Crazy Rich Asians: Beyond the Confines of the Screen

Is it possible to separate the viewer from the viewed? A difficult question, but one which nonetheless appears when I think of this film. For me, so much of Crazy Rich Asians (2018) exists outside the confines of the screen that sometimes I feel like I’m not so much as commenting on this film but rather the cultural context around it.

Is that fair to Jon M. Chu’s piece of work? Is it fair to view the film not as an individual piece of art, but something embedded into the cultural zeitgeist of the time? I’m not entirely sure. One cannot deny that this film attempted to challenge the preconceptions surrounding the Asian ethnicity. The opening scene with the matriarch; Eleanor Sung-Young (Michelle Yeoh), was very much a giant middle finger to the feelings of cultural alienation that Asians have felt in Western culture for decades, if not centuries. The cartoonish Caucasian men rudely denying Eleanor a place to stay at the luxurious hotel for no explicit reason is understood to be a racist (or even possibly sexist) attack at her: Conclusions which the audience came to because of ‘reasons’ outside the screen. Once again, the question must be asked, “Should we see Chu’s film as an independent piece of work, or does it lose a lot of its significance once it is removed from its context?”

At the beginning of this year I made a promise to myself to refrain from consuming ‘mediocre art’. Yet, why did I watch Crazy Rich Asians if I expected it to be a somewhat generic romantic comedy? I’ll be honest, if the cast were not a majority Asian and if it wasn’t a big milestone for Asians in the West then I would not have watched it.

“Is it possible to separate the viewer from the viewed?”

Is the promise of seeing yourself represented positively, a good enough reason to consume a piece of art? It’s not like my love of the Godfather was tainted by the lack of Asians, nor did the lack of diversity make The Dark Knight any less enjoyable. Maybe, watching a film to see your ethnicity portrayed in a more appealing light isn’t a solid philosophical justification but it is also important to recognise that all attempts to separate the art from the context is impossible as both parties shape each other.

Was it wrong to watch Crazy Rich Asians because it was cultural comfort food? Entertaining and fun but definitely not intellectually challenging. I don’t know. But I watched it anyway.

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There were quite a few moments which Crazy Rich Asians made me pause, not because it was showing anything which was revolutionary but rather because it just portrayed an Asian lead like the protagonist of any romantic comedies; attractive. Near the beginning of the film, there was a scene where an absurdly muscular Michael Teo (Pierre Png) walks out of the shower and approaches his wife; Astrid Leong-Teo. It was quite an exploitative scene and very objectifying. But there was no small penis joke, nor did a calculator fall out of his pocket nor was he being bullied for getting good grades.

He was just an attractive male, who also happened to be Asian.

Strange.

Likewise, I was also shocked that a lot of the music in this film was Chinese, with a few classics from Teresa Tang (甜甜密) and a few additional catchy tunes sung with Mandarin lyrics (我要你的愛). Even if this was a film that was located in Singapore with an all-Asian cast, it still stunned me that the director was going so far as to insert Chinese songs. It also made me a little uncomfortable, not because the songs didn’t fit, I thought the jazz-infused tunes were catchy and fit the city of Singapore; an Asian city with Western influences. But because I had subconsciously expected an English or French song to signify love.

None of these directorial choices are intellectually significant but culturally they are. So how do we judge this film’s merit as a piece of art?

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Crazy Rich Asians heralds the rise of East Asia and the increasing influence that economic powerhouses like Korea, Japan and China wield upon world culture. The Asian demographic has become such a financial lucrative draw that even Hollywood is making films which specifically tell the Asian narrative. Maybe because of this, Hollywood green-lit a story that glamourises wealth and excess hedonism. This is a story about the 1% of the 1%; the gorgeous Astrid buys a pair of million dollar earrings nonchalantly and Bernard Tai rents a cargo ship for a bachelor party. Maybe I wasn’t the target audience since I was never impressed by the unchecked capitalism on display and soon the dialogue about bank accounts and designer cars started to irritate me.

I’ve heard it be argued that this film doesn’t celebrate excess wealth because Nick married a girl who was significantly poorer than him. But that always seemed to be a comment on Confucianism; the tension between filial piety and individualism. Rachel (an embodiment of Western thinking) earns the respect of Eleanor because she forgoes love (Nick’s proposal) for reasons greater than herself; his relationship to his family. This selfless act wins the Young family’s trust and thus she is welcomed into the house. However, for me, the ending reflect this film’s stance on wealth; crazy rich Asians celebrating an engagement on top of a crazy rich high-rise in Singapore. I understand that part of the reason for the cartoonish display of opulence was to juxtapose the Young family to Rachel’s docile upbringing; but as someone who thinks East Asia is already too obsessed with money, the celebration of excess seemed jarring.

Another moment that urked me more than I would have expected is the little fling between annoyingly-arrogant Bernard and the gold-digging Kitty. The pair get touchy during the celebration of Colin and Araminta’s after party and get caught out for their faux pas, much to the delight (and squeals) of the people who were attending. It felt odd for a film which attempted to expose how stressful Asian family dynamics can be due to gossiping to then make a joke about characters acting inappropriately. This was the Asian equivalent to a fart joke, it got a little chuckle from the audience but it seemed counterproductive for a film which seemed to be highlighting the overbearing elements of filial piety.

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The question remains; “Should one attempt to see Crazy Rich Asians without factoring in the context around the film?” If this is even possible, it is certainly a hard task. The quotes from various important individuals within the film industry praising the film’s success whilst emphasising the financial risk that Warner Bros. took to produce a film with an all-Asian cast inherently reflects the cultural glass ceilings that Chu had to break before production had even started.

For me, it’s not possible, at least not in 2018. As someone who rarely see Asian representation in Western media, supporting this film went beyond just a question of artistic merit. And I think this film understands this, Chu carefully crafted this film in order to break the cultural assumptions of its time. Will this story be as widely received or ‘unique’ in a time where tales of attractive Singaporean bachelors and wealthy Hong Kong mansions are the norm? Most likely not. Maybe, this film’s power comes not from what is depicted within the camera, but the cultural assumptions it challenges outside it. Maybe this makes Crazy Rich Asians a propaganda piece or a mediocre piece of art, I think both cases could be argued. But as someone who got a celebratory message from a close friend for watching a film which explored an Asian narrative in the Western world. Maybe Crazy Rich Asians was the right film at the right time to break the mould.

The Neo Romantic Revival: The Anti-Modernity Movement

“What brought about the re-enchantment of the British landscape during the interwar period?” 

“To me England is the country, and the country is England”
                                                                          – Stanley Baldwin, 1924

Paradoxically at the start of the 20^th century, Britain which had become so economically and militarily powerful due to the industrial revolution, was beginning to view capitalism as antithetical to the British national character. Instead, the rural British landscape became re-imagined as a source of magic and healing during the interwar period, serving as the juxtaposition to the corrosive city (Wiener, 2004). Slowly the British pastorals became more than just symbols of tranquillity and (re)engagement with the land became seen as a necessity to maintain a healthy national community (Hutton, 1999). Though nature worship and pantheism as a movement had happened previously in Europe, it is important to note that this reincarnation of romanticism was uniquely situated in a context where Britain’s dominance was starting to fade (Hayward, 2017). The interwar period was a time where the nation began to question the essence of ‘Britishness’ and its answer was found by embracing a mythic past which was distinctively rooted in the landscape.

As with every movement and counter movement, the context plays an influential role in shaping the public discourse and this was the situation for the neo-romantic surge in the early 20^th century. The two decades which existed between the Great Wars were a time where the British public conscious became to radically change as the country’s global supremacy faded away. Horrified at the consequences of war in a technological age of machine guns, artillery and tanks; part of the shift towards pantheism can be understood as extensions of the anti-war sentiment (Hayward, 2017). The enormous casualty rates combined with the extended duration of World War I (WWI) served as ammunition against modernisation. The lasting images of which included artillery-ridden landscapes and trenches; both unsightly examples of humanity’s arrogance and disregard for the environment.

Likewise this cultural desire to return to an agrarian society was also stimulated by a mistrust of capitalism. The United Kingdom general strike of 1926 and the Wall Street crash of 1929, reflected a turbulent economic atmosphere (Hayward, 2017), and the once stellar British economy which had served as the backbone of the Empire was crumbling. This reaction against capitalism sparked the rise of leftist and socialist political communities in Britain. And very soon the ‘corrupt’ bourgeois became associated with the urban landscape, whilst the humble and traditional farmer stood as their ideological opposite.

The capitalistic systems of the great cities were portrayed as impersonal and its inhabitants were seen as victims of this detached passivity, characteristics which were believed to be corrosive to a united sense of nationhood (Trentmann, 1994). In comparison, the return towards the land and the re-establishment of the insular farming community offered a chance for people to rekindle more connected relationships (Hutton, 1999). Since the rural served as the contrast to the city, it was believed that only by ‘re-embracing’ husbandry and other similar egalitarian pursuits rooted in nature, could one overcome their ‘brainwashing’.

This view originated from the belief that modernisation was not a continuation of human history, but rather a disruption, something wholly foreign or ‘unnatural’ (Finlay, 1970). Thus cities became to be associated with a sense of impermanence, as if the core foundation of Britain underlying all the ever-changing aspects, was its connection to the land. In comparison to the frantic movement of urban centres, the stability of rural communities seemed timeless (Wiener, 2004).

By the turn of the 20^th century, modernity had spread and been adopted by many western nations so that industrialisation was no longer synonymous with Britain’s name. Thus Britain attempted to uniquely define itself through other methods and saw its landscape as a safe haven of an unbroken British tradition. Underpinning this transformation was a complete re-imagination of the natural landscape and what society perceived as antiquity. Alfred Watkin’s ‘discovery’ of ley lines across the British landscape was a finding which stirred up a lot of public interest in lands untouched by modernisation (Newnhawn, 2000). Whilst, Watkin’s theory was proven false in the decades later (Williamson & Bellamy, 1983), his true influence stemmed from allowing the British audience to invest in the rural as a new source of their identity: One which gave them an opportunity to associate themselves with the ancient Anglo-Saxons who had roamed the land before (Sterenberg, 2013).

Inspired by Watkin’s findings many different groups and organisations arose in the 20^th century, all with the purpose of reconnecting their audiences with a ‘great lost British tradition.’ The Kindred of the Kibbo Kift and the Order of the Woodcraft Chivalry were such organisations. Both tried to reintroduced pantheism into the public discourse, linking the worship of British nature with British patriotism. A lot of these organisations with pagan undertones believed that Christianity; the dominant religious force (albeit slowly fading) could co-exist within the same paradigm with pantheistic beliefs; and both could be used for good.

The Kibbo Kift’s grand chant included “I believe in the nameless God who is Space-Time-Matter: And in myself… as actual organic part of that one Great Nameless God,” heavily alluding towards a pagan interpretation of the creation story (Hargrave, 1925). Likewise Ernest Westlake, founder of The Order of the Woodcraft Chivalry attempted to revive the ‘Lammas’, an ancient Pagan festival, on the edge of his property at Sandy Balls. During a ceremony in 1921, after a sacred fire was lit within the middle of the event, Westlake declared “Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt this place,” (Edgell, 1993).  For both of these groups, the return to paganism was not perceived as the abandonment of society, but instead as a deeper embrace of what it meant to be British and more importantly human. Fundamental to both the Kibbo Kift and Woodcraft Chivalry was a fear that modernisation had severed humanity’s relationship with nature: And for the first time Britain existed outside the realm of the natural world; a position which would inevitably lead to its demise (Trentmann, 1994).

This integration of British paganism and pantheism into the wider fabric of society was seen once again in the actions of vicar W.H. Seddon, who in 1885 installed a statute of Pan outside his church tower. Seddon was also key in establishing a local pagan festival which involved townsfolk dancing from the edge of the Church to the forest (Hutton, 1999). Whilst Seddon’s actions predated the British interwar period, it is important to note that Seddon’s actions were never criticised by the public and this procession lasted until 1950. This action and its support are reflective of the public mood at the time, pantheist activities were almost seen as cultural attempts to reconnect with the past, instead of a sacrilegious act.

Despite the clear associations with paganism and the worship of the British countryside, both the Kibbo Kift and the Woodcraft Chivalry denied being pantheistic in nature (Hutton, 1999). Westlake himself believed that such ‘differences’ were reconcilable with a Christian cultural framework stating that “One must be a good pagan before one could be a good Christian,” (Edgell, 1993). Core to his argument was that after the resurrection, Jesus had dissolved into nature and thus making the natural world divine through its merging (Hutton, 1999). Whilst Westlake’s beliefs greatly deviated from the Christian norms, the fact that it held gravity meant that he was tapping into a shifting cultural consensus on nature and how society should relate to it.

Another common complaint was that the industrial economy had sapped the creativity and agency of humans, who were simply cogs into the wider machine. Education was also seen as a contributing factor to the degeneration of the 20th-century individual, as over-specialisation lead to a narrowing of experiences and skills (Trentmann, 1994). A core principle of many organisations which protested against the rationalisation of life was that society had become too slanted towards an Apollo-esque view of reality (Hayward, 2017). As counterculture organisations, nature orientated groups attempted to re-balance society by embracing a Dionysian mindset; one which discarded scientific empiricism (Hayward, 2017).

The Ramblers expressed this adoption of irrationality through their walking exercises, where members would walk in the open rural environment until completely exhausted (Trentmann, 1994). This was a symbolic act of a person regaining their autonomy which they believed their insular and impersonal working conditions had eroded (Trentmann, 1994). Key to these ‘return to nature’ movement was the undoing of psychological damages caused by modernisation. Returning an individual to a ‘pure state of wholesomeness’ was another reoccurring theme to the anti-modernity movement. And whilst what constituted ‘purity’ was never explicitly stated, engaging with the land was a good step in the right direction (Wiener, 2004).

When it came to re-imagining the significance of the British landscape, there are two approaches; politicians and public figures could ride the growing wave of anti-modernist thinking and pay homage to the legacy of the country town (Trentmann, 1994). The other stream of thought was to actively promote an agrarian lifestyle, by abandoning the cities and rejecting capitalistic forms of work (Wiener, 2004). Important neo-romantic figures such as Rolf Gardiner and Lord Lymington were the vanguard of the second movement and both approached the magical powers of the land in a new manner (Trentmann, 1994).

It was widely accepted that individuals and communities who were disconnected from the countryside would suffer emotional problems (Hutton, 1999). However, Lord Lymington popularised the idea that the infusion of technology and machinery into agriculture, through fertiliser and tractors, would have physical ramifications for the nation (Trentmann, 1994). The soil was reinterpreted in a paganistic way and the Earth itself was seen as the source of all natural sources of power, something which humankind discarded under the intoxicating influences of modernisation. Husbandry was actively promoted as an antidote to what Lymington called the “poisoning of British blood” as physically touching the soil allowed one to transfer the organic natural energy from the soil to themselves (Trentmann, 1994). This pseudo-scientific argument did not generate any strong support from the scientific community. Yet its power rested in that there was already a strong apprehension towards modernisation and Lymington’s words were simply a manifestation of such feelings.

Whilst husbandry and traditional agriculture were acknowledged to be less efficient, this was applauded by many neo-romantics. As advocates against the over-rationalisation of society, they would have seen the prioritising of quality over quantity in food production as a step away from consumerism and towards the Elizabethan farming model of old (Trentmann, 1994).

The re-enchantment of the British countryside extended beyond just the physical aspect. William Morris, a famous leader of the Arts and Crafts Movement in Britain, also wanted to counter the utilitarian nature of modernisation through embracing the irrational. As mentioned above, one extension of this involved the return to husbandry; another method was found in the ‘Morris dance’ (Trentmann. 1994). Echoing sentiments core to The Ramblers, Morris believed that physical movement was one way to cast off this oppressive rationality which had spread as a consequence of rationalisation (Finlay, 1970).

The Morris Dance which was heavily inspired by the British rural folk dances was seen as a method for one to get in contact with a culture rooted in antiquity and the land. Likewise, the Morris dance required a lot of participation for it to be properly executed; this was seen as another antidote to the individualism. Morris and the other neo-romantics argued that dancing allowed one to tap into the Dionysian spirit of life and such culturally symbolic movements could ‘transcend the artificial separation between the mind and body’ (Trentmann, 1994). Whilst the exact definition of what ‘artificial separation’ these thinkers had in mind is clouded in a mist of pseudo-scientific explanations. It harkens back to the desire to become ‘whole’ again, and a belief that modernity had stripped the individual of this.

Folklorist saw the reacceptance of folk dance as fulfilling the basic elements of living a good life; one which was built upon good food, traditional forms of dance and rhythmic breathing (Trentmann, 1994). In fact, the influence of the Morris dance was so widespread that in the 1930s, it was elevated to the status of therapeutic Weltanschauung; and recognised as a cure for the sickness of modernity (Trentman, 1994).

As with a lot of other supernatural movements and beliefs, underlying the love of nature and the romanticisation of the past were real social and political agendas. In a time where globalisation blurred the lines between the once rigid definitions of culture, this retreat back into the rural landscapes as something which was unquestionably ‘British’ is an understandable one. The neo-romantic movement attempted to provide their own answers to the question of what constituted the ‘British identity’ in such a turbulent time for the nation. The Boy Scouts and the Kibbo Kift believed that the enduring symbol of Britain rested in the values and cultures which existed pre-modernity; thus their emphasis on nature can also be interpreted as a right-wing revival of British national identity (Hayward, 2017).

Similarly, the re-imagining of ‘Mother Earth’ and the significance of nature can also be seen through a feminist lens. Whilst figures like Gardiner and Williams used neo-romanticism as a vehicle to express their disillusionment with modernity, female thinkers like Dion Fortune and Margaret Alice Murray also appropriated the movement. As precursors to the feminist movement which would gain widespread cultural acceptance in the 1960s, both women criticised the overwhelming influence of Christianity and the patriarchy within their context (Hayward, 2017).

Fortune’s major criticism of Christianity was that it lacked a female deity; she famously stated that “A religion without a goddess is halfway to atheism,” (Graf, 2007). Fortune believed that the return to pantheism would lead to the Aquarian age, where Isis would stand as an equal to Jehovah (Graf, 2007). Similarly, Murray believed that before Christianity spread to pagan Britain, the ancient societies were built upon matriarchy and mothers would pass secretive knowledge about the Earth to their daughters (Hayward, 2017). Like modernity, she saw the patriarchal values of the late 18^th century and early 19^th century Britain as a corruption of what the ancients valued. For both thinkers, the return to the rural British landscape symbolised more than just a rejection of industry, it offered a chance to subvert a Christian male-dominated society (Hayward, 2017).

As the future of Britain became more heavily dependent upon their modern industry, ironically the symbol of the countryside simultaneously grew in importance; serving as the nation’s last remaining ‘link’ to their mythic past (Sterenberg, 2013). The interwar period fostered the necessary conditions for a neo-romantic movement to thrive. The falling economy, crumbling Empire and the fresh memories regarding WWI were all persuasive reasons to reject modernity. Arguably the nostalgia for the old traditions and values only emerged because industrialisation had made it fundamentally impossible for Britain to ever return to such a state. The British countryside became a symbol of purity, the ideological opposite of the urban city landscape, and the land became re-imagined as a source of magical powers.

This desire to reconnect with the land was expressed culturally, economically and religiously at one stage or another during the interwar period. Whether this was through propagating the healing powers of the soil, advocating communal dance as a therapy to individualism or the fusion of pantheistic gods and rituals into the public discourse: Organisations such as the Woodcraft Chivalry and the Kibbo Kift tapped into this desire to re-engage with the land in a supernatural way, whilst providing their interpretations regarding which direction British identity should take in the 20^th century.

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Before Sunrise: The Fragility of Midnight

“The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed.”

I never watched Troy (2004) by Wolfgang Peterson, but the quote above shared between a wounded Briseis and the rugged, yet tender Achilles always resonated with me. Our relationship with death gives all our experiences meaning and on a much smaller scale; all our deep connections we form add a dash of colour in our lives because those relationships are finite specks in the great dance of the universe.

Before Sunrise (1995) directed by Richard Linklater is an ode to young love, love without restrictions, obligations or expectations; a symbol of love which stays with and haunts us even as we age. The story is comically simple, Jesse (Ethan Hawke) sums up the courage and speaks to Celine (Julie Delpy) whom he spots on the opposite isle in the train before stumbling on a crazy idea: Why shouldn’t she get off the train with him and soul search together in the dreamy streets of Vienna? The pair’s chemistry is almost immediate with so much being communicate by their flirty glances, the subtle biting of their lips and the batting of their eyelashes. Love is blooming in the city of Vienna; but only for fourteen short hours before reality tears them apart.

The shots, camera angles and editing employed in this film are all very elementary; from a technical aspect Before Sunrise is a film where you almost don’t feel the presence of a director. Instead, the camera is simply just a friendly companion documenting the discussions and kisses between the two exquisitely charming lovers. Linklater doesn’t attempt to revolutionise the art of cinematography; but he doesn’t need to, there is already enough beauty in the simple stares of affection between two doomed lovers.

Jesse and Celine banter and share their philosophies, most of which address love; the most painful, yet simultaneously exhilarating aspect of humanity. At first, both are reserved in their comments, trying to maintain their sense of autonomy against the breaking tides of affection they feel for each other. Only slowly, as the night drifts on by and the moon rises above the smoky clouds do they reveal their past scars and aspirations. The couple drift from the melancholic grey of a graveyard to the energetic bustle of an amusement park before finally laying in each other’s arms on a park, letting their pauses do as much as the talking as the actual words they utter.

What do the pair actually speak about? Nothing in particular, Jesse talks about the plot of a television show which he came up with day dreaming on a train and Celine speaks about balancing the idea of being strong and independent whilst also falling hopelessly for a man. One of the most memorable scenes occurs in a listening studio of a record store; as one stares longingly the other avoids contact, only for this role to reverse every few seconds. It’s awkward, it’s embarrassing, but so surprisingly realistic, I have been in the exact same spot dozen of times and so have you.

As the slow cloak of midnight finally descends upon the spellbinding city of Vienna, the electricity of night only intensifies the connection between the couple and the audience is only more hopelessly drawn into their romance. Everything is more mysterious and luscious under the cover of stars; the lovers are transported into a realm of seclusion, where they are freed from the demands and obligations of the day. Linklater captures this fleeting promise of eternality as the pairs wander lost in Vienna and more importantly; lost in each other’s eyes.

The most powerful shot in this film occurs near the very end, as the pair reluctantly separate; Jesse for his plane back to America and Celine on her way back to Paris. Linklater cuts back to the locations that the pair visited, a lonely bridge, the deserted cafe and the grungy underground bar. Except, this time it’s in broad day light. And there’s no love struck couple in the scenery either. The fleeting promises of eternality have also evaporated with the moon and the city wakes up from its blissful dream. The contrast between the locations during the night and day time is drastic and very jarring, and only do we realised how charming these two individuals were. Their locations were irrelevant as long as they could whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears.

The couple stand outside a train which Celine must board; the looming reality which they might never see each other again causes they to spill everything; their feelings for each other and a desire to preserve what they experienced for the last fourteen hours permanently in their minds and souls. They kiss and hug with such passion that Hawke and Delpy stopped being actors in a role; their eyes swam with such tenderness that it forced me to think back on past relationships that I have been fortunate enough to experience. In the spur of the moment, the couple decide to recind their past promise that they would just walk away from each other forever. The idea of them just shelving this night as a symbol for how overwhelmingly beautiful love was just not attractive enough as the possibility for a second night.

But in a world before the advent of Facebook and Whatsapp, this promise seems fragile. Will the couple honour these words uttered whilst under the influence of gripping passions? Celine asks Jesse whether or not they should keep in contact by calling or writing letters to which he dismisses it with the comment “No, it’s depressing.”

I’m afraid of watching the sequel, Before Sunset (2004), part of me doesn’t want to ruin the image of two lost lovers finding solace in the comfort of an anonymous partner. Whether or not Jesse and Celine actually meet again is beside the point, in reality it is highly likely that these two will never cross paths. But that’s okay, or at the very least I am okay with that conclusion, because this film doesn’t attempt to wrap everything neatly together; life is rarely that simplistic. The road doesn’t stop and all you can do is place one foot infront of the other.

But for a brief moment they shared something magical, something which many people will never or have never experienced. Time may roll forwards and Jesse and Celine may visit different cities and drink wine with other foreign lovers. But inevitably whether the pair are stuck in a toxic relationship or whether they are happily married with a loving partner: Once in a while, whether that’s every few months, years or even decades, the pair, whilst sleeping on opposites of the world will inevitably drift back to the first time they laid eyes upon each other; on the train passing through Vienna.

Au Revoir.

Perfect Blue: Blurring the Worlds & Sexuality

“My father used to say that artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up.”
– Evey Hammond

I once heard one of my university lectures argue that a painting was infinitely better than a photograph, because the latter captures reality, whilst the former creates reality. In the hands of a master, a portrait can evoke, emphasis and whisper unspoken truths to an audience; painting is a medium where the artist can indulge and lavish in subjectivity; photography is always somewhat limited by the physical.

Satoshi Kon wholeheartedly embodies this principle and runs with it, Perfect Blue (1997) is a film to be experienced and not understood, because its priority isn’t to convey facts but rather to create a filter of insanity, loneliness and fear. Perfect Blue follows the protagonist Mima Kirigoe, a beautiful pop idol working as the lead singer in CHAM!, who after recognising the instability of the industry, attempts to become an actress, forcing her to actively ditch her ‘spotless virgin image’. Her decision angers a psychopathic fan known only by his online alias; ‘Me-Mania’, a man who has dedicated his life to punishing Mima for betraying his perceptions of her. Kon doesn’t attempt to craft a realistic villain, instead Me-Mania is hideously ugly, terrifying distorted. Just like Picasso’s postmodern works, Kon’s focus isn’t so much on an accurate depiction of life, but rather in creating a narrative through manipulating emotions.

Kon’s works often features the concept of duality; and this is most evidently seen in the intertwining of the real and the ‘unreal’ worlds. The ‘real’ world contains all the physical matter around us, it is governed by logic, infrastructure and scientific facts. The ‘unreal’ world is one of chaos, ruled by emotion and built to metaphorically subvert the ‘real world’ through its contrast and intervention.

And the two worlds are set on a path of collision.

The one skill which separates Kon from his contemporaries is his complete mastery of editing. Kon is a film director who lets his edits dictate the tone of the film, instead of letting the plot guide the atmosphere of the film. As Mima starts losing track of reality, the editing mirrors this with the scenes bleeding into each other; where the linear progression of time is disrupted, reversed and dissected. The opening of Perfect Blue is so effective since it skilfully blends Mima’s idol dance routine into the ordinary task of purchasing goods; conveying that the two worlds she inhabits are inherently linked through her memory and consciousness. Kon’s art is one which thrives by discarding the generic restrictions imposed upon the directors and audience within the anime community.

Perfect Blue is terrifying because it refuses to follow the conventions of a linear narrative, the traditional labels of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ don’t exist when the very fabric of reality is uncertain. As Mima slowly becomes more consumed with the fear of leaving behind her her pop idol past and the creeping dangers of her stalker, her grip on reality completely vanishes as the last act of the film becomes a dizzying blend of life, alternate realities and fears. As Mima loses control of her public persona, she finds it increasingly difficult to differentiate between the two worlds and slowly begins to fall into a repetitive, monotonous pattern where time is subject to the passions of the heart and the terrors of the mind.

The truly terrifying aspect of this loss of reality is the inability to concretely understand what is happening around her as Mima’s mental fears and insecurities start to physically manifest. She get stabbed by a mirage of her pop idol past and later she kills Me-Mania only to find out that his body has disappeared; the audience is forced to ponder whether or not such actions actually occurred in reality. This overlapping of the two realities is also reflected in Me-Mania’s life as the pictures of Mima around his bedroom start physically interacting with him, whispering their support of his sexually preversed desire to kill Mima. What this creates is a sense of constant apprehension, where threats can materialise out of anywhere since they are not bounded to the same limitations found in the physical world. Mima’s only worse enemy is her mind, since it seems intent on conjuring up her own destruction.

Perfect Blue provides us a frightening insight into the chaotic world of Mima, a girl who has allowed the culivation of an external pop persona of sex appeal and charisma; wildly different to her calmer and more humble self she displays in the company of these she loves and trusts. Yet her public avatar has now become such an entity that it now thrives independently, riding the momentum of her fame.

Perfect Blue tackles the issue of technology and how easy it is to create, maintain and ultimately lose control of one’s public avatar. Mima stumbles onto an internet diary dedicated to recording her life and feelings through the lens of her idol persona, a website created by Me-Mania. Whilst initially finding it humourous, Mima’s naive appreciation soon turns to fear as she realises that she is being stalked and also that this website is now publishing statements which do not reflect her own feelings.

Throughout the entire film, Kon suspends the audience in a state of constant fear by alluding to the imminent sense of danger without revealing it. In the beginning, Mima’s home phone rings and she hears the slow breathing of Me-Mania, but naively hangs up, thinking it was an accidental call. Slowly this escalates to him poisoning the fishes, sending her a small explosive, killing those around her and finally even confronting her in person.

The audience is fully aware of the danger that now threatens her life but is completely unable to affect or warn her about it. The result is a nail biting ninety minutes, there were many moments where I genuinely considered pausing the film because my heart was stuck in my throat; I was terrified at what would happen to Mima.

Another one of the central themes of Perfect Blue is the objectification of a women’s body for profit, something which Kon strongly voices against. Kon portrays this relationship between Mima and the media companies who greedily consume and distribute her image as rape; the exploitation of the human body for financial benefits. The cameras (which are always held by male photographers) are phallic instruments, which pierce and unveil, ignorant to the consequences of their lust. This voyeurism peaks when Mima accepts a role where she pretends to be raped within a nightclub; we see her body through the lens of a camera and not her point of view; she is an object to be acted upon.

The power dynamic of sex is also reflected in Me-Mania’s final confrontation with Mima, where he confesses that he attempts to destroy this new ‘reincarnation’ of Mima through raping her and eventually killing her. Symbolically he attempts to commit this crime on the same film set previously mentioned, where Mima was ‘raped’ whilst acting; further blurring the lines between the two worlds. For a character who only has a few lines of dialogue throughout this film; Me-Mania’s shadow taints every interaction, every scene and location, he is truly terrifying, in an illogical manner which cannot be reasoned with.

Whilst, one certainly feels sorry that Mima gets type casted into these ‘traditionally’ female roles where are built upon her sexuality and youthful looks. Though one has to ask whether or not this depiction is ‘fair’ as Mima herself willingly enters into this relationship and she also ‘exploits’ the media to garner social capital and publicity: Regardless, Kon’s criticisms about female objectification is still a fresh breath of air in an industry universally famous for the disproportionate sizes and the overt sexualisation of their female characters.

Me-Mania holding the public perception of Mima.

Whilst Me-Mania is unquestionably an evil, twisted rapist with little redeeming qualities, it is unsettling to be reminded that his vendetta against Mima arose out of his complete consumption and obsession with her idol persona. Financially, he was arguably everything that the media companies wanted; a fan who brought into the cultivation of this idol as a form of escapism.

At the core of Perfect Blue is the tension between a carefully crafted image and the noticeably less shiny exterior of reality and the dangers of intertwining the two. Fundamentally, all the troubles and negative consequences arise out of an inability to distinguish between these two realms; Mima cannot separate herself from her past as an idol and Me-Mania cannot see Mima as anything but a perfect little doll. Released in 1997, Kon’s work feels more relevant than ever as the internet and social media has become increasingly infused into the audience’s lives.

Perfect Blue features the traditional interpretation of fame; a person elevated to a profiting brand by the powerful media companies; reflective of stardom in the 1990s. Yet today, the internet has connected people in a way which has revolutionised our society; today, everyone has an avatar, everyone has an audience and everyone is a performer. And the concerns of Perfect Blue are more disturbing than ever.

The Collapse of Tradition

“IS THE GRAVE OF THE FIREFLIES AN ANTI-WAR FILM?”

‘Animation produces emotional effects not by reproducing reality, but by heightening and simplifying it.’
                                                                                          – Roger Ebert

Roger Ebert famously hailed Grave of the Fireflies (Hotaru no Haka) as one of the greatest anti-war films ever created. Since its initial release this animated classic, directed by Isao Takahata, has been associated with the dangers of militarism and the dehumanising effects of war. As Takahata and author Akiyuki Nosaka were both victims of American firebombings, there are certainly elements of pacifism which underscore the duration of the film. However it seems the real battlefield is the Japanese home front, and it is these rules and expectations which Seita and Setsuko have to navigate. The war is arguably just a trigger to explore the self-inflicted cannibalisation of Japanese society and the disintegration of ie.

Throughout many interviews Takahata has maintained that the target audience was the younger generation of the 1980s, and this film was often used as an educational video within schooling institutions. Importantly, this was also the first generation that the horrors of WWII were just figments of the past and not actual lived experiences. The importance of this shift in the public consciousness and why Takahata so outwardly addresses the youth in the film will be explained further on.

The audience is abruptly thrown into a narrative where Japan is at war, neither the enemy or the cause of this conflict is discussed. It is as if Takahata is suggesting that such details are irrelevant compared to the fact this simply forces Japanese society to change and adapt to such circumstances. Takahata does not portray the Americans as the antagonist and the Japanese as helpless casualties of foreign aggression; as most traditional anti-war films would. Paradoxically it seems it is the Japanese who are both the oppressors and the victims. The ideals of uchi and soto are dismantled as the traditional markers of Japanese identity and tribalism are abandoned in the name of self-preservation.

This is immediately highlighted in the introduction of the film, the suffering of Seita and other orphans are contrasted to the rest of Japanese society. Their decrepit statute and stationary positions accentuate the fanatic (and interestingly directionless) movement of their fellow Japanese. As if an entire generation and their memory was discarded when Japan rose to the economic powerhouse it was in the 1980s.

However, the most obvious scene of social criticism appears near the end of the film when three Japanese girls return to their wealthy home, excitedly exclaiming “It’s so good to be home… It hasn’t changed a bit.” Whilst initially it can be seen as an optimistic comment about the future of Japan, that fact it immediately follows after the passing of Setsuko paints these adolescents as callous and ignorant.

It is clear that from their western attire and their association with western technology (phonograph) that these girls are supposed to be the representations of the Japanese youth in 1980s; opulent and painfully oblivious. The proximity of the house to the caves that Seita and Setsuko lived in, is a metaphor that underneath the economic boom of the decade lie the painful memories of loss and defeat. It is not the Allied soldiers who are presented as indifferent to the suffering of the Japanese, but rather the Japanese themselves.

In a very eye opening interview Takahata states that one of his original goals was to ‘depict the boy as a contemporary boy, rather than a boy in that time.’ It is with this new found knowledge that one must address the film and see Seita’s actions as not just as personal decisions but rather a mirroring of the ideals and values held by the Japanese youth of the 1980s.

In one of the opening scenes of the film, Seita carries Setsuko upon his back trying to find his way to the bomb shelter. However, during this journey, Seita pauses and the camera spends an usually long time lingering upon a bucket, ladder and pool; tools used to fight fires. Torn between giri and ninjo, Seita chooses to flee towards safely. Almost immediately afterwards, as if an act of divine retribution, the houses around him explode into an uncontrollable blaze of fire and the skies immediately darken. Symbolically, it would seem the reason why the city of Kobe fell to the fire was not because of the American bombings, but rather an embrace of kojinshugi over ie.

Seita’s fire brigade uniform, iconic of Japan’s fashion during WWII serves not only to connect him towards the school attire of his modern day contemporaries, but also as a constant reminder of his failure to fill his obligation. Throughout the film as Seita becomes ever more removed from ie and the community, his uniform begins to disintegrate off his body. Yet in death, Seita’s uniform is restored, serving as an ominous warning that he (and the audience) will never be able to shake off their responsibilities to the nation, invoking some of the more fatalistic elements of Bushido.

Noting how consumerism has weakened the pillars of Japanese tradition, Takahata continues his criticism by stating ‘[Seita] doesn’t bear with hardships. When the aunt threatens him by saying “Let’s have our meals separately” he is relieved’… As a result, his life becomes harder. Such is the feelings held by today’s kids.’

The consequences of isolation is juxtaposed to the prior scene of surprising optimism as Seita rummages through his destroyed home and symbolically bathes in water spouting from a burst pipe. In a traditional anti-war film, this scene of returning to a destroyed community would have been a moment of intense emotional pain, yet Seita seems almost unreactive to the destroyed infrastructure. Seita and Setsuko may have lost their mother but they were still on good terms with their auntie, and thus the family unit survived: Japanese society was still adhering to its traditions, even after experiencing such causalities.

The question must be asked, why Takahata was so intensely focused on having his film connect with the Japanese youth of the baburu keiki. The 1970s and 80s, falls into what sociologist Osawa Masachi terms as ‘kyoko no jidai’ or roughly translated as the ‘age of fiction’, a period marked by a public shift on tradition. Whilst the 1960s and 70s (or riso no jidai; ‘age of idealism) aimed to change society from within established perimeters. The period of Kyoko no jidai, fuelled by an explosion of capitalism combined with the radicalisation of leftist politics saw a desire to reimagine society completely, without adherence to past traditions. It is from within this context of cultural change from which Grave of the Fireflies emerges.

“… But [the youth’s] often nihilistic attitude combined with an aggressive materialism stand in distinctive contrast to their parent’s values.”
                                                                                         – Susan Napier

(Nakanishi, 2003)

The post war years of 1979 to 1993 saw a steep rise in crime rates of juveniles, simultaneously followed by a dramatic increase in juvenile arrests. And it this troubled generation of Japanese delinquents which was the target audience of Grave of the Fireflies. The desire to rein the youth is expressed in Takahata’s comments; “Just like today’s junior high students, a 14-years old looks unemotional or grumpy.” Such comments leave very little room when it comes to addressing the objective of this film.

This is not to say that Grave of the Fireflies completely neglects to condemn war , but instead that its main focus is a close inspection on the Japanese character in times of trial. One of the most powerful scenes condemning militarism occurs after the fire bombings have ended and both Seita and Setsuko were able to escape (not with the rest of society at the shelters but rather to a sewer reminiscent of their eventual ‘ukiyo’). A hellish montage of soldiers and civilians dying is followed by a lone male feverishly screaming “Long Live the Emperor”. Situated amongst the backdrop of a burning building; his overly zealous rhetoric is the fan which fuels the self-immolation of Japanese society.

However, in the scene above, one could just as easily interpreted it as an anti-war message or as a cautionary warning against Japanese society being swept up by the tides of far right politics. Tellingly, both Seita and Setsuko die after WWII concludes, during a period where Americans had ‘officially’ become an ally, and peace had technically been reinstated. One must question if Grave of the Fireflies is at its core an anti-war film, as it spends so much time addressing the consequences of social decisions and not exploring the horrors of international war.

This criticism of the Japanese youth is reflected in two highly emotional scenes where both Seita and Setsuko break the fourth wall and communicate directly to the audience. In the scene directly after Seita and Setsuko’s last encounter with the fireflies and the pleasant idylls of nature, Seita walks outside the cave to see Setsuko crouching in the dirt. Setsuko starts crying as she begins to bury the fireflies and in a highly emotional moment asks “Why do fireflies have to die so soon?” It is important to not only note her words but the manner in which this dialogue is conveyed. The linear narrative of the story is broken and the camera shifts to a point of view shot of Setsuko’s teary face; positioning the audience as the recipient of her question.

Analysing the exact definition of what fireflies symbolise in this piece of work is rather difficult as they cover such a large myriad of ideas. But by immediately injecting flashbacks of Seita’s and Setsuko’s mother being thrown into a ditch, combined with the previous mention that ‘[a kamikaze plane] looks like a firefly.’ I believe that Setsuko’s question forces audience to confront why they have forgotten the memories of the fallen victims, relegating their sacrifices to pointless events along the spectrum of Japanese history. Did their suffering have any meaning and if not, then why not?

This is reinforced by the following scene, which is arguably one of the most manipulative within the entire film. A wave of intrusive Japanese children carelessly trespass on the caves that Seita and Setsuko lived in. After such a powerfully emotional scene just moments prior, the audience cannot but see their ignorance as anything but problematic. Regarding the previous example of the Japanese girls returning to their house, it is highly telling that Takahata constantly uses ignorant children as the symbol of those untouched by war.

Arguably the cause of Seita and Setsuko’s demise isn’t the war as apart from the opening scenes of the film, the audience is never again shown the graphic consequences of conflict. Likewise, Takahata portrays Japanese society as still intact after its surrender at the concluding moments of the film. In the scenes when Seita tries to buy charcoal for his sister’s funeral, there is an unusual amount of sunlight present and the farmer seems oddly optimistic, noticeably different to the feelings of the Seita and the audience. As someone who previously advised Seita to return to his auntie, this farmer stands as the ideological opposite to Seita, someone who did not abandon his station, even during turmoil. Life as a Japanese farmer and as a cog in the Japanese system continues, even in the face of defeat.

Likewise, Seita’s compliance in the selling of his mother’s kimonos is also used as a metaphor for the self-cannibalisation of Japan from within. In complete disregard for his mother’s memory and filial piety, Seita trades in a symbol of Japanese femininity and motherhood for instant gratification. The camera then pans to the ghost of Seita covering his ears and horrified by this ultimately pointless decision, as the children die anyway, and paradoxically due to a lack of parental care. This act is symbolic because it marks the start of the pair’s divorce from any forms of familial relationship, their relationship with their auntie rapidly decays afterwards: Seita’s pride and Setsuko’s willingness to follow her brother have made them orphans both literally and spiritually.

The final scene of this film however is arguably the most insightful look into the intentions of Takahata’s when directing this film. Having failed to receive proper Buddhist or Shinto burial rites, both Seita and Setsuko return as spirits, they’re marginalised on the outskirts of the city; disconnected to the wealth of the city. As Setsuko lays her head on her brother’s lap and the main theme begins to crescendo, Seita breaks the fourth wall and gives the audience an accusatory stare.

Slowly the camera pans upwards, and the fireflies; symbols of the kamikaze pilots, Seita’s mother and other countless forgotten Japanese victims are drowned out by the overwhelming lights of Kobe. As audiences, it is not hard to see this futuristic city as the stark contrast to the poverty and suffering of those caught in WWII. Once again the question is asked whether or not the stories of the older generation have been forgotten, and if so then why? Nosaka’s words captures this sense of tension and discomfort with the rapidly changing Japan; “… High-rise buildings and super-highways were once just futuristic dreams… [I] cannot help but see them amidst sunlit ruins,” echoing a real fear that Japan will forget its past.

Perhaps the most conclusive proof regarding the stance of Grave of the Fireflies is found in Takahata’s continued insistence that “[The film] is not at all an anti-war anime and contains no such message.” Whilst Takahata and Nosaka’s played large roles in shaping what this film eventually became, it is fair that audiences should have the right to interpret this film however they wish. Nor does this essay wish to diminish Roger Ebert’s remarks that this film “involves war, the results of war and two victims of war.”

However, to insist that the film Grave of the Fireflies was created with a strict anti-war theme at its heart is rather dubious. I see this film as an attempt to bridge the generational gap between those who experienced and those untouched by Japan’s darkest days. Grave of the Fireflies doesn’t so much push an anti-war message but rather one cautioning against the abandonment of communal values. The fact that this story starts and ends with the death of the protagonist suggest that bloodshed, like the defeat of Japan in 1945, is unchangeable. Yet it is how a culture remembers their past which demonstrates what direction they will take in the future.

In the Mood for Love – Review & Analysis

“Sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t married how would life be…?”
“… Probably happier.”

[SPOILERS]

Wabi-sabi is a Japanese philosophy of finding the beauty in imperfection, a belief that the stories and history embedded in a frayed item reflects a deeper charm than just a pristine exterior. Kintsugi is a Japanese art form which heavily borrows upon this thinking, where broken pottery pieces are glued together with a mixture of gold, silver and platnium. This isn’t just an act of repairment but instead a transformation, where the item’s past is seen as an extension of its beauty; in many ways kintsugi is the perfect metaphor for life.

In the Mood for Love (2000) directed by Kar-Wai Wong explores the bitter loneliness and human desire for warmth which simultaneously plague our psyches. Our two protagonist; Chow Mo-wan and Su Li-zhen move into two apartments close to each other, but are only drawn to each other when they suspect that their partners are cheating with the other’s respective spouse. In the crowded streets of Hong Kong in 1962, both Chow and Su are constantly surrounded by the faces of people never revealed to us, a clever decision to make the audience invest more heavily into the two leading protagonist. Lost in this sea of bodies, they often find themselves trapped in claustrophic spaces with only their feelings as company.

Apart from the theme of loneliness which permeates every scene, dialogue and interaction, is the question about the double edge nature of fate. Chow Mo-wan and Su Li-zhen interact with each other for brief moments at the start of the film; meeting on the street only to politely excuse themselves from speaking to each other. Only when rains traps them both together underneath a shoddy street lamp do they finally get a chance to establish repertoire. Only thirty minutes into this film, do the audience finally see the two characters attempt to peel away the calluses around their hearts.

Yet no matter how longingly the exquisitely beautiful Su Li-zhen and the mournfully handsome Chow Mo-wan stare at each other, there is always this barrier which stifles their relationship. This uncomfortable distance which seems to repel away all human contact is cleverly reinforced in the camera work and the mise en scène. The camera seems to spy on the protagonist in the long hallways, the pair repeatly walk infront of fences which resemble a cage. The mirrors serve as a clever motif in this film, highlighting how oppressive the lack of space is in these dingy apartments, but also the duality of Chow Mo-wan and Su Li-zhen; they crave yet fear love. This sense of melancholy acts as a barrier, and the audience is often forced to peek into their lives behind a window screen or curtain, as if the audience is physically prevented from changing their sombre destinies which have already been set in stone.

The colour palette of this film is simply stunning, draped in luscious reds and satin yellows, the time that Chow Mo-wan and Su Li-zhen spend together in their hotel rooms usher the audience into a dream like state; where laughter is plentiful and noodles are always eaten with company. However amongst the flirtious looks and playful mannerisms, both protagonist are scared to develop feelings for the other. Both openly voice that having sex would “reduce them to the same level” as their disloyal spouses. Yet these words ring off as just a convenient excuse, in truth their lives have been sullied by infidelity and an act as passionate as sex would only leave them more vulnerable to the actions of the other party.

“You notice things, if you pay attention.”

The fickle nature of Lady Luck is also seen at the end of the film when Chow Mo-wan asks Su Li-zhen to flee with him to Singapore; the promise of a ‘new life’ deeply alluring for both of them. Unsure of her response, Chow waits for her in a rented hotel room smirking sadly to himself before leaving, only to have Su arrive moments later; so close, but ultimately too late. And just like that our protagonist are denied the happiness they both deserve. Our hearts beat for their sadness and we curse the Gods who seem to be playing dice with their feelings. But ironically, their feelings itself was a stroke of chance, a relationship which was only nurtured through their proximity, poorly timed rain and their spouse’s infidelity.

So the protagonists try to express their feelings in methods which still maintain their self autonomy, phone calls seem to the main form of communicating in the 1960s Hong Kong landscape; a happy medium between the vulnerability of speech and the coldness of fax machines. After life has whisked Chow Mo-wan off to Singapore, Su Li-zhen calls him to hear his voice, he answers and then both remain silent on the phone, comforted by the simultaneous proximity and distance of their lover.

Chow keeps a pair of slippers that Su left in his room once as a souvenir of their love, even bringing this item to Singapore. Months later she would visit Singapore only to take back that keepsake, leaving only a smoked cigarette with lipstick on his ashtray as a sign of her presence. It’s a game of cat and mice, where the first to admit their true feelings loses, it’s not a healthy relationship, but after countless scars on their heart, it’s the best they can do.

The finale concludes with Chow Mo-wan whispering his pains, regrets and secrets into a stone hallow at a Cambodian temple before sealing it with dirt. Unable to find someone to confide in, he chooses, like those long distance phone calls, a method where he can speak his mind without hearing an answer.

Years after, both Chow and Su find themselves back in Hong Kong, they attempt to reconnect with each other a final time but are ultimately unsucessful as their communication slowly ceased, their fate once again seemingly sealed by an omnipresent force. Their future runs like parallel lines, oddly close to each other yet never capable of insecting again, their time has past and time is merciless.

But when it starts to rain, or when they pass by the noodle store where they had their first date, the lights of Hong Kong will shine a little redder and cigarette smoke will roll a little more graceful, as they both reminisce on the genuine feelings of longing which both tortured and gave them purpose in 1962.

Chow Mo-wan and Su Li-zhen were both in the mood for love, they just won’t capable of it yet.

“Why did you call me at the office today?”
“I had nothing to do. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The Yellow Wallpaper Anaylsis

The Yellow Wallpaper

This piece was a literary analysis of the first two pages of The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, published in 1892.

This piece of fiction from The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman contains aspects of the mystery and horror genre. Narrated in first person, the writing style allows the audience into the most intimate areas of the persona’s mind. Deliberately using language which is disjointed and jumbled, Gilman paints a picture of someone who is trapped within an old house and a one sided marriage. As the passage progresses, the menacing nature of the house is brought to the forefront of the story, particularly seen in the persona’s reaction to the yellow wallpaper.

The passage starts with an informal and a conversational tone, it is clear that the persona either sees the audience as non-threatening or is unaware of their presence. The abundance of rhetorical question implies that the persona is in conversation with the audience; “Else, why should it be let so cheaply?” and “… Why have [it] stood so long untenanted?” The diction used in this passage is deliberately casual, with no words added which might challenge the reading capabilities of the average person. Bubbly quotes like “The most beautiful place!… It makes me think of English places that you read about…” builds the relationship between the audience and the housewife as they are hearing the innermost personal thoughts of the housewife and thus empathise with her.

The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?

– Jeremy Bentham

The conversational tone is reflected in the general sentence structure of the piece. The constant thought interruptions from the hyphens and short sentences break the glossy flow of logic and delivery which is to be expected from most fiction. Instead Gilman’s breaking of the traditional paragraph structure mimics the bumpy rhythm of a face to face conversation. This unusual structure is a visual metaphor alluding to the confused state of the mind of the persona; as sentences seem to be sporadic thoughts instead of contributing to a linear narrative plot progression.

This unexpected transition from the innocent recordings of an annoyed housewife to a tale much darker in tone is accentuated in the disarming and personable nature of Gilman’s writing at the beginning. Humour especially is used to endear her to the audience, “So I take phosphates or phosphites – whichever it is…” her clumsiness allows the audiences to relate to her situation of powerlessness. Likewise the persona is able to subtly chip away at the authority of the husband through the repetition of exaggerated ‘resignations to his advice’; “Personally, I believe that work… would do me good. But what is one to do?” These small moments of sarcasm are used to defang John, but also paints him as a stiff and joyless individual. During a moment where she is convinced this house has a “ghostliness” to it, “[John] said [what] I felt was a draught, and shut the window.” The humourous tone in addition to the light hearted subject matter of relocating to a new holiday house portrays the persona as someone who is preserving against small inconveniences. This changes in the final sentences of the passage, the morbid and sickly descriptions of the room heralds the unexpected emergence of the Gothic in a domestic environment.

Apart from using humour in order to convey the persona’s dissatisfaction with her husband, Gilman uses the hyphen to represent her two sided thoughts about him. On one hand, John is her husband and social expectations combined with John’s delicate care for her is appreciated; on the other hand being stuck in the top floor of this building evokes comparisons to Rapunzel. Out of a total of fourteen hyphens in Gilman’s passage, eight of them are used when discussing the topic of John and his dominating influence in her life. By intertwining John’s name with a physical break in writing, the persona conveys how ‘disruptive’ his presence is, but also hints at the possibility that she is suppressing a secondary opinion of her husband. Similarly John is mentioned in a lot of short sentence; “John is practical in the extreme.” And “I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes.” These short sentences echo a tone of finality as if John’s character can simply be summed up by a single word or adjective.

Throughout the passage, John is portrayed as the stark contrast of his wife, whereas she likes to indulge in fascinations of the mind, John is (cruelly) scientific and “scoffs openly at any talk of [such] things.” Gilmore’s linguistic choices reflecst the division between the couple; John and his wife are never spoken about as a single unit. The closest the audience gets to this is in the word “marriage” to describe their relationship (it appears once). Yet this word lacks the warmth that “family” or “lovers” carry, it’s simply used to signify their type of relationship and not the feelings attached with it. There are also no inclusive pronouns in this passage, instead the audience is constantly reminded that John and “I” are two different parties with two separate outlooks on life, “John laughs at me…” and “John says the very worst thing I can do is…”

This passage from The Yellow Wallpaper is very personal as the story is not filtered through the lens of an omnipresent narrator. Instead the audience is receiving her thoughts directly; thus firmly placing us on her ‘side’ regardless of her biases. It is only near the end of the passage, when this jumbled mess of thoughts is combined with the darker descriptions of the wallpaper that elements of horror and mental instability steep out from what seemed to be an ordinary tale of family tension.

Whilst the very start of the passage foreshadows the mysterious and Gothic nature of this house; “There is something strange about the house – I can feel it.” And “… I would say a haunted house…” The final lines of this passage are drastically different and really dispel away the tone of innocence from her previous ‘trivial’ ramblings. There is a very noticeable contrast between the room the persona wants with “… roses all over the window…” compared to the wallpaper which is “… repellent, almost revolting.” The words chosen to describe the room depict it as almost a living flesh wound on the building; “… a smoulder unclean yellow [wallpaper]…” and “It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.” This sense of the room being alive is also reflected in the personification of the ‘artistically sinful’ wallpaper that “… suddenly commit suicide.” The connotations of the words “sin” and “suicide” convey that the room is not just uncomfortable to look at but that there is something inherently evil or malicious about its nature.

The literary techniques used in this passage from The Yellow Wallpaper are effectively in accomplishing the goals it sets out to meet. The use of first person, simple and familiar diction combined with the plight of a mistreated wife charms the audience into allying themselves with the persona. However, only near the end of this passage, do the audience start to peer behind the veil of banter and good faith. The combination of imagery and personification presents the room as an animate object with its own frightening agency causes the audience to suspect the terror hidden within this building, but also the possible seeds of mental instability within the persona.

 

The Integration of Science and the Supernatural in the 19th Century

 

“Every age, and not just the modern age, has felt the need to make its religious beliefs comport somehow with the best scientific and philosophical learning of its day.”

– Thomas Laquer (2006)

Karl Marx famously stated that urbanisation rescued people from the “idiocy of rural life”, this quote alludes to the widely held belief that as technology progresses, it immediately results in the embrace of scientific rationality. Part of the reason why this is such a popular belief stems from the desire of 21^st century historians to perceive themselves as technologically advance and thus dismissing any possible connections with the ‘primitive’.

The ‘Long Nineteenth Century’ (1789-1914) as coined by Eric Hobsbawm, was a period where modernity’s arrival was hailed by a mass of new inventions, but also a time where science managed to seeped into the psyche of the public and did no just exist in the minds of intellectuals. The abundance of scientific breakthroughs created an environment where people were beginning to challenge ingrained beliefs: Science and the supernatural were two competing parties trying to establish their influence in the battlefield of academia. Ironically, despite their competitive nature towards each other, both parties were often reactionary to the rising beliefs in the ‘opposition’s’ field of knowledge. Whilst possibly difficult to grasp in today’s context where popular culture portrays science and the supernatural as polar opposites; many technological inventions were seen as methods to tap into the supernatural. The 19^th century within the western world was a time where science and the supernatural became intertwined and arguably reliant upon each other.

The new inventions which owed their existence to the industrial revolution and progress within the realms of science were (paradoxically) used by spiritualist as evidence of a world beyond the material. William Henry Harrison, the founder-editor of the Spiritualist proposed that thermometers and ultra-red illumination could be used to measure the spiritual activity in séances. In 1875, Harrison advocated the use of photographs as evidence; “We spiritualist would then be able to go to the scientific world and say… these flames can now be photographed… by the process which is laid before you”. The consistent desire to be validated as a legitimate in the eyes of already established fields, reflects how deeply 19^th century spiritualism wanted to be accepted by science as a valid inquiry of the world.

Machines which were capable of recording sounds, capturing photos or typing were perceived as eerie by a majority of the 19^th century audience, with such functions transgressing over the line of the supernatural. This equipment evoked the uncanny valley because it blurred what was once rigid lines between the animate and inanimate. Thomas Edison himself saw these new technologies as ways to tap into the occult since the machines seemed to be alive or extensions of the human conscious. Interestingly, new technologies were seen as steps towards a Utopian future and there was a growing movement which attempted to harness the power of spirits as an inexhaustible source of energy. Just as the steam engine had completely transformed the western world and created capitalism as a byproduct; controlling these supernatural forces were simply a new step in the evolution of mankind and its technological wonders . It can be argued these avenues of the supernatural were only opened up with the introduction of new technologies on the market. Due to humanity’s obsession to identify the supernatural in everyday life, it is not surprising that slowly such machinery came to embody some paranormal characteristics.

The practice of ‘typtology’ which developed quickly in the 19^th century was heavily influenced by the invention of the electrical telegraph: Coincidentally the ‘Hydesville rappings’ only occurred four years after the first successful telegraph connection between Washington and Baltimore was established. In fact, often spiritualists were described as simple relays along a communication system with spirits, such imagery obviously pays homage towards the invention and popularisation of long distance communication. Likewise the many references to spiritualist as ‘celestial’ telegraphs evoke the image of a supernatural current transitioning between the medium and the occult in a similar fashion to electricity. This wording may have been deliberate to make their philosophies more understandable to the average laymen, however it does also reflect how many spiritualist often adopt the vocabulary and products of their scientific ‘rivals’.

The spiritualist community also quickly embraced the type writer as a new method of interacting with the occult. Whilst the 21^st century audience may see this machine as a tool to inscribe words onto a piece of paper, two centuries ago it signalled the unnatural severing of the author from the physical act of writing. This distinction between authors and (type) writers was due to the fact that a finalised text did not carry the characteristics of an individual’s handwriting. Thus typewriters were eventually seen as people who were tapping into the thoughts of the author or simply possessed by the machine itself. Slowly this idea of possession began to develop supernatural connotations and this is reflected in how the noun ‘typewriter’ was used in the 19^th century. Madame Blavatsky, the founder of Theosophy was often referred to as a ‘human typewriter’ due to her ability to channel the supernatural when writing and explaining her beliefs. Blavatsky dismissed claims of plagiarism by stating that all her writing had been done in a state of trance, and thus her body was simply a tool for channeling invisible forces. Likewise, mediums who used spiritual rappings and table tipping were often called typters, which roughly translates to ‘I strike’ in Greek. It is from this origin that the words ‘typist’ and ‘typing’ developed. The act of tapping found in the Morse code and typewriting were seen as physical and technological ways to invite spiritual possession by severing the ‘natural’ connection between the eye and writing.

Interestingly, as psychology became more of a respected field of knowledge, slowly it was able to strip away the supernatural associations of automatic writing. Both F. W. H Myer and Edmun Gurney were intensely motivated in proving that mediums who would produce writing or quotes during a trance, were simply tapping in their subconscious past, in a Freudian manner. Interestingly, both men attempted to discredit automatic writing because they believed the notion of an eternal spirit and afterlife was threatened by the popularisation of medium possession, which proposed a more fluid image of identity. New scientific inventions allowed spiritualist the opportunity to appropriate new tools into their repertoire, but evolving fields of science was also eventually responsible for stripping away the occult associations of type writing.

The commercialisation of electricity and its incorporation into all levels of society played a fundamental role in changing how the supernatural developed in the 19^th century to today’s understanding of the paranormal. This was most famously reflected in the novel of Frankenstein, as electricity was regarded as the most basic and fundamental component of life. Shelley, inspired by her husband’s fascination with mesmerism, captured the growing public’s unease and fascination concerning the manipulating of electricity to create life and to interact with the dead. Mesmerism, which quickly became embedded into the consciousness of the public discourse and imagination was built upon many new scientific discoveries. It could be argued that the technological advances of the 19^th century were not only a contributing factor to mesmerism’s doctrines, but rather it created a context where a belief system which frequently mixed technology and pseudoscience could thrive.

Mesmerism stood as a direct challenged to the traditional pillars of the medical community, proposing that the building of rapport and the interactions of two minds was able to overcome illness. This was in opposition to the general direction of the scientific community in the 19^th century, which had turned towards an increasingly materialistic outlook on life. A notion which would only become more ingrained with the publication of On the Origin of Species. Franz Anton Mesmer a frequent user of magnets and electricity, attributed his medical successes to his ability to form an electrical conduit between himself and his patient. Even when the notion of electricity as the ‘essence of life’ was challenged by the emerging scientific discoveries, the mesmer community simply embraced ‘od’ or ‘odyle’ forces; a form of transparent magnetic fluid (Noakes, 2012). The key point isn’t whether or not 19^th century spiritualism used these terms and descriptions in a ‘scientifically’ accurate way. But rather, by absorbing this scientific jargon into their terminology, it reflected a desire to legitimise their dogma in the eyes of their ‘rivals’, but also a wish to drop the connotations of irrationality which had long been a stigma on the occult. Mesmerism’s challenge to science during the nineteenth century is one of many attempts by supernatural ideologies to gain ground in the battle for how one perceived the world. Interestingly enough, mesmers relied and embraced new technologies so much, that they frequently accused scientist of being blind and dismissive to new avenues of thought, and readily referred to themselves as the ‘true scientist’.

Practitioners of mesmerism also regularly incorporated phrenology into their consultations with their patients. The belief that the brain was an organ with different areas which would trigger a certain response when touched was directly linked to the imagery of a machine. More tellingly is that the brain was often referred to as a ‘galvanic battery’ during the 19^th century, and altered states of reality was believed to occur if too much blood (a metaphor for electric) was sent to the head. The rise of supernatural arts that was heavily intertwined with the latest scientific research shows that technological progress does not automatically equal to a decrease in superstition. This is because unlike religion or science, which carries with it a structured view of the universe, magic and technology are simply tools which make no such grandiose claims.

The rise of photography within the 19^th century was not just influenced by the growing movement of spiritualism, but arguably its rising popularity was indebted to its supernatural associations. Much like the typewriter, a camera blurred the line between life and death, seemingly without a conscious, yet able to do things (such as recording sound or images) which previously only humans could perform. Spiritual photography worked under the assumption that the person in front of the camera was able to ‘mediumise’ the equipment in order to capture the unseen supernatural forces around them. As the theories and arguments for Darwinism and positivism seeped into the public conscious, this produced a yearning for the assurance of an afterlife. Spiritualist responded to this sentiment, and regularly attacked science as being harshly dismissive of personal spiritual experiences, all the while using tools of science to argue their position. This shift towards a supernatural which was more focused within the individual’s personal experience, can also be viewed as a response to the rise in technology capable of recording evidence. Thus, possibly this trend towards ‘smaller’ and more ‘personal’ interactions with the paranormal might have been a natural shift to legitimise the supernatural in the face of increasing demands of evidence.

Whilst it may seem like the relationship between the ‘spiritual photographer’ and the subject is unfair; since one is actively exchanging falsely created goods for money. Often, both parties were active participants in this lie; William Stainton Moses, a famous paranormal investigator commented that people regularly mistook a “broom as their dearly departed”. Similarly, even after William Hope, a famous spiritual photographer was proven to be a fraud, he still continued working as a photographer and a medium; as he was financially and publicly supported by his loyal fans. Science and emerging technologies were not so much the counter to ‘irrational’ ideas, but instead, simply gave 19^th century citizens the opportunity to validate their attachments to the supernatural through modern methods.

Thomas Edison (a firm believer in the supernatural) famously remarked that death, “the final frontier”, was being opened out through the invention and commericalisation of new technologies. Likewise the industrial revolution gave Britain (and the rest of the western sphere) an opportunity to close the frontier between the east and west. Thus producing the great paradox of colonisation, whilst Anglo-Saxon culture was elevated to the most dominant position, it was not left ‘untarnished’ and was also transformed by its contact with foreign cultures. This absorption of eastern occultism was reflected in popular literature, with Dracula standing as a symbol of an ancient eastern evil unleashed upon the civilised (and unprepared) Anglo-Saxon societies. Similarly, Indian marijuana was used by the fictional protagonist John Silence in order to tap into the supernatural vibrations of his surroundings. This signified a shift in the perception of the supernatural; the west began to see itself as a piece in the global search for the paranormal and thus adopted other beliefs and rituals.

As science began to chip away at the vast distances and times between nations; linking once distance lands with the west, this resulted in the questioning of previously ‘unquestionable’ beliefs. Inspired by her understanding of eastern spirituality, Madame Blavatsky the founder of Theosophy, challenged the moral and religious authority of the Church as she claimed that she alone held the Truth, given to her through the Great White Brotherhood. Blavatsky’s willingness to challenge such an established pillar on conventionally accepted doctrines shows how technology and the freedom of movement provided citizens a chance to escape ‘pre-destined’ roles; making identity a more fluid conception. The supernatural greatly benefited the growing globalisation of the world through technologies like the railway and the telephone. It allowed the supernatural in the west to absorb and adopt a lot of foreign beliefs and practices, enlarging the circumference of what one perceived as the occult and also offering a refreshing breath of creativity into this field.

Modern historians have largely ignored the supernatural in their construction of history, anachronistically deeming it as primitive and incompatible with a ‘Whigsian’ approach to history. Much like the academics in the Renaissance, there is a sense of discomfort, in relation to just how deeply entrenched the supernatural was during a time of supposed ‘modernisation’. The view that the supernatural (something which dealt completely with emotions and personal experiences) and technology (something built on measured science and rationality) were polar opposites is an overly simplistic view which fails to look at how the supernatural still continues to absorb new technologies into its realms. It is because 19^th century spiritualism shared so much in common with established sciences, that it was often hard for practitioners of either field to proper investigate and properly distinguish between each other.

Emma Hardringe Britten, a famous Victorian spiritualist, stated that spiritual science was merely the next step in the intellectual ‘progress of the human race’, echoing a sentiment which a majority of supernatural practitioners would have agreed with. Though, ironically, it is telling that her quote obviously alludes to both evolutionary theory and the survival of the fittest; the cutting edge of scientific thought. By describing the rise of her discipline in relation to the static older sciences, Britten is unconsciously exposing how deeply intertwined the destinies of scientific advancement and the supernatural was in the long 19^th century.

 

“… Science will continue to be colonized by spiritualists and other religious groups seeking to assert what they know, intuitively and spiritually, to be true, for in spiritualist perceptions, truth and science are inextricably linked”

– Jennifer E. Porter (2005)

Protected: The Yellow Stigma: The Unwanted Demographic

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