Articoli di riviste sul tema "Schoolboys – Fiction"

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen” (Orwell, 1949). The opening lines of 1984 have passed into the collective consciousness, gathering the familiarity that is reserved for great works of literature. The ‘Ministry of Truth’ was Winston Smith's employer and the name is now applied by journalists to the Victorian Government's media unit.Much science fiction has been treated with condescension and the label of approval, ‘literature’, has been applied sparingly, if at all. I have enjoyed the genre since reading The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. The terror and adventure of the story of the invasion by Martians held me enthralled, but the real thrill for me as a schoolboy was that much of the early action took place where I lived.

This article critically analyzes Golding's Lord of the Flies to investigate how human nature was allegorically depicted by constructing an almost parallel fictional world to his contemporary time. In this paper, I argued that Golding allegorically exhibited the basic human nature of his contemporary time by experimenting with the schoolboys on the Pacific Ocean, which unveiled the brutal and uncivilized nature of schoolboys, and that such activities as depicted in the novel resembled the brutal and savage nature of the men of his time. The methodology I employed in this study was a close analysis of the primary text to examine how Golding used allegory to uncover the basic nature of human beings, and I analyzed secondary resources related to the study to support my arguments. The analysis identified that Golding depicted savagery and animalistic human nature through allegory, which questioned the traditional understanding of human nature as civilized and moral, and his experience of involving himself in the war and working as a school teacher helped him in reflecting such brutal and uncivilized events of his time. He provided a wider space and various layers of secondary meanings for characters, setting, and events in the story, which resonated in many respects with the events of his contemporary time. In addition, this study unpacked the fact that savagery existed inside the human heart and manifested in a lack of guardianship and civilizational forces in human beings. This paper will be useful in exploring the novel for a better understanding of human nature.

This article critically analyzes Golding's Lord of the Flies to investigate how human nature was allegorically depicted by constructing an almost parallel fictional world to his contemporary time. In this paper, I argued, Golding allegorically exhibited the basic human nature of his contemporary time by experimenting with the schoolboys on the Pacific Ocean which unveiled the brutal and uncivilized nature of schoolboys and such activities as depicted in the novel resembled the brutal and savagery nature of the men of his time. The methodology, I employed in this study was a close analysis of primary text to examine how Golding used allegory to uncover the basic nature of human beings and I analyzed secondary resources related to the study to support my arguments. The analysis identified that Golding depicted savagery and animalistic human nature through allegory which questioned the traditional understanding of human nature as civilized and moral and his experience of involving in the war, and working as a school teacher assisted him in reflecting such brutal and uncivilized events of his time by constructing an almost parallel story. He provided a wider space and various layers of secondary meanings of characters, setting, and events, of the story which resonated in many respects with the events of his contemporary time. In addition, this study unpacked the fact that savagery existed inside the heart of the human, and manifested in a lack of guardianship and civilizational forces in human beings. This paper will be useful in exploring the novel for a better understanding of human nature, and it will also provide direction for further study.

This article explores the relationship between Roman school texts and the socialization of the student into an elite man. I argue that composition and declamation communicated social values; in fact, the rhetorical education of the late republic and the empire was a process of socialization that produced a definite subjectivity in its elite participants. I treat two genres of Roman school texts: the expansions on a set theme known as declamation and the bilingual, Greek and Latin, writing exercises known as the colloquia amid the collections of hermeneumata. This article is more broadly concerned with the attitudes toward language use that are learned along with specific literacy skills. Habits of reading and writing and speaking are learned in scenes and contexts that contribute to concepts of the self and more widely of gender and social roles. The encounters and verbal interactions recurrently plot a deviation from violence or a return to civil and familial order through the proper verbal display of the elite speaker. The student speaker's assumption of roles, his training in fictio personae, is a strong training in memory and imagination-pretending to be someone else, pretending to talk like someone else, or pretending to talk on behalf of someone else. That someone else is most important as the schoolboy becomes the voice of or for prostitutes, the raped, slaves, freedmen, women. His was not a neutral ventriloquism in the styles of Latin but a training in the master's mode toward the ready conviction that the speaker can and must speak for others, his subordinates. Roman rhetorical education was a process of persona building, shaping the schoolboy in his future role while excluding others from the very right to become speaking subjects.

The article identifies salient features of Van de Ruit’s novels “Spud: a wickedly funny novel” (2005) and “Spud – the madness continues” (2007) and compares them with the corresponding motifs commonly found in historical British boys’ school stories, tracing shifts in discourse to establish the novels’ construction of a South African boyhood. The article argues that through his conscious subversion of the imperial model’s defining discourses, Van de Ruit’s fictional representation of Spud’s school experience portrays the previously accepted “ideal” construction of boyhood, with its unmistakably defined principles and uncontested ethical code, as fundamentally challenged by the variety of alternative discourses to which the modern protagonist is exposed. The resultant construction of Spud’s South African boyhood is, therefore, characterised by the protagonist’s constant struggle to assimilate the frequently incongruous and bewildering discourses (about moral courage and personal integrity, in particular) that compete for his attention. The pivotal component of this particular construction of boyhood may be argued not to be a strict adherence to a clearly defined schoolboy ethic, but as a variable that is ultimately dependent on the boy’s choices.

Abstract: Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the enemy of books and civilized learning, might seem poles apart from Quintilian, who was so popular in France in the eighteenth century. Nevertheless, although there are only small traces of direct contact between the author of Émile and the Institutio, comparison between the two works is illuminating. Both are large-scale educational treatises embodying a vision of humanity. The important common ground between them concerns the importance of early childhood, a certain moral idealism, and the prfrence for a manly form of speech. Significant divergences begin to appear in relation to three major areas of concern: citizenship and the public life, the relation of words to things, and the question of acting, imagination, and fiction. Je ne me lasse point de le redire: mettez toutes les leçons des jeunes gens en actions plustôt qu'en discours; qu'ils n'apprennent rien dans les livres de ce que l'expérience peut leur enseigner. Quel extravagant projet de les exercer à parler sans sujet de rien dire, de croire leur faire sentir sur les bancs d'un collège l'énergie du langage des passions, et toute la force de l'art de persuader sans intérêt de rien persuader à personne! Tous les préceptes de la rhétorique ne semblent qu'un pur verbiage à quiconque n'en sent pas l'usage pour son profit. Qu'importe à un Ecolier comment s'y prit Annibal pour déterminer ses soldats à passer les Alpes? (I never tire of repeating it: put ail your tessons for young people into actions, not speeches; let them learn nothing from books which they could learn from experience. What an insane idea to exercise them in speaking when they have nothing to speak about, to believe one can make them feel on their school benches the language of the passions and ail the force of the art of persuasion, when they have no interest in persuading anybody! All the precepts of rhetoric are pure verbiage to anyone who cannot see what use they are to him. What does it matter to a schoolboy how Hannibal set about persuading his soldiers to cross the Alps?)

Mir Bozhiy (God’s World) magazine is justly attributed to the lead periodicals of the p lutionary Russia. It came out in 1892-1906. During that relatively short period, it managed to win well-deserved respect and popularity among its readers. The circulation of 18 thousand issues in its best years is a perfect proof. No other classical fat magazine had such a wide circulation. At first, Mir Bozhiy was considered a specialized edition for young audience. That was the reason for its religious name referring at a young soul exploring the world of the God. However, very soon it turned into a magazine for wider public and readers of different ages. Already one year after it was first published, its cover had the subtitle complimented with a note «for self-education». Mir Bozhiy became a magazine for family reading replacing books, schoolbooks and encyclopaedias.Its readers had all reasons to love the magazine. Published works of literature — poems, stories, and novels stood out with their high literary level; and scientific reviews represented thorough analytical studies that contained brave and original conclusion. Contributors of the content included the authors who made Russian poetry and literature shine such as Dmitriy Merezhkovskiy, Ivan Bunin, Dmitriy Mamin-Sibiryak, Alexander Kuprin and others.Exceptional articles came out from the philosophers Sergey Bulgakov, Nikolay Berdyayev, the economist Mikhail Tuhan-Baranovskiy, publishers Pavel Milyukov and Nikolay Iordanskiy, historian Vasily Klyuchevskiy. Articles about music and arts were also frequent in the magazine.Remarkable publications of the magazine became possible thanks to the high professionalism of its staff members who had literary talents and deep scientific knowledge. One of them, Angel Bogdanovich, was not only an outstanding editor but also an excellent publisher. The real masters of literary translation were Lidia Tuhan-Baranovskaya and Maria Kuprina-Iordanskaya, her first husband was the writer Alexander Kuprin, the head of the magazine’s fiction department. Finally, the magazine’s chief editor Fyodor Batyushkov who was the descendant of the famous Russian poet significantly contributed to the success of the magazine.Though, in 1906 due to the political situation, the «harmful magazine» as considered by the censors was closed, publications of the Mir Bozhiy continued influencing the development of Russian literature, science and culture for a long time.

This thesis delves into the representation of boys and masculinity in Rudyard Kipling’s fiction through the lens of creative criticism. Using the methodology of a thought experiment, the study meditates on whether male characters in Kipling’s nineteenth-century short stories are able to render a mature masculine identity, or whether they exist in a state of half-becoming, as ‘manboys’. The central contention posits that Kipling’s works are devoid of a definitive ‘man’ archetype; instead, they portray characters at varying stages of boyhood, shaping masculinity through skilful engagement in childlike play. The analysis revolves around select short stories including “The Last of the Stories”, “The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes”, “The Cry of Blood”, “The Mark of the Beast”, “The Man Who Would be King”, “The Story of Muhammed Din”, “Without Benefit of the Clergy”, “Beyond the Pale" and “All the Mowgli Stories”. Central interpretations in the iconic Raj narratives includes an exposure of the fragility and domestic instability of expatriate culture’s dynamics, behaviours, and institutions. “The Man Who Would Be King” is read as an adventure undertaken by schoolboys. In “Without Benefit of the Clergy” and “Beyond the Pale", this playful masculine existence is intertwined with the awkward problem of first love. Moving between short stories, the study keeps a steady eye on the character of Mowgli from “The Jungle Books”, drawing comparing his development to that of other characters. Navigating Kipling’s literary terrain has traditionally been a challenging endeavour within academia. However, this piece attends to the complexities of Kipling’s expansive imaginative realm. By redefining masculinity through the lens of playful mastery, this study intends a nuanced interpretation of several of his male characters, contributing to broader critical conversations surrounding gender, coloniality, childhood and psychoanalytic approaches to Literature.

AbstractGenerating data from small group interviews with 41 boys aged 10–11 years from two London schools in 2022, this paper contributes to the field of gender by introducing a new form of non‐hegemonic and positive masculinity, which I am calling ‘blended’ masculinity, and which was the most common formation in each school. Although its features differed a little in each setting, this blended formulation broadly consisted of orthodox qualities of masculinity (e.g. athleticism, assertiveness, confidence, independence), combined with feminine‐associated traits (e.g. kindness, caring, sociability, emotional literacy). I argue that this blended form is different from previous conceptualisations of hybrid masculinity in the gender literature and is more akin to recent conceptions of hybrid femininity. There were no dominant forms of masculinity with hierarchical connotations of superiority, and no hegemony that legitimated unequal relations, with obvious subordination of other masculinities or femininities. Boys and girls generally got on well with each other and there was also no evidence of homophobia or misogyny. The paper also explores notions of peer‐group popularity, which was based on a series of resources, and delineates the characteristics of a fictional, ‘ideal’, schoolboy, whose features and attributes were connected to the different versions of masculinity on show.

Artikkelissa analysoidaan kansanihmisten rakkaus- ja kosintakirjeiden representaatioita fiktiivisissä teksteissä, jotka ajoittuvat 1880-luvulta 1900-luvun ensimmäiselle vuosikymmenelle. Taustalla on New Literacy Studies -tutkimussuunta, jonka piirissä tekstejä tarkastellaan käytäntöinä. Käytännöt vaihtelevat tilanteittain ja tekstilajeittain, ja teksteihin liittyvät ihanteet, normit ja arvostukset ovat erilaisia eri yhteisöissä ja eri kulttuureissa. Kirjetaitoihin kuuluvat kirjekonventioiden hallitseminen sekä kirjeen sisältöön ja asioiden esittämistapoihin liittyvät käytänteet. Artikkelin toisena kontekstina on kirjallistumisen tutkimus. Termi viittaa prosesseihin, joissa kirjoitettu ja painettu sana saivat yhä suuremman merkityksen niin yksilöiden elämässä kuin laajemmin yhteiskunnassa. Kirjoittaminen oli yksi rahvasta ja herrasväkeä erottavista raja-aidoista. Kuvauksia talollisista laatimassa kosinta- ja rakkauskirjeitä kirjurin avulla on kouluja käyneiden kirjailijoiden (Juho Reijonen, Otto Tuomi ja Maria Jotuni) teksteissä, kun taas Kauppis-Heikin ja useiden muiden kansankirjailijoiden teoksissa viestejä sanellaan harvoin, ja kirjeitä laativat myös talollisten tyttäret sekä rengit ja piiat. Edellisessä ryhmässä kansanihmisten kirjetaitoihin kohdistuu humoristinen tai koominen valo: naurua herättää korkean ja matalan sekoittuminen, keskittyminen materiaan tai romanttisten kliseiden kritiikitön hyväksyntä. Itseoppineiden kirjailijoiden teoksissa rahvaan sanelemiin tai kirjoittamiin kirjeisiin suhtaudutaan neutraalisti tai vain lievästi ironisoiden. Kansanvalistuksen projekti näkyy kummankin ryhmän taustalla: halu edistää kansan kirjoitustaitoa. Eroille voi etsiä syitä kirjailijoiden taustasta, asemasta kirjallisella kentällä ja suhteesta lukijoihin. Ensimmäisen ryhmän kirjailijoille koulutus ja sosiaaliset suhteet olivat tuoneet sosiaalista ja kulttuurista pääomaa, kun taas kansankirjailijoista useimmat eivät olleet käyneet päivääkään koulua. Päästäkseen kirjallisuuden kentälle he olivat tarvinneet mentoreita ja editoreja. Kansankirjailijoiden haluttomuus nauraa kirjoitustaidon heikkouksille liittyy samastumiseen omaan viiteryhmään: he eivät tahtoneet tehdä kansanihmisiä naurunalaisiksi säätyläisten edessä. ANNA KUISMIN: Burning love and oil in cotton wool. Love letters, humour and the Verschriftlichung in Finnish literature from the 1880s to the 1910s The background of the article lies in the New Literacy Studies that sees writing as events and practices and in the study of processes through which Finnish society became more and more permeated by writing (kirjallistuminen, Germ. Verschriftlichung). In the nineteenth century, the Finnish Lutheran Church took care of testing common people’s literacy skills, but the examinations only concerned the ability to read. Because of this, penmanship was one of the things that contributed to the barrier between classes. The emphasis of the article is on structures of power and authority involved in the use of literacy skills and epistolary literacy in particular. The article focuses on these issues by analysing representations of love letters and proposals of marriage made in writing by characters representing rural common people in nineteenth century Finland. The fictional material, dating from the 1880s to the 1910s, is divided into two groups. The first group comprises texts produced by writers who had risen in society through schooling (Juho Reijonen, Otto Tuomi and Maria Jotuni), and the second one consists of stories and novels written by the so-called kansankirjailijat (“folk writers”) who had had very little or no formal education (Pietari Päivärinta, Kauppis-Heikki, Nestor Niemelä and Eero Sissala). Both groups embraced one of the tenets of popular education (kansanvalistus, literally the “enlightenment of the common people”), namely the importance of full literacy for every citizen. However, there are two differences in the ways common people and their epistolary literacy are depicted in fiction. In the former group, characters dictate or commission love letters or proposals of marriage to ad hoc scribes who are superior in terms of education, while self-taught writers seldom depict situations in which scribes are used. Instead, even farm hands and maids write their love letters themselves. Another difference concerns the use of humour. In the first group, the interplay of scribes and the common people provides comic situations. In Reijonen’s short story, a down-to-earth farmer wants to concentrate on material things, while the protagonist in Tuomi’s story does not question the over-romantic clichés his schoolboy-scribe provides. In Jotuni’s novel, a letter from a young farmer to his fiancée mixes lofty and mundane discourses, which produce a humorous effect. These kinds of features hardly appear in the texts of self-taught writers. For one thing, they had had to struggle for their literacy skills and a position in the literary field. Secondly, they did not want make fun of common people in the eyes of those prospective readers who represented the educated elite. Key words: Nineteenth-century Finland, epistolary literacy from below, love letters, humour, Finnish prose fiction.

To re-imagine can, at one extreme, be a casual thought (what if I moved all the furniture in the living room?) and, at the other, re-imagining can be a complex process (what if I adapt a classic text into a major film?). There is a long history of working with the ideas of others and of re-working our own ideas. Of taking a concept and re-imagining it into something that is similar to the original and yet offers something new. Such re-imaginations are all around us; from the various interpretations of the Sherlock Holmes stories to the adjustments made, often over generations, to family recipes. Some of these efforts are the result of a creative drive to experiment and push boundaries, some efforts are inspired by changes in society or technology, yet others will be born of a sense of 'this can be done better' or 'done differently'. Essentially, to re-imagine is to ask questions, to interrogate that which is often taken for granted. This issue of M/C Journal seeks to explore the 'why' and the 'how' of re-imagining both the everyday and the extraordinary. In a reflection of the scale and scope of the potential to re-imagine all that is around us, this issue is particularly diverse. The contributions offer explorations into varied disciplines, use a range of methodological lenses, and deploy different writing styles. To this end we present a range of articles—some of which contain quite challenging content—that cover copyright, crime fiction, the stage, the literary brand and film, horror and children’s film, television, military-inspired fashion, and a piece that focuses on events leading up to September 11, 2001. We then present three, quite different, works that explore various aspects of Australian Indigenous culture and history. We begin with our feature article: “‘They’re creepy and they’re kooky’ and They’re Copyrighted: How Copyright Is Used to Dampen the (Re-)Imagination”. In this work Steve Collins explores important issues of copyright in the re-imagining and re-purposing of content. In particular, this article unpacks—using examples from the United States—how copyright legislation can restrict the activities of creative practitioners, across varied fields, and so adds to the debate on copyright reform. In our lead article “The Re-imagining Inherent in Crime Fiction Translation”, by Alistair Rolls, ideas of re-imagination, language, and the world’s most popular genre—crime fiction—are critically appraised. Rolls looks at a suite of issues around imagining original and re-imagining, through translation, crime fiction texts. These two forms of creativity are essential to the genre's development for, as Rolls notes, this type of fiction was born, “simultaneously in France and America but also in the translation zone between the two.” Amy Antonio re-imagines the femme fatale. Antonio acknowledges the centrality of the femme fatale to the noir tradition and re-imagines this iconic figure by positioning her on the Renaissance stage, explaining how the historical factors that precipitated the emergence of the noir femme fatale in the years following World War II, similarly existed in the sixteenth century and, as a result, the femme fatale can be re-imagined in a series of Elizabethan and Jacobean plays. The articles in this issue turn from fiction, to theatre, and then to film with Leonie Rutherford embarking on a “Re-imagining the Brand” exercise. Through two, very informative, case studies—Adventures of Tin Tin and Silver, Return to Treasure Island—Rutherford engages with issues of re-imagining classic literary texts as big-screen blockbusters. This article addresses some of the complexities associated with the updating “of classic texts [that] require interpretation and the negotiation of subtle changes in values that have occurred since the creation of the ‘original’.” Erin Hawley also looks at film, through a lens of horror, in “Re-imagining the Horror Genre in Children’s Animated Film”. Hawley explores how animated films have always been an ambiguous space “in terms of age, pleasure, and viewership.” Hawley goes on to challenge common assumptions that “animation itself is often a signifier of safety, fun, nostalgia, and childishness; it is a means of addressing families and young audiences” and outlines how animation complements horror where, “the fantastic and transformative aspects of animation can be powerful tools for telling stories that are dark, surprising, or somehow subversive.” Issues of the small screen, and social media, are reviewed by Karin van Es, Daniela van Geenen, and Thomas Boeschoten in their work of “Re-imagining Television Audience Research on Twitter”. In particular, this work highlights issues with how audience research is undertaken and argues for new ways forward that adapt to the changing viewing landscape: one that features social media as an increasingly important tool for people to engage with more traditional types of entertainment. Fashion, too, features within this special issue with the work Emerald L. King and Denise N. Rall, “Re-imagining the Empire of Japan through Japanese Schoolboy Uniforms”. King and Rall present their research into the significant re-imagining of Japanese cultural and national identities, which are explored in this work through the cataclysmic impact of Western ideologies on Japanese cultural traditions. The idea of re-imagining is challenged by Meg Stalcup through her article “What If? Re-imagined Scenarios and the Re-virtualisation of History” which looks at several events that took place in the lead up to September 11, 2001. Several of the men who would become 9/11 hijackers were stopped for minor traffic violations. Police officers in the United States replayed these incidents of contact, yet their questioning “what if?” asked not only if those moments could have revealed the plot of that traumatic day, but also places alternate scenarios into play. John C. Ryan, Danielle Brady, and Christopher Kueh guide us through a geographical re-imagining of one of Australia’s capital cities in “Where Fanny Balbuk Walked: Re-imagining Perth’s Wetlands through Digital Modelling”. This re-imagining of a major city’s natural environment calls “attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities.” Moreover, this work highlights the value of re-imagining a city anew as well as re-imagining the original after a process of considerable change. Rachel Franks traces the history of an effort to communicate the concept of equality under the law, to the Indigenous peoples of Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania), in “A True Crime Tale: Re-imagining Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Board for the Tasmanian Aborigines”. This article provides an overview of some of the various re-imaginings of this Board—including the re-imagining of the Board’s history—and also offers a new re-imagination of this curious, colonial object; positing that the Board serves as an early “pamphlet” on justice and punishment. Brooke Collins-Gearing, Vivien Cadungog, Sophie Camilleri, Erin Comensoli, Elissa Duncan, Leitesha Green, Adam Phillips, and Rebecca Stone take a very different, and rather creative, approach to re-imagining with “Listenin’ Up: Re-Imagining Ourselves through Stories of and from Country” a work that explores Western discourses of education; and looks at ways to engage with Aboriginal knowledge through the pedagogical and personal act of listening. These authors attempt to re-imagine “the institutionalised space of our classroom through a dialogic pedagogy.” These articles are, necessarily, brief. Yet, each work does provide insight into various aspects of the re-imagining process while offering new perspectives on how re-imagining takes place—in material culture, learning practices, or in all important media re-interpretations of the world around us. We extend our thanks to our contributors. We thank, too, all those who engaged in the blind peer review process. We sincerely appreciate the efforts of those who offered their expertise and their time as well as offering valuable comments on a wide range of contributions. Rachel Franks, Simon Dwyer, and Denise N. RallEditors

2021 is the fiftieth anniversary year for Japanese live-action superhero franchise Kamen Rider. For half a century, heroes bearing the name Kamen Rider have battled rubber suited monsters and defended the smiles of children. Unlike many superheroes, however, the Kamen Riders are grotesque heroes, usually drawing their powers from the same source as the villains they battle. Grotesque human-machine-animal hybrids, they differ from their opponents only in the kindness of their hearts and the strength of their spirits. Although the Kamen Rider franchise includes a variety of texts including manga, novels, movies, and stage musicals, the central text is the Sunday morning children’s television program. This article focusses exclusively on the television series. Each season of the television program is comprised of around fifty twenty-five-minute episodes, and each season features an entirely new cast, title, and premise. Kamen Rider was originally created at a time of economic downturn and social unrest, and the unease of the zeitgeist is reflected in the figure of the no longer human hero. A little over thirty years later Japan was again facing a variety of crises and intense debate over what, if any, role it should play in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. The 2002 television season, Kamen Rider Ryūki, tackles difficult questions about what justice, heroism, and monstrosity mean, through the medium of a children’s martial arts and live action special effects hero television program. This article explores the blurred boundaries between monster and hero in Kamen Rider, in the context of social attitudes toward children. The First Kamen Rider The inaugural Kamen Rider (protagonist of the 1971 television season), Hongo Takeshi, is a university student who gains superpowers after being abducted and experimented on by Shocker, a terrorist organisation founded by Nazis. Their medical experiments are part of a plan to produce an army capable of world domination. Takeshi’s body was modified with grasshopper DNA and cybernetic enhancements, but he was able to escape before the mind control portion of the operation. Although he appears human, Takeshi transforms via a special belt into Kamen (masked) Rider in order to fight. His face is obscured by an insectoid helmet with red compound eyes and antennae. The transformation scene is a highlight of every episode, and the transformation belt is the most important of the (many) tie-in toys. The primary audience of Kamen Rider is children between two and seven, and as a media-mix (Steinberg) franchise the sale of toys and branded products to the primary audience is vital. Anne Allison (105) identifies the transformation and blending or crossing of bodily borders it entails as the “money shot” children anticipate and enjoy. There is also a substantial tertiary audience, however, which includes older children and adults. During the early 1970s, when the first few seasons of Kamen Rider were broadcast, ‘employment trains’ were transporting Japanese teenagers (immediately following their graduation from middle school) from rural areas to the large cities, where they worked in factories and construction far from their families (Alt 54). Kamen Rider’s creator, Ishinomori Shōtarō, had debuted as a manga artist while still in school himself, and his works were particularly popular among this disenfranchised demographic. The figure of a young man taken and changed against his will and left to forge his own path in the aftermath may have been particularly resonant with these teenagers. Kamen Rider’s creator, Ishinomori Shōtarō, was a member of the yakeato (burnt ruins) generation, who were children during the Second World War and experienced the fire- and nuclear bombings of Japan and grew up amidst the burned-out ruins. Roman Rosenbaum (Redacting 97-98) argues that this generation (or perhaps more accurately, micro-generation), “later subconsciously released the bent-up trauma of their early childhood experiences throughout their adult lives in their body of work”. Ishinomori was not alone in this experience, of course; other members of the early Kamen Rider creative team were also motivated by childhood trauma. Hirayama Tōru, who helped Ishinomori bring the Rider concept to television as a producer, was sixteen when his hometown of Nagoya was firebombed. He and other schoolboys were dispatched to dispose of the bodies of civilians who had died while trying to escape the flames only to die in the river (Oda and Muraeda 41-2). Members of the yakeato generation were prominent in anti-war activism during the 1970s, opposing Japan’s entanglement in the Vietnam War (Rosenbaum Generation 284). Violence and the meaning of justice were urgent issues for this generation. This first season of Kamen Rider, along with many of the subsequent seasons, is classifiable as a horror text, with numerous Gothic elements (Staite). Many of the monsters Takeshi battles are “designed to elicit a specific reaction: that of abject horror” (Kim 28). While some of the prosthetic suits are quite silly-looking by contemporary standards, many remain compellingly disturbing in their fusion of animal-human-machine. Although he proceeds up the chain of command to eventually battle the leaders of Shocker, Takeshi is always aware when battling other victims of Shocker experimentation that the only difference between himself and them is that he was able to escape before losing his will. He, like them, is no longer entirely human, and has become as grotesque as the unfortunate monsters he must defeat. As Miura Shion (180) puts it (translation mine), “Kamen Rider was originally an entity created by evil. The reality is that the enemy in front of you and you are actually the same. The fate of Kamen Rider is to fight while struggling with this”. Noting that Kamen Rider was created during a time of social, economic, and political upheaval in Japan, Hirofumi Katsuno (37-38) links the rise of the ambiguous hero to the decline of the ‘grand narrative’ of modernity and the belief in the kind of absolute justice represented by more traditional superheroes. Kamen Rider instead inhabits “an ambiguous space between human and nonhuman, good and evil” (Katsuno 44). In the early years of the franchise the ambiguity remained largely centred on the figure of the hero. Members of the opposing Shocker organisation – who were responsible for the rise of the first two Kamen Riders – are unambiguously evil and unsympathetic. For ordinary people who have been subjected to mind control and experimentation there is compassion, but in terms of the central conflict there is no question that destroying Shocker is correct and moral. The villains battled by Kamen Riders remained predominantly fascists and cultists bent on world domination until the late 1980s, with the primary antagonist of 1987 season Kamen Rider Black the protagonist’s beloved brother. The following season, Kamen Rider Black RX, had environmental themes. The villains trying to take over the world in this season are doing so because their own planet has become too polluted to sustain life. They argue, somewhat persuasively, that since humans are on the path to global environmental destruction they are justified in taking over the planet before it is ruined. This gradual shift toward more sympathetic monsters became explicit in 2002 with Kamen Rider Ryūki’s ambivalent response to the Bush administration’s so-called War on Terror. Justice Is a Thing with Teeth and Claws Kamen Rider Ryūki (hereafter Ryūki) was in the planning stages when the 9/11 terrorist attacks occurred, destroying the twin towers. TV Asahi, the station that airs Kamen Rider, immediately sent a directive to producer Shirakura Shinichiro stating that “now more than ever we must teach children about justice” (Salas). Seemingly uncomfortable with the implications of this idea of “justice” in light of the Bush administration's subsequent actions, Shirakura says: in that mood I wondered if I could repeat the sort of hero story we had made so far, where the ‘good person’ beats the ‘bad person’ that appears one after another and finally hits the headquarters of evil. It is very dangerous to plant the mentality of the Cold War era in children at this time. ‘Ryuuki’ was created in the hope that children will have an eye for what justice means. (Cited in Uno 261-2, translation mine) Since its creation in the 1970s, Kamen Rider had been forging a new path for Japanese heroes in opposition to what Jonathan Abel identifies as an external attitude to justice in the hero programs of the 1950s and 1960s. In these programs, he argues, justice was represented as something imposed into Japan from outside (by alien superheroes, for example, or the Allied Occupation forces). American superheroes and their various approaches to questions of justice and vigilantism were also well known in Japan, as Timothy Peters has highlighted. In its depiction of a hero so closely resembling the monsters he battles, Kamen Rider rejected notions of an absolute distinction between the categories of hero and monster. As Katsuno (46) argues, “in this postmodern, liquid society, superheroes lack a unified, self-evident justice, but must navigate multiple conceptions of justice … . As embodiments of relativized justice, these grotesque heroes were the seeds for what have become enduring trends in Japanese popular culture”. 2002 season Ryūki takes the idea of relativised justice to its extreme, questioning the very existence of a ‘justice’ that exists independently from the people it impacts. It is impossible to summarise the plot of Ryūki both briefly and accurately; this attempt prioritises the former over the latter. Ryūki features thirteen Kamen Riders in a battle royale, competing for the granting of a single wish. The Riders gain their powers through forming a contract with a mirror monster, who they must feed by defeating other Riders or less powerful mirror monsters (who are themselves feeding on helpless humans). If a Rider is defeated and can no longer feed his contract monster, the creature will consume them. Mirror monsters are so called because they come from mirror world, a parallel dimension connected to ours by reflective surfaces including mirrors and, significantly, gleaming skyscrapers. The battle is controlled by antagonist Kanzaki Shiro, who is trying to save the life of his younger sister Yui. Protagonist Kido Shinji tries to stop the Riders from fighting one another, which delays Shiro’s plans and leads to Yui’s death. Shiro repeatedly loops time to restart the battle and save Yui, but Shinji disrupts each new timeline. There are multiple alternate endings to the story, including both televisual and print versions. Because the endings each involve uncovering the reason Shiro has created the battle as part of their resolution of the story, there are also multiple explanations for why and how the battle began. In some versions the origin of the mirror monsters lies in Shiro and Yui’s childhood experience of abuse at the hands of their parents, while in another Shinji inadvertently sets events in motion after breaking a childhood promise to Yui. Which origin, ending, or time-loop is ‘true’ is never resolved. Viewers were invited to vote on the ending of the television special by telephone; alternate endings had been prepared with the winning option inserted at the end of the broadcast (Uno 271). This moral ambiguity and confusion over what is ‘true’ is an intentional critique of simplistic ideas about justice. In Ryūki each of the Riders participates in the battle because they believe that their wish is important enough to justify the means employed to obtain it. The program problematises the idea that there is an objective division between good and evil by focusing on the subjective righteousness of the individual characters’ motivations, including the irony of Shinji’s battles for the sake of stopping the war. Although these feel like quite adult themes, Shirakura couches them firmly within his interpretation of teaching children about justice, explaining that children sometimes envision themselves as the heroes and think they might also be justice. There is also the idea that people often don’t accept themselves as being wrong, because in one’s mind ‘I am myself, so I’m not wrong’ is the prevailing thought process. These thoughts lead to selfish patterns because kids might not see themselves as themselves but as the heroes. (Salas) Uno Tsunehiro (263-4) argues that there is in fact no villain and no justice in Ryūki, simply competing desires. Ryūki does not make judgements about which desires are more or less worthy, he writes, but displays all of the Riders’ motivations equally, just like Google search results of products displayed on Amazon. Just like Capitalism, Uno (263-4) suggests, Ryūki treats every story (justice / evil) equally as a desire (as a product). The mirror monsters are quite frightening; using a combination of Godzilla-style rubber suits and CGI they are all based on animals including spiders, crabs, and cobras, combined with cyborg elements such as guns embedded in various body parts. However, their behaviour is straightforwardly animalistic. They are hungry; they kill to feed. The truly monstrous characters in Ryūki are clearly the Kamen Riders themselves, who use the mirror monsters to lend power to human motivations that are far more complex and twisted. Although many of the Riders have sympathetic motivations such as saving the life of a loved one, Kamen Rider Ōja simply enjoys violence. Uno points out that this character is essentially the same as The Joker in 2008’s The Dark Knight; like The Joker, Ōja tells a variety of stories explaining the origins of his psychopathy in past traumas only to mock the credulity of those so eager to believe these explanations (Uno 274). Crucially, Ōja is still a Kamen Rider, and appears alongside more sympathetic Kamen Riders in ensemble-cast films and games. The line between hero and monster has become blurred beyond comprehension. Monsters for Children, Children as Monsters Shirakura’s comment about the danger of children uncritically viewing their own actions as being just draws attention to an important shift taking place at the turn of the millennium. Monsters were no longer something to protect children from, but increasingly children themselves were becoming viewed as potentially monstrous. Five years before Ryūki’s release Japan had been rocked by the discovery that the murderer of two elementary school children was a fourteen-year-old child dubbed ‘Youth A’, who had described his behaviour as a game, taunting the police and media before his capture (Arai 370-1). Although violent crimes perpetrated by children are always shocking, what stands out from this particular incident is the response from other school children. Youth A had sent a manifesto to a local newspaper lambasting the education system that had created him. In a survey conducted by the Ministry of Education more than fifty percent of the students surveyed sympathised and identified with at Youth A (cited in Arai 371). Lindsay Nelson (4) notes the prevalence of child-monsters in Japanese horror films in the late 1990s and early 2000s, writing that “the many monstrous children of contemporary Japanese cinema stand at a crossroads of Japan’s past, present, and future, crying out for compassion even as they drag those around them into death” (Nelson 13). There is of course a world of difference between depictions of monstrous children in adult media, and depictions of monsters in children’s media. I do not mean to conflate or confuse the two. Both kinds of monsters are, however, influenced and in turn influence wider social discourses and anxieties. Kamen Rider is also a text characterised by dual address, a narrative mode which addresses both adults and children simultaneously (in contradistinction to double address, in which the adults talk over the heads of children in an exclusionary way (Wall). Although Kamen Rider Ryūki featured adult actors (teenagers began to appear in leading roles with increasing frequency from the mid-2000s), it foreshadows the shifting of social attitudes toward children through intertextual references to the film Battle Royale (2000), also distributed by Kamen Rider’s producer Toei. Battle Royale centres on a school class who have (without their prior knowledge) been selected by lottery to participate in a ‘survival game’ on an isolated island. They must kill one another until only one survives; they have all been fitted with explosive collars, and any child refusing to participate will have their collar remotely detonated, killing them. Director Fukasaku Kinji comments that he felt a connection to the thematic linking of violence and children in Battle Royale because of his own experiences as a member of the yakeato generation. He had worked in a munitions factory during the war that was frequently targeted by bombs, and he describes hiding under and later having to dispose of the bodies of his friends (Rose). The story is a biting commentary of the relationship between economic collapse, school-based violence, and failures of governance. In Andrea Arai’s (368) analysis, “the tropes of battle, survival, and the figure of the schoolchild, reflect and refract social anxieties about the Japanese future in an era of globalisation and neoliberal reform, and the enduring historical conundrums of Japan’s twentieth-century past”. The battle between Kamen Riders in Ryūki is also a battle royale; although the core audience of very young children would probably not have made the intertextual link to the film (or the 1999 novel the film was based on), the association would have been strengthened for older viewers by the use of "those who don't fight won't survive!" as a catchphrase for Kamen Rider Ryūki. Conclusion In the early 1970s, Kamen Rider stood out as a text rejecting externally imposed, objective ideas of justice enforced by unassailable virtue, in favour of a grotesque hero struggling to find a path to justice through a metaphorical forest of misadventure and victimisation. The first Kamen Rider was a grotesque, damaged hero who fought monsters to whom he was more alike than different. In the early 2000s this blurring of the heroic and monstrous was taken even further, questioning the very concepts of justice and monstrosity. Much as the original season of Kamen Rider responded to economic and social upheavals with its reassessment of the role and figure of the hero, Kamen Rider Ryūki draws attention to fears of and for its child audience in response to both domestic economic disaster and global events. In Kamen Rider Ryūki the trope of an unwitting victim being turned into a Kamen Rider through biomechanical enhancements is discarded entirely; anyone can become a Kamen Rider simply by entering into a contract with a mirror monster. No longer grotesque because of powers beyond their control, the new generation of Kamen Riders choose grotesquery and risk their lives to obtain their desire. Anyone can become a hero, Ryūki tells its viewers, and anyone can become a monster. And, perhaps, anyone can be both at the same time. References Abel, Jonathan E. "Masked Justice: Allegories of the Superhero in Cold War Japan." Japan Forum 26.2 (2014): 187–208. Allison, Anne. Millennial Monsters: Japanese Toys and the Global Imagination. Berkeley: U of California P, 2006. Alt, Matthew. Pure Invention: How Japan Conquered the World in Eight Fantasies. Brown Book Group, 2020. Arai, Andrea. "Killing Kids: Recession and Survival in Twenty-First-Century Japan." Postcolonial Studies 6.3 (2003): 367–79. Battle Royale. Dir. Kinji Fukasaku. Toei, 2000. Katsuno, Hirofumi. "The Grotesque Hero: Depictions of Justice in Tokusatsu Superhero Television Programs." Introducing Japanese Popular Culture. Eds. Alisa Freedman and Toby Slade. Routledge, 2018. 37–47. Kim, Se Young. "Kamen Rider vs. Spider-Man and Batman." Giant Creatures in Our World: Essays on Kaiju and American Popular Culture. Eds. Camille Mustachio and Jason Barr. McFarland, 2017. Nelson, Lindsay. "Ghosts of the Past, Ghosts of the Future: Monsters, Children, and Contemporary Japanese Horror Cinema." Cinemascope 13 (2009). Oda, Katsumi, and Kenichi Muraeda. The Men Who Made Kamen Rider: 1971-2011. Kodansha, 2011. Peters, Timothy. "'Holy Trans-Jurisdictional Representations of Justice, Batman!' Globalisation, Persona and Mask in Kuwata's Batmanga and Morrison's Batman, Incorporated." Law and Justice in Japanese Popular Culture: From Crime Fighting Robots to Duelling Pocket Monsters. Eds. Ashley Pearson, Thomas Giddens, and Kieran Tranter. Taylor & Francis, 2018. Kamen Rider. Toei, 1971. Kamen Rider Black RX. Toei, 1988. Kamen Rider Ryūki. Toei, 2002. Rose, Steve. “The Kid Killers.” The Guardian 2001. Rosenbaum, Roman. “The ‘Generation of the Burnt-out Ruins’.” Japanese Studies 27.3 (2007): 281–293. ———. “Redacting Japanese History: Ishinomori Shōtarō’s Graphic Narratives.” Rewriting History in Manga: Stories for the Nation. Eds. Nissim Otmazgin and Rebecca Suter. Palgrave Macmillan US, 2016. Salas, Jorge. "Kamen Rider’s Reaction to 9/11." Tokusatsu Network 2018. 1 Oct. 2021 <https://tokusatsunetwork.com/2018/08/kamen-riders-reaction-to-9-11/>. Shion, Miura. Momoiro Towairaito. Paperback Bunko: Shinchosha, 2010. Staite, Sophia. "Playing the Bloody Rose: Deconstructing Childhood with Kamen Rider Kiva." Aeternum: The Journal of Contemporary Gothic Studies 6.1 (2019): 34–48 Steinberg, Marc. Anime's Media Mix: Franchising Toys and Characters in Japan. U of Minnesota P, 2012. The Dark Knight. Dir. Christopher Nolan. Warner Bros, 2008. Uno, Tsunehiro. The Era of Little People. Gentosha, 2015. Wall, Barbara. The Narrator's Voice: The Dilemma of Children's Fiction. Macmillan, 1991.