#96 = Volume 32, Part 2 = July 2005
Annotations, Appendices,
Adaptations: Recent Work on H.G. Wells’s Scientific Romances
Martin A. Danahay, ed.
The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells.
Broadview Literary Texts. Peterborough,
ON: Broadview, 2003. 268 pp. $7.95 pbk.
H.G. Wells. The
Island of Dr. Moreau. Intro. Darren
Harris-Fain. New York: Barnes and Noble, 2004. xvi + 137 pp. $4.95 pbk.
Thomas C. Renzi.
H.G. Wells: Six Scientific Romances Adapted for Film.
2nd ed. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow P, 2004. xxi + 229 pp. $35.00 pbk.
Not so long ago it was possible to publish annotated, supplemented editions of
well-known works of popular fiction entitled The Definitive… or The Essential….
Instead of being chastised for hubris, the editors were often praised for their
daring in treating non-canonical works such as Dracula (1897) as though
they were worthy of being read carefully. If a Definitive Dracula was in
hardcover and had an unsmilingly pedantic apparatus, the intended readership was
a handful of academic specialists; if it was in paperback, well illustrated, and
slightly facetious in editorial tone, the targeted market was the horde of
wannabe vampires with their insatiable thirst to absorb everything about the
subject of their obsessions.
More recently,
the canon having been thoroughly subverted, works previously considered cultish
were accorded the full classic textbook treatment. Instead of The Compleat
Frankenstein, we now had Frankenstein: The Critical Edition,
containing everything that specialists supposed that undergraduates might need
to fully appreciate the invigorating current theoretical debate about the newly
discovered masterwork. However, a smallish independent Canadian publisher,
Broadview Press, had done some careful thinking about the undergraduate textbook
market. Broadview saw that the texts of classic novels out of copyright were
freely downloadable from the Internet, so that to stay profitable book
publishers would have to “add more value” than ever. Yet it was neither
pedagogically sound nor good economic sense to end-load university editions of
classic fiction with a dozen contemporary critical essays. Most undergraduates
aren’t equipped to read contemporary criticism (until they’ve taken enough
“theory” courses), critical fashions change quickly, and living critics have to
be paid. Broadview also saw that instructors of period classes would assign
non-canonical fiction—especially readable novels that provide an entrée into the
mentality of a particular period, as Frankenstein does to High
Romanticism—if students were provided with useful supplementary information
about the text’s relation to its age.
So was born the
Broadview Literary Texts series (recently rechristened simply Broadview
Editions), in which illumination of literary-historical context is the main aim,
not “definitiveness” or exploration of the spectrum of critical approaches. The
Broadview Editions are in trade paperback, their covers sporting striking black
and white photographs that often have a pleasingly uncanny relation to the text.
Each work is fully annotated, with notes conveniently at the foot of the page.
They are prefaced by introductions that tend to deal with such
literary-historical issues as how the author came to write the work. But the
most valuable parts of many Broadview Editions are the Appendices, which consist
of readings that contextualize the work at the time of its first
publication—e.g., extracts from writers who influenced the author, authorial
correspondence, contemporary reviews. When well done, the Broadview Edition
treatment adds genuine value to the text, and is fairly affordable thanks to a
low Canadian dollar.
I will belatedly declare my own interest: in 2001 I edited The Time Machine
in the Broadview series. This was their first H.G. Wells title, and has since
been followed by Martin A. Danahay’s The War of the Worlds, in which my
precedent is kindly acknowledged (7). In fact, the very small overlap in the
content of our respective Appendices suggests that, though only two and a half
years separated the publication of these two best-known and most influential of
Wells’s scientific romances, there was a great difference in their compositional
context. The Time Machine: An Invention (1895) was the product of years
of hard reading and thinking by a young writer struggling with how best to
achieve his aim of cutting his smug late Victorian contemporaries down to size
by placing their mayfly existences in the temporal frame opened up by
evolutionary thought. But Wells in 1895 was in poor health, had small means of
support, and was in the kind of marital imbroglio that would have led to total
social ostracism, had his public profile not been almost entirely obscure.
The Time Machine, alarming in its confident prediction of human extinction
and impudent in its compression of thirty million years of cosmic future
history, had been hurried into existence probably to pay off an unsympathetic
landlady, its brilliant originality blinding almost everyone but the author to
its shortcomings. (He had planned a much more grandiose work, something on the
lines of The Outline of History [1920], and in 1931 would dismiss The
Time Machine as “a very undergraduate performance.”)
When The War
of The Worlds was published in January 1898, Wells was famous, respectably
remarried, and wealthy. If The Time Machine had been his first real book,
The War of the Worlds was something like his eleventh, though he was
already so prolific that it is hard to keep track with any exactitude. The
War of the Worlds was not begotten from years of agonizing about human
destiny, but from a chance remark that Frank Wells made to H.G. as the brothers
were walking through well-manicured and unutterably self-satisfied Surrey:
“Suppose some beings from another planet were to drop out of the sky suddenly
... and begin laying about them here!” (193). It was a thought that must have
instantly appealed to a clever, angry, déclassé young man of Swiftian
disposition. (Given a comic twist, it foreshadows innumerable sketches by the
young Wells’s temperamental heirs, the Monty Python team.) And though Wells
lived to see the breakdown of the rigid social order of his youth, vicious
condescension to those of the lower orders who dared publish a book was still
common in 1898. Danahay appends a review of The War of the Worlds in the
august Athenaeum, in which the author is castigated for his regrettable
wallowing in the “cheap emotions of a few bank clerks and newspaper touts” (232)
as they streamed from Martian-controlled London. But then how could a cockney
upstart know how to flee for one’s life in a gentlemanly manner?
Danahay’s
apparatus is up with the best in the Broadview series in its ability to
contextualize effectively. For example, Appendix G, “Mars in 1898” (243-47)
perfectly complements the section on the same subject in the editor’s
Introduction (23-24). Its first excerpt (243-44) is from the actual article from
Nature in August 1894 about the “great light” on Mars cited by the
narrator in chapter 1 of the novel (43). This shows us both how up-to-date Wells
was with his scientific reading, and how indebted to Nature’s South
Kensington point of view. The second (244-47) is a section from Percival
Lowell’s Mars (1895), and this suggests how confidently Wells was able to
create convincing Martians by extrapolating from some of the distinguished
astronomer’s speculations while ignoring others as irrelevant or wrong.
According to Lowell, Mars was an “older” planet than Earth (246) by the then
prevalent nebular hypothesis; Wells mentions this “fact” in each of the first
three paragraphs of The War of the Worlds (41-42). For Lowell, “evolution
on [Mars’] surface must be similarly advanced” (246): Wells, approaching the
issue from a Huxleyan perspective, saw that “older” also implied that Martian
life-forms might have grown more degenerate, its atmosphere less hospitable than
Earth’s. Lowell’s “planet-wide” Martian system of canals presupposes an advanced
technology at the behest of a will unweakened by terrestrial-style factional
politics (246-47); and so emerge Wells’s Martians with their “intellects vast
and cool and unsympathetic” regarding “this earth with envious eyes” (41). On
the other hand, Wells saw that Lowell’s idea that Martians would be
“twenty-seven times as strong as we” (246) thanks to their lower gravity was
totally misleading when it came to describing how Martians might move unaided on
Earth.
Appendix F, “Invasion Narratives,” is useful, though perhaps a short sample from
Chesney’s seminal The Battle of Dorking (1871) (see p. 22 of the novel)
might also have been included. Given the very detailed Woking-area setting of
The War of the Worlds, it’s useful to have the topographical Appendix H,
though the excellent map from Black’s Guide to Surrey (250) should
probably have been given a full page. The final Appendix (253-61), which
reproduces contemporary photos of Victorian military equipment mentioned in the
novel, such as field artillery and ironclad warships, is a particular boon.
Wells’s subversive delight while writing The War of the Worlds is evident
from a letter in Appendix C: “I’m doing the dearest little serial ... in which I
completely wreck and destroy Woking—killing my neighbours in painful and
eccentric ways, then proceed ... to London, which I sack, selecting South
Kensington for feats of peculiar atrocity” (221). One can recapture something of
this delight by gazing at the photo of dragoons (259) and imagining a Martian
war machine suddenly heaving into view behind those mustachioed and stiffly
mounted warriors in their brilliant scarlet tunics (259).
Yet for all its
local color, The War of the Worlds is thematically an elaborate variant
of The Time Machine. The Martians are ex-human beings who, a million
years ahead of us in some ways, have also been subject to a million years of
“Zoological Retrogression” (see 195-97). (Wells’s Huxleyan 1891 article of this
title is probably the most important key to his thought in the 1890s.) In The
Time Machine the Time Traveller’s home suburb of Richmond is disturbingly
estranged via time travel (though Wells did not greatly emphasize this at the
time). In The War of The Worlds the space aliens that briefly conquer and
transform the Home Counties are really time travelers exiled from the far future
who are determined to reconstruct their alien environment on Earth at the
expense of their “primitive” ancestors, the Victorians. As the latter diverged
into Eloi and Morlocks, so the originally human Martians long ago split into two
species, one mentally advanced but physically degenerate, the other still
humanoid but mentally vacant, useful only to provide living blood as nutriment
for the vampiric sexless brains of these Men of the Year Million (see 203-06).
The Island of
Dr. Moreau (1896), which the older Wells called his “exercise in youthful
blasphemy” (vii), is his darkest and most Swiftian work. It alone of Wells’s
scientific romances is on the same level of literary achievement as The Time
Machine and The War of the Worlds. Indeed it seems in some ways to be
the most vital of the triad today, partly because its motifs haven’t been quite
so overworked by popular culture. Time machines have long been used in science
fiction merely to evoke sophomoric temporal paradoxes, while an invasion of
Earth by slobbering alien super-brains is a scenario best left to The Simpsons.
But Moreau’s more mundane motifs don’t overshadow its still timely
themes: the scientist who in playing God loses his humanity; the man who denies
his fellowship with animals by acts of endless cruelty to them thereby only
further reveals the beast in himself. And perhaps fortuitously Moreau speaks to
the canard du jour of “intelligent design,” that crude attempt to smuggle God in
disguise into the Darwin Hotel. If He really exists, then from a terrestrial
perspective most of the inferential evidence points toward a White-Bearded
Designer who resembles that cruel vivisectionist Moreau, with the whole
biosphere his House of Pain. Darren Harris-Fain has written a useful short
introduction to a new edition of The Island of Dr. Moreau from Barnes and
Noble, in which he cites some of the recent revisions of the Moreau
material, from Josef Nesvadba’s “Dr. Moreau’s Other Island” (1971) to Margaret
Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003). But this edition has no apparatus, and
although the low price makes it appealing for current course adoption, one is
advised to wait for the Broadview Edition before augmenting one’s own or one’s
library’s collection.
Thomas C. Renzi’s
H.G. Wells: Six Scientific Romances Adapted for Film was first published
in 1992. That edition contained an introduction dealing with Wells’s association
with film and six chapters each dealing with the most important film adaptations
of The Time Machine, The Island of Dr. Moreau, The Invisible
Man (1897), The War of the Worlds, The First Men in the Moon
(1901), and The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth
(1904). Appendices analyzed the two movie adaptations for which Wells got the
screenplay credit: Things to Come (1936) from his utopian future-history
The Shape of Things to Come (1933); and The Man Who Could Work
Miracles (1937) from his 1897 short story of the same name. Now Renzi has
updated and expanded his book—though as the page size has been enlarged and the
font size reduced, the second edition has slightly fewer pages than the
first—retaining the previous text and structure but adding analyses of a number
of recent Wellsian adaptations. He includes new sections on Simon Wells’s The
Time Machine (2002), John Frankenheimer’s The Island of Dr. Moreau
(1996), Paul Verhoeven’s Hollow Man (2000) (based very roughly on The
Invisible Man), and three recent revisions of The War of the Worlds:
Tim Burton’s Mars Attacks! (1996); Roland Emmerich’s Independence Day
(1996); and M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs (2002). The new edition has a
slightly improved index, while gone are the handful of black and white
illustrations in the first edition.
Before turning to
the new material, I should point out that Renzi’s first edition was a very good
book, though perhaps it did not get the attention it deserved in sf circles. It
was not reviewed in SFS, while a more recent book on the same subject, Don G.
Smith’s H G. Wells on Film: The Utopian Nightmare (2002) does not even
mention Renzi in the bibliography. Yet Renzi’s book is superior to Smith’s in
almost every way. Renzi has a detailed knowledge of Wells’s fiction, an
excellent eye for visual detail, and an engaging style. He also has a very clear
idea of what makes a successful novel-to-film adaptation, applying to this end a
theory by Geoffrey Wagner that has the advantages of flexibility and freedom
from the prejudice that almost inevitably creeps into adaptation studies,
depending upon whether one is promoting literary or film values. According to
Wagner’s theory there are three main ways of transferring fiction into film,
each with a decreasing level of what might be called fidelity to the original:
transposition, commentary, and analogy (see xvii). Renzi is careful to iterate,
though, that “fidelity” is an inappropriately loaded word given that literature
and film are different media with their own differing methods for achieving
aesthetic success (33). He proposes that most Wells film adaptations are
commentaries, “clearly recognizable as Wells’s stories but altered according to
a ‘re-emphasized’ central idea” (xviii). Once their category of adaptation has
been established, the movies should be evaluated according to filmic not
literary criteria.
Renzi’s eye for
detail and mastery of appropriate analytical tools are equally impressive when
dealing with text or mise en scène. He understands the advantages that Wells got
from using a frame narrator in The Time Machine; he convinces us that
part of the success of George Pal’s 1960 adaptation is to use Filby analogously
as a “frame character” (2). He explains why Pal chose to depict a time machine
resembling Santa Claus’s sleigh (45). The revolving disk at the back of this
time machine is a motif that subtly echoes other temporally-charged cyclical
images in Pal’s movie, combining to give the film the unity and coherence of a
work of art in the visual and kinetic mode. On the other hand, Renzi claims that
no film could probably capture certain subtleties peculiar to the literary mode,
such as the trickster aspects of the time traveller suggested by the doubled
narrative (9) or the emotional effect evoked by the use of the past perfect verb
in the last sentence of The War of the Worlds (192). Indeed, Renzi knows
Wells thoroughly enough to quote “The Chronic Argonauts” (1888) (85) and to note
how the griffin motif thematically connects The Time Machine and The
Invisible Man (95). He demonstrates the estimable quality of Erle Kenton’s
Island of Lost Souls (1933) by focusing on the ripples in the swimming
pool scene (63-64). Perhaps his tour de force is his unpacking of the “feet of
clay” imagery in Nathan Juran’s surprisingly ambitious First Men in the Moon
(1964) (153 ff).
Renzi’s
flexibility is perhaps best seen in his approach to Byron Haskin’s The War of
the Worlds (1953). Haskin’s film is full of “innovative ideas” (112) that
make it largely independent of Wells’s novel in plot terms. There is also a real
and stark ideological difference between novel and film that sometimes passes
unnoticed by critics distracted by minor details such as the transposition of
the setting from Surrey to California. Wells’s Martians are wiped out as a
result of their lack of immunity to microbes that they had long ago purged from
their own planet, so humanity is “saved” by Darwinian natural selection, whereby
a species adapts to the terrestrial biosphere or perishes: “by the toll of a
billion deaths has man bought his birthright in the earth” (Danahay 182).
Haskin’s Californians, on the other hand, are “saved by the littlest things,
which God in His wisdom had put upon this Earth” (qtd. Renzi 121). It’s easy to
chastise Haskin for his betrayal of Wells’s agnostic vision; but Renzi shows how
the movie, given the context of its appearance at the height of a Cold War
struggle against godless communism (120-22), is a coherent and reasonably
effective development of its own premises.
On the other
hand, Renzi is no apologist for Wellsian mediocrity, nor has he any patience for
bad film-making pure and simple. He concedes that The Food of the Gods is
“not among Wells’s best novels,” yet Bert Gordon’s Village of the Giants
(1965) and The Food of the Gods (1976) are “slipshod, amateurish ...
filled with incoherence and triviality” (169). Renzi hilariously demonstrates
Gordon’s “glaring ineptitude” as a screenwriter (184), and mocks the risible
special effect of the giant wasp that makes the victim look “as if he is being
attacked by a child’s knapsack” (184). Indeed, Gordon’s movies are so bad that
Renzi, far from suggesting that they actually seem quite good if viewed with a
postmodern ironic eye, accuses Gordon of deliberate incompetence, a posture that
“seems a masochist’s excuse for neglecting craftsmanship or for coping with the
fear of failure” (170).
When Simon
Wells’s new film of The Time Machine appeared, I was teaching the novel
in an sf course. Many of my students came to class disgusted with the thematic
disparity between the novel and the movie and eager to hear an outraged rant
from me. They were a little shocked when I told them that I’d actually enjoyed
the film. Of course, its
boy-meets-girl-who-is-accidentally-killed-so-boy-invents-time-machine-to-return-to-past-to-rescue-girl
scenario was not quite what Wells had in mind, but the movie was consistently
absorbing, and not just because of its excellent special effects. Renzi
clarified for me why Simon Wells’s adaptation is a better than average
“commentary” on his great-grandfather’s novel. Above all, it must be understood
that Simon Wells owes more to preceding adaptations (especially Pal’s) than to
the novel, because a good director must be aware primarily of the filmic
tradition. So, rather than waste time protesting “changes to the original,” one
might analyze the effectiveness of comparable narrative functions. George Pal
used the crude “talking rings” as a device to inform the audience about the
course of future history; Simon Wells updates and improves this function as the
memorable “photonic Vox” (played by Orlando Jones). Yet while Renzi celebrates
Simon Wells’s special effects as “a marvelous achievement” (43), he also notes
the “credibility gaps” of seismic proportions (37) that damage the coherence of
the narrative, e.g., the Morlock attacks in daylight, and their pointless theft
of the watch (38). And Simon Wells failed to learn from Pal in one important
respect: the lack of voice-over, especially during the time-travel sequences,
makes it hard for the audience to identify with the protagonist (39). Renzi also
argues persuasively that the deleted introductory scene included in the DVD’s
special features should have been retained in the final cut (39-41).
Renzi is less
generous about other recent Wellsian adaptations. He notes that while
Frankenheimer’s recent attempt to film Moreau is not the “gross and
repulsive failure” (72) that most reviews claimed it to be, it is seriously
marred by the “bizarre” performances of Marlon Brando as Moreau and Val Kilmer
as Montgomery (76). Interestingly, Renzi thinks that Frankenheimer’s tonal
ineptitude may well have been caused by his misguided attempt to pay homage to
James Whale’s mainly excellent The Invisible Man (1933), in which horror
and humor are much more effectively integrated. (79). Of recent Wellsian
adaptations, Hollow Man appeals to the audience’s basest fantasies (108).
Independence Day, though shallow, has good special effects and an
entertaining narrative, and unlike Haskin, Emmerich finds salvation not in God
but in human ingenuity and individualism (135). Signs is actually closer
in spirit to The War of the Worlds; Renzi disapproves of it not for its
religiosity but for its “pacing deficit” (141).
I don’t agree
with all of Renzi’s judgments. He thinks William Harrigan as Dr. Kemp in Whale’s
The Invisible Man “expertly portrays the sneaky, sleazy coward” (87); I
think the performance is an object lesson in bad acting. And Renzi is not nearly
as harsh as he should be on the execrable Mars Attacks! (132). But the
new edition of his book is a further improvement on what was already one of the
best books on Wells’s scientific romances, one that offers Wellsians a good
excuse to update their DVD collection, and one that would serve as an ideal
textbook in college courses on novel-to-film adaptation.
Mark Bould
... and then suddenly two came along at once
Sean Redmond. Liquid
Metal: The Science Fiction Film Reader. London: Wallflower, 2004. xi + 352 pp. £16.99 pbk.
Gregg Rickman. The Science Fiction Film Reader.New York: Limelight, 2004. xxxii + 432 pp. $22.95 pbk.
An editor of an sf journal recently asked me why so much writing on sf film
was so bad. Several reasons immediately sprang to mind, but it was evident from
the editor’s tone that the more pressing need was for sympathy than answers. The
question has stayed with me, though, and between them these two collections—one
of which I cannot recommend highly enough, the other of which I simply cannot
recommend—have put some flesh on the bones of my initial thoughts.
But first it is necessary to note that there is actually a lot of good
writing on sf film. A comparison with film noir and the western is instructive.
Although these were among the earliest genres to be enshrined in film studies,
neither has yet produced a dozen book-length critical works that could be
recommended to the serious student. It is remarkable then that such a late-comer
as sf film (which did not figure significantly in film studies until the late
1980s or early 1990s) already has half a dozen titles that could be similarly
recommended, as well as an increasingly substantial second tier of lesser but
nonetheless useful volumes. Additionally, a quick survey of film studies, media
studies, and cultural studies journals demonstrates a healthy and growing
engagement with sf film over the last decade—and perhaps this is where the
problem for sf journals lies. Now that sf film (or, more accurately, a growing
number of individual sf films) provides sufficiently respectable objects of
study, why would the best writers on sf film choose sf journals over film
journals? For the film academic, a publication in Screen or Jump Cut
or Velvet Light Trap or a leading cultural studies journal would probably
count for much more career-wise than one in Science Fiction Studies or
Foundation or Extrapolation or Femspec or The Journal of
the Fantastic in the Arts; and for the writer who comes to sf film as a film
critic rather than an sf critic, the sf journals are unlikely to be first-choice
venues, if only because of their relative unfamiliarity. Similarly, the
expansion of film studies, media studies, cultural studies, and cognate fields,
combined with increasing pressures on university library budgets, is likely to
prompt institutional subscriptions to journals immediately identifiable with
those disciplines rather than with something as goofy as sf. One potential
consequence of this is that newer academics writing about sf film are not
necessarily going to be particularly aware of the existence of sf journals. In
addition to a troubling resemblance to the processes of canon formation
described by Freedman (24-30), this situation points to a deeper problem to
which I will return after considering these two volumes.
The first, Rickman’s The Science Fiction Film Reader, has one very
precise variety of utility. It demonstrates, with breathtaking efficiency,
everything that is wrong with the current state of writing about sf film. Of the
42 pieces it contains, maybe five or six are actually worth reading. H.G.
Wells’s and Luis Buñuel’s reviews of Metropolis (Lang 1926) and Jorge
Luis Borges’s review of Things to Come (Menzies 1936) remain insightful,
while also having value as historical documents. Susan Sontag’s “The Imagination
of Disaster” (the only piece also reprinted by Redmond) is as knuckleheaded as
ever, but is significant not only as the first piece of serious criticism on
1950s sf movies but also for its grasp of the importance to sf cinema of
“sensuous elaboration.” Robin Wood’s intensely felt discussion of Blade
Runner (Scott 1982) was one of the first important pieces on its subject,
while Slavoj Žižek’s “The Matrix, or the Two Sides of the Perversion” is exactly
the ill-disciplined patchwork of perception and digression for which his film
writing is to be loved or loathed—and it does begin with the brilliantly bitchy
“When I saw [The Matrix] at a local theater in Slovenia, I had the unique
opportunity of sitting close to the ideal spectator of the film—namely, an
idiot” (406). Several other pieces, such as Anthony Burgess’s 1972 Rolling
Stone essay on A Clockwork Orange (Kubrick 1971) and, to a far lesser
degree, Joe Dante’s trade journal review of The Forbin Project (they
followed his advice and retitled it Colossus: The Forbin Project [Sargent
1970]), are of interest, albeit of a different kind. (The 1988 interview with
Robert Wise about The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) always saddens me
because he comes across as either far less interesting than his best films or
just very old and tired.)
Pretty much everything else in the collection should never have been printed
in the first place, let alone reprinted anywhere. I have nothing against
fan-writing or popular journalism—both often provide vital information or fresh
and interesting perspectives—but one might reasonably expect that an editor,
when considering what to reprint, should focus on pieces that do one or both of
these things. If those are not his criteria, then one might reasonably hope for
work that is at the very least competently written. But again, no dice.
Infelicities abound. And I have already adopted a passage from Ken Bowers’s
essay on Moon Pilot (Neilson 1962) as a classroom exercise on how not to
compare two films:
Here one is reminded of Bringing Up Baby (1938), which also involves a
comic hero pursued by a bewitched young woman. Moon Pilot lacks the
constant, fast-paced chatter or the mood of nuttiness of the screwball classic.
Unlike Katherine [sic] Hepburn’s Susan, Lyrae doesn’t woo her man with
relentless comic torture, but instead by being cuddly and inescapable. Like Cary
Grant, [Tom] Tryon is tall and handsome, with a capable speaking voice, but his
movements have none of Grant’s loose-limbered [sic?] glee. Tryon’s character is
just as bewildered as Grant’s, but is given none of the biting comments that
Grant benefits from. The promise of interplanetary domesticity wins Talbot over
completely, thereafter he is not so much comically eager, but mushily eager to
follow Lyrae anywhere. Moon Pilot’s plotting, pivoting on the need to
keep Lyrae a comic mystery to the general and agents, while also making room for
romance, is obliged to let Talbot accept Lyrae’s affection at the story’s
midpoint. This sacrifices, it would seem, the romantic suspense that is only
resolved in the closing moments of Howard Hawks’ film. (37-38)
Elsewhere, Michael Lennick gets (some of) the ironies of Paul Verhoeven’s
Starship Troopers (1997), but completely misses their point, suggesting that
in some respects Verhoeven and Heinlein “are exactly in sync” (43). Doug
Williams—one of several authors in the collection to misunderstand
allegory—draws bizarre comparisons between Darth Vader and Lyndon Johnson
(234-35) and between Emperor Palpatine and Richard Nixon (239), completely
missing the opportunity to draw out the complex ideological field in which the
post-countercultural Star Wars (Lucas 1977) cobbled together its
contradictions (although his passing reference to Richard Bach’s Jonathan
Livingstone Seagull [1970] neatly situates George Lucas’s sentimental and
solipsistic banality). Blake Lucas identifies the importance of the 1950s cycle
of sf movies made by Universal-International, but fails to provide a compelling
argument for their accomplishments, let alone their significance. For a brief
while it looks as if he is going to provide the kind of archival research which
has done so much to transform film history over the last decade, but he tails
off instead into a vague discussion of metaphysics and transcendence, complete
with Hallmark platitudes: The Incredible Shrinking Man (Arnold 1957), he
writes, “crystallizes the truth that science-fiction is not at its heart about
worlds beyond, because the worlds it meditates on are already within us” (95).
But the absolute low point of The Science Fiction Film Reader is Aneta
Chapman’s “Real Men Wear Black: The Men in Black Films.” Fortunately, its
many uncritical claims for the MIB—that theirs is not an oppressive
institution; that individual agents are self-sacrificing heroes, like
priests—are so absurd that few readers could possibly take them seriously.
Assuming its modest proposals are not a stunning work of straightfaced satire,
what is most fascinating about this article is its incidental revelation of the
pre-fascist mindset of much post-9/11 writing, complete with power fantasies,
paranoid suspicions, and yearnings for a strong and pure state:
Many of us, if given the choice of maintaining our mundane or vaguely
interesting existence might decide, if we had the opportunity, to join the Men
in Black organization. The chance to know a secret existence that few humans
could experience or comprehend would be thrilling. For many of us, we want to
believe that there is a force protecting us from evil. This force is invisible
and does not impinge upon our lives. We do not need to understand the source of
this strength. We just have faith in its ability to handle any problems that
pose a danger to us. In the Men in Black films, we find this force or
army of men undertaking a mission to protect us. They have taken vows and
assumed a duty that only a few select individuals could handle. They put our
interest above their own needs to protect us. They are fearless fighters. They
are modern day priests. (395-6)
This passage is directly preceded by reference to a myth that urgently needs
to be shattered: that New York, which here stands in for the US, “has welcomed
everyone from everywhere in the world.... The Statue of Liberty has become a
true beacon” (395). At least the first half of this is utter nonsense and, as
Linda Zerilli has shown, the certainty over the meaning of the Statue typical of
much popular commentary serves to assuage “political anxieties” (169).1
From the moment of its unveiling, the meaning of the Statue of Liberty was
contested.2 Not only did its “official” meaning not include
immigration, but this meaning was violently opposed until after the passing of
the draconian and racist 1924 Immigration Act,3 which massively
reduced the number of immigrants—especially those from anywhere other than
North-Western Europe—entering the US.4 Only subsequently did the
Statue come “to enshrine ‘the immigrant experience as a transcendental national
memory. Because few Americans were immigrants, all could think of themselves as
having been immigrants’” (177, quoting Higham [81]). It is unsurprising that the
figure of the immigrant should become the totemic national symbol after so many
“actual immigrants had been denied entry” because, Zerilli argues, the diversity
of the American population is only partly a product of immigration, being
equally derived from the terrorism of “conquest, invasion, and enslavement”
(177).5 The Statue’s shift from symbolizing “transnational
republicanism” to “immigration” was just the first of several; it later became
symbolic of a US “threatened by the wrong kind of immigrants,” of “national
heritage,” of “democracy” (174). Furthermore, as Anne McClintock argues, the
world’s fairs and expositions at which parts of the Statue were displayed before
funds were raised to erect it played a key role in shaping and normalizing “the
idea of democracy as the voyeuristic consumption of commodity spectacle” (59).
This lengthy response to what is, ater all, an essay of magnificent
inconsequentiality might seem excessive, but it does serve a further function:
it highlights, one hopes, the extent to which much of the weakest writing on sf
film, like much of the weakest writing on sf in general, is pre-critical—not
only in the Kantian sense of being incapable of reflecting on its own premises,
but also in terms of the most rudimentary failures to subject opinion to
evidence, to grasp the nature of ideology and the ways in which representations
circulate and interact, to even want criticism to be critical.
Over the last few years I have found it increasingly difficult to detect
instances of student plagiarism. Previously, plagiarism was typically signalled
by sudden shifts of tone and the unprecedented appearance of grammatical
sentences and a mature vocabulary. This has all changed with the advent of
plagiarism from the internet, where poor writing, virtually indistinguishable
from bad undergraduate work, is endemic. And so it is with a shiver—of
recognition, of understanding—that I note the start of Rickman’s
acknowledgements: “I was able to find many of the essays used in this book
on-line” (ix).
Sean Redmond’s selection process is a much more rigorous one, drawing
together extracts, essays, and articles from monographs, edited collections, and
refereed journals, including some unlikely sources as well as Science Fiction
Studies. Clearly this sf film reader is intended for a different audience to
Rickman’s (whose intended audience I cannot even begin to imagine). As reprint
collections on sf film go, Liquid Metal is second only to Annette Kuhn’s
Alien Zone: Cultural Theory and Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema
(1990) in terms of the overall quality of the contributions—and it is likely to
rapidly overtake that groundbreaking intervention when it comes to classroom
utility.
Liquid Metal’s 30 essays are divided into eight sections, each
containing three or four pieces. “The Wonder of Science Fiction” focuses on the
look and visual style of sf films and how their visual components are key to
understanding whatever cognitive aspects they might contain. It includes an
extract from Vivian Sobchack’s Screening Space: The American Science Fiction
Film (1980; rev. 1987) and Steve Neale’s “‘You’ve Got To Be Fucking
Kidding!’: Knowledge, Belief, and Judgement in Science Fiction” from Kuhn’s
collection. “Science Fiction’s Disaster Imagination” considers the destruction
of cities and environments, as well as the dystopian imagination, with an
extract from Michael Ryan and Douglas Kellner’s Camera Politica: The Politics
and Ideology of Contemporary Hollywood Film (1988), as well as essays by
J.P. Telotte on human artifice and Linda Ruth Williams on Brazil (Gilliam
1985) and Nineteen Eighty-Four (Radford 1984). “Spatial Abyss: The
Science Fiction City” contains pieces on sf representations of the city since
Blade Runner, as well as Eric Avila’s provocative juxtaposition of 1950s sf
monsters with post-war white flight to the suburbs. “The Origin of the Species:
Time Travel and the Primal Scene” contains classic pieces by Andrew Gordon and
Constance Penley that draw out the Freudian implications of time-travel
narratives. Sections on cyborg movies and postmodern sf movies reprint work by
Donna Haraway, Mary Ann Doane, Sobchack (the only author represented twice), and
Scott Bukatman, while the films discussed in these sections include Metropolis,
The Stepford Wives (Forbes 1975), Videodrome (Cronenberg 1983), Blade Runner,
Total Recall (Verhoeven 1990), the Alien and Terminator
series, as well as various anime, including Akira (Otomo 1988) and
Shinseiki Ebuangerion (aka Neon Genesis Evangelion; 1997). The
section on fan activity and textual poaching, including work by Will Brooker,
Henry Jenkins, Kurt Lancaster, and John Tulloch, considers the reception and
uses of Babylon 5 (1993-98), Doctor Who (1963-89, 1996), Star
Trek (1966-69), and Star Wars (1977). A closing section, with pieces
by Peter Biskind, Mark Jancovich, and Peter Hutchings, examines US and British
alien-invasion movies from the 1950s.
In the range of its coverage, Liquid Metal makes a fair bid at
becoming the set text around which both undergraduate and postgraduate courses
on sf film will, with some supplementary readings, be based, and the list of
contributors is a pretty solid guarantee of the quality of the criticism it
contains. While any such collection inevitably omits pieces which one would like
to see reprinted, the number of duds is astonishingly low, especially if one is
considering adopting the book as a course text. To my mind, only one of the
essays is an absolute stinker, and only several pieces are significantly weaker
than the high benchmark set by the very best.
Probably the major criticism of this volume is that it is fairly
conservative, especially in its conceptualization of sf film, which is largely
content to focus on canonical texts, especially those from after 1980. This is
understandable since Liquid Metal is attempting to consolidate a field of study
in a way that has not been attempted before, and since it is restricted to
reprinting material from a field that did not exist in any meaningful sense
fifteen or twenty years ago. So my frustration is actually about certain
inadequacies in the study of sf film. Other than the essays on anime, where is
the material on non-Anglophone sf cinema? On 1960s and 1970s sf? On sf movie
serials? On multiple-platform sf franchises? On sf films—other than the
Matrix trilogy (Wachowski 1991, 2003)—from recent years? And bearing in mind
quite how much has been made of contemporary spectacle-driven sf in relation to
the early cinema influentially described by Tom Gunning as “the cinema of
attractions,” where is the material on silent sf movies?6 (And, on a
much less important note, why didn’t the editor silently correct Constance
Penley’s misspelling of “Connor,” an error whose replication in previous
reprintings and students’ work has been getting on my nerves for over a decade?)
Rather than dwell any further on the excellence of Liquid Metal, and in order to
open up the problem I referred to in my introduction, I want to use one of the
essays it reprints from the heartland of film studies—Warren Buckland’s “Between
Science Fact and Science Fiction: Spielberg’s Digital Dinosaurs, Possible
Worlds, and the New Aesthetic Realism,” which originally appeared in Screen in a
1999 special issue on special effects, computer-generated imagery, and digital
cinema—alongside a piece which can here stand in for attitudes still common in
the criticism of sf literature.
In the foreword to his edited anthology, Projections: Science Fiction in
Literature and Film, Lou Anders makes the seemingly obvious case that “a book is
not a film, and a film is not a book. One is a literary medium; the other a
visual one. They require different approaches on the part of their respective
audiences. They deliver different rewards” (11). He then quotes Harry
Turtledove: “written science fiction is often thought-provoking; filmed sci-fi
is more often jaw-dropping. The two usually appeal to different audiences, which
aficionados of the written variety sometimes forget to their peril—and
frustration” (11). And then—and this is the key moment—Anders writes, “in
science fiction literature (also referred to as “speculative fiction”), the
reward is often the thrill of intellectual stimulation. In ‘sci-fi’ cinema, the
thrill is a visceral one, delivered via ‘special effects’” (11). Throughout the
remainder of his foreword, Anders, who is presumably sympathetic to sf films,
continues to unthinkingly reiterate this crude Cartesian hierarchical
opposition: sf literature is speculative, ideas-driven, and
intellectually-stimulating, while sf film is sci-fi, visceral, and dumb. His
similarly unreflexive complaint that the success of Star Wars et al
has driven
the real stuff off bookstore shelves, replacing it with media tie-ins, succeeds
in bracketing off a significant proportion of contemporary sf literature as “not
really” sf literature; in obscuring the fact that a very large proportion of
non-media sf literature is equally derivative and unchallenging adventure
fiction, and that the vast majority of sf literature has always been so; in
overlooking the fact that the harder varieties of sf he seems to consider as
being “real” sf literature have always been a minor strand and are of fairly
recent vintage; in skating over the fact that sf frequently responds to
speculative, ideas-driven, intellectually-stimulating fiction with
incomprehension, condescension, or aggression (it is no surprise that the 1970s
are frequently written out of sf history as an uninteresting decade even though
it was the decade in which New Wave and mainstream writers pushed sf to a
breaking point—fancy giving the Nebula to Rendezvous with Rama rather than
Gravity’s Rainbow!7 —and in which feminist sf succeeded, albeit fitfully and
briefly, in extracting sf from its numbingly adolescent politics). .
Anders’s conception of what constitutes speculative, ideas-driven,
intellectually-stimulating sf is unintentionally revealed by what is presumably
intended as a generous concession: “Nonetheless, sci-fi cinema has produced a
handful of works that strive for the intellectual weight of its literary
counterpart—films like The Day the Earth Stood Still, Blade Runner, 2010: The
Year We Make Contact, and The Matrix—this last one remarkable in the way it
marries the strengths of both literature and film into one coherent narrative”
(12). Leaving aside the ways in which that particular roster damns sf literature
with very faint praise, it is important to recognize its pre-critical failure to
address (or even remember) its own premises—a failing that can still be observed
in much writing on sf, whether film or literature. The flip side of Anders’s
shortcomings can be found in Buckland’s essay.
The principle significance of “Between Science Fact and Science Fiction” lies in
its attempt to think about CGI and other digital-effects technologies in
relationship to a range of discussions, particularly focused on the ontological
status of film worlds, in both classical and contemporary film theory. In his
attempted corrective to “those who discuss these [effects-rich] films in terms
of unmotivated special effects,” and thus “unwittingly continu[e] the auteur
criticism of the early 1960s by ignoring or by-passing the script in favor of”
(33) fetishizing mise-en-scène, Buckland worries away at the same hierarchical
opposition as Anders; and as his title suggests, Buckland establishes a
distinction between science fact and science fiction homologous to Anders’s
between sf and sci fi. To a reader versed in sf theory, the central weakness of
Buckland’s argument is that his turn to possible world theory results in
passages like:
It is this non-fictional dimension to Jurassic Park and Lost World that enables
us to characterise them as articulating a possible world. Both the novels and
the films are taking new scientific ideas to their logical (or illogical)
conclusions. In other words, Jurassic Park and The Lost World begin from
scientific fact (the actual), and then take these facts to their furthest
consequences (the possible). Because it takes as its starting point the actual,
then it is not pure fantasy (the impossible). The novels and the films therefore
present a possible world, which exists between science fact and science fiction.
(27)
The last sentence’s routine denigration of sf and Buckland’s apparent ignorance
of both hard sf and the verb “to extrapolate” point to more or less the same
problems as those in Anders. Not only does Buckland appear guilty of a lack of
reflection about basic premises, but that very lack of reflection seems to have
produced a blind spot, causing him to overlook critical concepts and
vocabularies that would aid his argument and which have been worked out in
considerable detail elsewhere. (But lest sf studies gets too smug, it is worth
remembering that its general response to counterfactual and possible world
theorists has rarely risen above the level of sticking fingers in ears and going
“la-la-la-we-did-it-first-la-la-la” in the hope they’d go away. Needless to say,
a more sustained critical engagement—from both sides—would be beneficial to both
sides.).
In the face of such mutual incomprehension, reinforced by all kinds of parochial
and institutional factors, there has been a tendency to suggest that sf
literature and sf film are effectively two different genres,8 or that they
should be treated as such. I suspect that this mistakes the source of the
problem, locating it within the genre (and then displacing it onto the medium)
rather than in the interactions of multiple discursive agents who constantly
redefine and renegotiate what constitutes the genre. While certain critics, like
Buckland, are writing about sf film, others, like Anders, think they are writing
about sf in general whereas, of course, they are, in fact, writing about sf
literature. As long as the confusions among these categories are permitted to go
uncriticized, the prospects for a sustained strong sf film criticism in either
sf studies or film studies venues are poor, and this cannot but be detrimental
to the whole field of sf studies. Liquid Metal, in drawing together work from
both sf studies and film studies, gives grounds for hope; but there is a lot
left to do.
NOTES
1. See also Bould, “False Salvation,” which is indebted to Zerilli’s essay and
which offers a rather different reading of Men in Black (Sonnenfeld 1997).
2. No women were invited to the unveiling, prompting suffragettes to issue a
statement declaring that “In erecting A Statue of Liberty embodied as a woman in
a land where no woman has political liberty, men have shown a delightful lack of
consistency which excites the wonder and admiration of the opposite sex” (Zerilli
171-72, quoting Shapiro 1986).
3. In 1921, the temporary Quota Act limited “the number of admissions of any
particular nationality to three percent of the group’s population already in the
United States as reflected by the 1910 census. This marked the first quantitive
immigration restrictions in U.S. history” (Nevins 29). The 1924 “Johnson-Reed”
Immigration Act “made the quotas permanent, but lowered the permitted percentage
of immigrants to 2 percent and used the census of 1890 as its base” (Nevins 101)
and “also required immigrants for the first time to obtain visas from U.S.
consular officials abroad before traveling to the United States” (Nevins 29).
The 1924 “legislation also included the Oriental Exclusion Act, which banned all
Asian immigration except that from the Philippines. As opposed to the temporary
Quota Act of 1921, economic arguments were secondary to ones of racial purity in
1924” (Nevins 101-102). In addition to creating “fixed concepts of ‘race,’ which
the legislation effectively conflated with the concept of the ‘nation,’” often
regardless of the immigrants self-identity or geographic origin, and valorizing
both the classification of people by race and prejudices about which kinds of
immigrants were capable of assimilation, the 1924 Act “resulted in 85 percent of
the new immigrant quota [being] allocated to North-Western Europe” (Nevins 102).
4. Immigration “came in three great tides, each stronger than the last. The
first rose in the 1830s and 1840s to a high-water mark in 1854, when 427,833 new
arrivals were recorded; the second, starting in the seventies, rose to a height
of 788,992 in 1882; the third brought in an average of one million immigrants a
year in the decade before the First World War” (Brogan 413-14). Brogan also
notes that immigration “rose from 216,397 in 1897 to 1,218,480 in 1914” (456).
The effect of the 1924 Act was to end mass immigration: “the annual average went
down from 862,514 in the 1907-14 period to no more than 150,00—all that was
allowed ... and discrimination against suspect nationalities was built into the
system. Immigration from the so-called Asiatic Barred Zone—China, Japan,
Indochina, Afghanistan, Arabia, the East Indies—was stopped almost entirely; and
immigration from everywhere else but Northern and Western Europe was made
exceedingly difficult” (Brogan 512). Among the many tragic consequences of the
implementation of this legislation was that, of the 180,000 German Jews who
might have entered the United States between 1933 and 1941, only 75,000 were
given permission to do so (Brogan 571).
5. Zerilli also notes that Bartholdi’s original design for the Statue included
“broken chains and Phyrigian cap” (326, n.27), traditional symbols of liberation
from enslavement, but these were abandoned so as not to provoke offence among
potential financial backers from the Southern states.
6. See Gunning. Bould’s “On the Edges” attempts to draw out some of these
connections. Telotte’s A Distant Technology contains a sterling account of sf
film in the late silent period.
7. Lethem, who postulates an alternative future for sf if that decision had gone
the other way in 1973, is reprinted in Anders.
8. A weak version of this argument underpins Anders’s and Buckland’s homologous
categorical distinctions.
WORKS CITED
Anders, Lou. “Foreword: Spectacle and Speculations.” Projections: Science
Fiction in Literature and Film. Ed. Lou Anders. Austin, TX: MonkeyBrain Books,
2004. 11-13.
Bould, Mark. “The False Salvation of the Here and Now: Aliens, Images and the
Commodification of Desire in The Brother from Another Planet.” Sayles Talk:
Essays on Independent Filmmaker John Sayles. Ed. Diane Carson and Heidi Kenaga.
Wayne, OH: Wayne State UP, 2005. 112-41.
─────. “On the Edges of Fiction: Pattern, Structure and Narrative in Silent
Actualités, City Symphonies and Early Sf Cinema.” Docufictions: Essays on the
Intersection of Documentary and Fictional Filmmaking. Ed. Gary D. Rhodes and
John Parris Springer. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2005. In press.
Brogan, Hugh. The Penguin History of the United States of America. London:
Penguin, 1990.
Freedman, Carl. Critical Theory and Science Fiction. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan UP,
2000.
Gunning, Tom. “An Aesthetic of Astonishment: Early Film and the (In)credulous
Spectator.” Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings. 5th ed. Ed. Leo
Braudy and Marshall Cohen. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1999. 818-32.
Higham, John. Send These to Me: Jews and Other Immigrants in Urban America.
Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins UP, 1975.
Lethem, Jonathan. “The Squandered Promise of Science Fiction.” Projections:
Science Fiction in Literature and Film. Ed. Anders. Austin, TX: MonkeyBrain
Books, 2004. 203-208.
McClintock, Anne. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial
Contest. New York: Routledge, 1995.
Nevins, Joseph. Operation Gatekeeper: The Rise of the “Illegal Alien” and the
Making of the U.S.-Mexico Boundary. New York: Routledge, 2002.
Shapiro, Mary J. Gateway to Liberty: The Story of the Statue of Liberty and
Ellis Island. New York: Vintage, 1986.
Telotte, J.P. A Distant Technology: Science Fiction Film and the Machine Age.
Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 1999.
Zerilli, Linda. “Democracy and National Fantasy: Reflections on the Statue of
Liberty.” Cultural Studies and Political Theory. Ed. Jodi Dean. Ithaca, NY:
Cornell UP, 2000. 167-88.
Andrew M. Butler
Tune In, Jack In, Drop Out
Matthew Kapell and William G. Doty, eds.
Jacking In to the Matrix Franchise: Cultural Reception and Interpretation.
New York: Continuum, 2004. xiv + 215 pp. $85.00 hc; $19.95 pbk.
M. Keith Booker.
Science Fiction Television.
Westport, CT: Praeger, 2004. 201 pp. $39.95. hc.
We certainly cannot complain any longer that media science fiction is not
taken seriously. M. Keith Booker’s volume attempts to survey a popular genre of
a popular medium and Matthew Kapell and William G. Doty bring together eleven
original essays in a volume that joins the already substantial body of work (if
not yet a body of substantial work) on The Matrix (1999). Neither of
these books is precisely aimed at an academic market, and both perhaps tend
toward the middlebrow—a space which, of course, much of my own work has also
occupied, so (to mix a metaphor) I cannot afford to stick my nose in the air.
In fact, that middle brow is rather higher in the case of Jacking In,
despite an introduction telling of the editors’ injunction to contributors to
“make it clear, eliminate technical scholarly debates, and express yourself the
way ‘ordinary people’ talk” (2). This is a laudable aim, although I do worry
about that term “ordinary people.” I also recognize a certain defensiveness, as
when in the introduction to one of the books I’ve been involved with we
reassured potentially startled readers that the index only contained a single
reference for Derrida. I do not think Kapell and Doty have succeeded in speaking
the language of the people—they would have to use the word “blatant” more often,
for example—but it is admirably clear in most chapters. The already formidable
number of articles written on the films, however, not to mention the breadth of
critical coverage, means that a lot of the articles might be felt to be bogged
down in quotations and bibliography.
Science Fiction Television comes unencumbered by anything as daunting
as a bibliography, and it requires fewer than thirty endnotes, most of which are
descriptive rather than suggesting further reading. It is as if nothing else has
been written on the topic in the last four decades or so of taking science
fiction seriously. The reader who enjoyed this book and wants to find more is
merely directed to various books dealing with the period prior to the 1950s and
a few books on The X-Files (1993-2002). Whilst one of the books
referenced is Booker’s own Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War
(2001), the opportunity is not taken to cross reference to his Strange TV
(2002)—rightly plugged as being of interest on the back dustwrapper and dealing
with several of the same series.
The volume itself is bookended with two incredible statements that I am sure
are destined to be tagged with the phrase “Discuss” and turned into essay
questions. First, “Science fiction series have been among the most innovative
and successful series ever to appear on commercial television” (1) and last:
“science fiction television may be our last best hope to recover the sense of
confidence and wonder that propelled Western civilization from the Renaissance
to outer space and cyberspace” (192). I am not the world’s greatest fan of SFTV—as
we apparently now call it—but what much of what I have seen has felt derivative
(or has paid much homage to what has gone before) and simplistic (or focused).
It is not clear what is meant by “successful”—ratings (we need figures), sales
(ditto), or aesthetics (I have many doubts). Why commercial television? One of
the book’s (and indeed the genre’s) most important series is Doctor Who
(1963-1989, 1996, 2005- ), which was produced by a public-service broadcaster
funded by a license fee. The “sense of confidence and wonder” seems a quaint
metanarrative of progress, which I am not convinced is the only factor in our
outward and inward urges, especially with the political motivation of the space
race. Nor is the story told by Booker one of unalloyed optimism.
And Booker does tell a story—this is necessary for history—although it
simplifies what is going on, introducing a teleology that risks distorting the
history it tells. The curious story of science fiction turns out to be The Story
Of How X-Files Came To Be. That early television genius Nigel Kneale
anticipated The X-Files in the “motifs of conspiracy and looming hidden
dangers” (6), The Outer Limits (1963-1965) “foreshadow[ed]” it, Doctor
Who’s UNIT “more vaguely foreshadow[ed] the later FBI X-Files Unit”(32)—not
that it could foreshadow an earlier unit—an episode of The Avengers
(1961-69) anticipates an X-Files episode (40), and The Invaders
(1967-68) was “a clear predecessor” (49). The presence of the scientist
character Liz Shaw in the first season of Jon Pertwee’s incarnation of Doctor
Who (1970) “clearly anticipates the skepticism of the scientist Dana Scully
in The X-Files while her subsequent pairing with Doctor Who in the next
several sequences provides one of many precedents for The X-Files pairing
of Scully with Fox Mulder,” as does the first version of Romana with the Tom
Baker Doctor (70). UFO (1970-73) anticipates the series (74) especially
in the “twists and turns in the alien-invasion plot” (76). Blake disappears from
Blake’s 7 (1978-81)—just like Fox Mulder—and the series’s tone is dark,
just like The X-Files, not to mention using a plot arc (83). It is as if
all these series, especially if they had male and female leads, and the woman
was more than a doormat, were simply preparing the ground. Or Chris Carter drew
on everything that went before him. Certainly post-X-Files series are
compared to it, whether in terms of tone, structure, success, or
characterization.
The X-Files reflects a shift in the narrative of science fiction
history: prior to the 1990s, series reflect the Cold War anxieties of
America—including, apparently, Doctor Who. After the collapse of the
Eastern bloc and the demolition of the Berlin Wall, we have a more generalized
paranoia, directed at our own governments. In other words, televisual science
fiction mutates from reflecting the notion that the government is out to get us,
to no longer believing the government when they tell us that no one is out to
get us. In the era of the war on terror, with the imprisonment without charge of
enemy non-combatants and the proposed suspension of habeas corpus in
Britain—measures which are either sensible precautions or knee-jerk suspensions
of civil and other liberties, depending on your political perspectives—it seems
likely that if Booker’s thesis is correct then we are about to enter a new phase
of the history of television paranoia.
The connection of Doctor Who to the Cold War needs greater unpicking
than Booker grants it. The adventure known variously as “The Daleks” or “The
Mutants” (or indeed “The Dead Planet” [1963-64]) is felt to address “cold war
fears of nuclear holocaust” (31), although later adventures featuring the Daleks
were more explicitly concerned with the First and Second World Wars and Nazi
ideology—particularly in the repeated descriptions of the Aryan Thals, pacifist
enemies of the Daleks. Whereas an episodic drama aimed at a family audience
could use such fears to articulate a displaced narrative, the quasi-documentary
The War Game (1965; not discussed by Booker) was held to be too
frightening for television and was not shown on the small screen until 1985. The
point, however, is that the British connection to the Cold War is different from
the American, in terms of differing attitudes to possible Communist
infiltration, to being closer to a potential theater of war, to being a
declining post-colonial power dealing with the consequences of the fag-end of
empire rather than hovering between isolationism and neo-imperialism. The early
1970s Earth-based seasons of the Pertwee incarnation of Doctor Who are to me as
much an assertion of British significance as of “cold war alien-invasion” dramas
(69); indeed the rash of invasion stories a century earlier suggests that a cold
war is not a prerequisite for British fears of invasion and contamination.
Booker is not exactly forthcoming on the shape and chronology of the Cold War
since its inception in the late 1940s, although an endnote does direct us to his
Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War for an account of the 1950s.
The contours of the Cuban Missile crisis, the intervention in Vietnam, the
various defections, arms limitations talks, and placing of military bases and
missiles in western Europe cannot be mapped precisely onto those of SFTV,
although other critics have at least written about Star Trek (1966-69),
Vietnam, and foreign policy. Nor, for that matter, is it easy to trace the
trajectory of Black civil rights, women’s liberation, and gay pride from the
1950s to the present day—although there are some considerations of race and
racism.
Inevitably, Booker writes from the perspective of America—and indeed at
first, despite early mentions of Doctor Who, Quatermass (1953, 1955,
1958-59, 1979), The Avengers, and The Prisoner (1967-68), I did
ponder whether the book should really be entitled American Science Fiction
Television. You look in vain for any mention of Blake’s 7 in the index,
the most significant and, until Red Dwarf (1988-93, 1997-99), the most
popular British television science fiction series after Doctor Who. To be
fair, there is a brief discussion of the series and its dark tone, situating it
in opposition to Star Trek—Blake’s 7’s Federation is much more
openly totalitarian than that of Star Trek. Red Dwarf is hailed as
“unique in its combination of sitcom and science fiction” (87), which overlooks
other British efforts such as Come Back Mrs Noah (1978), Goodnight
Sweetheart (1993-99) and (more loosely) My Hero (2000- )—although
British audiences would be more than happy to overlook some of these as well. It
also ignores Nigel Kneale’s Kinvig (1981) and the television version of
The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (1981), which, until the release of
the film, is the least aesthetically pleasing version of the much-used
material—although Booker does discuss it as a miniseries.
The designation of it as a miniseries marks a distinction between British and
American terminology. The British would view a miniseries as a single narrative
split into a few episodes, usually shown over consecutive nights, having a large
budget and glossy settings and stars. A run of a sitcom—typically in Britain
limited to six to eight episodes written by one or two writers—would still be a
series. Some of the dramas have extended beyond that to twelve or thirteen
episodes in a season or series—for example Blake’s 7 or Bugs
(1995-99); whilst early seasons of Doctor Who ran for much of the year,
it is a rare British series that uses the American model of the 22-23 episode
run. Equally the distinction in American television between syndication and
networking needs explanation for an international audience.
Inevitably, Booker makes mistakes, although as far as I can see he is on safer
ground in covering more recent material. The creator of Quatermass
becomes Nigel Neale, and Andrew Keir, the star of the film Quatermass and the
Pit (1967), becomes Andre Keir (perhaps mistaken for André Morrell from the
television version). In the middle of a paragraph on the 1939 Buck Rogers
we learn that “(Flash shuttles back and forth from Earth to Saturn) ... Flash, a
test pilot for the 1930s, is placed in suspended animation awaking five hundred
years in the future” (4). Admittedly, Flash bears a startling resemblance to
Buck—both were played by Larry “Buster” Crabbe—but someone nodded here. And I’m
sure we could all come up with a shopping list of exclusions—various one-offs
from either side of the Atlantic, any of the many series explicitly aimed at
children, or anything as far as I could see from Australia.
There are some rather uneasy judgments—“cool”, “camp,” and “silly” are thrown at
The Prisoner, Lost in Space (1965-68), and some of Doctor Who
(although mercifully he ignores the post-Tom Baker version, thus avoiding the
need to deal with Sylvester McCoy’s incarnation). When Booker gets his teeth
into The Twilight Zone, however, the various incarnations of Star
Trek, Babylon 5 (1993-99), and, obviously, The X-Files, he makes some
useful commentary. But this is an entry-level book, and not one I’d use without
a massive degree of caveat with undergraduates.
Brighter undergraduates ought to be able to cope with Jacking In to the
Matrix Franchise, which has the laudable intention—all too rare in science
fiction criticism—to think beyond just films or books, and attempts to encompass
a whole franchise: three films, anime shorts, a computer game, a comic book, and
websites. It is the films which predominate, almost inevitably, with a couple of
the Animatrix (2003) shorts closely behind. While this book offers much
to those who see new ground being broken in the franchise—as if Neuromancer
(1984), Videodrome (1982), Philip K. Dick, or Hong Kong cinema had never
existed—it also offers refreshingly dissenting views on the films as well.
Doty—who has previously written on myth and masculinity—makes a grand claim
for the Wachowski brothers as being the Wagner of their day, creating “ein
Gesamtkunstwerk” (1) to rival the Ring Cycle. Fortunately, he is not blind to
the ideological baggage that Wagner carries in his Nietzschean will to power,
and, thankfully, John Shelton Lawrence’s chapter explores the fascistic
undertones of the trilogy, focusing upon the blind trust of Morpheus for the
führer-like figure of Neo. Lawrence’s fusion of this to the American monomyth
makes for some uncomfortable reading on the politics of the blockbuster, and he
takes the opportunity to have a pot shot at that other sacred cow, Star Wars
(1977). In these postmodern times, it may be that the Wachowskis are using these
ideas rather than endorsing them—and Lawrence suggests that a future installment
might make the commentary on the failure of democracy more nuanced.1
Lawrence’s discussion of fascism and Nazism neglects the racist elements of
such ideologies, but C. Richard King and David J. Leonard examine the racial
elements of the sequence, asking “Is Neo White?” (32ff). For these writers, the
matrix is an apt metaphor for what the films do in terms of race: blinding us to
the truth. The presences of Morpheus, the Oracle, Tank, and Dozer are not in
themselves radical, as they conform to sage or slave stereotypes, and Morpheus
yields all to Neo. The largely African American city of Zion, with its exotic
drumming and dancing, offers “a world of sexual energy” (38) that feels like it
would belong in a James Bond movie (and echoes the Gungan city of The Phantom
Menace, 1999). The racism and orientalism of too much cyberpunk is
disturbing, but few seem to have addressed it.2
Equally, the representation of gender can be troubling, putting the
dominatrix into the matrix. Martina Lipp focuses on Trinity as a potential
positive role model, a rare woman who looks and desires, who masquerades in
order to play down her apparent power, and who is ultimately sidelined by the
narrative as an agent. Lipp rightly sees the figure of Lara Croft behind
Trinity, but here she does not quite get to be a female hero, despite moments of
heroism and despite rescuing Neo.
Richard R. Jones, like other critics before him, examines the place of
religion in this film universe, and suggests that the film offers a reversal of
the usual conversion experience: religions “demand a conversion from the real
world to a world of myth and symbols.... [I]n the Matrix universe,
conversion involves leaving a simulated world of myth and symbol and waking up
in the real world” (54). There is a point, here, but I would imagine that
religions would also see their awakenings as access to truth, or to a higher
truth, or to an inner truth, not just to myths and symbols. Symbols are the
logos. Certainly this would seem the point to talk about Gnosticism or Buddhism,
but instead Jones discusses the way in which religion is used in the franchise
as part of the mise en scène and theme with no real deeper meaning, making the
franchise a ecumenical table rasa, in which one divines one’s own religion
according to taste. Likewise, Frances Flannery-Dailey and Rachel L. Wagner go
through a shopping list of religions—Christianity, Gnosticism, Buddhism,
Hinduism, Taoism, and so on—at the risk of showing the films as mere eclectic
bricolage. They are skeptical of whether any of the films offers “a convoluted
Baudrillardian critique of media and violence” (111) even as it offers a
mediated world, too full of “an excess of violence, maleness, and whiteness”
(110). I, too, suspect that Baudrillard is being used, and certainly the man
himself, quoted by Stephanie Wilhelm and Matthew Kapell on the films, is less
than impressed: “‘The Matrix is like a movie about The Matrix that
could have produced The Matrix’ ... The Matrix franchise does not
tell us what a simulacra [sic] is, the Matrix franchise itself, is a
simulacrum!” (134). Well, quite. Or not.
Wilhelm and Kapell attempt to escape from both modernist and postmodernist
categories, in favor of a utopian vision. For them the trilogy ends with the
sense of human agency and machine capabilities, the incorporation of “the
traditions or myths of that past and a grand narrative of progress” (138). This
is a strange turning back whilst moving forward. It cannot be modernist, because
it still does not offer a rational state; it cannot be postmodernist because it
believes in progress. I’m not so sure whether this does not simply mistake the
simulation for the real; perhaps a better fictional future might inspire the
possibility of a better real future, but I don’t see many of the machines around
me learning anything as they enslave us, nor for that matter do we humans find
it that easy to learn.
Author, critic, and academic Russell Blackford raises the interesting
question of the impact, in The Matrix, of taking the blue pill and going
back to the hallucination rather than the red pill that awakens one to a ghastly
reality. (Personally, I’ve never been convinced that Neo had an entirely free
choice about which to swallow, but perhaps I’m cynical about Morpheus’s
motives.) Certainly, there’s a lot to be said in the argument between the
utopian hallucination and the dystopian reality; it’s a subject Philip K. Dick
spent a whole career exploring, usually coming down on the side of reality, if
it was reality. Blackford cites a thought experiment by James Patrick Kelly, in
which the hallucinated world run by the machines was genuinely nicer than the
nightmare scenario—of machines feeding on dead humans—outlined to Neo: would you
want to be awakened? Do we really prefer the objective reality of authentic
lived experience to fairyland? In the simulation anything can happen—you can
work, fall in love, go to clubs, program computers, go for long walks in the
countryside. While you can’t know the truth, in many ways the simulation can be
preferable to the reality.
This collection is thought-provoking and relatively free of the common
gosh-wow fanboy reactions to the franchise. In addition to the essays, the
introduction (by Doty) and conclusion (by Kapell) provide useful orientation,
and appendices take us through the elements of the franchise, identifying the
major allusions. Even if some of these seem a little obvious—Neo/One,
Trinity—there is still bound to be something you have not noticed. The
bibliography is a little disappointing, but it is supplemented by individual
Works Cited sections. Personally, I would have shifted all the bibliographic
material to the end, but this is not the first book published by Continuum where
I have had to rifle through the pages trying to track down a lost reference.
Also, I could not work out why some chapters had filmographies and some did not,
especially as some of the filmographies simply listed the franchise films. The
editors lose marks for leaving an “e” out of John Shirley and for giving it to
Samuel Delany (191), and it seems that the contributors are more children of the
visual than the textual, given the very few references to written cyberpunk,
Philip K. Dick, and Greg Egan. But on the whole, Kapell and Doty are to be
applauded for providing a sense of unity to the collection without imposing a
uniform.
Both of these books are clearly trying to appeal to a wide audience, Booker
steering a path through a wealth of material whilst apparently ignoring any
previous travelers, Kapell and Doty’s contributors offering a more intimate
examination of a narrow area, and being all too aware of the footsteps before
them. I can see the desire for grand surveys like Booker’s, but at the same time
I cannot help but feel we need more of the close examination. Booker’s
Science Fiction Television traces a broad outline for undergraduates and the
general reader, but needs more color, shade, depth, and detail. Kapell and
Doty’s contribution is a good addition to the shelf on The Matrix with
the collections by Haber, Irwin, and Yeffeth, joining various volumes on Star
Trek, The X-Files, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997-2003), but I
think we have said enough on those for now. There is much more in SFTV and sf
film that demands a serious look.
NOTES
1. I would have liked to see someone address in much more detail the economics
of the franchise and the cynical exploitation of markets expressed by such
synergistic cross-promotion.
2. Andrew Macrae wrote “Looking Awry at Cyberpunk through Antipodean Eyes”
(1998), an MA thesis for the University of Queensland dealing with the subject
of race in cyberpunk from an Australian perspective.
WORKS CITED
Booker, M. Keith. Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War. Westport,
CT: Greenwood, 2001.
_______. Strange TV: Innovative Television Series from The Twilight Zone to The
X-Files. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2002.
Haber, Karen, ed. Exploring the Matrix: Visions of the Cyber Present. New
York: St Martin’s, 2003.
Irwin, William, ed. The Matrix and Philosophy: Welcome to the Desert of the
Real. Chicago: Open Court, 2002.
Yeffeth, Glenn, ed. Taking the Red Pill: Science, Philosophy, and Religion in
The Matrix. Dallas, TX: Benbella Books, 2003.
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