Disneyland as text.

It’s been more than a week since J and I took our day trip to Disneyland, taking advantage of his birthday for a free ticket (they give you a happy birthday button and everything). I hadn’t been to Disneyland in years, since 2005, maybe, but I do have quite a long history with the place. My grandfather was one of the foremen who helped construct the original Disneyland Hotel, and therefore received an invitation to the grand opening of the park in 1955. My father was ten years old; somewhere, there’s a picture of my dad, my grandfather, and Walt Disney standing in front of the Jungle Cruise on the first day of Disneyland.

Like many other Southern California children, a trip to Disneyland growing up was special, but certainly not unusual; I’d say I went two or three times a year until I left for college. I wouldn’t say I was ever absolutely in love with the park, but I always enjoyed it and had a fantastic time when visiting – I also became really, really good at maximizing park experience (I know when to go, when not to go, what rides to ride first, how to stagger Fastpasses efficiently, etc.) I think it’s safe to say that while I’m not a Disney expert, I’m certainly well trained.

It was a bit jarring, then, to have such a different experience visiting this time. The last time I’d been to the park, I was still an undergrad, and hadn’t had much theoretical training – I knew a bit about Walt Disney’s politics, but didn’t reconcile those clearly with the park itself. This time – as a result, I’m sure, of being oversaturated with awareness of marginalities and subjugations and institutional degradations – I couldn’t help but read these politics into the park. It’s a Small World, the Jungle Cruise and Splash Mountain were the worst offenders.

Those of you who have ridden It’s a Small World will remember that the ride’s point is a sort of overarching, highly problematic liberal polemic, that everyone in the world is “the same,” despite different cultural practices and languages. Of course we’re not all “the same”; yes, I get that the idea is to encourage tolerance, which is lovely, but there’s this sort of ridiculous tension between “everyone’s alike” and “look at all these vastly different cultures which we’ve reduced to ridiculous stereotypes!” What cultures are represented are also weighted heavily towards the Western and European; I remember seeing France, Spain, Germany, Great Britain, Norway and Sweden, while Africa gets one small section – all of Africa! Which is, of course, a massive, massive continent rather than a country. Remember how the anamatronic puppets all “sing” the song in the language of the country they’re representing? The African puppets sing in English. (Of course, choosing a single language to represent the African continent would also be incredibly problematic, but not to the extent that an English-language choice is.)

I think the representation of America offended me the most – America gets its own room, with First Americans on the right (intermingled with Woody and Jessie from Toy Story, because, duh, we can’t represent Indians without cowboys), and on the left – three white puppets, two of them blonde and blue-eyed, in a farm setting. Really? That’s America? First Americans and a few white farmers?

Since this blog is already overlong, I won’t go into the Jungle Cruise and Splash Mountain too much, except to say that the Jungle Cruise is really all about enforcing a colonial tourist fantasy of developing countries – yes, the river you travel goes through Africa, Mongolia and India, all in five minutes, as if it’s not problematic to amalgamate everything non-Western without commentary. Oh, look, it’s hippopotami! There’s an elephant! Over there – natives! Look, piranha! (One of these doesn’t fit.) Splash Mountain – it’s not unknown that the ride is based on a racist* Disney film, Song of the South; the ride encourages a fantasy of the rural South that is based heavily on racial stereotypes (the big-lipped frogs at the beginning of the ride used to carry watermelon until too many people complained. They’re still big-lipped, though).

As someone who works on trauma and childhood, I had such an interesting experience with the Snow White and Pinocchio rides. I remember riding the Snow White ride when I was a very little girl, for the first time (I must’ve been about three or four); there’s a part in the ride where the wicked stepmother is speaking to her magic mirror, her back turned to the buggy you’re riding in, and you only see her handsome reflection in the mirror. She turns around, and her face is that of the witch, leering maniacally. I remember shrieking and shrieking that first time. (Interestingly enough, J and I were sharing the buggy with a man, a woman, and their young son, who also shrieked loudly at that moment.)

You’re taken through this ride, lurching and twisting to look at walls and displays, watching the dwarves go to work and mine jewels, and witnessing the witch preparing to poison Snow White. The music swells ominously, you’re watching Snow White at the brink of mortal danger – and then your buggy swings through the last set of doors, you see a wall with a picture of a laughing, lilting Snow White with her woodland friends, and a sign that says “Happily Ever After!” THERE’S NO CONCLUSION. The prince, his restorative kiss, the rescue, all that is entirely left out. Just this horrible terror of the-witch-is-going-to-kill-her and then, suddenly, you’re done. No wonder children are so terrified by this ride – the narrative is entirely interrupted and not allowed successful or realistic closure. Pinocchio isn’t much better – his return to Geppetto’s house is fuzzily done – but at least there isn’t as abrupt of a caesura.

My experience of the park wasn’t all problematic. Tomorrowland in particular was relatively free of offense (maybe that’s why I enjoyed Space Mountain the most this time around; when your only text is a rollercoaster in space there’s not much to get upset about). But so much of it left me fairly stunned, and wondering if Baudrillard’s focus on the park and hyperreality wasn’t misplaced – the imaginary of Disneyland seems to me to ultimately reflect the real of racial ideologies, traumas and hierarchies.

*Let me clarify my use of the term racism; here, I’m using it to indicate the reinforcing of dominant hierarchies and ideologies that are racially based. Song of the South, in my view, reinforces the dangerous fantasy of a lush, idyllic, agrarian South that, in reality, was built with the labor of black bodies. You have this strange, decontextualized space (it’s unclear whether the movie was set ante or postbellum, and therefore unclear whether or not Uncle Remus is a slave), and a reification of the cultural myth of the plantation-working black man, whether slave or servant, as happy-go-lucky and satisfied with his own subjugation.

Let all the poisons that lurk in the mud hatch out.

Everything I know about Roman history I learned from I, Claudius. As a result, my Augustus Caesar is a bit of a bumbling old man, my Claudius good-natured and well-meaning, my Sejanus a dead ringer for Patrick Stewart, and my Livia deliciously evil (that last, at any rate, is likely factual). Nevertheless, despite the series’ liberties with the personalities and appearances of its characters, it seems to be largely historically accurate, and is therefore a treasure trove of knowledge for Trivial Pursuit tournaments.

I just finished my third I, Claudius viewing, this one with J (who, by the way, is the best person to watch shocking scenes with, since his reaction is always very dramatic and therefore satisfying). What interested me this time around wasn’t the series’ historical accuracies or inaccuracies, but rather the contemporary historical lens through which it was filmed. There’s a fascinating allegory between 1970s Britain and the Julio-Claudian dynasty that’s inescapable, not only in the accents of the actors, not only in the written dialogue, but in the narrative’s construction of Britain as wild, triumphant resister.

Typical for British films of this period with non-English speaking characters, I, Claudius distinguishes between its aristocrats and its servants with specifically delinated British accents that suggest class differences. Augustus, Livia, and the entire royal family speak with Received Pronounciation. The soldiers largely have Cockney accents (there are a few Geordies here and there). The slaves do not speak (nor, to be fair, would it be prudent to do so, in the presence of their owners). This is a linguistic code that the viewer takes for granted. Augustus the Cockney would be preposterous, where as an Augustus with RP fits the prerequisite image, and is therefore unquestioned. If it speaks like a king, it’s a king.

The film is aware of the ridiculousness of imposing British linguistic patterns on the ancient Romans; at one point, Antonia praises Herod Agrippa, a Jew, with the consummate compliment: “How well he speaks Latin!” It’s a clear acknowledgment, heavy-handed, but perhaps necessary, that the Romans did not speak English, and that the British filmmakers do not expect the viewer to imagine they did. Herod, of course, has just been speaking English, but Antonia’s line is a winking aside: Herod’s English, though hesitant and accented, has an accent akin to that of the royal family. A Cockney accent for Herod would not, within the film’s linguistic code, translate into well-spoken Latin.

Despite the pervasiveness of the actors’ accents, the analogous empires are perhaps the most overt connection between I, Claudius and the environment that created it. Claudius witnesses (and participates in) the beginnings of the destruction of the Roman empire, while still enjoying the advantages of controlling much of the known world. Great Britain, of course, was in the 1970s still in the process of transitioning out of its title as Ruler of the Free World; just thirty years before it had been the world’s greatest colonial power. Livia has a fantastic line in reaction to Claudius’s birthday present to her, a vase from India: “It’s such a pity we never got around to that part of the world. So many things we could’ve picked up, cheap.” No need, of course, to mention India in the script (since, as Livia says, the Romans did not attempt to conquer it), except that it is one of Britain’s most prominant ex-colonies, a place where their armies did, indeed, pick up many things cheaply, including labor. What does this serve as for the viewer? A reminder of glory? A reminder of lost glory? What is this meant to evoke?

The spirit of ex-empire, of strikes and garbage in the streets and high inflation and universal malcontent, all part of the 1970s British zeitgeist, is not, however, the message with which I, Claudius intends to leave the viewer. Much is made of Claudius’s conquest of Britain, a battle successful for our hero (which pleases the viewer, who identifies with Claudius) but also the result of a fierce and drawn-out struggle from British tribes (which pleases the nationalist sensibilities of the viewer). Several minutes is spent detailing the capture of British chieftain Caratacus, who was brought back to Rome to be executed, but whose impassioned speech on behalf of his country incites their forgiveness and clemency. (Much of this is historically accurate, but Caractacus’s speech was, as written down, more of a plea for personal lenancy than an ode to country.) This exhultation, says I, Claudius, is the root of our country; this chieftain of old is our national pride, our backbone, our fighting spirit. We are not doomed as Rome is to debauchery and destruction.

And so, ultimately, this brilliant series is more about the future of Britain than about Rome’s past. As Jameson says, “Always historicize”: history, of course, is not only what has occurred, but what is occuring.

Coding desire in Ravenous.

Ravenous is an unfortunately little known horror film set in the wilds of the Sierras during the winter of 1847. Captain Boyd’s commander sends him to Fort Spencer, California, as the small base’s third-in-command. Soon after he arrives, a half-dead soldier calling himself Colqhoun stumbles into camp with a fantastic story about a westward expedition gone horribly wrong.

I won’t be spoiling the film to reveal that its plot catalyst revolves around cannibalistic consumption; the precept is that eating the flesh of another human being not only cures you of any illness or injury, but also incites a hunger for more flesh that is unquenchable.

There’s one scene (and this is a spoiler) where Colqhoun, revealed as a cannibal, holds up his wounded, bleeding palm towards Boyd, who has recently consumed parts of a dead companion in order to stay alive. Colqhoun taunts Boyd, invoking in vivid detail the overwhelming desire to consume the other, while Boyd stares hungrily at Colqhoun. “But I don’t have to tell you,” Colqhoun mocks, “you’re feeling it [desire, hunger] right now”.

I had an interesting conversation with J about this scene; I suggested that there were definite sexual connotations here: Colqhoun inviting Boyd to consume his bodily fluids, the overlap between pervasive hunger/pervasive lust, etc.

J did not agree. “I don’t like reading things into scenes that aren’t readily there,” he said. “I don’t think these characters want to fuck each other.”

Well, I don’t necessarily think so, either. But it seems to me that there’s a marked difference between two characters wanting “to fuck each other” and the current of desire and hunger expressed through what we can all universally understand: sexuality. We have not all experienced starvation, hunger that consumes our bodies and turns us (by necessity) into instinctual creatures. We have (most of us, at least) experienced the strength of sexual desire.

So perhaps what is at work in Ravenous isn’t necessarily homosexual coding, but sexuality as vehicle. We can extend that distinction, I think, to vampire texts as well – the cannibals of Ravenous have an interesting overlap with vampirism that most other film cannibals do not. Earlier in the film, a character with a torn stomach awakes shrieking that Colqhoun was licking the blood from his wound while he (the wounded) slept; note that Colqhoun does not bite, or chew the flesh, but licks, an action more akin to the “suck” of vampirism – and an action that is far more sensual, and connotive of sexual desire, than a gnawing.

“No Exit” with flowered hats.

Now that the quarter is blessedly winding down (my two seminar papers are in the proofreading stages), my brain is staggering a bit from being consistently hammered with theory. I think I’m at the point – and maybe have been there for a while – where I can’t enjoy pop culture without picking it apart with a pretentiously fine-toothed comb (can a comb be pretentious? I think so).

Take Sex and the City, for example. I’m not quite sure why I watch the reruns whenever I happen to catch them, heavily edited, of course, on TBS (as a side note, why do I always only catch the episode where Carrie needs $30,000 to put a down payment on her apartment?). My boyfriend runs from the room when he hears the theme song, usually with a snide comment about Sarah Jessica Parker, but I stay, somewhat apologetic.  SatC doesn’t approach the intricacies of female relationships with the quiet brillance that Big Love, another HBO show, does; it’s often reductionist, ridiculous and even – the worst sin – poorly written.

Yet it does add something to a necessary conversation. It’s one of the few consistantly sex-positive series (though there’s something to be said for the critique that Samantha’s cancer is an effective punishment for her unapologetic sex life). It celebrates the power of female friendships (though it’s still unclear precisely why, for example, Charlotte and Samantha are close; would they be friends without Carrie as glue?). And I was moved by the message of one episode’s final scene: as a new bride throws a bouquet towards them, the four women let it fall to the ground at their feet, then turn together and walk away. It’s a powerful message of solidarity and a clear rejection of the marital norm. Yet this scene, while resonant, is not truthful to at least one of the characters, Charlotte, who at this point in the series is obsessed with finding and marrying her soulmate. Ultimately, Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and even Samantha end up with significant others.

So there are numerous contradictions here; the series tells the viewer one thing and then ricochets to the opposite. It’s not surprising or unique, but it is, I think, fairly honest. We all have conflicting views surrounding our sexuality, our relationships with our friends, how we’re living up to certain norms; it’s a disengenous person who says she doesn’t struggle with the expectations others have for her, and that she has for herself. SatC is heavily flawed, but it’s flawed in a way to which I can relate.

By the way, I’m a Miranda, with a generous pinch of Charlotte thrown in for good measure.

(The title of this post comes from The Daily Show’s Samantha Bee’s description of SatC.)

The endless question.

I took this blog’s title from Samuel Beckett’s final poem.

While I generally dislike interpreting texts biographically (Roland Barthes’s “Death of an Author” successfully seduced me several years ago), there’s something to be said for knowing that this is Beckett’s deathbed work. This profound question, that of course within the text is never posed as a question, that works on multiple levels (“what” is the word, what is the word?) seems to me to be the major problematic within the study of literature. Beckett repeats it, over and over again; we all repeat it. It’s the question we ask in every critique and essay, and the statement we always return to: the word that matters.

Of course, we could make a case for “how is the word”, too.

The full poem is underneath the cut.