Now Reading: In Frankenstein’s Shadow by Chris Baldick

71tTOwC912LFor a bit of inspiration, this past week I’ve been (re)reading In Frankenstein’s Shadow: Myth, Monstrosity, and Nineteenth-century Writing, by Chris Baldick. I picked up my copy secondhand for a song at Troutmark Books, in Cardiff’s Castle Arcade, paged through it on the way home, then left it virtually untouched on my ‘to-read’ bookshelf for the next six months. Fortunately, since the Frankenstein myth plays a relatively large role in my current chapters, I now have the chance to delve back in.

Whether it’s due to the subject matter or the skill of the author, Frankenstein’s Shadow hasn’t aged much since it was first published back in 1987 (frighteningly enough, the same year I was born). Baldick’s monograph is not only useful because of how it deconstructs and re-historicises the Frankenstein myth. In many ways, it actually provides a template for all modern myth — particularly the mythologising of the literary canon. It’s a book about monsters, adaptation, and the self-construction of a cultural imaginary.

In the book’s introduction, Baldick describes the difference between a myth and a literary text:

A literary text will usually, since the advent of printing, be fixed in its form but may be complex and multivocal in its meaning. A myth, on the other hand, is open to all kinds of adaptation and elaboration, but it will preserve at the same time a basic stability of meaning. (p. 2)

In other words, in order for a literary text (or, by extension, any work of art) to become truly ‘immortal’ (or undead?), and to be thoroughly adaptable in the public sphere, it must first be mythologised to some degree. We need to be familiar enough with it on a collective level to play around with its basic plot points, structures, and themes in a meaningful way.

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Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein (1974).

Baldick spends much of the book discussing the history of Frankenstein’s publication and reception, always commenting back on how this impacts our understanding of what, in the most simplistic sense, is a completed, unchanging narrative. He offers, for example, an overview of the changes between Mary Shelley’s original (and anonymous) 1818 edition, and the 1831 edition that came to usurp it. The 1831 edition is still the one most reprints of the novel reproduce.

As the book’s subtitle suggests, Baldick mainly sticks to nineteenth-century examples of the myth’s evolution, though he does also consider twentieth-century afterimages in, for example, the work of Joseph Conrad and D.H. Lawrence. As he traces the course of the Frankenstein myth from 1818 through the rest of the nineteenth century, it becomes clear how the story takes on a life of its own. Baldick takes full advantage of this pun, even exploring the idea of the book as monster in Chapter 3 (‘The Monster Speaks’):

Books themselves behave monstrously towards their creators, running loose from authorial intention and turning to mock their begetters by displaying a vitality of their own. […] There is a sense in which all writing must do this, but with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein the process goes much further. This novel manages to achieve a double feat of self-referentiality, both its composition and its subsequent cultural status miming the central moments of its own story. Like the monster it contains, the novel is assembled from dead fragments to make a living whole, and as a published work, it escapes Mary Shelley’s textual frame and acquires its independent life outside it, as a myth. (p. 30)

Perhaps because my current research is on the subject of monsters in remix culture, I was especially struck by Baldick’s description of the novel as ‘assembled from dead fragments to make a living whole’. How do we classify texts as living or dead? To what extent is this process of reanimation vital to art as a whole, and not just to the novel? These are not questions that Baldick really answers, but the simple fact that he highlights them places his discussion in a much different light than much contemporary literary criticism.

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LEGO Frankenstein.

A similar richness of thought and metaphor is present throughout the entire book. Another such observation, simple yet refreshingly thoughtful, is Baldick’s statement about the authority of those texts and readings that follow Shelley’s novel. For him, they are central to the creation and maintenance of the Frankenstein myth:

The point here is not to lament the corruption and distortion of an authentic literary original, nor to correct erroneous departures from the truth of a ‘real’ Frankenstein story. […] That series of adaptations, allusions, accretions, analogues, parodies, and plain misreadings which follows upon Mary Shelley’s novel is not just a supplementary component of the myth; it is the myth. (p. 4)

This is a claim Baldick certainly goes on to prove again and again throughout Frankenstein’s Shadow – that, far from being overshadowed by Shelley’s ‘original’ novel, these ‘adaptations, allusions, accretions, analogues, parodies, and plain misreadings’ are a core part of the story of Frankenstein. Shelley’s novel was already firmly in the shadow if its own myth by the end of the nineteenth century.

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Frankenstein’s Creature as imagined in Penny Dreadful (2014-present).

If you’re at all interested in the history of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, the politics of monsters, or just classic horror more generally, I highly recommend this book. Much like Frankenstein itself, Frankenstein’s Shadow connects various circuits of thought in a way that sends off creative sparks long after you’ve stopped reading.

 

Star Wars, Remix, and the Death of Originality (Part Two)

ghvfgaua5xsmsckl1nclWhat follows is part two of a spoiler-free discussion of The Force Awakens (the new Star Wars movie), and its cultural context in science fiction, fandom, and nostalgia culture. You can find part one right here.

Last week I started my breakdown of The Force Awakens with the disclaimer that I am a long-time Star Wars fan. I looked at arguments that this most recent film is unoriginal, that it is powered by nostalgia rather than innovation, and I supplied a few counterarguments to these claims. Do we always have to see nostalgia as bad, and originality (assuming originality even exists) as good?

In his latest book, Remaking History (2016), Jerome de Groot talks about the role of historical fictions in the cultural imaginary. ‘It is necessary’, he argues, ‘to look on novels, or films, or plays, or games, or TV series, not as poor versions of history, nor within a binary wherein they are the margins of a centrifugal culture, nor as parasites on “proper” historical knowledge and practice, but as establishing historical modes of awareness, engagement, narrarivization, and comprehension’ (p. 6). For me Star Wars, with all its nostalgia, and its fetishisation of various historical aesthetics, very much fits into this discussion about how we represent and engage with the past – and by analogy, how we build the future. Speaking specifically about Westerns, De Groot suggests that they ‘are not myths at all, but complex historiographical entities enabling the unpicking of foundational stories and histories’ (p. 61). Star Wars may not be a full-blown Space Western, but it too contains these inherent possibilities. The real question is, who is actually allowed to do the unpicking of our stories and histories? Who is the ‘we’ in this scenario?

This brings me to another question that The Force Awakens has raised.

Is The Force Awakens essentially fan fiction?

A short answer to this question is yes. Another, even shorter answer is no. Both answers are correct.

Like many of us, J.J. Abrams is a long-time fan of Star Wars. It’s shaped him as a creator, it’s been referenced in his previous work, and (ironically) influenced his work on Star Trek. The chance to actually make an official Star Wars movie must have seemed like a dream come true, and Abrams’ love of the series comes through in every frame, and every piece of referential symbolism and imagery. The fact remains, though, that Abrams is an industry professional as well as a fan. His devotion to other stories and worlds is generally read as a point of inspiration and homage, rather than an insular fantasy.

J.J. Abrams and producer Kathleen Kennedy on the bridge of the Millennium Falcon.
J.J. Abrams and producer Kathleen Kennedy on the bridge of the Millennium Falcon.

Not even Abrams can escape the scorn levelled at fan culture in general, though. The Guardian‘s Catherine Shoard applauds Disney for its choice of Abrams, a ‘highly expert, professional superfan’, to helm The Force Awakens. She points out that returning the reigns to franchise creator George Lucas would only have resulted in more fan disappointment. Problematically, though, she goes on to characterise fans as parasites, bullies, and spoiled children:

The Disney deal looks set, then, to go down as the moment when ownership of cultural properties officially passed from creators to consumers. Those people raised on video games and talkboards are no longer prepared to tolerate the concept that fictional worlds exist only within the imagination of one person. In fact, they are indignant at being denied the keys. Like cross toddlers dodging bedtime, they will have their stories.

This is simply an unfair and inaccurate depiction of fan communities, in a long history of unfair and inaccurate depictions. Recent media coverage of ‘Cumberbitches’, for example, has inevitably fixated on the intensity of fan devotion to actor Benedict Cumberbatch, characterising his followers as infantile, obsessed, and irrational. As Henry Jenkins and others have pointed out, female fans are especially at a disadvantage in terms of how they are represented in popular (or academic) media.

It’s true that fan communities – like all communities – have their issues. Hale Goetz has an especially enjoyable reading of The Force Awakens (with minor spoilers) that reads villain Kylo Ren as a manifestation of one of fandom’s more prominent problems. In her reading Ren is a gatekeeper, of the type that is very concerned ‘about the presence of fake nerds mucking up their beloved franchises’.

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Image © Eduardo Valdivieso

But it’s important to remember that Star Wars fans can be found in all genders, cultures, and walks of life (though who they root for may differ). Star Wars fans want more Star Wars, yes, but most also want good Star Wars, and are perfectly capable of fulfilling their own need to engage with the narrative gaps and opportunities the franchise creates. It didn’t take long at all for truly fantastic fan art based on The Force Awakens to begin rolling in, and excellent fan-made films, short stories, and communities have been making the rounds since before there was an internet.

These fan projects all display profound originality and creativity – they just happen to be inspired by a universe created by someone else. When we get down to it, isn’t that what all storytelling is, in one way or another?

Is The Force Awakens culturally lazy, or even dangerous?

Like any major franchise, particularly in the adventure genre, The Force Awakens has its downfalls – though for the moment it has escaped some of the homogenising tendencies of blockbuster cinema. It does definitely still represent that specific brand of cultural imperialism that Hollywood is known for, but politically it sides with the left-wing branch of populism rather than its right-wing counterpart. It’s not particularly deep in the film school kind of way that some fans seem to expect, but neither is it as unimaginative and derivative as some critics would have you think.

As I argued last week, The Force Awakens simply takes both the visual pastiche that characterised the original Star Wars and the subsequent culture of pastiche that has since sprung up around the franchise, and combines them into one big, tongue-in-cheek mashup.

Although its portrayal of the fight between good and evil is unpleasantly conservative, The Force Awakens is part of a greater story arc, and the series has the potential to nuance this portrayal in later films. Many equal (and greater) films suffer from the same, lazy good/evil binary, and occasionally this can even serve an important purpose. Consider the recent Mad Max: Fury Road, Django Unchained, or even Nolan’s Batman films, each of which seem to care relatively little about their villains’ personal motivations for being evil (‘being bad is just so much fun!’), and yet still manage to tell important and compelling stories, with equally important and compelling political agendas. Fury Road has been heralded as a feminist masterpiece (though not everyone agrees), and for Jerome de Groot Django Unchained presents ‘an aesthetic of the past that does not ignore the horrors of the past and that, through excess, might achieve a better communication of the grimness of events than can be achieved by a discourse – costume drama – that is somehow now a compromised mode’ (Remaking History, p. 179).

Django Unchained: part revenge fantasy, part historical revision.
Django Unchained: part revenge fantasy, part historical revision.

Even if subverting this conservative good/evil binary is not at the top of Disney’s current agenda, The Force Awakens and its sequels have the potential to shift other Hollywood trends in a positive direction. The film’s balance of gender representation easily blows past all the earlier Star Wars movies, and its racial diversification is almost as solid – though naturally the fact that almost all the main characters speak Western variants of English is one of those problems science fiction and fantasy have been running into for ages. The film even leaves space for multiple sexual identities, and one of the franchise’s new official novels features an openly gay character. These are representations we’ve only ever really had in Star Wars fan fiction, never in the franchise itself. While it could (and should) be argued that this is also part of the Disney’s new marketing strategy, I just can’t see it as a bad thing.

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A Hispanic man, a black man, and a white woman in The Force Awakens’ three starring roles. Seems like a good start to me.

The nostalgic, historical aesthetic of Star Wars (‘A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…’) only serves to increase the impact of such representation. If this is what the past looks like, what’s so bad about building the future on it?

If anything, my reservations about The Force Awakens are still largely personal. At the risk of mixing traditionally rival fan cultures, I’m reminded of that episode of Star Trek: TNG where Captain Picard lives a whole lifetime in the span of 25 minutes. He comes back to the Enterprise, and suddenly all the people he knew and loved, and all the experiences he had, are nothing more than a memory. It feels strange to live in a world where the 50-odd years of EU history following the original trilogy have suddenly ceased to be, and where my favourite Star Wars characters don’t (yet) exist.

Tenet Ka and Mara Jade. Apparently I have a thing for kickass redheads.
Tenel Ka and Mara Jade. Apparently I have a thing for kickass Jedi redheads.

I reserve the right to change my opinion about The Force Awakens. So please, leave a comment disagreeing with me. I am very interested in discussing this with you. As I think about The Force Awakens more – as I watch the Blu-Ray release in April, the original trilogy spin-off Rogue One (2016), and the next official sequelEpisode VIII (2017) – I may well come to feel very differently about it all. But for the moment I’m quite content, both as a fan and as a critic. And that’s an achievement that should be applauded no matter how ‘produced’, nostalgic, fan-driven or unoriginal it may be.

Star Wars, Remix, and the Death of Originality (Part One)

Star_Wars_Episode_VII_The_Force_AwakensWhat follows is part one of a spoiler-free discussion of The Force Awakens (the new Star Wars movie), and its cultural context in science fiction, fandom, and nostalgia culture. You can find part two here.

I, like millions of other people, went to see Star Wars: The Force Awakens over the winter holidays. Twice. The first time I enjoyed it. The second time I enjoyed it even more, despite lingering reservations.

So…is it a good movie or not? Despite the film’s 93% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, debate among critics has taken some interesting turns.

I should preface my own discussion of this film by clarifying that I am a long-time Star Wars fan. The first Star Wars film I saw was in 1998 (or late ’97?), when I watched the special edition re-release of The Empire Strikes Back on VHS. I was mesmerised. I devoured the other two films in the series and hungrily went looking for more. When I exhausted my own search I made up new Star Wars stories with my Barbies (because girls don’t have action figures). I found friends who also loved Star Wars, and who introduced me to the Expanded Universe of books, video games, and other licensed stories. Once I had immersed myself in those, I started writing my own fan fiction, and helping to edit the fiction others had posted on message boards.

The disappointingly written prequel trilogy dimmed my enthusiasm for the films, but I remained interested in the universe. Through writing about Star Wars I discovered I really liked writing in general, as well as picking stories apart. I joined other fiction message boards, and started writing about other things. I studied literature and popular culture, and discovered on re-watching the films with my partner that I still appreciated Star Wars, albeit in a very different way.

As I sat in the cinema at midnight on December 16th, then, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was excited by what I had seen in the trailers and heard through the rumour mill. Additionally, almost anything would top my experience of the prequels – though seeing The Phantom Menace for the first time in 1999 was undeniably powerful, for all its flaws. On the other hand I was aware that, if I did enjoy the film, that enjoyment would likely be the result of a carefully calculated effort on behalf of J.J. Abrams and the Disney corporation, who have designed and balanced The Force Awakens to maximise popular appeal, and minimise the chances offending any of its target groups.

And this is essentially what The Force Awakens does. It is a safe movie. It takes very few narrative risks (though it does take a few), and the story, though entertaining, is largely predictable – especially for a Star Wars fan. It is also an exceptionally well-marketed film, in a climate where marketing wasn’t even strictly necessary.

The Force Awakens is capable of entertaining (or at least, entertaining me) despite these things because it is an excellent remix, and this is where the critical conversation gets very interesting. In the interest of getting right down to brass tacks, I’d like to unpack a few common criticisms of the film, and situate my own reflections of Star Wars, Episode VII: The Force Awakens among them. This is not meant to be an apologist analysis of the film, but many of the current critiques of the film have been problematic in their own right.

Is The Force Awakens unoriginal?

One of the most common accusations levelled at The Force Awakens is that it is simply an unoriginal rehashing of the first Star Wars film, A New Hope (1977).

Visually as well as narratively (image via Kotaku)
Visually as well as narratively (image via Kotaku)

While I can certainly see the validity of these claims, I also feel that they overestimate how original previous films in the franchise are. For me (and for many others), Star Wars has always been about remix: using the same plots, character archetypes, and settings to re-tell our oldest stories [EDIT: check out Mike Kilmo’s starwarsringtheory.com for a great analysis of the Star Wars franchise as a revival of an ancient literary form called ‘ring composition’]. Writing for Kotaku about the way the marketing campaign for The Force Awakens ‘weaponises’ nostalgia, Dan Golding points out the following:

Partly, what made the original Star Wars so great was George Lucas’ voracious borrowing of visual style. Other directors were doing it at the time, too—Martin Scorsese, for example, peppered films like Taxi Driver with allusions to French New Wave and Italian Neo-Realism—but with Lucas, it wasn’t about being clever, or making a point. He just loved style, and took it from where he found it.

Remix is central to twenty-first-century art and culture. Just because Lucas primarily drew his visuals from other films (rather than other Star Wars films) does not, in my opinion, make him a more original auteur. To argue that ‘George Lucas dramatized complex adult ideas for kids. J.J. Abrams has made a children’s film for adults’ primarily because it imitates, as Stephen Dalton over at Hollywood Reporter does, is to assign more high-cultural value to Star Wars than it deserves. Nostalgia for the old Star Wars films (which is at play in many of these reviews) is precisely what Disney and J.J. Abrams are playing with and remixing.

The original Star Wars did its own share of copying (image via Kotaku).
The original Star Wars did its own share of copying (image via Kotaku).

On top of that, the very idea that a film needs to ‘say something’ or present a clear overarching moral or metaphor is a very ‘literary’ approach to cinema. Surely by virtue of existing all films ‘say something’? Perhaps with its character-heavy narrative, remixed plot, and intensely nostalgic visuals, The Force Awakens simply isn’t saying what some people want it to say.

This brings us to our next question.

Is The Force Awakens nostalgic?

Well…yes. It’s certainly not an ironic film – at least, not in that cynical, postmodern way that we’re all so used to. Again, however, this is an accusation that’s been levelled at pretty much all of the Star Wars films at one point or another.

If I had to place The Force Awakens in a critical movement, I might opt for metamodernism or New Sincerity. Just as Luke Turner writes of the metamodern, The Force Awakens seems to exhibit and invite ‘a kind of informed naivety, a pragmatic idealism, a moderate fanaticism, oscillating between sincerity and irony, deconstruction and construction, apathy and affect, attempting to attain some sort of transcendent position, as if such a thing were within our grasp.’

Ah, the infamous 'Han shot first' campaign. Also, I own this shirt.
Ah, the infamous ‘Han shot first’ campaign, epitome of our nostalgia for the ‘original’ versions of Star Wars. Also, I own this shirt, despite having only seen these ‘original’ versions much later.

‘The metamodern generation’, writes Turner, ‘understands that we can be both ironic and sincere in the same moment; that one does not necessarily diminish the other’. Of course, this could be claimed of virtually all art, but it still feels like an apt description of our times.

When practicing sincere irony, nostalgia is a powerful tool, and The Force Awakens relies heavily on the aesthetics of the past. As Golding points out, it does so in a way that may actually be a bit more conscientious about the historical associations of those aesthetics than the original Star Wars films were. Golding continues by describing the function of nostalgia in the franchise:

There’s this old story about how when the first Star Wars came out, the beat poet Allen Ginsberg saw the words “A Long Time Ago, In A Galaxy Far, Far Away…” and turned to his cinema-going companion and said: “Oh thank god, I don’t have to worry about it.”

That’s actually not too far away from what The Force Awakens is doing right now. It’s telling us we don’t have to worry about it anymore. The Jedi, the Dark Side, they’re real. It’s true—all of it.

The past (and our nostalgia for it) represents a safe space, where we need not be afraid or challenged.

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Image © Craig Davison

Moving from this assumption, Dennis Danvers argues the following:

Screen science fiction has largely become a nostalgic genre, typically dealing in antique, even reactionary futures, like the intergalactic civilization of Star Trek, as real as the old west of Gunsmoke. Star Wars is simply Parzival with space ships. Lukas understood that the future plays out and opted for long ago and far away from the get go. Some screen worlds are built purely of style, often lifted from Gibson’s early work, like The Matrix, which boldly muddles an sf premise dating back to the late sixties without pausing to explain why there are so many bullets in virtual reality other than they look so cool in slo-mo.

The nostalgia of the Star Wars franchise (and of Hollywood by association) has been linked to the increased nostalgia of science fiction more generally, and even accused of contributing to the death of the genre.

This is simply not true. As Annalee Newitz astutely argues in her self-labelled rant:

[T]here are a few major obvious problems with blaming Star Wars for cheapening the genre. First, you have to argue a counter-factual that’s impossible to prove: you have to believe that the New Wave would have gone on forever, books would have stayed weird and personal and experimental into the Reagan era. And that some other project wouldn’t have jumpstarted our interest in big-budget VFX spectaculars […] Meanwhile, if we’re being honest, there were perhaps one or two really notable “brainy” science fiction films per year before 1977. And after 1977? There were perhaps one or two really notable “brainy” science fiction films per year — it’s just that they were just surrounded by a lot more big-budget splodefests.

Though Newitz defends Star Wars as a work of science fiction, she doesn’t really deny that nostalgia has ‘cheapened’ the genre more generally. In a much more negative vein, Noah Berlatsky argues that popular science fiction has stopped caring about the future altogether:

Tomorrow isn’t a potential where things might be better, or even different; it’s just a place to rearrange the robots on a Titanic that never sinks. Progress has conquered the present so thoroughly it doesn’t even need to push forward anymore. In pop sci-fi, we’re all always already picking up the shiny new old lightsaber; there is no other future, and no other dream.

I find this view of Hollywood nostalgia problematic. Surely there’s a more productive way to approach what The Force Awakens is doing with its nostalgic return to the narratives and visual styles of other Hollywood productions, and its extensive self-reference. It does, after all, need to appeal to a hugely diverse and increasingly multicultural audience. It can afford to be a little weird (and it is, in places), but global audiences are too used to genre conventions to allow much experimentation in the way of form or narrative. In targeting the highbrow audience, Star Wars would cut out the far larger popular audience.

It feels increasingly difficult to say anything ‘new’ without acknowledging the extent to which it is still (always already) built on the old. To a certain extent, nostalgia is all we have. Art generally only becomes truly great or influential in retrospect. I would argue that The Force Awakens is also aware of this fact, but it knows how to lay all the groundwork for retrospective greatness. It both creates nostalgia, and creates the possibility of future nostalgia.

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Finally, as well as being wrong, the argument that science fiction rarely explores new ideas fails to take into account the extent to which ‘new’ ideas, worlds, and frontiers are frequently built on old ideologies and assumptions. Perhaps the most we can ask of Star Wars is that it slip a few new tricks and quirks into its classic formula, and use its marketing power to push the rest of Hollywood in a positive direction along with it.

But I’ll talk a bit about that more next week, where I get into two more criticisms of The Force Awakens. These relate primarily to its fan communities and lack of cultural subversion.