Filed under: Literature | Tags: Book, Google, Google Books, Internet, Library, Marshall McLuhan, Materialism, Raymond Williams, Robert Darnton, Television: Technology and Cultural Form
Socio-historian Robert Darnton looks at the fate of the library in the age of Google Books.
Information has never been stable. That may be a truism, but it bears pondering. It could serve as a corrective to the belief that the speedup in technological change has catapulted us into a new age, in which information has spun completely out of control. I would argue that the new information technology should force us to rethink the notion of information itself. It should not be understood as if it took the form of hard facts or nuggets of reality ready to be quarried out of newspapers, archives, and libraries, but rather as messages that are constantly being reshaped in the process of transmission. Instead of firmly fixed documents, we must deal with multiple, mutable texts. By studying them skeptically on our computer screens, we can learn how to read our daily newspaper more effectively—and even how to appreciate old books.
An historical approach to technology is always enlightening. While media critic superstars like Marshall McLuhan tend toward deterministic conclusions—that is, that technology changes our lives—history tends to indicate the opposite. My favourite such study, Raymond Williams’ Television: Technology and Cultural Form (1974), argues that mass communication must be understood materialistically: “broadcasting,” Williams argues, “was developed not only within a capitalist society but specifically by the capitalist manufacturers of the technological apparatus.” He notes that the technology for broadcasting existed long before it was supposed to have “changed the world” and in fact, when broadcasting did come into wide usage by society, there wasn’t actually anything to show. “It is not only that the supply of broadcasting facilities preceded the demand,” he notes, “it is that the means of communication preceded their content.” So too with the Internet. The technology existed in the ARPANET project as early as 1969, the “Web” from 1981. But it’s difficult to argue that the current cultural form of information technology owes its origin to those dates.
So what Darnton notes in a wonderful mixture of romantic nostalgia for the olfactory and tactile pleasures of the book (“I may expose myself to accusations of romanticizing or of reacting like an old-fashioned, ultra-bookish scholar who wants nothing more than to retreat into a rare book room.” Darnton admits. “I plead guilty”) and cautious celebration of the technological benefit the Internet affords, is that things are like they always were, only moreso:
the strongest argument for the old-fashioned book is its effectiveness for ordinary readers. Thanks to Google, scholars are able to search, navigate, harvest, mine, deep link, and crawl (the terms vary along with the technology) through millions of Web sites and electronic texts. At the same time, anyone in search of a good read can pick up a printed volume and thumb through it at ease, enjoying the magic of words as ink on paper. No computer screen gives satisfaction like the printed page. But the Internet delivers data that can be transformed into a classical codex. It already has made print-on-demand a thriving industry, and it promises to make books available from computers that will operate like ATM machines: log in, order electronically, and out comes a printed and bound volume. Perhaps someday a text on a hand-held screen will please the eye as thoroughly as a page of a codex produced two thousand years ago.
Since the Internet is an extension, rather than a replacement of the book (and here, Darnton is channelling McLuhan), we abandon the book at our peril. Rather, it is the library that must act as distributor and aggregator of the texts we seek.
Meanwhile, I say: shore up the library. Stock it with printed matter. Reinforce its reading rooms. But don’t think of it as a warehouse or a museum. While dispensing books, most research libraries operate as nerve centers for transmitting electronic impulses. They acquire data sets, maintain digital re-positories, provide access to e-journals, and orchestrate information systems that reach deep into laboratories as well as studies. Many of them are sharing their intellectual wealth with the rest of the world by permitting Google to digitize their printed collections. Therefore, I also say: long live Google, but don’t count on it living long enough to replace that venerable building with the Corinthian columns. As a citadel of learning and as a platform for adventure on the Internet, the research library still deserves to stand at the center of the campus, preserving the past and accumulating energy for the future.
Surely, such a conclusion appeases the romantic and the tech-nut in all of us.
Filed under: Theatre | Tags: Capitalism, Franz Kafka, King Lear, Marshall McLuhan, Modernity, The Gutenberg Galaxy, Tragedy, William Shakespeare
I’m going to see King Lear at the Globe Theatre in London this week.
Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.
Give me the map there. Know we have divided
In three our kingdom. (1.1.20-22)
In The Gutenberg Galaxy (1962), Marshall McLuhan makes the argument that Lear’s “darker purpose” is the politically daring “delegation of authority from the centre to margins.” In fact, the powerful opening scene intimates the larger fragmentation of power and social structures as Elizabethan England moves from feudalism towards modernity. “King Lear,” McLuhan argues, “is a presentation of the new strategy of culture and power as it affects the state, the family, and the individual psyche.”
Only we shall retain
The name and all th’ addition to a king;
The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,
Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,
This coronet part between you. (1.1.124-129)
Edmund, the bastard son of Gloucester (“there was good sport at his making”) is generally the character considered the most Machiavellian in the play, the agent of social fragmentation who rails against institutionalized structures that discredit his birth. He wants nothing more than equal opportunity, to be considered on merit rather than his given social role.
But Lear, who has already separated his duty from his name, is Shakespeare’s chief fragmenter. He has fragmented his power, his state, his family, and even, in his filial demand for bourgeois competitive individualism, merit from nature:
Tell me, my daughters,—
Since now we will divest us, both of rule,
Interest of territory, cares of state,—
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where nature doth with merit challenge. (1.1.32-37)
The wages of this fragmentation are the lives of Cordelia, Kent and the Fool, who cannot overcome this split. “According to my bond,” Cordelia tells Lear. “No more nor less.” To balance the destruction this sea change wreaks, a nostalgia brings low the evil yet modern Goneril and Regan, and forces a belated contrition from Edmund, who cannot outrun our sympathies. Capitalism is displacing aristocracy, and the sympathy the audience feels for Edmund registers the necessity of such a shift. Yet residual social mores that remain embedded in modern life continue to haunt society like Hamlet’s ghost. The play, dealing with such an oppositional force “bursts smilingly,” like Gloucester’s conflicted heart, “‘twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief.” The thunder that Lear famously interrogates is a contradictory force cleaving society in two. The result is a society that promotes the success of bastards (now Edgar, now Edmund) while forever cursing them for being so.
By the end of the play, Shakespeare has made bastards of us all. Edgar, the epitome of bourgeois mobility and individualism, rather than affirming a new social order in the manner of MacDuff or Fortinbras, gives both a mournful elegy and chilling augury in the play’s final lines:
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest have borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long. (5.3.383-386)
Edgar seems to offer a cynical tonic to his earlier, both hopeful and tragic comment,
And worse I may be yet. The worst is not
So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’ (4.1.34-35)
This is the worst, but the worst is yet to come. It is the tragedy of capitalism that it was both necessary and destructive, emancipatory and fragmentary. Nowadays, the fragmentation presaged by Shakespeare has increased exponentially, and we are expected to pursue its omen even as we know it harbours secret plans to destroy us. But Edgar advises us that this shackling determinacy offers us a kind of playful liberation. If there is hope, it is the kind of failed, tragic hope that Franz Kafka offers us: “Oh plenty of hope. An infinite amount of hope—but not for us.”
Now Gods, stand up for bastards.
Filed under: Ecocapitalism | Tags: Alberta Oil Sands, Carbon Tax, Carbon Trading, Climate Change, Curtis White, Jack Layton, Liberal Party of Canada, New Democratic Party, Stéphane Dion, The Idols of Environmentalism
NDP Leader Jack Layton has “shocked” environmentalists by opposing Captain Climate Change Stéphane Dion’s carbon tax environmental platform. Stephen Hazell, executive director of Sierra Club Canada, accused Layton of “pandering to people who are afraid about rising gas prices” because of Layton’s claim that rising energy costs would hurt the Canadian poor compelled to heat their homes by Canada’s cold winter climate. Hazell has a point: a decent carbon tax scheme would offset the penalty lower-income families would have to pay with taxes from corporations and upper-income earners. Dion’s plan is allegedly “revenue-neutral.” The problem with the plan is not that it would penalize lower-income families, the problem with carbon tax shifting is that it is utterly useless in combating climate change.
In order for a carbon tax plan to reduce carbon consumption, first, the tax rate needs to be high enough to deter people from using carbon-based fuels and second, alternative fuel sources must be widely available for less money. Gas prices have gone up forty percent over the last four years, and oil prices are predicted to double by 2012. Yet consumption has not slowed; in fact, our fuel consumption levels (and greenhouse gas emissions) are at record levels. Will Dion’s Liberals be willing to match the equivalent in a carbon tax scheme? Unlikely: and they will need to do more than match it.
Where will the alternatively sourced energy come from? Canada is light years behind Europe in alternative energy sources (disgracefully, since, as a Nordic country we should be leading the world on climate change). And the “revenue-neutral” logic means that not a single penny from this carbon tax will go toward new investment in non-carbon alternatives. Since the goal of a carbon tax is to make carbon-based fuels prohibitively expensive, what can we use instead?
Of course, all this is nonsense anyway. In “The Idols of Environmentalism,” an essay that should be compulsory reading for anyone interested slowing climate change, Curtis White pinpoints the reason market-based solutions like carbon trading will never, ever work:
Environmental destruction proceeds apace in spite of all the warnings, the good science, the 501(c)3 organizations with their memberships in the millions, the poll results, and the martyrs perched high in the branches of sequoias or shot dead in the Amazon. This is so not because of a power, a strength out there that we must resist. It is because we are weak and fearful. Only a weak and fearful society could invest so much desperate energy in protecting activities that are the equivalent of suicide.
For instance, trading carbon emission credits and creating markets in greenhouse gases as a means of controlling global warming is not a way of saying we’re so confident in the strength of the free market system that we can even trust it to fix the problems it creates. No, it’s a way of saying that we are so frightened by the prospect of stepping outside of the market system on which we depend for our national wealth, our jobs, and our sense of normalcy that we will let the logic of that system try to correct its own excesses even when we know we’re just kidding ourselves.
There is something psychopathic about carbon taxes and carbon trading. You may kill this many of my children, we tell our polluters. You may poison this much of my drinking water. But no more. I have to draw the line.
Capitalism—especially in its corporate incarnation—has a logos, a way of reasoning. Capitalism is in the position of the notorious scorpion who persuades the fox to ferry him across a river, arguing that he won’t sting the fox because it wouldn’t be in his interest to do so, since he’d drown along with the fox. But when in spite of this logic he stings the fox anyway, all he can offer in explanation is “I did it because it is in my nature.” In the same way, it’s not as if businessmen perversely seek to destroy their own world. They have vacation homes in the Rockies or New England and enjoy walks in the forest, too. They simply have other priorities which are to them a duty…
It is because we have accepted this rationalist logos as the only legitimate means of debate that we are willing to think that what we need is a balance between the requirements of human economies and the “needs” of the natural world. It’s as if we were negotiating a trade agreement with the animals and trees unlucky enough to have to share space with us. What do you need? we ask them. What are your minimum requirements? We need to know the minimum because we’re not likely to leave you more than that. We’re going to consume any “excess.” And then it occurs to us to add, unless of course you taste good. There is always room for an animal that tastes good.
How can a country that subsidizes the filthiest, most destructive, most obscene project in the entire world, the Alberta oil sands, convince its population that it holds any truck with environmentalism? How can we be made to believe that paying a few million, even a few billion dollars will negate the scorched earth left behind in Athabasca? And yet we Canadians swallow such absurd contradictions when we are unable to make the connection between 500 ducks drowning in oil and the car we drive to work.
This is the message you would expect Canada’s left-leaning party to send: not some weak-kneed gesture to gas prices. The Liberals’ plan is wrong, but for reasons no one in Canada seems prepared to hear.
Filed under: Music | Tags: Capitalism, Cultural Form, Daydream Nation, Identity, Kim Gordon, New Wave, Punk, Revolution, Sonic Youth, Starbucks, Teenage Riot, The Sprawl, Thurston Moore
It better work out.
I hope it works out my way.
‘Cause its getting kind of quiet in my city’s head.
Takes a teenage riot to get me out of bed right now.
Sonic Youth, the band that crystallized the meaning of a decade of slackerdom with their legendary record Daydream Nation (1988), is releasing their next album through Starbucks. What do we want from a band called Sonic Youth led by a man who turns fifty this year? And what’s the difference between Starbucks and Universal Records anyway? Besides, a slick veneer over the hardest of core was always Sonic Youth’s shtick. After all, they galvanized a generation by hiding lovely pop melodies under a layer of filthy noise and feedback. They were the epitome of suburban revolution: Dick Clark dressed up like The Stooges. And they were f’n brilliant.
In 1988, Punk music’s anti-establishment message was over the hill. New Wave’s subversive critique had lost its edge; it became a euphemism for “synthesizer.” Enter Sonic Youth’s pleasing, melodic rage. Their music appealed because it justified an equivocal reaction to the paralyzing frustration that typified the end of Reaganism and Thatcherism. At the same time, it offered the utopian bribe of revolution and social change with avant garde coarseness and abrasion in the musical form. We could do nothing and still feel like we were fucking over corporate America. As Kim Gordon asks us in “The Sprawl”: “Does ‘Fuck you!’ sound simple enough?” And it did, Kim. It did.
Punk music petered out because it advocated a nostalgic return to one of the founding lies of capitalism: hard-work, rustic simplicity and self-determination can change the world. Essentially, punk bought into the American dream, as if to rescue it from the mainstream that perpetuates it. New Age disappeared because it was always too complicit in the society it hoped to critique: it mirrored the minimalism and moral void of capitalism with its sparse music and corporate costumes, while critiquing the culture with its lyrics.
Bands like Sonic Youth, mired in the malaise of the last days of the Cold War, were economically and socially prohibited from launching any kind of serious social critique so they hid their revolutionary impulses. The Western world saw unprecedented growth in multinational corporations and escalating takeovers of independent businesses by big interests; and the recording industry was no exception. Sonic Youth made the leap, mostly due to perfectly understandable economic concerns, from indie label SST Records to Capitol and EMI in time for the release of Daydream Nation. How could they be expected to effect social change from within the corporate structure? Their response was the key to their brilliance: mass culture content that expressed its discontent through form. Their art was a tacit acknowledgment of the vacuity of mass culture, a shift from politically inspired content to interrogation of identity and form.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. The Kids in the Hall and Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble were comparable, contemporary efforts to achieve the same shift. But now we have Sonic Youth performing their classic album live, in full. Besides the irony mentioned above about aging rockers performing “Teenage Riot,” such a concert continues to institutionalize an act of social change. We go to this concert not to change our minds, but knowing exactly what to expect, as if to package our radicalism as essentially youthful, of a bygone era, of something no longer needed. And of course, what is most troubling about this kind of nostalgia, is the sobering thought that perhaps our daydreams were only ever leading us to Starbucks in the first place.
Say it ain’t so, Thurston.
Filed under: Video Games | Tags: Afghanistan, George W. Bush, Grand Theft Auto, Imperialism, Iraq, Jean Baudrillard, Media, Misogyny, Murder, Robert Pickton, Rockstar Game, Sex Workers, Simulacra, Stephen Harper, The Gulf War, The Gulf War: Did it Really Take Place?, Violence, Virtuality
Rockstar Games’ Grand Theft Auto IV raked in more than $500 million its first week—and was linked to a real-life stabbing and mugging. The game is praised for its innovative, realistic and complex gameplay—and vilified for its simulated violence and misogyny. Make no mistake: the game is misogynist. Any attempt to excuse the game’s misogyny is revealing. There is something barbaric about the phrase “You don’t have to kill prostitutes to beat the game.”
But what makes me suspicious of such criticism is that video games seem to bear a disproportionate level of ire compared to the much more graphic violence depicted in television shows like CSI or torture-porn film like Saw or Hostel. In fact, much of the female objectification that occurs in the game is no different than what you’d see during a prime-time commercial break on NBC.
The difference, we claim, lies in the virtual participation such games enable. Simulation, the argument goes, is a small step away from reality. In fact, there is little evidence that first-person simulation offer any more of a connection with violence than watching film or television. So why does the virtual murder of a woman attract more media attention than a real one?
The war in Iraq, which has killed more people in real life than GTA4 will ever kill virtually, was a “clean war.” A war with precision weapons that, we were assured, didn’t kill anyone who didn’t deserve to die. Indeed, didn’t President Bush, five years ago almost to the day smiling in his jumpsuit in front of a banner declaring “Mission Accomplished,” assure us that the war is over? Jean Baudrillard, as he argued for the first Gulf War in The Gulf War: Did it Really Take Place?, would likely have said that it never really occurred in the first. “We are all hostages of media intoxication,” he writes, “induced to believe.” It occurs only in heavily mediated images on CNN with only cursory relevance to whatever is taking place on the ground.
Likewise Canada’s war in Afghanistan. Our government wages an imperialist act of aggression upon an unarmed nation for an act of terrorism that was neither directed at us, nor committed by those we attack; and we do it in the name of “defence.” Our military strategy, our Foreign Affairs Ministry informs us, is based on rhetoric, not substance. We are strengthening Canada’s role in the world by effecting American foreign policy. Our enemy is not an opposing army, but ethereal “insurgents.” And we are not allowed to see the bodies of our dead soldiers return home. There are no corpses, no weapons, no armies. “Just as wealth is no longer measured in the ostentation of wealth but by the secret circulation of speculative capital,” Baudrillard writes, “so war is not measured by being waged but by its speculative unfolding in an abstract electronic and informational space, the same space in which capital moves.”
The real violence our society inflicts has become simulated, and we combat this shift by criticizing virtuality as if it were real. Violence against sex workers is all but absent from the pages of our newspapers (unless it fits into our spectacular fantasies like the Pickton murders, effacing the individuals who lost their lives over a period of thirty years). Yet GTA4 comes out with attendant social outrage. It is as if the protests against the game are as simulated as the violence it represents: virtual protest for virtual violence while the real deal continues apace.
Games like GTA4 certainly provoke a visceral reaction, a watermark of the tragic misogynist violence that infects our society. But there is something altogether more tragic about a society that condemns sex-worker violence in a game yet does nothing about it in real life, for real sex workers and for real women. I suppose, when real violence becomes a simulation of itself, when the terror in which we are complicit is so overwhelming, so imposing, and so atrocious, what other recourse do we have? No wonder virtual games like GTA4 are so popular.
Filed under: Capitalism | Tags: China, consumerism, Democracy, Slavoj Žižek, Tibet
Last month I expressed some of my reservations about the West’s unnatural obsession with Tibet. It seems to me that our fascination with Tibetan independence is rooted not in solidarity or concern for the well-being of actual Tibetans, but rather in the way we substitute their ascetic, anti-consumption devotion (at least, that’s how the West conceives of it) for our consumerist largesse. They are devout so that we don’t have to be. Slovenian cultural critic and all-round cool guy Slavoj Žižek, in a letter to the London Review of Books, elaborates on this contradiction and the dangers it threatens:
In recent years, China has changed its strategy in Tibet: depoliticised religion is now tolerated, often even supported. China now relies more on ethnic and economic colonisation than on military coercion, and is transforming Lhasa into a Chinese version of the Wild West, in which karaoke bars alternate with Buddhist theme parks for Western tourists. In short, what the images of Chinese soldiers and policemen terrorising Buddhist monks conceal is a much more effective American-style socio-economic transformation: in a decade or two, Tibetans will be reduced to the status of Native Americans in the US. It seems that the Chinese Communists have finally got it: what are secret police, internment camps and the destruction of ancient monuments, compared with the power of unbridled capitalism?
One of the main reasons so many people in the West participate in the protests against China is ideological: Tibetan Buddhism, deftly propagated by the Dalai Lama, is one of the chief points of reference for the hedonist New Age spirituality that has become so popular in recent times. Tibet has become a mythic entity onto which we project our dreams. When people mourn the loss of an authentic Tibetan way of life, it isn’t because they care about real Tibetans: what they want from Tibetans is that they be authentically spiritual for us, so that we can continue playing our crazy consumerist game. ‘Si vous êtes pris dans le rêve de l’autre,’ Gilles Deleuze wrote, ‘vous êtes foutu.’ The protesters against China are right to counter the Beijing Olympic motto – ‘One World, One Dream’ – with ‘One World, Many Dreams’. But they should be aware that they are imprisoning Tibetans in their own dream.
The payoff for such dabbling in the internal affairs of a world power remains the satisfaction in knowing that we are ushering China past state communism, through the growing pains of capitalism, towards the ultimate goal of democracy (which we, the West, have perfected, natch). After all, we’ve seen it all before. In our presumed democratic maturity, we believe that we recognize why China is unsettled by plurality (as we are unsettled by the First Nations), and like a concerned parent we want to prevent China from repeating our mistakes, while encouraging China’s capitalist honeymoon. With equal parts schizophrenia and audacity, we actively encourage the impulses that are eroding the beloved Tibetan Buddhist in the hopes that we can defend our monastic construction until China’s democracy asserts its inevitability.
But, Žižek warns, there is a fatal assumption in our grandiose plan.
Following this path, the Chinese used unencumbered authoritarian state power to control the social costs of the transition to capitalism. The weird combination of capitalism and Communist rule proved not to be a ridiculous paradox, but a blessing. China has developed so fast not in spite of authoritarian Communist rule, but because of it.
There is a further paradox at work here. What if the promised second stage, the democracy that follows the authoritarian vale of tears, never arrives? This, perhaps, is what is so unsettling about China today: the suspicion that its authoritarian capitalism is not merely a reminder of our past – of the process of capitalist accumulation which, in Europe, took place from the 16th to the 18th century – but a sign of our future? What if the combination of the Asian knout and the European stock market proves economically more efficient than liberal capitalism? What if democracy, as we understand it, is no longer the condition and motor of economic development, but an obstacle to it?
Oh my. That is a sobering thought.
h-t to The Dilettante
Filed under: Theatre | Tags: Antonin Artaud, Axe Body Spray, Body and Soul, Campaign for Real Beauty, Coelum Britannicum, commodification, Dove, Drama, Johnny Vegas, Judith Thompson, King Charles I, Masques, Play, Susan Moody, Taster's Choice, The Image, The Theatre and its Double, The Winter's Tale, Thomas Carew, Unilever, William Shakespeare
Canadian playwright Judith Thompson, author of Lion in the Streets (1991) and Perfect Pie (2000), has been commissioned to produce a play by Dove as a part of the soap producer’s “Campaign for Real Beauty” advertising strategy. From the Globe & Mail:
The production [entitled Body and Soul], which features 12 “real women,” that is to say, non-actors 45 to 78 years old, telling an interwoven tale of their real-life experiences, was commissioned by soap producer Dove as part of the company’s Campaign for Real Beauty (an award-winning ad campaign) and bears a prominent corporate stamp that is bound to inspire skepticism in theatre purists.
Thompson, 53, remains undaunted by potential detractors and has gone so far as to call the production “the most gratifying and illuminating creative work I have done in my 30-year career” – no mean claim, given her two Governor-General’s Awards for drama and her status as an Officer of the Order of Canada.
“It’s obvious that theatre has always had sponsorship. Shakespeare was sponsored by the monarchy. When you read his plays, there’s clearly pandering, because he had to pander to them so that his theatre would survive. There’s no pandering here,” she said.
Well, if Shakespeare did it, it must be all right then, I suppose. After all, his plays turned out fine. I wonder, however, if Thompson has heard of Thomas Carew’s Coelum Britannicum, a Caroline masque sponsored by King Charles I (grand-nephew to Queen Elizabeth):
MERCURY. From the high Senate of the Gods, to You
Bright glorious Twins of Love and Majesty
Before whose Throne three warlike nations bend
Their willing knees, on whose Imperial brows
The Regal Circle prints no awful frowns
To fright your subjects, but whose calmer eyes
Shed joy and safety on their melting hearts
That flow with cheerful loyal reverence (1-8, spelling modernized)
It goes on like that. Charles I also liked to take part in these masques he sponsored, along with other members of his court and professional actors. In fact, he likely played a staged version of himself when Carew’s masque was performed at Whitehall Palace in 1634. And Carew was sponsored by Kings. You can imagine the quality of work sponsored by lesser nobles in private courts. Unfortunately for the legacy of sponsorship in the arts, Shakespeare’s sponsored works (along with Ben Jonson’s and Edmund Spenser’s) represented the exception, not the rule.
Judith Thompson is a wonderful artist; Canada is lucky to have her. I have friends involved in Canadian theatre and publishing, and making a living as an artist is not easy (especially considering the Harper government’s recent cuts to the National Gallery of Canada). But as skdadl at Bread n’ Roses points out, regardless of the quality and integrity of Thompson’s production, it nevertheless runs the risk of undermining the already fragile structure of Arts funding in Canada.
Thompson insists that she won’t “pander” to Dove, and I admit that I believe her. But it is difficult to make the argument that art will remain unaffected by such corporate sponsorship when the content of the play is identical to the content of an ad campaign. Should I then write a novel based on the woeful soap-opera that played out on Taster’s Choice commercials in the 1990s? (Irony alert: Susan Moody beat me to it.) As Rick Miller, artistic director of WYRD Productions in Toronto, rightfully cautions in the Globe article above,
“I am very nervous about this. I’m not sure this is the production that actually crosses the line, but I think that it’s not far off. I think this sort of invasion of the theatre could happen very quickly if we don’t pay attention,” he said…
“Dove tells us to talk to our daughters before the beauty industry does. Well, they are the beauty industry.”
Miller is right. Dove is owned by Unilever who also owns Axe (Lynx) body spray and counts Johnny Vegas as one if its spokespersons. With these kinds of mixed messages, it’s difficult to justify the integrity of what Thompson identifies as Dove’s motive: “for women to feel good about aging.” It is a big step in artistic sponsorship when corporations move from “simply” attaching their logo to the title of plays (Ford presents Mambo Italiano) and proceeds to dictate theme or content.
Dove’s tactics become especially problematic when you consider what theatre is meant to accomplish. The theatre is a space of play. This latest step in the commodification of theatre does not promote real beauty, whatever that is, but Dove’s trademark of “Real Beauty”: an image of beauty and identity with a product on the market. It reifies a dramatic conceit that should be organic. Dove has made the play the thing. Do we really want “Real Beauty” to become a trademark owned by Unilever? As Antonin Artaud writes in The Theatre and its Double (Trans. 1958), the object of theatre
is not to resolve social or psychological conflicts, to serve as battlefield for moral passions, but to express objectively certain secret truths, to bring to light of day by means of active gestures certain aspects of truth that have been buried under forms in their encounters with Becoming.
Becoming. Not the commodified image. This sounds a lot more like the “real beauty” I want to believe in. And Becoming’s struggle against stagnation is a concept that Shakespeare knew a thing or two about:
I am ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me
For being more stone than it? O royal piece,
There’s magic in thy majesty, which has
My evils conjured to remembrance and
From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,
Standing like stone with thee.
—The Winter’s Tale, 5.3.43-8
h-t to Zastrozzi at Bn’R.
Filed under: cyberspace | Tags: Chris Avenir, facebook, Greater Manchester Police, Policing, Public Space, Ryerson University, Surveillance
Back in March, I referred to case of alleged academic dishonesty between Chris Avenir, facebook, and Ryerson Univeristy as a question of policing, surveillance and coercion. Ryerson University, I argued, was attempting to colonize cyberspace in their interests, while the students’ conception of what one should expect online was very different. Well, now it seems, this case has surfaced outside of academia. And the stakes seem a bit higher:
Via Google News I hear of a new Facebook Application: GMP Updates. The application, also known as “The Greater Manchester Police Updates,” gives you a feed of crime updates and links to a form for reporting crimes, according to the article. It’s the first time I’ve seen a law enforcement based Facebook application…
That’s not all that is happening. When you add an application, by default it can see what you can see on Facebook. So you’re also sharing your friends’ information with law enforcement. Your friends may opt-out of this sharing, but until they do you’ll be the eyes and ears of law enforcement by adding a law enforcement-based Facebook app.
This maneuver by the Manchester Police, while framed as a great way to “crack crime,” should render blatantly obvious that the Internet is not public space. It is land up for grabs, and the Manchester Police are making their play for it. The kind of logic that absolves Ryerson and the GMP of their aggressive power play is the same kind that George W. Bush and his cronies enact to justify their wire-tap scheme, roundly condemned as an assault on civil liberties. Why, when it comes to cyberspace, should we think any differently?
Hat-tip to April Reign.
Filed under: Justice | Tags: Josef Fritzl, Kimveer Gill, Misogyny, Natascha Kampusch, Nickel Mines, Oedipus Rex, Rape, Sophocles, Violence, Wolfgang Priklopil
Josef Fritzl. Nothing can possibly be said. An unspeakable tragedy. A ghastly act of sustained horror the likes of which cannot be recalled in history or in imagination.
Yet something must be said, because he is to stand trial. The debate over whether he is mentally fit, whether sentences in Europe are long enough (and if, at 73, he would survive an appropriate one anyway), and whether or not his case merits capital punishment. A lifetime (maybe two) of rape, four childhoods stolen, inconceivable abuse and imprisonment must now be translated into prison time.
How absurd. What would a punitive sentence accomplish? As a deterrent to future Josef Fritzls? As a stern lesson in the hopes of rehabilitation? A crucible for his soul? The barbarity of his crime has eliminated the possibility of justice.
Usually society is spared such futile calisthenics. When Nickel Mines killed five Amish school children in October 2006, he thankfully turned the gun on himself. The villain behind Austria’s other recent rape and imprisonment narrative, Wolfgang Priklopil, threw himself in front of a street car hours after his prisoner, Natascha Kampusch, escaped. Suicide provides closure to tragedies that would otherwise offer too many questions, that mock, rather than demonstrate our system of justice.
The day after Kimveer Gill opened fire on his Dawson College classmates on 13 September 2006, killing Anastasia Rebecca De Sousa, the Toronto Star ran the headline “Killer loved guns, hated people,” as if it were that simple. As if Kimveer Gill was an anomaly, a one-off who by some hellish mischance developed both a love for guns and a hatred for people. The blame, such a headline suggests, is wholly his: what could possibly be done about such a nutcase?
The logic of such headlines characterize our editorial pages in the aftermath of Josef Fritzl. “How could his wife not have known?”, they question. They could as easily ask how any of us could also not have known: we neighbours, we fellow Austrians, or we fellow human beings who were equally duped. This question, this displacement of blame, reveals that we did know—we do know. Likewise, ridiculous questions concerning the severity of Fritzl’s sentence distract us from the difficult social introspection of which his suicide would have wholly absolved us. We place the onus on Fritzl’s wife, on Gill’s love of guns, on anything that will do because we know, in our heart of hearts, that we are to blame.
The truth is that society failed these individuals catastrophically. When Oedipus Rex tears out his own eyes on stage in one of the most violent scenes in art, it is the price he pays for revealing the hypocrisies and impossible contradictions of the social contract. And the audience watches on, unsettled by the violence but satisfied that he has paid for his crime, that justice has been served. Yet what is truly tragic about Sophocles’s play is that we are complicit in Oedipus’s plight. Our laws and our social mores, the matrix in which we participate and which we reproduce daily, necessitate and determine Oedipus’s fate even as we punish him for it. And Oedipus, blood running from dull sockets, shows us his eyes as if to urge us to revelation.
This is the hard lesson of Josef Fritzl. What kind of society can create such a monster? How do we, as its citizens, contribute to such atrocity? How can a civilization that fantasizes about capturing and torturing women, that imprisons children in illegal concentration camps for a third of their life, that endorses endemic rape and violence in Africa, possibly be surprised when someone shows us our eyes?