addition to the fact that the technologies are depicted in an appealing fashion, may create a desire in players to see these augmentations become reality. Nevertheless, DXHR sparks an important incentive to critically think about the future of human enhancement technologies.References Aarseth, Espen. “Playing Research: Methodological Approaches to Game Analysis.” DAC Conference, Melbourne, 2003. 14 Apr. 2013 ‹http://hypertext.rmit.edu.au/dac/papers/Aarseth.pdf›. Bizzocchi, J., and J. Tanenbaum. “Mass Effect 2: A Case Study in the Design of Game Narrative.” Bulletin of Science, Technology & Society 32.5 (2012): 393-404. Chrislenko, Alexander, et al. “Transhumanist FAQ.” humanity+. 2001. 18 July 2013 ‹http://humanityplus.org/philosophy/transhumanist-faq/#top›. Eidos Montreal. “Deus Ex: Human Revolution.” Square Enix. 2011. PC. ———. “Welcome to Sarif Industries: Envisioning a New Future.” 2011. 14 Apr. 2013 ‹http://www.sarifindustries.com›. Ellis, Carolyn, Tony E. Adams, and Arthur P. Bochner. “Autoethnography: An Overview.” Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung 12.1 (2010): n. pag. 9 July 2013 ‹http://www.qualitative-research.net/index.php/fqs/article/view/1589/3095›. Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and Its Discontents. Aylesbury, England: Chrysoma Associates Limited, 1929. Iversen, Sara Mosberg. “In the Double Grip of the Game: Challenge and Fallout 3.” Game Studies 12.2 (2012): n. pag. 5 Feb. 2013 ‹http://gamestudies.org/1202/articles/in_the_double_grip_of_the_game›. Jasanoff, Sheila, and Sang-Hyun Kim. “Containing the Atom: Sociotechnical Imaginaries and Nuclear Power in the United States and South Korea.” Minerva 47.2 (2009): 119–146. Juul, Jesper. “A Clash between Game and Narrative.” MA thesis. U of Copenhagen, 1999. 29 May 2013 ‹http://www.jesperjuul.net/thesis/›. Kirby, David A. Lab Coats in Hollywood. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2011. ———. “The Future Is Now : Diegetic Prototypes and the Role of Popular Films in Generating Real-World Technological Development.” Social Studies of Science 40.1 (2010): 41-70. Malliet, Steven. “Adapting the Principles of Ludology to the Method of Video Game Content Analysis Content.” Game Studies 7.1 (2007): n. pag. 28 May 2013 ‹http://gamestudies.org/0701/articles/malliet›. Mäyrä, F. An Introduction to Game Studies. London: Sage, 2008. Menne, Erwin, Werner Trutwin, and Hans J. Türk. Philosophisches Kolleg Band 4 Anthropologie. Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1986. Rosellini, Will, and Mary DeMarle. “Deus Ex: Human Revolution.” Comic Con. San Diego, 2011. Panel. Rosellini Scientific. “Prevent. Restore. Enhance.” 2013. 25 May 2013 ‹http://www.roselliniscientific.com›. Shapin, Steven, and Simon Schaffer. Leviathan and the Air Pump: Hobbes, Boyle and the Experimental Life. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985. Suchman, Lucy, Randall Trigg, and Jeanette Blomberg. “Working Artefacts: Ethnomethods of the Prototype.” The British Journal of Sociology 53.2 (2002): 163-79. Image Credits All screenshots taken with permission from Deus Ex: Human Revolution (2011), courtesy of Eidos Montreal.

Voice synthesising software Vocaloid (Yamaha Corporation) is a popular tool for professional and amateur music production. At the time of writing, there are over 770,000 videos tagged ‘vocaloid’ on Niconico; karaoke chain Karatez displays the top five thousand tracks on its Website (Karatetsu); Hatsune Miku Wiki has over 59,000 pages, while the Vocaloid Lyrics Wiki has over 90,000. Vocaloid is part of Japan’s unique media mix, comprising of the software and music but also official collaborations and a significant amount of fan culture. However, while there is academic research on the way that Vocaloid music is produced and consumed (Sousa; Hamasaki et al.; Leavitt et al.; Kobayashi and Taguchi), there is a lack of research into the content of Vocaloid songs and music videos: that is, what kinds of themes and messages are present and what this might suggest for producers and consumers. This article highlights the importance of the content of Vocaloid music. To this end, I have focussed on Vocaloid composer/producer Neru’s 2018 album CYNICISM. Not to be confused with the Vocaloid Akita Neru, Neru’s music tends to focus on negative affect such as depression, loneliness, and anxiety. Documenting such themes helps to illustrate some of the struggles that producers and consumers experience. I provide a brief explanation of Vocaloid, followed by a reflection on their personas and functioning as a Body without Organs (Annett; Lam; Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-Oedipus). Then I introduce Small’s concept of musicking to provide a framework for the way that music transmits certain affects. In the second half of the article, I unpack Neru’s album and its use of imagery, lyrics, and sound. Vocaloids Voice synthesising software Vocaloid was initially released in 2004, the result of a collaboration between Japan’s Yamaha Corporation and Spain’s Pompeu Fabra University (Voctro Labs; Yamada 17). This software allows the user to create singing audio, drawing from recordings of real people called “voicebanks”. These voicebanks are produced by third-party companies, and are typically provided with a persona with an appearance and personality. For instance, the most well-known Vocaloid is Hatsune Miku, while Kagamine Rin and Kagamine Len are those most used by Neru. Essentially anyone who uses the Vocaloid software can become producers – the term used in Vocaloid cultures for composer. Vocaloid is an example of Japan’s “unique media mix”, where the media are produced not just by “the original company”, but also via “commercial collaborations with media franchises”, and “by a creative collective of individuals on the internet” (Leavitt et al. 204 & 211; see also Steinberg). As well as producers there are songwriters, lyricists, tuners, illustrators, and animators. Some people edit Vocaloid videos, creating compilations, ranking them, and so on (Hamasaki et al. 166). There is also a vibrant fan culture of database managers, fan translators, artists, and fiction writers, as well as human cover artists (utaite), such as Mafumafu, who became popular in part due to his covers of Neru’s music. Official corporate production mostly involves Hatsune Miku, and includes concerts, video games, and collaborations for consumer products. Such branding and collaboration illustrates the creation of a complex Vocaloid narrative. Accordingly, most researchers who examine Vocaloid discuss the complex relationships between various content creators and their methods of collaboration (Yamada), as well as Vocaloid as fan-generated media, examining issues such as commercial interest and exploitation (Bell; Sousa; Jørgensen et al.; To; Kobayashi and Taguchi). However, in this article I am interested in why fans strongly enjoy Vocaloid music and find meaning in it; as I will explore below, such fan collaboration is both a symptom and a cause. Personas and Bodies without Organs Although Vocaloid has a crowd-sourced and collaborative production environment, its use of digital voicebanks and significant consumer culture has led to criticism. For instance, Lam (1110–11) describes voicebanks as being “devoid of originality”, suggests that “all Vocaloid works are derivative”, and also that Vocaloid simply allows users “to indulge … within the virtual space of fabricated authenticity and depthlessness”. However, it is evident from comments on Niconico, YouTube, Reddit, the aforementioned Wikis, Vocaloid Discord servers, and any other space where fans socialise that listeners are emotionally moved by Vocaloid music. Zaborowski, for instance, describes two Japanese boys enthusiastically singing to ryo/Supercell’s Melt. Strikingly, Zaborowski (107) noted that the boys repeatedly told him that “precisely because the voice is the same, the listener can appreciate the quality of the melody and the lyrics”, and that a Vocaloid “sounds different when you are sad. Or when you are away from home”. Listeners are experiencing something when they engage with Vocaloid music, and it would be hasty to simply dismiss their experiences as “depthless”. One factor that makes Vocaloid music particularly authentic and affective for its audiences is the attachment of crowdsourced, constructed personas to Vocaloids. Authenticity here is not necessarily evaluated by the virtual nature of the artist (or instrument) itself, but the producers’ effort to create the work (Zaborowski 107). In this sense there is a need to consider the people involved in producing and listening to Vocaloid music, who find meaning in the songs and characters. Aside from Vocaloids, producers and utaite often also establish a character or imagery as a persona. Neru for instance is recognisable through his avatar—a closed eye with eyelashes and a single tear, and the various characters featured in his videos. The practice of creating a persona for non-human items is unique to Japanese culture, visible in the way that yuru kyara or “wobbly characters” are created to represent entities such as events, corporations, locations, policies, and so on (Occhi 77). These characters can be human-like or creature-like, drawing on Shinto’s anthropomorphism (Jensen and Blok 97). Kyara help minimise the separation between humans and nature, as well as humans and technology (Occhi 80–81). The attachment of kyara to voicebanks, which would otherwise have no face, helps to facilitate a sense of humanisation and connection with the software. It may be that the synthetic nature of the music as well as the use of personas in Vocaloid music means that the listener feels that the song is sung by the Vocaloid, but also processes the creator’s emotion. Kenmochi (4), for instance, suggests that since synthetic voices hold less emotion, it is the persona that functions as a symbol to connect the creator and listener. The producer is able to “impose their own values and perceptions on the virtual character” (Lam 1111), and in doing so, the persona functions as what Deleuze and Guattari call a Body without Organs (Anti-Oedipus 9; A Thousand Plateaus 151). That is, the persona has “no fixed identity” (Lam 1117), and can stratify or destratify, depending on what people do with it (Annett 172). They can become whatever the listener or creator wants, and so there is an emotional connection. Vocaloid music is meaningful to listeners, then, not despite its digital, virtual, constructed nature, but in fact because of what these elements facilitate. Musicking Christopher Small’s work Musicking also provides a framework useful to consider the emotional impact of Vocaloid music. Small argues that “the fundamental nature and meaning of music lie not in objects … but in action”, and therefore proposes a definition of ‘musicking’; to “take part, in any capacity, in a musical performance” (8–9, emphasis omitted). Importantly, for Small (77) simply listening to a recording is to take part in music, and “we may be sure that somebody's values are being explored, affirmed, and celebrated in every musical performance”. Small’s comments here provide a framework for focussing on the experiences of the people involved in producing and listening to Vocaloid music, rather than getting caught up in negative beliefs around the digital nature of production. Further, reflecting on remix, a significant aspect of Vocaloid music, Small (214) notes that relationships are “open to reinterpretation over and over again as listeners create new contexts for their reception and their ritual use of it”. Further, Small (134) suggests that the act of musicking functions as a powerful “means of social definition and self-definition”. Small’s suggestions here that music can be recycled, reinterpreted, and used for self-definition aligns with many aspects of Vocaloid music; tracks are frequently covered by producers using other Vocaloids, or utaite; the meanings of lyrics are frequently discussed in comment sections of YouTube videos and Wikis, and fans often align themselves with certain Vocaloids or producers that they enjoy and relate to. Such self-definition is an important theme to keep in mind when I consider Neru’s CYNICISM album as it touches on societal issues such as loneliness, nihilism, and low self-esteem. CYNICISM Vocaloid producer Neru, also known as z’5 or Oshiire-P, is quite popular. At the time of writing, he has 124,000 followers on Japanese video-sharing site Niconico (Neru, "Neru"), 242,000 on Chinese video-sharing site BiliBili (Neru, "Neru_Official"), 388,000 monthly listeners on Spotify (Spotify), and 560,000 subscribers on YouTube (Neru, "Neru OFFICIAL"). He released his first Vocaloid song in 2009, and to date has three major albums. CYNICISM is the latest, released in 2018. The standard edition contains 14 tracks, and all aside from one use the Vocaloids Kagamine Rin or Kagamine Len. Fig. 1: CYNICISM standard edition, illustrated by Sudou Souta (Apple Music) Fig. 2: Tracklist All quotes from songs are my own translations from the original Japanese. The CYNICISM album communicates a strong sense of nihilism. Nihilism is an ambiguous concept (Nietzsche 76; Diken 6; Marmysz 61). However, Marmysz (71) summarises that nihilists have three claims: that humans are alienated from the world; that this should not be the case; and that “there is nothing we can do” about this situation. As explored below, Neru’s nihilism appears to align with Kant’s “existential nihilism (believing that life has no meaning)” (Gertz, ch. 2, emphasis omitted). It is worth noting that Neru’s music has some commonalities with other genres. For instance, Prinz (584–85) suggests that punk music is irreverent, challenging social norms, and is nihilistic, reflecting on themes such as “decay, despair, suicide, and societal collapse”. As explored below, CYNICISM projects feelings including disappointment with society, poor self-esteem, and themes of irreverence. Irreverence and Society The namesake of the album is important to note within the context of nihilism, as cynicism can be understood as “a passive nihilist affect” (Diken 61). Cynicism is the attitude that comes about when one has failed “to come to terms with loss”, “to realize that something has been lost”, or understand exactly what has been lost. It incited a state of melancholy, trapping the cynic, who suffers an “utterly debilitating sense of disappointment, the root cause of which it cannot identify or move beyond” (Allen, ch. 7). In numerous ways Neru exhibits a lack of faith in humanity and society. Just the title of the track What a Terrible Era communicates a sense of hopelessness, particularly the line “強いて言うとするなら人類は失敗作だった” (“if I had to say, humanity was a work of failure”). The album’s lyrics repeatedly refer to the negative state of the world; “本日の世界予報向上性低迷後退” (“today’s world forecast: Progress is stagnant and regressing”) (Hey, Rain). SNOBBISM asks “バグ塗れの人類のデバッグはいつ終わる” (“humanity is stained with bugs; when will debugging end?”). Neru repeatedly laments the state of humanity and his disappointment with the world. Further, cynicism is an attitude of scorn towards “sincerity and integrity”, which are viewed as “a cover for self-interest” (Allen, ch. 1). In line with this, reflecting the cynic’s embrace of untruthfulness (Gertz, ch. 3), in SNOBBISM Neru states “一生、ブラフを威すがいいさ” (“it’s okay to threaten to bluff through your entire life”). Further, Diken (59) suggests that “capitalism is the age of cynicism”, and the Law-Evading Rock (Neru OFFICIAL, "Law-Evading Rock") music video, illustrated and animated by Ryuusee, exhibits such a critique of capitalism. The video is quite chaotic, designed to appear as a Japanese TV channel. Meme-style characters are superimposed onto photographic backgrounds to depict absurd advertisements and news programmes with flashing and dancing, as the lyrics call for the viewer to escape from reality. The character in this video, Datsu, appears to enter a state of nirvana when Neru’s CD is inserted into him. Here we can see how personas are particularly affectual in Vocaloid music, with fans stating that they relate to Datsu, among other forms of affectation, in comments on his Wikia page (Neru Wikia). Further, CYNICISM frequently calls for the self-identified ‘losers’ to band together, breaking the norms of society. Whatever Whatever Whatever, with its upbeat tune, bright colours, and proclamation of “能天気STYLE” (“Carefree STYLE”) exhibits a strong sense that ‘nothing matters so do whatever’. Let’s Drop Dead’s “僕等はきっとあぶれ者” (“we are surely hooligans”), Law-Evading Rock’s “負け犬になって 吠えろ 吠えろ” (“become a loser, roar, roar”) indicate a sense of knowing that one is ‘useless’ but attempting to take pride in or band together in spite (or indeed, because of this). These lyrics ascribe to a nihilistic notion that nothing matters, but are also a call to arms in a sense – a call for losers to band together for strength, and to act with irreverence. Some encourage the listener to become someone unfit for society (Law-Evading Rock), or to turn back on and break away from morals that are designed to get one into heaven (March of Losers). The music video for SNOBBISM (Neru OFFICIAL, "SNOBBISM"), illustrated and animated by Ryuusee, features Bizu, a demon man wearing a formal suit and top hat. The video has a retro style and is bright but muted with blurry backgrounds, streaking, and graininess. Bizu appears to take on a retro rubber hose animation style, dancing and sometimes hitting objects while calling on the viewer to “make a scene”; to be irreverent and break the norms of society. Personal Failure CYNICISM also in numerous ways refers to personal failures and a lack of faith in the future. Some lyrics refer to a plan or manual (SNOBBISM, Song of Running Away), or a future being wrecked or torn (Spare Me My Inferiority, What a Terrible Era). Corresponding with the nihilistic tone of the album, Whatever Whatever Whatever describes being lazy today, and putting effort in tomorrow, while Let’s Drop Dead simply states “明日はくたばろうぜ” (“tomorrow let’s drop dead”). Yet continuing forward into the future seems mandatory, as in Whatever Whatever Whatever Neru describes himself as being too much of a wimp to commit suicide, and March of Losers repeats the refrain “進め進め” (“forward, forward”), calling for the losers to continue even though “this kind of life has no meaning”. Some tracks indicate a more raw or vulnerable state, with Nihil and the Sunken City’s “もっとちょーだい ちょーだい 承認をちょーだい” (“more, give it to me, give it to me, please give me approval”). Importantly, Neru identifies himself as a loser, engaging in self-irreverence, making fun of himself (Kroth 104), referring to himself and his social group as ‘losers’. The music videos for Whatever Whatever Whatever (Neru OFFICIAL, "Whatever Whatever Whatever") and Let’s Drop Dead (Neru OFFICIAL, "Let’s Drop Dead"), illustrated and animated by Terada Tera, exhibit self-irreverent themes. The former uses vapourwave aesthetics, and both exhibit bright colours, with cartoonish characters I and Yaya dancing and drinking alcohol. I wears a Space Invaders jacket and grill glasses, while Yaya wears a t-shirt featuring a marijuana leaf and a pink animal-eared beanie; together in the video they communicate a ‘slacker’, partying attitude. What is particularly interesting here is the way that nihilistic lyrics have been employed alongside upbeat, catchy, pop-style music and flashy colours. Such dissonance is attention-grabbing and also reflects a sarcastic, careless sense of cynicism, one that is “irreverent” and “playful” – a style that Nietzsche adopted (Allen, ch. 7). Relatedly, Marmysz (4) suggests that humour is a useful response to nihilism because it shatters expectations. It is important to understand CYNICISM within the Japanese context. Discussing the Meiji Period, Nishitani (175) points out that Buddhism and Confucianism lost their power, and that with modernisation Japan became Europeanised and Americanised to the extent that there is a spiritual void. More recently, various economic crises and disasters throughout the 1990s and 2000s have contributed to national trauma (Roquet 89). Due to significant societal pressure, many Japanese people feel anxiety, sensitivity, vulnerability, and alienation (Ren 29). Accordingly, much Japanese anime engages with feelings of nihilism (Lozano-Méndez and Loriguillo-López; Tsang). In some respects Vocaloid culture is interrelated with hikikomori, a form of social withdrawal associated with various psychological, social, and behavioural factors (Li and Wong 603). Much academic literature exists on hikikomori, which in many ways is a Japanese phenomenon, being influenced by “culture, society and history”, and having come about in Japan during a period of “very rapid socioeconomic changes” (Kato et al. 1062). Many Vocaloid producers and utaite identify as hikikomori, including Mafumafu. However, studies on hikikomori outside Japan have shown that feelings of isolation, anxiety, and social exclusion are a global concern (Krieg and Dickie 61; Kato et al. 1062), contributing to Neru’s popularity among English-speaking audiences Conclusion My goal in this article is to point out that a significant number of people find Vocaloid music relatable and affectual, and it would be hasty to dismiss such music as “depthless” due to its use of voicebanks and connection to consumer culture. Vocaloid music is particularly affective in part due to the way that Vocaloids, producers, and utaite make use of personas which function as bodies without organs: something that listeners are able to project their own feelings onto. Further, Small’s concept of musicking encourages us to pay attention to what producers are saying as well as what listeners and fans are engaging with: what values are being explored and how they are being used for self-definition. It is important to consider not just the economic aspects of participatory culture and the networks of production surrounding Vocaloid, but the content of the music and the meanings that listeners get out of it. Neru’s CYNICISM album is particularly interesting in this regard. 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Introduction A 2021 listicle pronouncing “10 Things That Are Bisexual Culture” concludes that “claiming that random things are ‘bi culture’ is the most bi-culture thing of all” (Wilber n.p.). While posed as tongue-in-cheek, the assignment of status as a signifier of bisexuality to seemingly arbitrary actions and items reinforces the notion that bi people seek a distinct visual and cultural identity and struggle to make one. We consider how creators on the algorithmically driven social media platform TikTok responded to an open-ended 2019 prompt (“ayo, bisexual check”) to show off styles and accessories that project a bisexual display, and how these videos, understood collectively, contribute to the cohesion of a prototype for a bisexual social uniform. By social uniform, we refer to informally standardised clothing that identifies members of a group but lacks the bureaucratic regulation of an institutional uniform (Joseph). This lens is productive for interpreting subcultural dress norms, including those of queer identities at various scopes (e.g. Nelson, “Here”; Stines). The development of these social uniforms can allow for stronger group coherence and provide individuals with “self-esteem through conformity” with one’s group and “self-regard by conflict” with other groups (Joseph 74). There is added utility to this signalling for queer people as a means to seek community and partnership against a societal backdrop of stigmatisation (Brennan). Being able to identify who is like oneself at a glance lets one know when and where one is safe to outwardly present an authentic version of oneself (Huxley and Hayfield; Rostosky et al.; Wang and Feinstein). Bisexual communities notably lack such a uniform (Hayfield, Bisexual; Hayfield, “Invisibility”; Hayfield, “Never”; Hayfield and Wood; Huxley et al.). While bi people have expressed interest in having a distinct, coherent aesthetic or set of visual markers to express their bisexuality and recognise others as specifically bisexual, they have encountered obstacles towards the establishment of such a bi uniform (Madison, “Representing”; Nelson, “What”). The conception of homosexuality and heterosexuality as a binary leaves little room for the notion of bisexuality at all (Nelson, “Here”). In instances when people do attempt to stake a claim to a specifically bisexual visual identity, the result tends to be read binaristically nonetheless (Daly et al.; Hartman; Hayfield, Bisexual; Morgan and Davis-Delano; Nelson, “What”). Attempts to visually “split the middle” of established gay and straight styles have thus historically failed, with onlookers (even bisexual onlookers) either assuming the bi person in question is gay or straight (Hartman). Rosie Nelson goes so far as to contend that “the body of the bisexual is incapable of declaring itself outwardly bisexual to a monosexist society” (“Here” 87). In other words, Nelson argues that a distinctly bi visual identity—a bi social uniform—may be impossible so long as bisexuality remains invisible in broader discourses of sexual orientation and that only improved or increased representations of bisexuality in media, law, research, and culture can foment the conditions for bisexual visibility in the most literal sense (“Here”). TikTok’s Bisexual Displays Within this context of binary assumptions of gender and sexual orientation, Julie Hartman-Linck conceived the “bisexual display” (Hartman 39). By analogy with gender display as theorised by Lorber and building on Goffman’s construction of identity performance, the bisexual display refers to attempts to project a bisexual identity “using the accoutrements of gender, as well as more direct visual and verbal cues” (Hartman 43). Bisexuality is discursively erased, and even seemingly straightforward attempts to make bi identities known are often misconstrued by observers, either through ignorance (e.g., unfamiliarity with the significance of the bi pride flag) or through willful disbelief (e.g., doubt in the authenticity of bisexuality / the bisexual; see Alarie and Gaudet). Therefore, analysis of bisexual display focusses on the intended effect of the performer rather than on the actual understandings of their audiences: bisexual display offers a productive theoretical lens through which to consider how a bisexual identity is intentionally fashioned, even if attempts to fashion the bisexual identity may be misunderstood or ignored. Emiel Maliepaard, in his research on bisexual geographies, argues that bisexual spaces are “temporal, local and (often) unplanned” (47). We identified one such space on TikTok, an algorithmically driven video-centric social media platform. TikTok affords creators a great deal of power to respond to and remix other creators’ content, most prominently with the “use this sound” function which lets creators incorporate audio either originating from or used in another video (colloquially a TikTok) into their own (Abidin and Kaye). The memetic process of (re)using a sound with some amount of variation generates a constituency of creators and other users whose participation in the video creation and engagement process aligns with what Zulli and Zulli theorised as TikTok’s imitation publics: “a collection of people whose digital connectivity is constituted through the shared ritual of content imitation and replication” (1882). These imitation publics in turn may spawn these temporal, local, and unplanned spaces, including virtual bisexual spaces. Here, we conducted a content analysis of 50 short videos posted in 2019 with over 1,000 likes using the “ayo, bisexual check” (“ABC”) sound, which was first uploaded in late March 2019. The originator of the sound posted a video of themselves saying “ayo, bisexual check” and then showing off certain elements of clothing and reifying or countering certain stereotypes about bi identity. When other creators subsequently began to use the sound and associated format to do the same, they constituted the “ABC” sound’s imitation public. While there are multiple possible ways creators might have understood the prompt of a “bisexual check” (e.g., as encouraging them to dress in a way that projects their own bisexuality; to dress in a way that projects bisexuality most legibly to other bisexual or nonbisexual people; to dress in a way that feels most comfortable to them, as a bisexual; etc.), the intention behind these videos can be understood broadly to display some bisexual identity. The simple and direct nature of the prompt (“bisexual check”) generates the virtual “bisexual space”, both “highly temporal and specific” (Maliepaard 59). This space both offers an open-ended venue for creators to engage with a culture of visual identity, and maximises the potential for audiences to read what transpires in the videos as demonstrative (if not constitutive) of bisexual identity. By creating these TikToks, users are not waiting for more or better bisexual representation on TikTok but instead are actively embodying it, responding to the need identified by Nelson. Elements of the Bisexual Check At the broadest level, creators in the 50 sampled videos primarily showcased discrete fashion elements or accessories, rather than entire outfits. The structure of “ABC” TikToks allowed creators to draw attention to specific pieces of clothing, jewelry, haircuts and styles, makeup looks, and ways of fashioning clothes (see fig. 1 for an example). This mode of engaging with the “bisexual check” challenge differs from the mode of engagement we saw in videos using the “ABC” sound posted after 2019; while onscreen text, closed captions, and video descriptions in TikToks posted in 2019 were primarily in English, text in videos posted in 2020 and later was mostly in Tagalog. This suggested that 2019 and post-2019 TikToks emerged from distinct and separate cultural contexts; despite using the same “ABC” sound, they represented different imitation publics. The post-2019 videos tended to show their creators posing for one or several shots without focussing on particular elements of their outfits, instead displaying their looks as a whole. The later videos offer a useful variation in memetic content and stance (Shifman), a contrast which permits us to understand the 2019 “ABC” videos as attempts to display bisexuality chiefly through discrete visual markers (e.g., fashion elements). Fig. 1: A screencap from the authors’ mocked-up “ABC” TikTok in which the creator uses a fingergun to showcase their cuffed jeans. Studies of bi people in the past two decades (almost all of which have been about bi women; see Clarke et al., though see Rogers for a recent exception) have identified several ways bi subjects attempt to make their bisexuality known in the face of overwhelming invisibility. Hayfield summarised research about bi women’s fashion, documenting styles that are “funky, flamboyant, or associated with alternative looks and looking (e.g., hippie, Goth, punk, and so on) including through piercings and tattoos” (“Invisibility” 180). Hartman-Linck recorded bi women using bumper stickers, pride flags and pride flag iconography, pins, and jewelry using the pink-purple-blue bi pride flag design, as well as a general playfulness with specific gendered markers (Hartman). Madison likewise found bi people using the bi pride flag design and colours on clothes and jewelry, as well as bi-specific iconography like the biangles (overlapping pink and blue triangles that generate a smaller purple triangle between them), interlocking Mars and Venus signs (⚤), and pun-based symbols like the “bisexuwhale” (“Representing” 151–3). More recently, the Internet has been a fruitful venue for discussions among bisexuals about a visual culture (Madison, “Bisexual”); discourse among bisexual people on social media sites like Twitter and Tumblr has generated some seemingly novel styles and fashions that have been highlighted as specifically bi looks. A 2017 tweet about jeans cuffed at the ankles (see fig. 1) and baggy shirts tucked in at the waist being “bisexual culture” has been mentioned in numerous popular news articles and blogs (e.g., Cao; Wilber). A Tumblr post from around the same time with images of three fictional characters sporting neck-length hairstyles cut straight at the bottoms appears to have been the genesis of the “bisexual bob”, a bob haircut worn by a bi person (usually a woman) that received similar coverage and discussion to the cuffed jeans and tucked-in shirts tweet (e.g., Locke; Vandervalk; Wilber). Other items identified in listicles as constituting “bi culture” include: being unable to sit in chairs “correctly”, dyed pink hair, puns, Converse brand shoes, plaid shirts, outer space, (excessive) use of the bi pride flag and colours, and anxiety disorders. Within our sample, we identified an uptake of these nascent bi fashions, with 62% of videos featuring clothing being cuffed (most frequently jeans), 36% of videos highlighting shirts tucked into pants, and 20% of videos demonstrating bi bobs. More explicit iconography like bi pride flags and colours (what Hartman-Linck referred to as “sign equipment” in her conceptualisation of bisexual display) appeared in 16% of videos, compared to more general rainbow iconography, which showed up in 20% of them (Hartman). Button-down shirts appeared in 34% of videos, and both floral print shirts and Converse shoes appeared in 18% of the total corpus. Nose piercings actively contributed to the “bisexual check” in 12% of sampled TikToks, while a full-body dress appeared in just one video (2%). We identified no instances of biangles, interlocking Mars and Venus signs, or punny sign equipment. Display Becoming Prototype, Prototype Becoming Uniform Interpreting “ABC” videos as bisexual displays on the individual level and conceptualising the community of “ABC” creators and engagers as an imitation public allows us to understand the process taking place as social identity work, “the construction of identities for groups of people” (Eschler and Menking 2). Eschler and Menking (drawing upon Donath as well as Schwalbe and Mason-Schrock) argued that for social identities (like bisexuality), certain memes can offer prototypes: “a set of minimal social cues that a person can use to infer other information about an individual’s social world” (9). Similarly, Joseph argued that for any complex of sartorial meaning, there is a minimal symbol: “the least symbol necessary to suggest a uniform” (24). By their nature, prototypes (or minimal symbols) will be limited to the fewest key elements required to demarcate a social identity. TikTok creators have the capacity to share their own “bisexual checks” with the “use this sound” feature or duet other creators’ videos to mirror or counter elements of the original creators’ checks in their own lives. Further, even if not posting their own “ABC” content, users have the ability to share, comment on, and like TikToks to engage with a creator’s bisexual display. Each new “ABC” video accomplishes what Rogers identified in his research on images of bi men on Instagram: they “add to a discourse and visual culture of bisexuality that both describes and prescribes the visual forms in which bisexuality appears” (366). Each contribution introduces a new, or more likely reifies an existing (if nascent) indicator of a bisexual identity. It is no surprise, then, that visual indicators that had already garnered some popular support within online bisexual spaces (bi bobs, cuffed jeans, tucked-in shirts) were among the most common in our sample. Still, a fashion choice having already entered the bisexual public consciousness does not solely explain why it recurred in our sample while other choices and items mentioned in listicles did not. The userbase of creators who tend to achieve virality on TikTok skews young, white, wealthy, and female (Boffone; Kennedy), so styles favoured by bi people who share at least some of these identities (e.g., white teen or twentysomething girls and women with personal or familial wealth) are likely to recur more frequently and receive increased engagement from the broader TikTok userbase, which also skews young and female (Cyca). Anecdotally, this demographic picture of TikTok mirrored our sample, suggesting that markers posited by creators and received by users were most likely to reflect the tastes and norms of young, white, and female creators. Indeed, one of the few nonwhite “ABC” creators was the only person in our sample to use the sound to argue against the core premise of the videos, contending that all one needed to be bisexual was attraction to people of multiple genders rather than any of the specific visual markers posed by others in the sample. While a universal “bisexual check” is suggested by the sparse wording of the challenge, the resulting videos nonetheless demonstrate a specific racially, temporally, and culturally positioned understanding of bi identity. Just because anyone has the capacity to contribute their own vision of the “bisexual check” does not mean that all “ABC” videos will land with equal frequency on users’ For You Page feeds (TikTok’s “homepage” where videos are algorithmically delivered to users; see Simpson and Semaan), nor enjoy the same volume of attention from TikTok’s userbase. Eschler and Menking consider the prototype to be “the least common denominator” (9), meaning that users will take the few most common elements shared amongst the “ABC” videos as symbols of a bisexual style. That the top “ABC” videos (those we sampled) heavily skew young, white, and female means that a bi uniform emerges from elements favoured by users sharing those demographics. Our mode of investigating this sound’s videos (moving systematically through all the videos using the “ABC” sound from most liked to less liked) does not contravene the affordances of TikTok’s platform but is somewhat outside of the app’s environment of expected use (Light et al.), which we understand to be either scrolling through the user’s For You Page or receiving and viewing TikToks messaged privately by friends. Still, users in these settings served two or more “ABC” videos are likely to consciously or unconsciously begin to identify the prototypical elements of a bisexual look as being those shared across multiple videos: the most frequently recurring markers creators choose to share as part of their bisexual displays reify existing styles already identified as “bi looks” or introduce new ones to the viewer. Through the continuous and repeated proposal of bisexual looks, the prototype emerges for a bisexual uniform. These accoutrements (cuffed sleeves and pantlegs, especially on jeans, bi bob haircuts, tucked-in shirts) point towards a bi uniform that is put-together and favours clothes like jeans and button-down shirts that are commonly worn across genders. That a bisexual uniform that may be comfortably worn by members of any gender follows logically from the necessity for a bi look that is both shaped by and liable to be worn by bisexuals, who may be of any gender. Further, this bi uniform emphasises alterations that may be undertaken on items commonly already held rather than distinct new pieces that must first be acquired. This may be one reason that creators favoured these styles, rather than more blatant sign equipment like pins or shirts with bi iconography on them: they were simply more likely to have jeans in their closet than a biangles T-shirt. The creators in our sample, regardless of the specific accoutrements displayed, answered Nelson’s call for increased and better bisexual representation, building one of many possible images for how bi people can fashion themselves (“Here”). The “ABC” imitation public’s collagic vision of a bisexual uniform may, in the future, be adapted, rejected, or serve as inspiration for others in the endlessly cyclical process of identity formation and reinforcement. Conclusion We have sought to understand what TikTok users have accomplished through the creation of and engagement with “ABC” videos, both specifically (i.e., what are the predominant visual indicators across the most popular videos) and generally (i.e., what processes are taking place and how they contribute towards the establishment of a bisexual social uniform). Creators are unlikely to have set out with a larger project of developing a bi uniform in mind when posting their 15-second “ayo, bisexual check” videos, but as part of one of TikTok’s innumerable imitation publics, their personal bisexual displays nonetheless offer prototypes for what a bisexual uniform could be. Any single “ABC” video is an example of a creator using TikTok’s affordances to respond individually to an open-ended prompt, but taken collectively, a consensus about the least common denominators for a bisexual uniform begins to emerge. Whether this online effort to cohere bisexual style results in bi people being able to identify one another (and/or be identified by nonbisexuals) remains to be seen, but we hope this article provides both a useful record of styles favoured by bisexuals on TikTok in 2019 and a productive explanation of the way individual posts in TikTok’s ecosystem of imitation publics may begin to constitute a social uniform for a community whose members have historically lacked one. Acknowledgments Thanks to Elizabeth Fetterolf, Amy Giacomucci, Trevor Harty, and the editors and reviewers for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this article. All online sources have been archived via Archive.org. References Abidin, Crystal, and D. Bondy Valdovinos Kaye. “Audio Memes, Earworms, and Templatability: The ‘Aural Turn’ of Memes on TikTok.” Critical Meme Reader: Global Mutations of the Viral Image. Eds. Chloë Arkenbout, Jack Wilson, and Daniel de Zeeuw. 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“Garihmato—Look after, to Care for” Melaleuca Alternifolia, commonly called Tea Tree, only grows naturally in the lands of the Bundjalung people from north coast New South Wales. The particular medicinal properties of the Tea Tree have been used for thousands of years, and the Tree and its effects on land, water, and people form part of Bundjalung oral histories and spiritual governance. This article explores media about Tea Tree from the 1990s to 2020s in print media through agricultural media and magazines, as well as online media through TikTok. This combination highlights the generational positionality between the authors as Mother/Daughter and as different consumers of media, with Kath mainly consuming print and Phoebe consuming online. It also utilises a synergy through timing, with the 1990s being when Kath was in her 20s and the 2020s being Phoebe’s time in her 20s. Through analysing the tropes and messaging surrounding Tea Tree, we as Bundjalung women unearth the continued colonisation and exploitation of First Nations knowledges by the health and wellbeing sector – from the mainstream pharmaceutical industry to alternative wellbeing to user-generated travel content. This article considers these areas. Ultimately, acknowledgements of Indigenous land or origins of knowledge are not enough. We call for a structural reaffirmation and recontextualisation of First Nations’ ancestral medicines. Cultural Positioning Our family has an audio recording of our Githabal ancestor Granny Dorothy (Williams) Webb being interviewed by Terry Crowley, a linguist who was recording the Bundjalung language in the 1970s. This recording of Granny forms part of the body of language resources published in the Crowley’s The Middle Clarence Dialects of Bandjalang. In one section of the recording, Crowley quizzes Granny on the names for different trees. When he asks about Tea Tree, Granny quickly responds “bulam” (also sometimes spelt “bulihm”) and then attempts to begin a story on how the bark “bulam-ga” was used for shelters. Crowley abruptly stops her reminiscence as he has no interest in the ethnographic detail, just the linguistic material. Had he allowed her to speak further, he would have known that Granny had much more to say on Tea Tree. Some parts of her knowledge would have not been spoken to him, however, as Tea Tree, in particular Ti Tree Lake, formed a part of her women’s knowledge. As Granny’s female descendants, we operationalise our cultural connection to Bulam/Tea Tree in this article while being mindful and respectful of the importance of keeping certain knowledge within our female genealogy. We remain faithful to Granny’s language and to her teachings which we are privileged to know through oral history from her daughters Gertie and Esther Webb and her granddaughter Julianne Butler. The Context of ‘Wellbeing’ The World Health Organisation states in its Constitution that “health is a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity” (WHO). While noting that this definition is a significant improvement on exclusively bio-medical definitions, we argue that there is still room for a further expansion. In critiquing the WHO definition, Sartorius (662) notes a third dimension of health, which is “a state of balance, an equilibrium that an individual has established within himself and between himself and his social and physical environment”. The inclusion of the environment resonates more deeply with many Aboriginal philosophies but remains problematic due to its individualistic nature, removed from culture, community, and Connection to Country. Through industry research, understandings of ‘wellness’ from the ‘health and wellbeing’ sector at large appear to remain fluid to consumer demands. In a 2021 report, “Wellness in 2030”, research shows that “consumers are spending more on wellness than they ever have before. Wellness is now a $1.5 trillion market globally” (Chopra et al.). Rather than provide a definition of what ‘wellness’ means, the report focusses on six ‘wellness categories’ as identified by consumers: health, fitness, nutrition, appearance, sleep, and mindfulness. From this we can understand that the ‘health and wellness’ industry might not promote a secure philosophy of wellness because, as inherently capitalist enterprises, they want to be responsive to social trends in order to secure profit. For Aboriginal peoples, our understanding of wellbeing is much more concrete. Culture is inextricably connected to Country, and the guardianship of that relationship is a foundation for life and a key indicator of wellbeing (Grieves 2; Oliver 1). Put simply, “if the land is sick, you are sick” (Kenyon). Conversely, the belief that “if you look after the country, the country will look after you” (Weir et al.) has framed a multi-generational cultural governance grounded in The Dreaming. Therefore, this article proceeds on an understanding of wellbeing beyond the limitation of mainstream definitions – we understand wellbeing as being place-based, enculturated, and grounded in action not aspiration. Our case study on the wellbeing representations in media promoting Tea Tree in various forms such as oils and immersive experience speak to this framing. Bulam (Melaleuca Alternifolia) Many Australians are familiar with Tea Tree but are unaware that one particular variant, Melaleuca Alternifolia, only grows naturally within the lands of the Bundjalung people. In addition to continuing oral histories, it was noted in various journals in the early colonial period that Bundjalung people used Bulam (Tea Tree) for a range of uses – to cover shelter, to line the coolamons which held jarjum (children), and for a range of medicinal purposes for its antiseptic, antibacterial, and antifungal properties. Bulam could also be used as a diluted drink, or as a crushed oil rubbed on wounds, with the added advantage of also repelling insects (Murray 693). Additionally, Tea Tree occupies a revered place in Bundjalung beliefs and practices through its transformation of Country. We contend that the phrase “Country makes us healthy” is not a metaphor but a deeply held cultural norm with spiritual and physical attributes. In regard to Bulam/Tea Tree, it is important to acknowledge that there are bodies of water in Bundjalung Country which are ringed by Tea Tree, in particular Ti Tree Lake. The healing properties of the water are enhanced by the infusion from leaves into the water, giving it antibacterial properties; these waters are seen as Women’s sites and are particularly important as birthing places. It is contended that the name Tea Tree comes from the recording of Captain James Cook’s 1770 mapping of the Australian eastern coastline. Coming ashore, Cook and his party witnessed Bundjalung people making a ‘tea coloured’ drink from the leaves of the tree. A number of sailors also used the leaves for tea (Drury 11). Neither the sailors, nor Joseph Banks who collected samples, were aware of the potential health benefits of the Tea Tree. Some early colonists in the north coast region did use the leaves medicinally but it was widely unknown amongst non-Indigenous people until the twentieth century (Drury 19). It was not until the 1920s that Tea Tree was produced and marketed by Arthur Penfold, an Australian chemist. Marketed as an oil, it is claimed that soldiers during World War II were given Tea Tree oil for use in the trenches (Australian Tea Tree Industry Association). However, with the advent of antibiotics, Tea Tree fell out of favour as a remedy, but recent interest, from both pharmaceutical and alternative medicine sectors, has seen a steady growth in production and promotion of Tea Tree for viable wound care globally (Jones). Unpacking Ethnocentrism, ‘Common Sense’, and Settler-Colonial Extractivism Australia has since developed a flourishing market for ‘herbal remedies’ which is dominated by Western and Chinese medicinal products. While Indigenous Medicines are experiencing growing popularity, they have traditionally held a very small market share (Wohlmuth et al.). Interestingly, while some Indigenous medicines have been used to develop Indigenous-owned micro-economies (Oliver), Tea Tree products have predominantly been distributed by non-Indigenous people. This is problematic because it removes the product from its broader cultural context and does not recognise Indigenous Intellectual and Cultural Property Rights. In fact, the marketing of Tea Tree oil in some contexts displays a distinct ethnocentrism. We understand ‘ethnocentrism’ to refer to individual and systemically entrenched beliefs in the perceived ‘rightness’ of the perspectives and processes of a person’s own group. Ethnocentrism also identifies that this belief in the ‘rightness’ of their own community acts alongside an aversion and disdain for ‘outsiders’ and their ways. This belief often enforces loyalty along ethnic lines in order to consolidate power, wealth, and resources in order to deprive the ‘outsider’. Notions of ethnocentrism have been present in the Australian social, cultural, and political consciousness for centuries (Cole) Another idea to consider with Australian ethnocentrism is theorist Antonio Gramsci’s concept of ‘common sense’. He argues that, while individuals of a social group may hold its conception of the world, the same group may repeat rhetoric that is not their own due to the ideas' prevalence in ‘normal times’. This is when the repetition of ‘common sense’ understandings becomes “not independent and autonomous, but submissive and subordinate” (Gramsci). Many of the media representations we unpack later in this article can be understood as repetitions of settler-colonial ‘common sense’ which reinforce and value the supposed ‘supremacy’ of white non-Indigenous understandings while trivialising or disregarding First Nations ways. Consequently, this brings the issue of ethnocentrism beyond individual acts to highlight the extractive nature of settler-colonial nations, which premise themselves on the ‘elimination of the native’ and our ways of being, knowing, and doing (Kauanui). This elimination does not have to be purely genocidal but also includes the appropriation and assimilation of First Nations people, resources, and knowledge. Mississauga Nishnaabeg writer Leanne Simpson from northern Turtle Island (Canada) argues that extraction and assimilation go together. Colonialism has always extracted the indigenous … every part of our culture that is seemingly useful to the extractivist mindset gets extracted … and assimilated into the culture of the settlers without regard for the people and the knowledge that created it. (Klein) In our analysis of media representations below, we will see many examples of what this section seeks to explain. Media will trivialise or dismiss First Nations people and knowledge through extraction, appropriation, and assimilation of our resources into their own ethnocentric understandings. Tea Tree Oil Use in ‘Australia’, 1990s-2020s In the 1990s, as Tea Tree oil began to expand in the market, the Australian Financial Review published an article entitled “Bringing Tea-Tree Oil Out of the Swamp” (Brown). The article’s provocative introduction asserted: the world's first big plantation producer of tea-tree oil discovered early that its product's folksy image was not easy to shed. Decades of labelling as a bush remedy was a disadvantage when the product was eventually promoted as scientifically proven medicine. However, the company has succeeded in convincing consumers that the native product is a quality one, and the result has been the birth of a new industry. In deconstructing these assertions through a Bundjalung lens we have much to say! Firstly, it is a peculiarly Western lens which denigrates swampland. The late anthropologist Deborah Bird Rose (1996) gave voice to many of the Aboriginal perspectives which she had heard, contending that ‘wilderness’ is a construction of the West. For Aboriginal people, swamp is still sacred: it is the home of the Tea Tree and is not perceived as lesser, but rather as an interdependent element of the broader landscape, of the health of waterways, teeming with food and medicines. Secondly, we note the usage of “folksy image” and “bush remedy” as hurdles to be overcome. Given that both of these, particularly ‘bush medicines’, are coded to Aboriginality, this presents another layer of disconnection of the emplaced and enculturated nature of Tea Tree. In fact, later studies have shown that there is strong uptake and identification with traditional medicines exactly from that basis. For instance, interviewees from clinics distributing traditional remedies recall, “blackfellas and whitefellas come and tell us, ‘I’m feeling better from your bush medicine, can I get some more?’” (Oliver). Additionally, if we consider the global market, the WHO estimates that “60% of the world’s population relies on herbal medicine and about 80% of the population in developing countries depends almost totally on it for their primary health care needs” (Khan). Therefore, we contend that the ‘disadvantage’ is in targeting the ethnocentric Western market, which is masked by an apparent global outlook. This year, in “Three Tales from Tea Tree Farmers”, an article published in The Farmer Magazine, the developing ‘Australian’ Tea Tree industry is foregrounded in the by-line with “First Nations people have understood the value of Australian tea tree oil for thousands of years” (Hadgraft). This is particularly ironic given the content of the article itself: white face after white face come through the editorial shots of farmers with their crop, and not another whisper of the Aboriginal people and knowledges the article leads with. In this and other business-focussed articles, the Tea Tree narrative transcends its literal grounding. In contrast, a range of alternative medicine commentators do acknowledge the centrality of Bundjalung culture to Tea Tree’s curative potential, but place Aboriginal knowledges in a liminal space – a kind of choose-your-own-adventure – which samples across belief systems and practices to create a hybrid model which weakens Aboriginal cultural authority. We note that these erasures and slippages are not necessarily made from malice, but nevertheless constitute a problematic narrative through an Aboriginal lens. For example, Madelaine West, in “The Only Way to Create a Kinder World Together”, lauds the Tea Tree-infused lake waters in the Bundjalung nation as a kind of New Age transformative landscape. She comments: since time immemorial, these lakes have been a sacred Indigenous birthing place and meeting ground of the First Nation tribes of the Arakwal-Bundjalung people. Historically a ‘girls only’-type affair, many Indigenous men still observe this practice. It should be noted here that ‘girls only’ seems to hearken to the literary tradition of girls' adventure fiction – the self-sufficient tomboy who challenges gender norms. While this trope has, and can, continue to serve to empower young women, there has often been a racialised element to this narrative (McRobbie and McCabe 1981). In the context of Tea Tree, it is salient to note that Women’s Business transcends the girls-only trope as the framing of spiritual authority with severe consequences for those men who transgress this element of lore (Bird-Rose 36-8). Thus West’s contention of the personified Lake sits in direct contravention to her stated position that “it is not for me to interpret nor appropriate the culture of the traditional custodians of this region”. The warm, soothing waters of these lakes offer up their healing properties to one and all ... they don't discriminate along lines of colour, creed, residence or orientation. They just hold you in their fluid, forgiving embrace, wash you clean, heal your hurts and soothe your soul. (West) We note that there is no problem in personifying the body of water as this directly correlates to international movements to the legal personhood of waterways, such as the Whanganui River in Aotearoa (New Zealand), or recognition as a living entity such as the Yarra River in Victoria. What should be noted, however, is that within the context of international instruments like the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and various national and state policies, First Nations people (in particular Traditional Owners) are central to the representation of engagement with water (Pelizzon et al.). In this context it would include a culturally mediated guardianship on who may bathe in the waters, which speaks to a respect for cultural traditions and consultation for permission to use the waters. There is an ongoing tension for First Nations people attempting to negotiate this preferred power-sharing with local, state, and national governments while their Country continues to be desecrated by ignorant and selfish visitors. Despite lack of support from the state, First Nations peoples regularly attempt to exert their own environmental governance and authority over sacred sites on their Country, with one way being through the use of signs informing guests of the nature of the area. Similar to our special lakes in Bundjalung Country, Kuku Yalanji people from the Daintree have the Blue Hole Pool, which is a healing and birthing place reserved for women’s business. Kuku Yalanji Traditional Owners have struggled for years to protect this site, as non-Indigenous people have decided to make the pool a regular swimming spot. Multiple erected signs are constantly dismissed and a boom gate installed to stop vehicles has been broken multiple times by disgruntled visitors. (Hollis) Protecting these lakes has hit another obstacle with the rise of #traveltok in the 2020s, a subsection of media on the user-generated short form video-sharing app TikTok dedicated to sharing the best spots to travel. All someone has to search for is ‘swimming hole daintree’, and videos show overwhelmingly non-Indigenous tourists (of all genders) sharing their travels to the Blue Hole Pool. One video shows a girl with her friends trespassing past the aforementioned boom gate (TikTok a), and another video shows a young man filming himself in the sacred women’s pool with the caption “Add this to your bucket list in Queensland!” (TikTok b). Ironically, a number of commenters note that he would have had to ignore numerous signs warning him to not swim. However, the video still garnered 2,200 likes, and over 700 people have saved the video. A similar search for ‘Ti Tree Lake’ reveals comparable content. The first video belongs to a young woman, Rhiannon, presumably in her early 20s, who declares in a voiceover that “this is one of the best places to swim in Australia”, before listing off the health and wellbeing benefits of the Tea Tree-infused lake (TikTok c). While she acknowledges in the second half of the video that the lake is “valued” by Indigenous women after birth, she fails to name Bundjalung people for her audience of 508,000 views, and instead closes her content on how nice her hair felt afterwards. Through this type of media content creation, a young white woman has assumed the right to promote one of Bundjalung Nation’s most significant sites. Another video nearby in the search list shows a young man bathing in our women’s lake (TikTok d). West and Rhiannon are certainly not alone in their shaping of the lake as a natural healing place through a lens of wellbeing language. A letter to the editor complaining of men using the lake took a far different approach to a gender prohibition, adding dismay that the lake was being used by men seeking random sexual hook-ups. In speaking of the significance of the Country, the author writes, “once upon a time it was an Aboriginal birthing ground. Yeah fellas, a sacred women’s area”. Ironically the concern of what had been ‘lost’ was also framed through a nostalgic appreciation where 20 years ago I used to come here with my girlfriends and we would swim in the tea-tree lake, dive deep to retrieve the mineral rich mud from the bottom and lie in the sun until it had dried. It was the ultimate day spa. (Leonard) While noting this conversational tone, there is nevertheless a deep disjuncture between a sacred women's area and a day spa. We argue that the significance of Tea Tree lakes is not open to appropriation through reinterpretation, not through a female empowerment and revitalisation agenda nor a neo-spiritual agenda which arose in the 2015 media discussion on a non-Aboriginal Victorian couple’s decision to give birth in Taylors Lake, reported by the Byron Shire News. In the paper’s next weekly edition, they gave voice to Arakwal custodians who commented: Taylors Lake or Ti Tree Lake is the most significant Aboriginal women's site in the Byron Shire … . The lake belongs to all Bundjalung women and holds deep spiritual significance to us, and our men never go there out of respect … . This woman speaks about her respect for Aboriginal culture but did not ask our permission. We were horrified when we saw the picture in the paper of this man in the sacred women's lake. (Kay cited in C222morrow) This last example particularly exemplifies the attempted ‘elimination’ of First Peoples through the attempted appropriation and assimilation of Indigenous practice. This absorption of the practice of bathing in these lakes into non-Indigenous practices attempts to displace Indigenous peoples from our Country, our sacred sites, and our knowledge. Through the re-framing of these places as ‘wellness’ tools or feminist liberation, we are experiencing the continued colonisation of our special places, which are our birthright as encultured female members of First Nations groups. Calls to Action There is a trend in academic literature which provides the scope of problems which plague Indigenous peoples. Our article concludes not with a restatement of the issues, but with a series of Calls to Action. Every day that we do not empower Traditional Owners in the management of their own Country is another day that sites such as Ti Tree Lake are desecrated and culturally significant plants like bulam are exploited. This requires individual and broader systemic change: Non-Indigenous peoples seeking healing and enlightenment from Country must be mindful that they are guests in those spaces. Wilfully ignoring Indigenous protocols or seeing protocols as a “pick and mix” option devalues Country. Social media guidelines for platforms such as TikTok must include avenues to flag or remove or add warnings for culturally insensitive content. This requires ongoing collaboration with First Nations people to further refine what content breaches these guidelines. Content creators must also adapt to community feedback. There must be legal recognition of Indigenous Cultural and Intellectual Property (ICIP) regarding First Nations’ knowledge of Country. First Nations people must be empowered to economically benefit from their knowledge as business owners and entrepreneurs utilising their individual, familial, and communal knowledge. Local, state, and national governments must empower Traditional Ecological Governance systems. Acknowledgement is not enough, sovereignty and land back. #notyourdamndayspa. References Australian Tea Tree Oil Industry Association. “About Australian Tea Tree Oil.” 10 June 2023 <https://teatree.org.au/teatree_about.php>. Bird-Rose, Deborah. Nourishing Terrains: Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness. Australian Heritage Commission, 1996. Brown, Jamie. “Bringing Tea-Tree Oil Out of the Swamp.” Financial Review 17 Apr. 1994. <https://www.afr.com/companies/bringing-tea-tree-oil-out-of-the-swamp-19940117-kate3>. 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The stand-off involving the asylum-seekers on board the Tampa, off the coast of Australia in August-September 2001, represented a critical confluence of security, fear. The Australian government’s response to the issue of stranded asylum-seekers, it is argued here, was a directly calculated political representation aimed at creating fear in the Australian populace: fear of a threat to Australian security. The fear generated by the Australian government, in which the national media was a willing accomplice, allowed for a perception among Australians that the government’s actions, in refusing to allow the Tampa to offload its passengers, were consistent with the provision of national security. The government was preserving the territorial integrity and sovereignty of the state in the face of this constructed ‘threat’ to Australia’s security. The provision of security is central to the state’s reason for being. If the state is not capable of providing security, however that security is to be defined, the continued legitimacy and even existence of the state itself must necessarily be questioned, as Michael Dillon has argued. The power and importance of the security narrative can therefore not be underestimated. Further, Dillon argues, this security has generally been conceived as the security of the ‘self’ against the ‘other’. Attempts to be seen to be ‘doing the job’ of security has throughout history involved the identification and vilification of this other, with the fear of the other consequently constituting or reifying the self and contributing to the legitimacy of governments. The nature of this relationship between identity, security and fear is central to the government’s politics of representing the asylum seekers. The Howard government acknowledged, rightly, that making people afraid of the threat posed by waves of foreign asylum seekers and evoking the narrative of security would contribute to a solidification of the Australian self, and unite the people of Australia behind its political leaders, who were working to protect Australians from this ‘threat’. The fear created by the Australian government was constructed in a number of ways. First, the government argued that Australia was faced with a possible future wave of illegal immigrants, a situation that threatened the future security of the country. Seen in this light, the decision to prevent the Tampa from offloading asylum seekers was a means of achieving security by sending a message to would-be boat people that Australia was not a ‘soft touch’. Second, the government evoked a range of images central to traditional discourses of security, concerned predominantly with the preservation of the nation-state from military attack. As Burke argues, the government variously talked of ‘territorial integrity’, ‘sovereignty’ and ‘national interests’, concepts that, when spoken of together, would seem more suited to a situation of armed conflict rather than one involving the captain of a cargo boat looking to offload asylum seekers for processing in Australia. The consistency of this type of language with earlier depictions of the threat of Japanese invasion during World War II, for example, is not an historical coincidence. It is argued here that the use of such language helped create a context in which the idea of asylum seekers as threatening to Australian security, and therefore to be feared, had resonance with the domestic population. Finally, the government constructed fear through its attempts to depict the asylum-seekers as an ‘other’, foreign to Australian identity. This was achieved in part through questioning the legitimacy of their claims to asylum over others awaiting processing, and also through the very act of depicting them as threats to security. Their religious and ethnic otherness was not played on specifically by the government, although claims that asylum seekers threw children into the ocean, which were to later be proved erroneous, portrayed asylum-seekers as less than human. The combination of these acts constructed a fear in the Australian populace, a fear of the threat to Australian self from a foreign other, thus pointing to the relationship between fear, security and identity. In an excellent recent text on Australian security, Anthony Burke convincingly argues that the government’s response to, or indeed creation of, the Tampa crisis can be viewed as the continuation of an enduring narrative of security and fear that has been the cornerstone of Australian identity and subjectivity since 1788. This narrative, he argues, has been constitutive and reflective of Australia’s sense of self, and has allowed for politics that has denied the rights of the other throughout Australia’s history. This perspective is not limited to the Australian subject. In a seminal text on US security, David Campbell argues that the provision of security in the United States has similarly been linked to identity politics in which the fear of a vilified other was central to the constitution of the self and the legitimacy of governments. The relationship between fear, identity politics and security is particularly evident, Campbell argues, in the McCarthy era attacks on ‘communist dissidents’ during the early years of the Cold War. The point to be made from these examples is that fear is not just implicated in the construction of security and indeed the self: it is integral to that project. Facile as the comparison may be, the approach of the Australian government to this issue is reminiscent of the plot of the 1995 movie, Canadian Bacon. In the film, a US President suffering from low popularity ratings invents a confrontation with Canada in order to unite the American people behind him and enhance his chances of winning a second term in office. In inventing this threat, his administration portrayed Canadians residing in the United States as possible spies for the Canadian administration and also expressed suspicion of the hegemonic aspirations of the Canadian government in general. The fear created through such a depiction, it was hoped, would allow the President enough popularity to be re-elected. Perhaps the central difference between this example and the Howard government’s approach to the asylum seeker ‘threat’ is that the fictional US President in question was not successful in his bid for re-election. Joseph Camilleri has persuasively argued that security is a psychological rather than material state. In other words, security is about feeling rather than being secure. As such, governments must seek to create conditions in which this feeling of security is engendered in order to retain legitimacy. Enter the narrative of fear. Fear creates a basis for perceptions that the government is providing security, because once a population becomes concerned at threats posed by different actors, that population becomes almost necessarily supportive of actors viewed as capable of addressing that threat. Seen in this light, the creation of threat, regardless of the material significance of the threat itself, is a useful tool for governments to maintain legitimacy. Importantly, in the case of the asylum-seekers, these individuals themselves, and the nature of their plight, had limited relevance to the political project of the Australian government. This is aside from the important caveat that they were not of Anglo-Saxon appearance, and therefore ‘different’ to dominant depictions of the Australian self, a difference reinforced by claims of their willingness to endanger the lives of their own children. The fact that many asylum seekers were escaping the oppression of a regime Howard himself had described as evil, and whose invasion he was simultaneously supporting, seems to have slipped through the cracks of popular consciousness. This paradox did not seem to bother the Australian government, whose political representation of asylum seekers did not require any attention to where they had come from or why they had been willing to risk their lives in seeking refuge. The government merely had to point to a future ‘wave of boat-people’: queue-jumping ‘illegals’ who had targeted Australia as an international ‘soft touch’. The fear created by such an image was enough to suppress any lingering form of empathy or, for that matter, rationality. Even a rationalist would struggle to reconcile the government’s commitment to international human rights norms, its support for the war against terrorism and depiction of the evil Taliban regime of Afghanistan, and its commitment to preventing Afghani asylum-seekers from having claims processed in Australia. The government was riding on a wave of fear, a fear that would play a significant role in the re-election of the Howard government and the continued popular support for mandatory detention of asylum-seekers and the government’s ‘Pacific Solution’. Can we imagine a situation in which security can mean something other than the security of the self (in this case the Australian nation-state) at the expense of the other (asylum seekers)? Can we imagine a situation in which security is associated with emancipation of individuals, as Critical Security theorists advocate, rather than the (military) protection of the sovereignty of the state? Burke is sceptical, largely because the narrative of security as fear has permeated Australian politics, and the Australian subject, since the initial dispossession of indigenous people in the eighteenth century. In an international climate where fear still prevails, particularly in the wording of President Bush’s recent State of the Union address in which he warned Americans of the ‘Axis of Evil’, it is difficult to see how, or where, normatively progressive security politics would be located. When government or regime legitimacy can be assisted through recourse to an identity politics predicated on fear, what incentive could we imagine for an acknowledgment of the claims of ‘others’? The answer to this question lies partly in this paper itself, and in the other contributions in this journal to the question of fear and social relations. The power of fear, it is argued here, is necessarily undermined by an analysis of the construction of fear itself. This form of critique, following Foucault, is critical to breaking down a knowledge-power nexus that, in the case of security and the asylum seekers renders us secure through the suffering of others. While we may not expect critical analysis to reconstitute politics and identity in the short-term, we can reasonably expect such analyses to undermine the resonance of such narratives of fear. References Burke, Anthony. In Fear of Security: Australia’s Invasion Anxiety. Sydney: Pluto, 2002. Camilleri, Joseph. ‘The security dilemma revisited: Implications for the Asia-Pacific’, in W. Tow, R. Thakur and I. Hyun eds. Asia’s Emerging Regional Order: Reconciling Traditional and Human Security. Tokyo: UN University Press, 2000. Campbell, David. Writing Security: United States Foreign Policy and the Politics of Identity. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dillon, Michael. The Politics of Security: Towards a Philosophy of Continental Thought. London: Routledge, 1996. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Vintage, 1979. Canadian Bacon. Dir. Micheal Moore. PolyGram, 1995 (Screenplay by Michael Moore). Citation reference for this article MLA Style McDonald, Matt. "Fear, Security and the Politics of Representing Asylum Seekers" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.1 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/security.php>. Chicago Style McDonald, Matt, "Fear, Security and the Politics of Representing Asylum Seekers" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 1 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/security.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style McDonald, Matt. (2002) Fear, Security and the Politics of Representing Asylum Seekers. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(1). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/security.php> ([your date of access]).

Introduction "Barbie has a great day every day, but Ken only has a great day if Barbie looks at him", states the narrator in Barbie (2023). Directed by Greta Gerwig, the film not only claimed the title of the highest-grossing film of the year but also prompted its audience to reconsider a character they had previously mostly overlooked; another one of Barbie’s many accessories: Ken. Ken's identity as Barbie's companion is fundamentally dependent upon the presence and recognition of his more prominent female counterpart. This highlights Ken's secondary role, where he serves as a supporting figure to Barbie's idealised existence. Akin to a Manic Pixie Dream Boy (MPDB) overshadowed by Barbie, we realise Ken’s lack of identity. Throughout the film, Ken, initially depicted as identity-less, embarks on a journey of self-discovery, challenging the confines imposed by white patriarchy, although it doesn’t seem that way at first. This article will first establish Ken's MPDB status, highlighting traits such as (a) seeking to elevate and challenge the main character’s beliefs, (b) harbouring both gentleness and deviousness, while also engaging in playful yet mildly destructive mischief, (c) acting as a catalyst for change, (d) exhibiting a desire to escape, disappear, or transform, leaving valuable lessons behind, and (e) existing solely within the perception of or for the benefit of the main character. Subsequently, it will follow his journey, ultimately examining how a humanoid doll undergoes healing particularly concerning gender issues. Through the deconstruction of his narrative, this article aims to uncover the underlying power dynamics at play and to explore how Ken's transformation contributes to broader conversations surrounding gender fluidity and representation. By doing so, the article will provide an understanding of Ken's role and contribution to the feminist cause, while also offering insights into the broader cultural significance of the film. Manic Pixie Dream Girl In contemporary discourse, the term MPDGirl has gained recognition following its coinage by Nathan Rabin: “that bubbly, shallow, cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures” (Rabin, "The Bataan"). It rapidly gained eminence within popular culture, precipitating a widespread societal fixation on the quest for mining more MPDGs, up to the point where Rabin himself voiced his regret about coining the term ("I’m Sorry"). However, the MPDG was already a presence among us. As Laurie Penny states in the article "I Was a Manic Pixie Dream Girl", “Like scabies and syphilis, Manic Pixie Dream Girls were with us long before they were accurately named”. Additionally, Gouck contends that “the Pixie is a descendant of the Classical Muse and also has roots in the Pygmalion myth” (527). Thus, tracing from these foundational mythical and ancient iterations to contemporary relatives such as the Earnest Elfin Dream Gay (EEDG) and the “Magical Negro”, popularised by Spike Lee, reveals a diverse family tree. Although various writers for online platforms have declared the demise of the MPDG (Eby; Harris; Stoeffel), the trope constantly found ways to revive itself. Harris, in her 2012 article "Is the Manic Pixie Dream Girl Dead?", claimed that the trope has been turned on its head with later iterations like Ruby Sparks, “depicting a writer (Paul Dano) whose idealistic, winsome female character comes to life and challenges patriarchal notions of what women actually want”. Tannenbaum, on the other hand, suggested that the MPDG isn’t dead but just evolved through a loophole: the tragic backstory. This article contends that as long as a concept remains in circulation, it cannot die. Thus, even this article itself contributes to the preservation of the phenomenon in question. Manic Pixie Dream Boy In 2012, Molly Lambert introduced a notable extension of the MPDG archetype: the MPDB. Lambert described the MPDB as a character who uplifts the heroine's self-confidence through comfort, inspiration, and nurturing support, without expecting anything in return. He … tamps down her … temper while appreciating her quirks … . He’s a nerd, but not an angry … one. He’s handsome, but he has no idea … . His … hobbies might be immature … but it doesn’t extend to his emotions … . He’s a selfless, responsible Peter Pan. (Lambert) The likening of the MPDB to a selfless and responsible Peter Pan is flawed. One of the main reasons that make Peter Pan Peter Pan is that he doesn’t want to become an adult and be burdened with responsibilities. Additionally, the notion of the MPDB wanting nothing in return is flawed, as the MPDB's actions are usually driven by a fixation obsession rather than genuine altruism. Consequently, rather than epitomising selflessness, the MPDB defined by Lambert aligns more closely with an idealised EveryWoman’sDreamBoy archetype. In 2015, Anna Breslaw introduced another definition, labelling the MPDB as a “self-mythologizing ‘free-spirited’ dude”; however, it still remains unclear and unsatisfactory. Since its inception, there has been a fundamental misunderstanding of the concept of the MPDB. Originally rooted in a female-centric trope, it requires careful interpretation. When the definitions of the MPDB are applied as previously stated, it effectively transforms into an archetype that conventionally represents many women's ideal. However, unlike the MPDG, who is characterised by her eccentricity, the previous definitions of the MPDB reject this norm. Drawing inspiration from figures such as Peter Pan, Puck, King Kong, the Amphibian Man, the Beast, and Edward Scissorhands, the MPDB embodies a blend of comfort and chaos. This dichotomy is exemplified in Ken, who fulfills the role of comfort and chaos for Barbie, yet finds himself unwanted and unneeded. The real MPDB is defined by five core features that distinguish it from the misinterpreted notion often associated with the trope. a) The MPDB seeks to elevate and challenge the main character’s beliefs: Ken consistently tries to alter Barbie’s perceptions, as evidenced by his persistent attempts to reshape her opinion of him beyond superficial interests. This is exemplified by his pursuits beyond conventional activities, such as his daring act of running into the plastic waves, a seemingly unprecedented action that surprises, shocks, or scares those around him. b) The MPDB harbours both gentleness and deviousness, while engaging in playful yet mildly destructive mischief: Ken exhibits a dual nature, demonstrating kindness and charm towards Barbie while simultaneously harbouring ulterior motives, including a deep-seated desire to become Barbie's romantic partner. This complexity in character can be likened to the “nice guy syndrome”, where benevolent actions may mask underlying intentions. Furthermore, upon his return to build patriarchy, this desire is accentuated, showcasing his multilayered personality. c) The MPDB acts as a catalyst for change: Ken serves as an important force in instigating transformation, as demonstrated by the significant shifts that occur in both Barbieland and Barbie's life due to Ken's presence. His actions challenge Barbie's beliefs, whether intentionally or inadvertently, leading her to perceive new perspectives and undergo personal growth. d) The MPDB exhibits a desire to escape, disappear, or transform, leaving valuable lessons behind: Throughout Ken's MPDB journey, his inclination towards escapism, disappearance, or transformation becomes evident. While his initial desire to accompany Barbie may stem from romantic aspirations, it is also fuelled by the rivalry among the Kens. Once Ken realises there is more than Barbieland and he can want different things, he expresses his desire for change. As Ken evolves and heals, he undergoes a transformation, ultimately becoming a changed entity, yet leaving behind significant lessons that pave the way for the transformation of Barbieland and Barbie. e) The MPDB exists solely within the perception of or for the benefit of the main character: Ken’s presence is exclusively crafted within the perspective of, or to serve the needs of, the main character. According to a 2017 GQ article, Michael Shore, the head of Mattel's global consumer insights at the time, states that, “Ken was really viewed as more of an accessory in Barbie’s world, to support the narrative of whatever was happening with the girls” (qtd. in Weaver). This perspective reinforces Ken's role as arm candy within Barbie's world, serving as a complement to her endeavors at a ratio of about 1:7 (Weaver). This aspect highlights the trope's function as a narrative construct intended to support and shape the protagonist's storyline and growth. The MPDB Ken Ken (Ryan Gosling) makes his debut appearance in the Barbie movie at the eight-minute mark. While the narrative primarily revolves around Barbie, Ken's introduction is a subtle but significant moment. As Barbieland unfolds before us, Ken's delayed entrance, as another inhabitant of Barbieland, draws attention. Barbie is everywhere, but where is Ken? Amidst the cheerful exchanges of “Hi Barbie, Hi Ken”, Ken's behavior stands out—he doesn't reciprocate the greeting with other Kens, he only greets Barbie. Ken's omission from acknowledging his fellow Kens seems like a deliberate choice—a denial of their existence, perhaps suggesting that he perceives himself as the sole Ken of significance in Barbieland. His exclusive greeting to Barbie highlights this notion; in his world, Barbie is paramount, and other Kens are unimportant in comparison. We understand that there is a rivalry going on between the Kens; there is no Kenship, mainly between Ken (Gosling) and Ken (Simu Liu). The same evening at the party, while all the Barbies wear complementary yet distinct clothes, the Kens are dressed uniformly in identical outfits. This lack of individuality strips them of identity, claims Roche, “it is a training, an element in the education of controlled individual power ... designed to shape the physique … of [an] individual” (228-9). Uniforms shape individuality into collectivity and thus cause a lack of identity. The white and gold motifs on Kens’ jumpsuits may symbolise collectivity. They are a team; they are minds that have never been shaped before, they are accessories. The 'K' emblem on their jackets further emphasises their lack of identity. Costume designer Jacqueline Durran “imagined Gosling’s character as ‘almost like an accessory’ where his main function is to just be there and match her look. The Kens could all be dressed the same because there wasn’t meant to be anything distinct about them” (Zemler, "Dressing Barbie"). This point is even more highlighted in a scene where Barbie and Ken are in the car going to the real world, where Ken has another jumpsuit that is covered with the letter “B”. In the absence of the other Kens he is even more of an accessory, and even wearing something with his initials is denied, he is Barbie’s property. Contact with Patriarchy Barbie and Ken enter the real world, and interestingly, while throughout the travel sequence, Barbie is in front of Ken, leading Ken, in the shot where they enter the real world, Ken is in front of Barbie. Ken, for the first time alone, somehow ends up at Century City: “it is the antithesis of Barbieland”, says Greenwood, “there is an homage to the male construction industry and the male gaze” (Zemler, "On Location"). Men who are passing him say “excuse me, sir, thanks man, what’s up bud”. This new world that he encounters in Century City is giving him an identity. For the first time, he is something more than an unwanted MPDB. He is sir, he is man, he is bud. Since the Kens exist as a second-class species whose sole purpose is to cheer the Barbies on, he cannot comprehend his actual yearning, he thinks common decency (someone saying excuse me) is what patriarchy is. A fish out of water, the manic pixie Ken creates a pastiche of everything he encounters to assume this new identity: male presidents, mini-fridges, golf, a fur coat, and even horses. His first interaction with horses is through two police officers riding horses. Believing that horses are an important part of patriarchy, Ken wearing a cowboy outfit too, internalises the bond between horse and man. Pickel-Chavelier, in a study about horse stories, states that “the horse has been a fundamental element in the evolution of Western civilization” (120). Robinson argues that historically “the human-horse relationship was male-dominated, reflecting the horses’ role as a work tool and the traditional placing of power and power sources under the control of men” (44). Thus, the rider has been considered to have “increased power and an increased sense of power” while evoking “a sense of inferiority and envy” in pedestrians (Robinson 43). Studying the human-horse relationship through the American mounted police, Lawrence claimed that the mounted police have close relationships with their horses. Robinson states that “the officers spend much time with their animals each day and develop a sense of trust” (43). Ken's admiration of horses likely symbolises his evolving understanding of masculinity and power dynamics within patriarchy. Being introduced to horses as symbols of authority and control, he understands them as companions embodying strength, loyalty, and trust. This explains how he understands masculinity as a realm where power is defined by mutual respect and partnership, rather than dominance, which is also probably the reason why he loses interest in patriarchy when he realises it’s not about horses. Nicholas, in their article "Ken’s Rights?", claims that “radicalization … is often motivated by feelings among … men of being left behind by a feminist world or system that doesn’t value them. This then leads them to long for an imagined natural order of patriarchy where women are back in their place and men regain their entitlements”. Ken’s frustration leads him to introduce patriarchy to his fellow Kens, envisioning a transformation of Barbieland into a new Century City. This shift reflects Ken’s Manic Pixie healing journey: rather than being solely an MPDB, Ken slowly constructs an identity under patriarchy for himself. Drawing from Connell's perspective on hegemonic masculinity, which posits that masculinity is always constructed in response to subordinated masculinities, we see how Ken's desire for change extends to altering the very fabric of Barbieland, from its constitution to its name, renaming it Kendom. This name change holds significance, echoing the concept of “Inceldom” within the larger misogynist ecosystem of the Manosphere, where men perceive themselves as deprived of love and intimacy due to feminist ideals. In addition to incels, the ‘Manosphere’ is comprised of Men’s Right Activists, Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW), AND Pick-Up Artists (PUAs). Each of these groups subscribe to the same underlying philosophy, referred to as the ‘red pill’… When an individual has ‘taken the red pill’, they have enlightened themselves to a reality in which women wield feminism as a weapon against men, depriving them of sex and love. (Gothard et al. 1) Ken’s new outfit is another important change. As patriarchy leaks into Barbieland, Ken's outfit begins to reflect iconic images of masculinity, such as Sylvester Stallone in a mink coat. Previously, Ken's clothing complemented Barbie's, but now, his fanny pack displays his full name instead of just the letter K, positioned over his non-existent genitalia. This deliberate placement implies a newfound connection between his new identity and his imagined sex. When discontent Barbies strategise to disrupt the new order, they manipulate Kens' fragile egos, inciting conflict just before the crucial constitution vote. The fighting sequence starts with Ryan Gosling’s "I'm just Ken" song and imagery reminiscent of Rodin's iconic statue “The Thinker”. The Rodin Museum describes the figure as “a being with a tortured body, almost a damned soul, and a free-thinking man, determined to transcend his suffering through poetry”, mirroring Ken's current state of turmoil. In Rodin’s lifetime, there were “many marble and bronze editions in several sizes” that have been executed (Zelazko). Similarly, there are countless iterations of Ken, undermining his belief in his uniqueness. The general anticipation of the statue being impressive but then feeling let down when seeing its real size serves as a poignant metaphor for Ken's inflated self-importance, contrasted with his inherent fragility and insignificance. As the chorus “I’m just Ken” starts, Ken (Gosling) rides into the battle “on paddle boats reminiscent of cannon-loaded ships, while [Ken (Liu)]’s crew carries him over their shoulders, spinning umbrellas like wheels and holding stick horses as if they were human chariots” (Lee), having frisbees, tennis rackets, and other sports equipment in their hands. This imagery not only captivates the audience but also serves as a reflection of the sports and war imagery in media representations of men. The notion of hegemonic masculinity is intricately woven into such depictions. Jansen and Sabo point out “that the sport/war metaphor is embedded within a “deep structure” of patriarchal values, beliefs, and power relations that, in turn, reflect and advance the agendas of hegemonic masculinity” (2). This metaphor not only reflects but also advances the agendas of hegemonic masculinity. By glorifying competition and valorising traits associated with aggression and dominance, media representations perpetuate narrow and rigid norms of masculinity, reinforcing the hierarchical gender dynamics prevalent in society. However, through playful exploration of these notions, Barbie introduces a significant step in the healing journey of MPDBs, all while cleverly critiquing the inherent associations society makes between masculinity, competitive sports, and even aspects of warfare. Kenough As Ken continues his performance, seamlessly transitioning from a part-power ballad, part-battle sequence into a dream ballet, the narrative takes a profound turn. Connell's concept of “gender order”, referring to “a historically constructed pattern of power relations between men and women and definitions of femininity and masculinity” that emerge and are transformed within varying institutional contexts (98-99), becomes particularly relevant when applied to dancing, seen as an institutional context. Silvester, discussing how gender dynamics within dancing evolved, notes that in the 60s, with the twist and later with disco dancing, dancers did not have to have partners any more, which made the “presumptions about the effeminacy of professional male dancers” widespread (qtd. in Owen 18). Because in performance culture female dancers were the objects of desire for usually male spectators, dancing found itself a place inside the borders of femininity, “and homophobic prejudices against male dancers grew” (Owen 18). Initially, at the party, dancing symbolises their confinement to their identities as Barbie’s accessory, and later it serves as a catalyst for shedding the performative shackles of masculinity and patriarchy. Through dance, MPDB Ken embraces authenticity, breaking down the barriers of the embarrassment of showing admiration to his fellow Kens and fostering genuine connection and affection. The Kens help each other up, they giggle, and they kiss each other on the cheek; they are no longer threatened by each other or by showing affection. As the battle sequence comes to an end, one Ken acknowledges that they were only fighting because they didn’t know who they were. What initially began as a melodramatic expression of the insecurities of an incel, angry at his object of affection, transforms into a collective affirmation of self-worth, fostering unity and acceptance among the Kens. Lee aptly describes this transformation as an elevation from internal conflict to self-affirming validation, marking a pivotal shift away from self-destructive behaviours towards mutual respect and understanding. Ken finally has an identity that is not defined through Barbie’s gaze or patriarchal vision of masculinity. He is not an MPDB that only exists for the protagonist anymore. He finds an identity; however, one he does not know how to express. Connell and Messerschmidt state that “men can adopt hegemonic masculinity when it is desirable; but the same men can distance themselves strategically from hegemonic masculinity at other moments. Consequently, ‘masculinity’ represents not a certain type of man but, rather, a way that men position themselves through discursive practices” (841). Ken still does not abandon what he has found in the real world. Knowing he has been defeated he tries to “strategically” reposition himself. Like a toddler having a temper tantrum, he runs to his mojo dojo casa house, throws himself on his bed, and starts crying, while Barbie tries to comfort him. Myisha et al. suggest that Barbie, as a woman, again is cast in the role of nurturer and comforter, and thus the movie finds itself repeating gender stereotypes. However, missing the point that Ken is crying in this scene, these criticisms are themselves reinforcing gender stereotypes by mistaking common decency for an intrinsic association with women. Ken later denounces patriarchy and learns from Barbie not to define himself by his possessions, his relationship, or his job. Embracing his individuality, he declares, “I'm Ken, and I'm Kenough”, going down the slide, symbolizing a rebirth. In his final shot, Ken is seen with a sweatshirt proclaiming “I’m Kenough”. In embracing his past identities through the bandana and the color pink, he constructs a new identity, one that welcomes all colors. bell hooks defines feminism as “the struggle to end sexist oppression” for all women without “[privileging] women over men” (26). Greta Gerwig, in an interview with Time, acknowledges the struggles faced by both men and women throughout history, highlighting the universal pressure to meet unrealistic standards (Carlin). This suggests that while women face specific forms of oppression, men too are ensnared by other rigid societal norms, if not the same. By recognising these challenges, feminism advocates for the involvement of men in the movement. Whether it is standing in solidarity with women or confronting their own biases, men play a pivotal role in advancing gender equality. For feminism to thrive, it necessitates men's active participation, urging them to support women's rights and challenge patriarchal structures while remaining open to introspection and growth. Feminism has consistently aimed to dismantle the rigid gender binaries epitomised by the Barbie/Ken dichotomy, advocating for the separation of attributes from their gendered associations. From Barbie, we can glean the lesson that hierarchical and inflexible gender norms benefit no one and that power and social roles should not be determined by one's biological sex. Nicholas, in their article "Ken’s Rights?", claims that online antifeminist discourses reveal parallels between Ken's journey in the movie and themes found in Men’s Rights Activist spaces. Ken's transition from aggrievement to a more enlightened perspective on masculinity mirrors the narratives prevalent in such spaces. This underscores the importance of understanding and addressing men within the context of feminism, as their experiences are intertwined with broader societal structures and expectations. True progress cannot be achieved if we continue to view those who perpetuate patriarchy or toxic masculinity as “others”. We should see them as humanoid Ken dolls, and in doing so help them to help us trigger answers and solutions. Understanding and addressing these issues is crucial for healing and reducing harm inflicted by patriarchal norms. While Barbie may have its flaws, focussing solely on its shortcomings detracts from the opportunity to address deeper issues regarding society. MPDB Ken's portrayal as a subservient accessory to Barbie raises important questions about gender dynamics and the impact of societal expectations on individuals. Rather than vilifying Ken because he brought patriarchy to Barbieland, and reducing him only to a man, I advocate for understanding his journey and recognising him also as a brainwashed character, alongside the brainwashed Barbies, who needed the help of his friends to heal. By acknowledging and addressing the influence of patriarchal norms on all individuals, including men like Ken, we can work towards healing and progress for all. References Barbie. Dir. G. Gerwig. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2023. Breslaw, Anna. “Beware the Manic Pixie Dream Boyfriend.” The Cut, 13 Sep. 2015. <https://www.thecut.com/2015/09/beware-the-manic-pixie-dream-boyfriend.html>. Carlin, Shannon. “The History Behind Barbie’s Ken.” Time, 20 Jul. 2023. <https://time.com/6296386/barbie-ken-history/>. Connell, Raewyn. "The Social Organization of Masculinity." Feminist Theory Reader. Routledge, 2020. 192-200. ———. Gender and Power Cambridge. Polity, 1987. Connell, Raewyn, and James W. Messerschmidt. 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Augmented Reality—The Liminal Zone Within the larger context of the post-desktop technological philosophy and practice, an increasing number of efforts are directed towards finding solutions for integrating as close as possible virtual information into specific real environments; a short list of such endeavors include Wi-Fi connectivity, GPS-driven navigation, mobile phones, GIS (Geographic Information System), and various technological systems associated with what is loosely called locative, ubiquitous and pervasive computing. Augmented Reality (AR) is directly related to these technologies, although its visualization capabilities and the experience it provides assure it a particular place within this general trend. Indeed, AR stands out for its unique capacity (or ambition) to offer a seamless combination—or what I call here an effect of convergence—of the real scene perceived by the user with virtual information overlaid on that scene interactively and in real time. The augmented scene is perceived by the viewer through the use of different displays, the most common being the AR glasses (head-mounted display), video projections or monitors, and hand-held mobile devices such as smartphones or tablets, increasingly popular nowadays. One typical example of AR application is Layar, a browser that layers information of public interest—delivered through an open-source content management system—over the actual image of a real space, streamed live on the mobile phone display. An increasing number of artists employ this type of mobile AR apps to create artworks that consist in perceptually combining material reality and virtual data: as the user points the smartphone or tablet to a specific place, virtual 3D-modelled graphics or videos appear in real time, seamlessly inserted in the image of that location, according to the user’s position and orientation. In the engineering and IT design fields, one of the first researchers to articulate a coherent conceptualization of AR and to underlie its specific capabilities is Ronald Azuma. He writes that, unlike Virtual Reality (VR) which completely immerses the user inside a synthetic environment, AR supplements reality, therefore enhancing “a user’s perception of and interaction with the real world” (355-385). Another important contributor to the foundation of AR as a concept and as a research field is industrial engineer Paul Milgram. He proposes a comprehensive and frequently cited definition of “Mixed Reality” (MR) via a schema that includes the entire spectrum of situations that span the “continuum” between actual reality and virtual reality, with “augmented reality” and “augmented virtuality” between the two poles (283). Important to remark with regard to terminology (MR or AR) is that especially in the non-scientific literature, authors do not always explain a preference for either MR or AR. This suggests that the two terms are understood as synonymous, but it also provides evidence for my argument that, outside of the technical literature, AR is considered a concept rather than a technology. Here, I use the term AR instead of MR considering that the phrase AR (and the integrated idea of augmentation) is better suited to capturing the convergence effect. As I will demonstrate in the following lines, the process of augmentation (i.e. the convergence effect) is the result of an enhancement of the possibilities to perceive and understand the world—through adding data that augment the perception of reality—and not simply the product of a mix. Nevertheless, there is surely something “mixed” about this experience, at least for the fact that it combines reality and virtuality. The experiential result of combining reality and virtuality in the AR process is what media theorist Lev Manovich calls an “augmented space,” a perceptual liminal zone which he defines as “the physical space overlaid with dynamically changing information, multimedia in form and localized for each user” (219). The author derives the term “augmented space” from the term AR (already established in the scientific literature), but he sees AR, and implicitly augmented space, not as a strictly defined technology, but as a model of visuality concerned with the intertwining of the real and virtual: “it is crucial to see this as a conceptual rather than just a technological issue – and therefore as something that in part has already been an element of other architectural and artistic paradigms” (225-6). Surely, it is hard to believe that AR has appeared in a void or that its emergence is strictly related to certain advances in technological research. AR—as an artistic manifestation—is informed by other attempts (not necessarily digital) to merge real and fictional in a unitary perceptual entity, particularly by installation art and Virtual Reality (VR) environments. With installation art, AR shares the same spatial strategy and scenographic approach—they both construct “fictional” areas within material reality, that is, a sort of mise-en-scène that are aesthetically and socially produced and centered on the active viewer. From the media installationist practice of the previous decades, AR inherited the way of establishing a closer spatio-temporal interaction between the setting, the body and the electronic image (see for example Bruce Nauman’s Live-Taped Video Corridor [1970], Peter Campus’s Interface [1972], Dan Graham’s Present Continuous Pasts(s) [1974], Jeffrey Shaw’s Viewpoint [1975], or Jim Campbell’s Hallucination [1988]). On the other hand, VR plays an important role in the genealogy of AR for sharing the same preoccupation for illusionist imagery and—at least in some AR projects—for providing immersive interactions in “expanded image spaces experienced polysensorily and interactively” (Grau 9). VR artworks such as Paul Sermon, Telematic Dreaming (1992), Char Davies’ Osmose (1995), Michael Naimark’s Be Now Here (1995-97), Maurice Benayoun’s World Skin: A Photo Safari in the Land of War (1997), Luc Courchesne’s Where Are You? (2007-10), are significant examples for the way in which the viewer can be immersed in “expanded image-spaces.” Offering no view of the exterior world, the works try instead to reduce as much as possible the critical distance the viewer might have to the image he/she experiences. Indeed, AR emerged in great part from the artistic and scientific research efforts dedicated to VR, but also from the technological and artistic investigations of the possibilities of blending reality and virtuality, conducted in the previous decades. For example, in the 1960s, computer scientist Ivan Sutherland played a crucial role in the history of AR contributing to the development of display solutions and tracking systems that permit a better immersion within the digital image. Another important figure in the history of AR is computer artist Myron Krueger whose experiments with “responsive environments” are fundamental as they proposed a closer interaction between participant’s body and the digital object. More recently, architect and theorist Marcos Novak contributed to the development of the idea of AR by introducing the concept of “eversion”, “the counter-vector of the virtual leaking out into the actual”. Today, AR technological research and the applications made available by various developers and artists are focused more and more on mobility and ubiquitous access to information instead of immersivity and illusionist effects. A few examples of mobile AR include applications such as Layar, Wikitude—“world browsers” that overlay site-specific information in real-time on a real view (video stream) of a place, Streetmuseum (launched in 2010) and Historypin (launched in 2011)—applications that insert archive images into the street-view of a specific location where the old images were taken, or Google Glass (launched in 2012)—a device that provides the wearer access to Google’s key Cloud features, in situ and in real time. Recognizing the importance of various technological developments and of the artistic manifestations such as installation art and VR as predecessors of AR, we should emphasize that AR moves forward from these artistic and technological models. AR extends the installationist precedent by proposing a consistent and seamless integration of informational elements with the very physical space of the spectator, and at the same time rejects the idea of segregating the viewer into a complete artificial environment like in VR systems by opening the perceptual field to the surrounding environment. Instead of leaving the viewer in a sort of epistemological “lust” within the closed limits of the immersive virtual systems, AR sees virtuality rather as a “component of experiencing the real” (Farman 22). Thus, the questions that arise—and which this essay aims to answer—are: Do we have a specific spatial dimension in AR? If yes, can we distinguish it as a different—if not new—spatial and aesthetic paradigm? Is AR’s intricate topology able to be the place not only of convergence, but also of possible tensions between its real and virtual components, between the ideal of obtaining a perceptual continuity and the inherent (technical) limitations that undermine that ideal? Converging Spaces in the Artistic Mode: Between Continuum and Discontinuum As key examples of the way in which AR creates a specific spatial experience—in which convergence appears as a fluctuation between continuity and discontinuity—I mention three of the most accomplished works in the field that, significantly, expose also the essential role played by the interface in providing this experience: Living-Room 2 (2007) by Jan Torpus, Under Scan (2005-2008) by Rafael Lozano-Hemmer and Hans RichtAR (2013) by John Craig Freeman and Will Pappenheimer. The works illustrate the three main categories of interfaces used for AR experience: head-attached, spatial displays, and hand-held (Bimber 2005). These types of interface—together with all the array of adjacent devices, software and tracking systems—play a central role in determining the forms and outcomes of the user’s experience and consequently inform in a certain measure the aesthetic and socio-cultural interpretative discourse surrounding AR. Indeed, it is not the same to have an immersive but solitary experience, or a mobile and public experience of an AR artwork or application. The first example is Living-Room 2 an immersive AR installation realized by a collective coordinated by Jan Torpus in 2007 at the University of Applied Sciences and Arts FHNW, Basel, Switzerland. The work consists of a built “living-room” with pieces of furniture and domestic objects that are perceptually augmented by means of a “see-through” Head Mounted Display. The viewer perceives at the same time the real room and a series of virtual graphics superimposed on it such as illusionist natural vistas that “erase” the walls, or strange creatures that “invade” the living-room. The user can select different augmenting “scenarios” by interacting with both the physical interfaces (the real furniture and objects) and the graphical interfaces (provided as virtual images in the visual field of the viewer, and activated via a handheld device). For example, in one of the scenarios proposed, the user is prompted to design his/her own extended living room, by augmenting the content and the context of the given real space with different “spatial dramaturgies” or “AR décors.” Another scenario offers the possibility of creating an “Ecosystem”—a real-digital world perceived through the HMD in which strange creatures virtually occupy the living-room intertwining with the physical configuration of the set design and with the user’s viewing direction, body movement, and gestures. Particular attention is paid to the participant’s position in the room: a tracking device measures the coordinates of the participant’s location and direction of view and effectuates occlusions of real space and then congruent superimpositions of 3D images upon it. Figure 1: Jan Torpus, Living-Room 2 (Ecosystems), Augmented Reality installation (2007). Courtesy of the artist. Figure 2: Jan Torpus, Living-Room 2 (AR decors), Augmented Reality installation (2007). Courtesy of the artist.In this sense, the title of the work acquires a double meaning: “living” is both descriptive and metaphoric. As Torpus explains, Living-Room is an ambiguous phrase: it can be both a living-room and a room that actually lives, an observation that suggests the idea of a continuum and of immersion in an environment where there are no apparent ruptures between reality and virtuality. Of course, immersion is in these circumstances not about the creation of a purely artificial secluded space of experience like that of the VR environments, but rather about a dialogical exercise that unifies two different phenomenal levels, real and virtual, within a (dis)continuous environment (with the prefix “dis” as a necessary provision). Media theorist Ron Burnett’s observations about the instability of the dividing line between different levels of experience—more exactly, of the real-virtual continuum—in what he calls immersive “image-worlds” have a particular relevance in this context: Viewing or being immersed in images extend the control humans have over mediated spaces and is part of a perceptual and psychological continuum of struggle for meaning within image-worlds. Thinking in terms of continuums lessens the distinctions between subjects and objects and makes it possible to examine modes of influence among a variety of connected experiences. (113) It is precisely this preoccupation to lessen any (or most) distinctions between subjects and objects, and between real and virtual spaces, that lays at the core of every artistic experiment under the AR rubric. The fact that this distinction is never entirely erased—as Living-Room 2 proves—is part of the very condition of AR. The ambition to create a continuum is after all not about producing perfectly homogenous spaces, but, as Ron Burnett points out (113), “about modalities of interaction and dialogue” between real worlds and virtual images. Another way to frame the same problematic of creating a provisional spatial continuum between reality and virtuality, but this time in a non-immersive fashion (i.e. with projective interface means), occurs in Rafael Lozano-Hemmer’s Under Scan (2005-2008). The work, part of the larger series Relational Architecture, is an interactive video installation conceived for outdoor and indoor environments and presented in various public spaces. It is a complex system comprised of a powerful light source, video projectors, computers, and a tracking device. The powerful light casts shadows of passers-by within the dark environment of the work’s setting. A tracking device indicates where viewers are positioned and permits the system to project different video sequences onto their shadows. Shot in advance by local videographers and producers, the filmed sequences show full images of ordinary people moving freely, but also watching the camera. As they appear within pedestrians’ shadows, the figurants interact with the viewers, moving and establishing eye contact. Figure 3: Rafael Lozano-Hemmer, Under Scan (Relational Architecture 11), 2005. Shown here: Trafalgar Square, London, United Kingdom, 2008. Photo by: Antimodular Research. Courtesy of the artist. Figure 4: Rafael Lozano-Hemmer, Under Scan (Relational Architecture 11), 2005. Shown here: Trafalgar Square, London, United Kingdom, 2008. Photo by: Antimodular Research. Courtesy of the artist. One of the most interesting attributes of this work with respect to the question of AR’s (im)possible perceptual spatial continuity is its ability to create an experientially stimulating and conceptually sophisticated play between illusion and subversion of illusion. In Under Scan, the integration of video projections into the real environment via the active body of the viewer is aimed at tempering as much as possible any disparities or dialectical tensions—that is, any successive or alternative reading—between real and virtual. Although non-immersive, the work fuses the two levels by provoking an intimate but mute dialogue between the real, present body of the viewer and the virtual, absent body of the figurant via the ambiguous entity of the shadow. The latter is an illusion (it marks the presence of a body) that is transcended by another illusion (video projection). Moreover, being “under scan,” the viewer inhabits both the “here” of the immediate space and the “there” of virtual information: “the body” is equally a presence in flesh and bones and an occurrence in bits and bytes. But, however convincing this reality-virtuality pseudo-continuum would be, the spatial and temporal fragmentations inevitably persist: there is always a certain break at the phenomenological level between the experience of real space, the bodily absence/presence in the shadow, and the displacements and delays of the video image projection. Figure 5: John Craig Freeman and Will Pappenheimer, Hans RichtAR, augmented reality installation included in the exhibition “Hans Richter: Encounters”, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 2013. Courtesy of the artists. Figure 6: John Craig Freeman and Will Pappenheimer, Hans RichtAR, augmented reality installation included in the exhibition “Hans Richter: Encounters”, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 2013. Courtesy of the artists. The third example of an AR artwork that engages the problem of real-virtual spatial convergence as a play between perceptual continuity and discontinuity, this time with the use of hand-held mobile interface is Hans RichtAR by John Craig Freeman and Will Pappenheimer. The work is an AR installation included in the exhibition “Hans Richter: Encounters” at Los Angeles County Museum of Art, in 2013. The project recreates the spirit of the 1929 exhibition held in Stuttgart entitled Film und Foto (“FiFo”) for which avant-garde artist Hans Richter served as film curator. Featured in the augmented reality is a re-imaging of the FiFo Russian Room designed by El Lissitzky where a selection of Russian photographs, film stills and actual film footage was presented. The users access the work through tablets made available at the exhibition entrance. Pointing the tablet at the exhibition and moving around the room, the viewer discovers that a new, complex installation is superimposed on the screen over the existing installation and gallery space at LACMA. The work effectively recreates and interprets the original design of the Russian Room, with its scaffoldings and surfaces at various heights while virtually juxtaposing photography and moving images, to which the authors have added some creative elements of their own. Manipulating and converging real space and the virtual forms in an illusionist way, AR is able—as one of the artists maintains—to destabilize the way we construct representation. Indeed, the work makes a statement about visuality that complicates the relationship between the visible object and its representation and interpretation in the virtual realm. One that actually shows the fragility of establishing an illusionist continuum, of a perfect convergence between reality and represented virtuality, whatever the means employed. AR: A Different Spatial Practice Regardless the degree of “perfection” the convergence process would entail, what we can safely assume—following the examples above—is that the complex nature of AR operations permits a closer integration of virtual images within real space, one that, I argue, constitutes a new spatial paradigm. This is the perceptual outcome of the convergence effect, that is, the process and the product of consolidating different—and differently situated—elements in real and virtual worlds into a single space-image. Of course, illusion plays a crucial role as it makes permeable the perceptual limit between the represented objects and the material spaces we inhabit. Making the interface transparent—in both proper and figurative senses—and integrating it into the surrounding space, AR “erases” the medium with the effect of suspending—at least for a limited time—the perceptual (but not ontological!) differences between what is real and what is represented. These aspects are what distinguish AR from other technological and artistic endeavors that aim at creating more inclusive spaces of interaction. However, unlike the CAVE experience (a display solution frequently used in VR applications) that isolates the viewer within the image-space, in AR virtual information is coextensive with reality. As the example of the Living-Room 2 shows, regardless the degree of immersivity, in AR there is no such thing as dismissing the real in favor of an ideal view of a perfect and completely controllable artificial environment like in VR. The “redemptive” vision of a total virtual environment is replaced in AR with the open solution of sharing physical and digital realities in the same sensorial and spatial configuration. In AR the real is not denounced but reflected; it is not excluded, but integrated. Yet, AR distinguishes itself also from other projects that presuppose a real-world environment overlaid with data, such as urban surfaces covered with screens, Wi-Fi enabled areas, or video installations that are not site-specific and viewer inclusive. Although closely related to these types of projects, AR remains different, its spatiality is not simply a “space of interaction” that connects, but instead it integrates real and virtual elements. Unlike other non-AR media installations, AR does not only place the real and virtual spaces in an adjacent position (or replace one with another), but makes them perceptually convergent in an—ideally—seamless way (and here Hans RichtAR is a relevant example). Moreover, as Lev Manovich notes, “electronically augmented space is unique – since the information is personalized for every user, it can change dynamically over time, and it is delivered through an interactive multimedia interface” (225-6). Nevertheless, as our examples show, any AR experience is negotiated in the user-machine encounter with various degrees of success and sustainability. Indeed, the realization of the convergence effect is sometimes problematic since AR is never perfectly continuous, spatially or temporally. The convergence effect is the momentary appearance of continuity that will never take full effect for the viewer, given the internal (perhaps inherent?) tensions between the ideal of seamlessness and the mostly technical inconsistencies in the visual construction of the pieces (such as real-time inadequacy or real-virtual registration errors). We should note that many criticisms of the AR visualization systems (being them practical applications or artworks) are directed to this particular aspect related to the imperfect alignment between reality and digital information in the augmented space-image. However, not only AR applications can function when having an estimated (and acceptable) registration error, but, I would state, such visual imperfections testify a distinctive aesthetic aspect of AR. The alleged flaws can be assumed—especially in the artistic AR projects—as the “trace,” as the “tool’s stroke” that can reflect the unique play between illusion and its subversion, between transparency of the medium and its reflexive strategy. In fact this is what defines AR as a different perceptual paradigm: the creation of a convergent space—which will remain inevitably imperfect—between material reality and virtual information.References Azuma, Ronald T. “A Survey on Augmented Reality.” Presence: Teleoperators and Virtual Environments 6.4 (Aug. 1997): 355-385. < http://www.hitl.washington.edu/projects/knowledge_base/ARfinal.pdf >. Benayoun, Maurice. World Skin: A Photo Safari in the Land of War. 1997. Immersive installation: CAVE, Computer, video projectors, 1 to 5 real photo cameras, 2 to 6 magnetic or infrared trackers, shutter glasses, audio-system, Internet connection, color printer. Maurice Benayoun, Works. < http://www.benayoun.com/projet.php?id=16 >. Bimber, Oliver, and Ramesh Raskar. Spatial Augmented Reality. Merging Real and Virtual Worlds. Wellesley, Massachusetts: AK Peters, 2005. 71-92. Burnett, Ron. How Images Think. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2004. Campbell, Jim. Hallucination. 1988-1990. Black and white video camera, 50 inch rear projection video monitor, laser disc players, custom electronics. Collection of Don Fisher, San Francisco. Campus, Peter. Interface. 1972. Closed-circuit video installation, black and white camera, video projector, light projector, glass sheet, empty, dark room. Centre Georges Pompidou Collection, Paris, France. Courchesne, Luc. Where Are You? 2005. Immersive installation: Panoscope 360°. a single channel immersive display, a large inverted dome, a hemispheric lens and projector, a computer and a surround sound system. Collection of the artist. < http://courchel.net/# >. Davies, Char. Osmose. 1995. Computer, sound synthesizers and processors, stereoscopic head-mounted display with 3D localized sound, breathing/balance interface vest, motion capture devices, video projectors, and silhouette screen. Char Davies, Immersence, Osmose. < http://www.immersence.com >. Farman, Jason. Mobile Interface Theory: Embodied Space and Locative Media. New York: Routledge, 2012. Graham, Dan. Present Continuous Past(s). 1974. Closed-circuit video installation, black and white camera, one black and white monitor, two mirrors, microprocessor. Centre Georges Pompidou Collection, Paris, France. Grau, Oliver. Virtual Art: From Illusion to Immersion. Translated by Gloria Custance. Cambridge, Massachusetts, London: MIT Press, 2003. Hansen, Mark B.N. New Philosophy for New Media. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2004. Harper, Douglas. Online Etymology Dictionary, 2001-2012. < http://www.etymonline.com >. Manovich, Lev. “The Poetics of Augmented Space.” Visual Communication 5.2 (2006): 219-240. Milgram, Paul, Haruo Takemura, Akira Utsumi, Fumio Kishino. “Augmented Reality: A Class of Displays on the Reality-Virtuality Continuum.” SPIE [The International Society for Optical Engineering] Proceedings 2351: Telemanipulator and Telepresence Technologies (1994): 282-292. Naimark, Michael, Be Now Here. 1995-97. Stereoscopic interactive panorama: 3-D glasses, two 35mm motion-picture cameras, rotating tripod, input pedestal, stereoscopic projection screen, four-channel audio, 16-foot (4.87 m) rotating floor. Originally produced at Interval Research Corporation with additional support from the UNESCO World Heritage Centre, Paris, France. < http://www.naimark.net/projects/benowhere.html >. Nauman, Bruce. Live-Taped Video Corridor. 1970. Wallboard, video camera, two video monitors, videotape player, and videotape, dimensions variable. Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York. Novak, Marcos. Interview with Leo Gullbring, Calimero journalistic och fotografi, 2001. < http://www.calimero.se/novak2.htm >. Sermon, Paul. Telematic Dreaming. 1992. ISDN telematic installation, two video projectors, two video cameras, two beds set. The National Museum of Photography, Film & Television in Bradford England. Shaw, Jeffrey, and Theo Botschuijver. Viewpoint. 1975. Photo installation. Shown at 9th Biennale de Paris, Musée d'Art Moderne, Paris, France.

Introduction With a deluge of mouthwatering pre-publicity, the opening of The Spotted Pig, the USA’s first self-identified British-styled gastropub, in Manhattan in February 2004 was much anticipated. The late Australian chef, food writer and restauranteur Mietta O’Donnell has noted how “taking over a building or business which has a long established reputation can be a mixed blessing” because of the way that memories “can enrich the experience of being in a place or they can just make people nostalgic”. Bistro Le Zoo, the previous eatery on the site, had been very popular when it opened almost a decade earlier, and its closure was mourned by some diners (Young; Kaminsky “Feeding Time”; Steinhauer & McGinty). This regret did not, however, appear to affect The Spotted Pig’s success. As esteemed New York Times reviewer Frank Bruni noted in his 2006 review: “Almost immediately after it opened […] the throngs started to descend, and they have never stopped”. The following year, The Spotted Pig was awarded a Michelin star—the first year that Michelin ranked New York—and has kept this star in the subsequent annual rankings. Writing Restaurant Biography Detailed studies have been published of almost every type of contemporary organisation including public institutions such as schools, hospitals, museums and universities, as well as non-profit organisations such as charities and professional associations. These are often written to mark a major milestone, or some significant change, development or the demise of the organisation under consideration (Brien). Detailed studies have also recently been published of businesses as diverse as general stores (Woody), art galleries (Fossi), fashion labels (Koda et al.), record stores (Southern & Branson), airlines (Byrnes; Jones), confectionary companies (Chinn) and builders (Garden). In terms of attracting mainstream readerships, however, few such studies seem able to capture popular reader interest as those about eating establishments including restaurants and cafés. This form of restaurant life history is, moreover, not restricted to ‘quality’ establishments. Fast food restaurant chains have attracted their share of studies (see, for example Love; Jakle & Sculle), ranging from business-economic analyses (Liu), socio-cultural political analyses (Watson), and memoirs (Kroc & Anderson), to criticism around their conduct and effects (Striffler). Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal is the most well-known published critique of the fast food industry and its effects with, famously, the Rolling Stone article on which it was based generating more reader mail than any other piece run in the 1990s. The book itself (researched narrative creative nonfiction), moreover, made a fascinating transition to the screen, transformed into a fictionalised drama (co-written by Schlosser) that narrates the content of the book from the point of view of a series of fictional/composite characters involved in the industry, rather than in a documentary format. Akin to the range of studies of fast food restaurants, there are also a variety of studies of eateries in US motels, caravan parks, diners and service station restaurants (see, for example, Baeder). Although there has been little study of this sub-genre of food and drink publishing, their popularity can be explained, at least in part, because such volumes cater to the significant readership for writing about food related topics of all kinds, with food writing recently identified as mainstream literary fare in the USA and UK (Hughes) and an entire “publishing subculture” in Australia (Dunstan & Chaitman). Although no exact tally exists, an informed estimate by the founder of the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards and president of the Paris Cookbook Fair, Edouard Cointreau, has more than 26,000 volumes on food and wine related topics currently published around the world annually (ctd. in Andriani “Gourmand Awards”). The readership for publications about restaurants can also perhaps be attributed to the wide range of information that can be included a single study. My study of a selection of these texts from the UK, USA and Australia indicates that this can include narratives of place and architecture dealing with the restaurant’s location, locale and design; narratives of directly food-related subject matter such as menus, recipes and dining trends; and narratives of people, in the stories of its proprietors, staff and patrons. Detailed studies of contemporary individual establishments commonly take the form of authorised narratives either written by the owners, chefs or other staff with the help of a food journalist, historian or other professional writer, or produced largely by that writer with the assistance of the premise’s staff. These studies are often extensively illustrated with photographs and, sometimes, drawings or reproductions of other artworks, and almost always include recipes. Two examples of these from my own collection include a centennial history of a famous New Orleans eatery that survived Hurricane Katrina, Galatoire’s Cookbook. Written by employees—the chief operating officer/general manager (Melvin Rodrigue) and publicist (Jyl Benson)—this incorporates reminiscences from both other staff and patrons. The second is another study of a New Orleans’ restaurant, this one by the late broadcaster and celebrity local historian Mel Leavitt. The Court of Two Sisters Cookbook: With a History of the French Quarter and the Restaurant, compiled with the assistance of the Two Sisters’ proprietor, Joseph Fein Joseph III, was first published in 1992 and has been so enduringly popular that it is in its eighth printing. These texts, in common with many others of this type, trace a triumph-over-adversity company history that incorporates a series of mildly scintillating anecdotes, lists of famous chefs and diners, and signature recipes. Although obviously focused on an external readership, they can also be characterised as an instance of what David M. Boje calls an organisation’s “story performance” (106) as the process of creating these narratives mobilises an organisation’s (in these cases, a commercial enterprise’s) internal information processing and narrative building activities. Studies of contemporary restaurants are much more rarely written without any involvement from the eatery’s personnel. When these are, the results tend to have much in common with more critical studies such as Fast Food Nation, as well as so-called architectural ‘building biographies’ which attempt to narrate the historical and social forces that “explain the shapes and uses” (Ellis, Chao & Parrish 70) of the physical structures we create. Examples of this would include Harding’s study of the importance of the Boeuf sur le Toit in Parisian life in the 1920s and Middlebrook’s social history of London’s Strand Corner House. Such work agrees with Kopytoff’s assertion—following Appadurai’s proposal that objects possess their own ‘biographies’ which need to be researched and expressed—that such inquiry can reveal not only information about the objects under consideration, but also about readers as we examine our “cultural […] aesthetic, historical, and even political” responses to these narratives (67). The life story of a restaurant will necessarily be entangled with those of the figures who have been involved in its establishment and development, as well as the narratives they create around the business. This following brief study of The Spotted Pig, however, written without the assistance of the establishment’s personnel, aims to outline a life story for this eatery in order to reflect upon the pig’s place in contemporary dining practice in New York as raw foodstuff, fashionable comestible, product, brand, symbol and marketing tool, as well as, at times, purely as an animal identity. The Spotted Pig Widely profiled before it even opened, The Spotted Pig is reportedly one of the city’s “most popular” restaurants (Michelin 349). It is profiled in all the city guidebooks I could locate in print and online, featuring in some of these as a key stop on recommended itineraries (see, for instance, Otis 39). A number of these proclaim it to be the USA’s first ‘gastropub’—the term first used in 1991 in the UK to describe a casual hotel/bar with good food and reasonable prices (Farley). The Spotted Pig is thus styled on a shabby-chic version of a traditional British hotel, featuring a cluttered-but-well arranged use of pig-themed objects and illustrations that is described by latest Michelin Green Guide of New York City as “a country-cute décor that still manages to be hip” (Michelin 349). From the three-dimensional carved pig hanging above the entrance in a homage to the shingles of traditional British hotels, to the use of its image on the menu, website and souvenir tee-shirts, the pig as motif proceeds its use as a foodstuff menu item. So much so, that the restaurant is often (affectionately) referred to by patrons and reviewers simply as ‘The Pig’. The restaurant has become so well known in New York in the relatively brief time it has been operating that it has not only featured in a number of novels and memoirs, but, moreover, little or no explanation has been deemed necessary as the signifier of “The Spotted Pig” appears to convey everything that needs to be said about an eatery of quality and fashion. In the thriller Lethal Experiment: A Donovan Creed Novel, when John Locke’s hero has to leave the restaurant and becomes involved in a series of dangerous escapades, he wants nothing more but to get back to his dinner (107, 115). The restaurant is also mentioned a number of times in Sex and the City author Candace Bushnell’s Lipstick Jungle in relation to a (fictional) new movie of the same name. The joke in the book is that the character doesn’t know of the restaurant (26). In David Goodwillie’s American Subversive, the story of a journalist-turned-blogger and a homegrown terrorist set in New York, the narrator refers to “Scarlett Johansson, for instance, and the hostess at the Spotted Pig” (203-4) as the epitome of attractiveness. The Spotted Pig is also mentioned in Suzanne Guillette’s memoir, Much to Your Chagrin, when the narrator is on a dinner date but fears running into her ex-boyfriend: ‘Jack lives somewhere in this vicinity […] Vaguely, you recall him telling you he was not too far from the Spotted Pig on Greenwich—now, was it Greenwich Avenue or Greenwich Street?’ (361). The author presumes readers know the right answer in order to build tension in this scene. Although this success is usually credited to the joint efforts of backer, music executive turned restaurateur Ken Friedman, his partner, well-known chef, restaurateur, author and television personality Mario Batali, and their UK-born and trained chef, April Bloomfield (see, for instance, Batali), a significant part has been built on Bloomfield’s pork cookery. The very idea of a “spotted pig” itself raises a central tenet of Bloomfield’s pork/food philosophy which is sustainable and organic. That is, not the mass produced, industrially farmed pig which produces a leaner meat, but the fatty, tastier varieties of pig such as the heritage six-spotted Berkshire which is “darker, more heavily marbled with fat, juicier and richer-tasting than most pork” (Fabricant). Bloomfield has, indeed, made pig’s ears—long a Chinese restaurant staple in the city and a key ingredient of Southern US soul food as well as some traditional Japanese and Spanish dishes—fashionable fare in the city, and her current incarnation, a crispy pig’s ear salad with lemon caper dressing (TSP 2010) is much acclaimed by reviewers. This approach to ingredients—using the ‘whole beast’, local whenever possible, and the concentration on pork—has been underlined and enhanced by a continuing relationship with UK chef Fergus Henderson. In his series of London restaurants under the banner of “St. John”, Henderson is famed for the approach to pork cookery outlined in his two books Nose to Tail Eating: A Kind of British Cooking, published in 1999 (re-published both in the UK and the US as The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating), and Beyond Nose to Tail: A Kind of British Cooking: Part II (coauthored with Justin Piers Gellatly in 2007). Henderson has indeed been identified as starting a trend in dining and food publishing, focusing on sustainably using as food the entirety of any animal killed for this purpose, but which mostly focuses on using all parts of pigs. In publishing, this includes Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s The River Cottage Meat Book, Peter Kaminsky’s Pig Perfect, subtitled Encounters with Some Remarkable Swine and Some Great Ways to Cook Them, John Barlow’s Everything but the Squeal: Eating the Whole Hog in Northern Spain and Jennifer McLagan’s Fat: An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient, with Recipes (2008). In restaurants, it certainly includes The Spotted Pig. So pervasive has embrace of whole beast pork consumption been in New York that, by 2007, Bruni could write that these are: “porky times, fatty times, which is to say very good times indeed. Any new logo for the city could justifiably place the Big Apple in the mouth of a spit-roasted pig” (Bruni). This demand set the stage perfectly for, in October 2007, Henderson to travel to New York to cook pork-rich menus at The Spotted Pig in tandem with Bloomfield (Royer). He followed this again in 2008 and, by 2009, this annual event had become known as “FergusStock” and was covered by local as well as UK media, and a range of US food weblogs. By 2009, it had grown to become a dinner at the Spotted Pig with half the dishes on the menu by Henderson and half by Bloomfield, and a dinner the next night at David Chang’s acclaimed Michelin-starred Momofuku Noodle Bar, which is famed for its Cantonese-style steamed pork belly buns. A third dinner (and then breakfast/brunch) followed at Friedman/Bloomfield’s Breslin Bar and Dining Room (discussed below) (Rose). The Spotted Pig dinners have become famed for Henderson’s pig’s head and pork trotter dishes with the chef himself recognising that although his wasn’t “the most obvious food to cook for America”, it was the case that “at St John, if a couple share a pig’s head, they tend to be American” (qtd. in Rose). In 2009, the pigs’ head were presented in pies which Henderson has described as “puff pastry casing, with layers of chopped, cooked pig’s head and potato, so all the lovely, bubbly pig’s head juices go into the potato” (qtd. in Rose). Bloomfield was aged only 28 when, in 2003, with a recommendation from Jamie Oliver, she interviewed for, and won, the position of executive chef of The Spotted Pig (Fabricant; Q&A). Following this introduction to the US, her reputation as a chef has grown based on the strength of her pork expertise. Among a host of awards, she was named one of US Food & Wine magazine’s ten annual Best New Chefs in 2007. In 2009, she was a featured solo session titled “Pig, Pig, Pig” at the fourth Annual International Chefs Congress, a prestigious New York City based event where “the world’s most influential and innovative chefs, pastry chefs, mixologists, and sommeliers present the latest techniques and culinary concepts to their peers” (Starchefs.com). Bloomfield demonstrated breaking down a whole suckling St. Canut milk raised piglet, after which she butterflied, rolled and slow-poached the belly, and fried the ears. As well as such demonstrations of expertise, she is also often called upon to provide expert comment on pork-related news stories, with The Spotted Pig regularly the subject of that food news. For example, when a rare, heritage Hungarian pig was profiled as a “new” New York pork source in 2009, this story arose because Bloomfield had served a Mangalitsa/Berkshire crossbreed pig belly and trotter dish with Agen prunes (Sanders) at The Spotted Pig. Bloomfield was quoted as the authority on the breed’s flavour and heritage authenticity: “it took me back to my grandmother’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, windows steaming from the roasting pork in the oven […] This pork has that same authentic taste” (qtd. in Sanders). Bloomfield has also used this expert profile to support a series of pork-related causes. These include the Thanksgiving Farm in the Catskill area, which produces free range pork for its resident special needs children and adults, and helps them gain meaningful work-related skills in working with these pigs. Bloomfield not only cooks for the project’s fundraisers, but also purchases any excess pigs for The Spotted Pig (Estrine 103). This strong focus on pork is not, however, exclusive. The Spotted Pig is also one of a number of American restaurants involved in the Meatless Monday campaign, whereby at least one vegetarian option is included on menus in order to draw attention to the benefits of a plant-based diet. When, in 2008, Bloomfield beat the Iron Chef in the sixth season of the US version of the eponymous television program, the central ingredient was nothing to do with pork—it was olives. Diversifying from this focus on ‘pig’ can, however, be dangerous. Friedman and Bloomfield’s next enterprise after The Spotted Pig was The John Dory seafood restaurant at the corner of 10th Avenue and 16th Street. This opened in November 2008 to reviews that its food was “uncomplicated and nearly perfect” (Andrews 22), won Bloomfield Time Out New York’s 2009 “Best New Hand at Seafood” award, but was not a success. The John Dory was a more formal, but smaller, restaurant that was more expensive at a time when the financial crisis was just biting, and was closed the following August. Friedman blamed the layout, size and neighbourhood (Stein) and its reservation system, which limited walk-in diners (ctd. in Vallis), but did not mention its non-pork, seafood orientation. When, almost immediately, another Friedman/Bloomfield project was announced, the Breslin Bar & Dining Room (which opened in October 2009 in the Ace Hotel at 20 West 29th Street and Broadway), the enterprise was closely modeled on the The Spotted Pig. In preparation, its senior management—Bloomfield, Friedman and sous-chefs, Nate Smith and Peter Cho (who was to become the Breslin’s head chef)—undertook a tasting tour of the UK that included Henderson’s St. John Bread & Wine Bar (Leventhal). Following this, the Breslin’s menu highlighted a series of pork dishes such as terrines, sausages, ham and potted styles (Rosenberg & McCarthy), with even Bloomfield’s pork scratchings (crispy pork rinds) bar snacks garnering glowing reviews (see, for example, Severson; Ghorbani). Reviewers, moreover, waxed lyrically about the menu’s pig-based dishes, the New York Times reviewer identifying this focus as catering to New York diners’ “fetish for pork fat” (Sifton). This representative review details not only “an entree of gently smoked pork belly that’s been roasted to tender goo, for instance, over a drift of buttery mashed potatoes, with cabbage and bacon on the side” but also a pig’s foot “in gravy made of reduced braising liquid, thick with pillowy shallots and green flecks of deconstructed brussels sprouts” (Sifton). Sifton concluded with the proclamation that this style of pork was “very good: meat that is fat; fat that is meat”. Concluding remarks Bloomfield has listed Michael Ruhlman’s Charcuterie as among her favourite food books. Publishers Weekly reviewer called Ruhlman “a food poet, and the pig is his muse” (Q&A). In August 2009, it was reported that Bloomfield had always wanted to write a cookbook (Marx) and, in July 2010, HarperCollins imprint Ecco publisher and foodbook editor Dan Halpern announced that he was planning a book with her, tentatively titled, A Girl and Her Pig (Andriani “Ecco Expands”). 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