Petronia Popa Petrar
Babeş-Bolyai University
petronia.petrar@gmail.com

The Resurrected Future of Cloud Atlas:

Writing and Filming Dystopian Time

Abstract: Focusing on the vagaries of narrative temporality and what I take as its “availability” for lapsing into dystopian figurations, the present paper investigates the overlappings and departures entailed by the adaptation of David Mitchell’s 2004 novel, Cloud Atlas, into the 2012 film written and directed by Lana Wachowski, Andy Wachowski and Tom Tykwer. My paper considers the contemporary novel’s dystopian proclivities, successfully illustrated by Mitchell’s text, in light of Mark Currie’s casting of fictional time as instantiating a “philosophy of surprise” predicated on the notion of eventfulness; it then goes on to explore the film’s temporal structure through the lens of Bernard Stiegler’s notion of “cinematic time” as the globalised time of the consciousness, which Cloud Atlas simultaneously engenders and disrupts.

Key words: Narrative Temporality; Narrative Unexpectedness; Dystopia; Cinematic Time; Technics as Dystopia.

I think that time is to us what the ocean is to marine life, only more so: time, the great enabler of being. Yet time is a slow-burning “decay bomb” not outside us but within us, all the while transforming our newborn selves through biological maturity into our senescent selves: time, the great dismantler of being.

David Mitchell, Interview with Paul A. Harris[1]

            In one of the interlaced episodes of his multi-layered novel, Cloud Atlas, the contemporary British novelist David Mitchell has the “ascended” clone Sonmi-451 (genetically designed to serve food in a futuristic diner reminiscent of today’s globalised fast-food networks) recount the forbidden experience of watching a film based on the mishaps visited on Timothy Cavendish, himself a character in a previous episode of the novel. Facing the death sentence for threatening the “corpocratic” order by becoming human, Sonmi submits to an interview by an “archivist” in order to have her story recorded, theorising (along with the novel) that the transmissibility of narrative language will ensure the subversion of genetic, economic and social hierarchies, in spite of her failure to achieve an actual revolution. When the intrigued Archivist documents her fascination for watching an ancient film (rebranded as a “disney” by corpocratic Newspeak), Sonmi retorts:

Certainly: the vacant disneyarium was a haunting frame for those lost, rainy landscapes. Giants strode the screen, lit by sunlite captured thru a lens when your grandfather’s grandfather, Archivist, was kicking in his natural womb. Time is the speed at which the past decays, but disneys enable a brief resurrection. Those since fallen buildings, those long-eroded faces: Your present, not we, is the true illusion, they seem to say. For fifty minutes, for the first time since my ascension, I forgot myself, utterly, ineluctably.[2]

Just as the humorous story of Timothy Cavendish’s escape from his imprisonment in a retirement home survives in remediated form through the centuries to resonate with Sonmi’s attempt to change the fate of the clones used as sub-human slaves by Nea So Copros, the record of her “orison,” now turned into the holy words of a mythical founding figure, will resurge through time in the primitive human community populating the postlapsarian world figured in the central episode of the novel to guide the protagonist’s moral choices. The “brief resurrection” of the past into what is still the reader’s future, made possible by various forms of narrative ( and explicitly invoked both by Mitchell’s novel and by the 2012 filmic adaptation of Cloud Atlas by writers and directors Lana and Andy Wachowski and Tom Tykwer), enacts a part of the complex temporal philosophy of fiction, whose figurations of the inextricable connections between the past, present and future often bring to the fore the contradictions and aporias of our experience of time, most noticeably, during the past decades, through the projection of apocalyptic threats onto a liveable future. It has become a common place to comment on the marked inclination towards dystopia exhibited by the contemporary novel, but, if the editors of the present issue of Caietele Echinox are to be believed, a similar concern seems to be less obvious in filmic productions, at least as far as statistics go. While I do not contend that the Wachowski’s adaptation does not succumb to the fascination of dystopia, their version does end in more “optimistic” fashion than the novel, by casting Zachry and Meronym as the Adam and Eve of a new humanity, transported on a new planet. Given the directors’ uneasy relationship with Hollywood and their experimental treatment of dystopia in The Matrix trilogy, this is probably less the effect of conventional and economic pressure, and more a matter of artistic choice, as well as of the specificity of the filmic medium per se.

This last prospect – of the relationship between the cinematic medium and the figurations of dystopia – is a fascinating one, and raises important questions that have to do with the profound influence cinema has had and will continue to have on the shaping of the individual and collective psyche after supplanting the novel as the most popular vehicle for carrying forth ideology under a fictional guise. Extrapolating on Fredric Jameson’s description of utopian temporality as the supplementation of the present from the perspective of what is still to come (since it is the projection of a possible future that enables the present to define itself),[3] I will argue that the dystopian future prefigured contained by both the book and the film is used, in different manners, in order to subvert a comfortable sense of a presentified end of history seen as more dangerous than any of the threats the future might hold.

My account of the complex sense of time in Cloud Atlas, the novel and, to a certain extent, the film, crucially relies on Mark Currie’s definition of narrative temporality as the structure of the future perfect, or future anteriority (what has not yet occurred, but will occur in a completed form: “not what will happen, but what will have happened” (emphases in the original).[4] According to this view, “the hint of the impossible” inherent to the future perfect condition of narrative time accounts for the effect of mediation between our expectations and the reality of experience achieved through stories. This involves a counterintuitive recalibration of our idea of narrative, and we are forced to expand the boundaries of storytelling to accommodate both anticipation and the emergence of the unexpected, as the time of the reading unfolds by coalescing the past (related events that are usually presented as having already occurred) and the future (experienced in the expectation of cognitive closure, or at least the knowledge that there will be a textual ending) of the narrative into a sort of present. Rather than being a form of re-living and coming to terms with the past (a still valid, but – according to Currie – insufficient assumption of narratology), narrative becomes “a transaction between some recapitulation of past experience and a reading process in which that capitulation of the past is re-experienced, its retrospect decoded in that process as a quasi-present” that has more to do with answering questions about the future, than anything else.[5] Currie’s ultimate goal is to argue in favour of the need for a field of study mindful of poststructuralist variations of classical narratology and founded on what he terms “the philosophy of surprise.”[6] Pointing out that, ever since Aristotle, one of the basic features of all storytelling – fictional or nonfictional – seems to have been the production of the unforeseen (and in fact the “expectation of the unexpected” has come to define the most deeply-ingrained contemporary judgements of artistic or informational value), Currie shows that the temporal doubling involved by casting the expectation of the unknown as a sort of future anterior ties the interest in narratives to the study of time via the notion of surprise or the eventful, as connected to responsibility and action, manifest in the work  several contemporary philosophers, with Derrida, Badiou and Žižek as the foremost examples.

Currie’s insistence on the contribution of fiction to explaining and installing a sense of the future is verified by David Mitchell’s frequent experiments with a sweeping temporal span, more often than not reaching a future that is yet unexperienced as such, but whose historicised seeds have been germinating all along. As a recent interpretation of Mitchell’s novelistic projects has put it,

One way of regarding Mitchell’s writing is to see it as the fictionalization of futurity in plot, character, style, and theme. The hallmarks of this writing are many, but the principal signs are the many instances of prophecy, projection, and imagining possible futures that occur in his work. These, combined with the bi-location of characters (e.g. when Holly Sykes of The Bone Clocks imagines what would be going on in her house at a given hour; were she there to see it instead of from her observational point on the road as a runaway), the scattering of characters or character-ancestors and descendents among novels, and the multiplication of temporal zones that various characters inhabit, suggest the degree to which identity is plural, not singular in his fiction.^[7]

Unwittingly, Currie and Mitchell even use similar terms when talking about fictional temporality, as an extract from an interview I have already quoted shows: “Tense is an obvious variable: is the narrative purporting to describe events already happened, or is the narrative surfing along on the never-quite-breaking wave of the Eternal Present? (An anathema to some reviewers, as I’ve learned at my cost.)”^[8] Furthermore, Mitchell’s interest in time, which seldom goes unspoken of,[9] becomes even more interesting to explore if we consider the author’s assertion that he is actually engaged into producing one “macro-novel” spanning over the history of humanity and creating and what Paul A. Harris (to Mitchell’s delight) has called “the memory of the Anthropocene:”[10] in 2010, upon the publication of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, Mitchell famously confessed to one interviewer:

I’ve come to realize that I’m bringing into being a fictional universe with its own cast, and that each of my books is one chapter in a sort of sprawling macronovel. That’s my life’s work, for however long my life lasts. Of course, it’s important that each of the books works as a stand-alone, so that readers don’t have to read everything else I’ve written to make sense of the novel in their hands. But I write each novel with an eye on the bigger picture, and how the parts fit into the whole.[11]

To take only some obvious examples, Mitchell’s debut novel, Ghostwritten, which consists of a series of seemingly unrelated stories (most of them taking place at roughly the same time), geographically located on several contiguous regions of the globe, from Japan to New York, ends with an episode set in a not-too-distant future where an (ambiguously benevolent) artificial intelligence has taken over the control of military satellites. As will be made clear, Cloud Atlas’s “central” narrative, which splits the book into halves and paradoxically constitutes its structural middle, takes place in a distant, post-apocalyptic future. The Bone Clocks, published in 2014, revisits all themes and characters shedding light on some of their mysterious actions, and ends with a story that seems to be set immediately after the event of “Fall” of Cloud Atlas, and Mitchell has publicly spoken about his plans to complete a “Dr. Marinus trilogy” reaching back to the dawn of human history.

            Cloud Atlas neatly illustrates the imbrication of past, present and future, being composed by a series of embedded (seemingly) autonomous narratives, each set in a different century, ranging from 1850s to a fictional distant future, each centered around a different protagonist (sometimes an actant narrator), and each containing each other concentrically – an effect achieved by interrupting the first five stories midway in order to start the next one, and reprising them successively, so the book ends with the return to the nineteenth-century plot, and the only “uninterrupted” narrative is the “central” one, set in a post-apocalyptic future. The first story (reconstituted) consists of the diary of the idealist American clerk Adam Ewing who, on his way back from Polynesia, after being poisoned by an unscrupulous doctor, is saved by a Moriori stow-away whom he had shown kindness to. The second section, set inBelgium in the inter-war period, is made up by the letters addressed by Robert Frobisher, a young, impecunious and sexually adventurous composer (author of the little-known sextet “Cloud Atlas”) to his lover, just before committing suicide. “Half-Lives: The First Louisa Rey Mistery” is cast as a detective story featuring the eponymous heroine, a daring Californian reporter investigating rumours of misdeeds taking place at a nuclear power plant. The fourth section features the ludicrous memoirs of contemporary book publisher Timothy Cavendish, who, in the wake of machinations by a revengeful brother, finds himself imprisoned in a retirement home. The already mentioned “An Orison of Somni-451,” taking place in a futuristic consumerist dystopia, presents itself as the archival trace of the final interview with an ascended clone. Finally, “Sloosha’s Crossin’ an’ Ev’rythin’ After,” the innermost (at least in formal terms), and temporally most distant story, is narrated by Zachry, a member of the remains of humanity surviving in the a-technological world after the “Fall.” The effects of ambiguity and open-endedness created by the repeated deferrals of narrative closure are intensified by the “fictionalisation” of each section, as the protagonists are gradually turned into readers or audiences of the preceding story: Frobisher finds and reads Adam Ewing’s diary, Louisa Rey comes across both Frobisher’s letters and a recording of his “Cloud Atlas” sextet, Cavendish is considering publishing a novel about Rey’s adventures, Sonmi watches the movie based on Cavendish’s story, and Zachry comes across a hologram of Sonmi (who is now revered as a deity) publicly reciting her teachings.

According to Patrick O’Donnell, the novel’s projection of a plural identity is inextricably linked to “the conception of a temporary future” as “a transitory site where alternative narratives are disseminated” and which comes about at the intersection of causality and contingency, fate and chance.[12] It could be added here that it is precisely the attempt to create a unitary, universalistic future that is totalitarian and dystopic, because it rests on an image of homogeneous humanity which will necessarily submit difference to violence and erasure. Similarly, O’Donnell anchors Cloud Atlas in “a poetics of relation,” embodied by the paradox that “the similitude of human identity is visible in its movement through time and space only as a series of variations made most evident in those forms of cultural violence that attempt to install a homogeneous regime of ‘the human.’”[13] One cannot but agree with the suggestion that the novel’s meaning, as well as its philosophy of time, relies on the intricate relations between modes and forms of narrative, as the recursive structure makes it clear that “the primary work of the narrative” is “its potential for connectivity.” If anything, the complicated network of metaleptic contaminations confirms the idea that the process of signification is crucially, if somewhat arbitrarily, determined by the medium of transmission: rather than a geometrically arranged vision of space and time, the novel projects a fragmented “image of history […] conveyed as a series of partial stories serendipitously linking mediated identities across scattered spatiotemporal reaches and domains.” As O’Donnell shows, the novel’s structure underscores the dematerialisation of the utopian illusion, which functions by obfuscating the materiality and contingency of history through the projection of a perfect, “pure” and permanent future placed “at the end of history.” Founded on the forgetfulness of “temporariness as the primary condition of human continuance,” ^[14] utopia reveals its dystopian origins when placed against the special temporality of fiction and its dialectics of permanence and impermanence, remembrance and anticipation which creates a flickering present whose holes paradoxically enable the texture of human connectivity. The “elastic time” described by O’Donnell’s analysis of Mitchell’s writing, composed by accidental, pulsating events linking the past with the present and with the future in random sets dependent both on the multiplicity of the characters’ experiences and on the diversity of textual readings, breaks down the universalist temporality of utopia and reveals its intimate dystopian nature.

 If the novel’s exquisite textual web, made up of subject and object positions, intertextual allusions and cross-references, various demands on the readers, comes to supplement its sense of multi-layered time, how does the film figure the future and its dystopian protensions? One avenue for investigation is opened by a study by Jo Alison Parker, who, starting from the writer’s own musings on the directors’ success when it came to adapt his “unfilmable book,” argues that the changes brought about by the filming montage, which Mitchell had labelled a “pointillist mosaic” – distinct from the novel’s “boomerang structure” – enact a temporal shift from the novel’s “future in a flux” to a “future that is fixed, […] entailing a conclusion that is both less and more hopeful than Mitchell’s.”^[15] As Parker puts it, “[a]fter it ends, the novel then boomerangs back through the preceding stories in a reverse cascade, bringing each to closure for the readers of the text and the readers inside the text” [emphases in the original].^[16] The section are also related by common themes and recurring imagery, such as the comet-shaped birth mark of most of the main characters, thus creating a “global plot of reversing humanity’s drive for instant gratification” which the film actually turns into Zachry’s solitary quest for individual redemption. ^[17] 

The film starts and ends with Zachry’s story, thus rendering the fragile centrality of the novel’s innermost narrative into a frame that acts on multiple levels – temporal (firmly determining the future as the time of the telling and therefore as a point of reference); discursive (Zachry’s warning, “I’ll yarn you about the first time we met eye to eye” is immediately followed by  a rapid series of very brief scenes introducing the rest of the episodes of the novel, but in what looks like aleatory order – Adam Ewing meeting Dr Goose, Louisa Rey driving through the city, Timothy Cavendish at his editor’s desk ironically dismissing the writerly “gimmicks” of using flashbacks and flash-forwards enacted at that very moment by the filmic montage, Robert Frobisher writing his suicide note to Sixsmith, the Archivist starting the interview with Sonmi, etc. The Wachowski also had the same actor who impersonated Zachry, Tom Hanks, play the Dr. Goose, the villain of the earliest story in the chronological sequence, thus achieving a sort of unification of the fragmented set under the umbrella of the same identity gaining moral insight through temporal experience.

While Jo Alison Parker’s interpretation offers useful insights, it nevertheless fails to take into account the unusual pace of the cuts and the insurmountable effects of dissipation that the film produces. Here’s what a reviewer privileged with an early insight into the making of the film has to say about its conception:

The filmmakers’ initial idea was to establish a connective trajectory between Dr. Goose, a devious physician who may be poisoning Ewing, in the earliest story line, and Zachry, the tribesman on whose moral choices the future of civilization hinges, after the Fall. They had no idea what to do with all the other story lines and characters. They broke the book down into hundreds of scenes, copied them onto colored index cards, and spread the cards on the floor, with each color representing a different character or time period. The house looked like “a Zen garden of index cards,” Lana said. At the end of the day, they’d pick up the cards in an order that they hoped would work as the arc of the film. Reading from the cards, Lana would then narrate the rearranged story. The next day, they’d do it again.^[18]

It may be precisely because these effects were never intended to be overcome, with the film offering a unifying account of one protagonists’ experience, that it manages to credibly keep away from the lure of dystopia and offer a more “optimistic” ending, which is kept in line with the other major departure from the film: while in the book Sonmi’s partner Hae-Joo is revealed to be a mere puppet in the corprocracy’s plot to expose her ascension as an abomination, the filmmakers turned him into an idealistic freedom fighter and the ideal romantic partner for Sonmi. What is uncritically skipped over, though, because of such mutations, is Mitchell’s profound insight into the powers of narrative to undermine authority through its mere existence, as the record of ideas and experience that will resolutely remain authentic and subversive, no matter how distortedly they are manipulated.

Returning to the film’s experimentation with time, its fragmentation may be said to interrupt what the contemporary philosopher Bernard Stiegler has criticised as the disorienting, homogenising “cinematic consciousness” produced by the omnipresence of consumeristHollywoodflicks, which will be outlined below.  

Stiegler’s basic assumption is that technics and the human are not opposites, but co-constitutive: constantly emerging as a means of exteriorising thought, technology participated in the creation of what we think of as the human and acts as its supplement: “What is exteriorized is constituted in its very exteriorization and is preceded by no interiority: this is the logic of the supplement”.[19] Technology functions on a fundamental level as collective memory, since is allows not only for the material manifestation, but also for the recording and preservation of the historicity of shared experience. Stiegler’s aim is to continue Husserl’s investigation of the constitution of the human through a sense of temporality by focusing on what he claims phenomenology had ignored: the existence of “tertiary retentions” (in the form of [mnemo]technics) that will always precede, and thus govern, Husserl’s primary and secondary retentions. (Husserl had defined primary retentions as the persistence of recently perceived objects in our memory, and secondary retention as the larger background of recollections that constitute memory and therefore will crucially determine the experience of “temporalizing” the world.[20])

The directors of Cloud Atlas (most predictably, the Wachowski siblings, who were turned into global celebrities by The Matrix trilogy) are aware of the film’s ambiguous participation in the technosphere. As an essential technological product, whose artistic ontology depends on the development of advanced instruments and techniques, the film contributes to the technogenesis of the world and is part of what Stiegler calls “technological memory.” The Wachowskis’ reliance on innovative special effects has been notorious since the release of The Matrix, and Cloud Atlas is no exception, though in the latter special effects seem to be used in order to enhance the mimetic effect of the representation of the future, rather than with a view to disturbing the mimetic grounding of the cinematic image by providing a distorted representation of perceptual functioning. This may act as an explanation of the film’s ultimate avoidance of the catastrophic consequences of technology, which weakens the dystopian potential of the cinematic form. Both as a technological object, and as a set of artistic ideologies, Cloud Atlas stops at the threshold of dystopia and foregrounds the uses of technics by pointing out it remains a foundational part of the human.

On the other hand, the thematic critique of the darker aspects technology is poignant in the Louisa Rey and Sonmi episodes, and it is made all the more so by the Wachowski’s statement that their model when adapting the book was Kubrick’s A Space Odyssey.[21] However, it may be their treatment of time through fast cross-cutting that disturbs the continuity of the montage, revealing it as an artifice and probing the limits of the unifying capacities of our consciousness (the film essentially consists of a collage of rapidly moving scenes and a bombardment of receding informational loads) that may crucially contribute to the investigations of the effects of the technosphere. In the final volume of his important trilogy on Technics and Time, Stiegler posits the “essentially cinemato-graphic structure for consciousness in general,” based on film’s functioning through the same retentional integration of past, present and anticipated future as the human psyche. Nevertheless, the cohabitation of cinema and consciousness has installed a reified, homogenised identity at the heart of the techno-human continuum, one of whose versions can be traced back in several steps. The first one would be the Barthesian assumption of the temporal co-existence of the photographic image and the photographed object: “[t]he instant of the snap coincides with the instant of what is snapped, and it is in this coincidence of two instants that the basis of the possibility of a conjunction of past and reality allowing for a ‘transfer’ of the photograph’s immobility in which the spectator’s ‘present’ coincides with the appearance of the spectrum.” The illusion of referential presence, conducing to the overlapping of the time of the object with the time of the image and the time of the viewing, is complemented by the addition of sound and movement, so that “the coincidence between the film’s flow and that of the film spectator’s consciousness, linked by phonographic flux, initiates the mechanics of a complete adoption of the film’s time with that of the spectator’s consciousness – which, since it is itself a flux, is captured and “channelled” by the flow of images.”[22] The danger is the occurrence of the reproducibility of the flux of the consciousness itself,[23] which installs sameness at the expense of difference through a standardisation of reactions and protensions of the future.

The film’s insistence on temporal incompletion and rapid succession of themes challenges the chronological telling of events which, paradoxically, the intertwined stories still observe. The links between scenes are created by means of match cuts, cross-cutting, verbal juxtapositions, or are simply inexistent, leaving it to the viewer to experience the performance of connectivity required by the framework of the storylines. In other words, the directors make sure that each viewing will rely on projections of different connectors among the rapidly succeeding images, and thus, each viewing will be different. The film thus manages to recompose, with its specific means, the unstable equilibrium between unity and fragmentation suggested by the intricate texture of the books’ narrative strategies, even though it remains determined to avoid its darker suggestions. David Mitchell may well have been right to be appreciative of the adaptation, despite the cautionary tales that surrounded the novel’s “unfilmability.”

Bibliography

Currie, Mark. The Unexpected. Narrative Temporality and the Philosophy of Surprise.Edinburgh:EdinburgUniversity Press, 2013.

Jameson, Fredric. Archaeologies of the Future. The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions.London andNew York: Verso, 2005.

Harris, Paul A. “David Mitchell in the Laboratory of Time: An Interview with the Author,” SubStance, Volume 44, Number 1, 2015 (Issue 136, dedicated to Mitchell’s work), pp. 8-17.

Hemon, Aleksandar. “Beyond the Matrix” (2012), http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/09/10/beyond-the-matrix, NewYorker.com. Accessed October 31, 2015.

Mason, Wyatt. “David Mitchell, The Experimentalist,” New York Times Magazine, June 25, 2010, available at http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/27/magazine/27mitchell-t.html?_r=0, accessed October 30, 2015.

Mitchell, David. Cloud Atlas.London: Random House, 2008.

O’Donnell, Patrick. A Temporary Future: The Fiction of David Mitchell.New York:Bloomsbury Publishing, 2015.

Parker, Jo Alyson. “From Time’s Boomerang to Pointillist Mosaic: Translating Cloud Atlas into Film”123-124, in SubStance, Volume 44, Number 1, 2015 (Issue 136), pp. 123-135

Stiegler, Bernard. Technics and Time, 2. Disorientation. Translated by Stephen Barker. Stanford:StanfordUniversity Press, 2009.

Technics and Time, 3. Cinematic Time and the Question of Malaise. Translated by Stephen Barker. Stanford:StanfordUniversity Press, 2011.

Wachowski, Lana, Tom Tykwer, and Andy Wachowski, directors and screenwriters. Cloud Atlas. Warner Brothers, 2013. DVD.

Notes

Petronia Popa Petrar
Babeş-Bolyai University
petronia.petrar@gmail.com

The Resurrected Future of Cloud Atlas:

Writing and Filming Dystopian Time

Abstract: Focusing on the vagaries of narrative temporality and what I take as its “availability” for lapsing into dystopian figurations, the present paper investigates the overlappings and departures entailed by the adaptation of David Mitchell’s 2004 novel, Cloud Atlas, into the 2012 film written and directed by Lana Wachowski, Andy Wachowski and Tom Tykwer. My paper considers the contemporary novel’s dystopian proclivities, successfully illustrated by Mitchell’s text, in light of Mark Currie’s casting of fictional time as instantiating a “philosophy of surprise” predicated on the notion of eventfulness; it then goes on to explore the film’s temporal structure through the lens of Bernard Stiegler’s notion of “cinematic time” as the globalised time of the consciousness, which Cloud Atlas simultaneously engenders and disrupts.

Key words: Narrative Temporality; Narrative Unexpectedness; Dystopia; Cinematic Time; Technics as Dystopia.

I think that time is to us what the ocean is to marine life, only more so: time, the great enabler of being. Yet time is a slow-burning “decay bomb” not outside us but within us, all the while transforming our newborn selves through biological maturity into our senescent selves: time, the great dismantler of being.

David Mitchell, Interview with Paul A. Harris[1]

            In one of the interlaced episodes of his multi-layered novel, Cloud Atlas, the contemporary British novelist David Mitchell has the “ascended” clone Sonmi-451 (genetically designed to serve food in a futuristic diner reminiscent of today’s globalised fast-food networks) recount the forbidden experience of watching a film based on the mishaps visited on Timothy Cavendish, himself a character in a previous episode of the novel. Facing the death sentence for threatening the “corpocratic” order by becoming human, Sonmi submits to an interview by an “archivist” in order to have her story recorded, theorising (along with the novel) that the transmissibility of narrative language will ensure the subversion of genetic, economic and social hierarchies, in spite of her failure to achieve an actual revolution. When the intrigued Archivist documents her fascination for watching an ancient film (rebranded as a “disney” by corpocratic Newspeak), Sonmi retorts:

Certainly: the vacant disneyarium was a haunting frame for those lost, rainy landscapes. Giants strode the screen, lit by sunlite captured thru a lens when your grandfather’s grandfather, Archivist, was kicking in his natural womb. Time is the speed at which the past decays, but disneys enable a brief resurrection. Those since fallen buildings, those long-eroded faces: Your present, not we, is the true illusion, they seem to say. For fifty minutes, for the first time since my ascension, I forgot myself, utterly, ineluctably.[2]

Just as the humorous story of Timothy Cavendish’s escape from his imprisonment in a retirement home survives in remediated form through the centuries to resonate with Sonmi’s attempt to change the fate of the clones used as sub-human slaves by Nea So Copros, the record of her “orison,” now turned into the holy words of a mythical founding figure, will resurge through time in the primitive human community populating the postlapsarian world figured in the central episode of the novel to guide the protagonist’s moral choices. The “brief resurrection” of the past into what is still the reader’s future, made possible by various forms of narrative ( and explicitly invoked both by Mitchell’s novel and by the 2012 filmic adaptation of Cloud Atlas by writers and directors Lana and Andy Wachowski and Tom Tykwer), enacts a part of the complex temporal philosophy of fiction, whose figurations of the inextricable connections between the past, present and future often bring to the fore the contradictions and aporias of our experience of time, most noticeably, during the past decades, through the projection of apocalyptic threats onto a liveable future. It has become a common place to comment on the marked inclination towards dystopia exhibited by the contemporary novel, but, if the editors of the present issue of Caietele Echinox are to be believed, a similar concern seems to be less obvious in filmic productions, at least as far as statistics go. While I do not contend that the Wachowski’s adaptation does not succumb to the fascination of dystopia, their version does end in more “optimistic” fashion than the novel, by casting Zachry and Meronym as the Adam and Eve of a new humanity, transported on a new planet. Given the directors’ uneasy relationship with Hollywood and their experimental treatment of dystopia in The Matrix trilogy, this is probably less the effect of conventional and economic pressure, and more a matter of artistic choice, as well as of the specificity of the filmic medium per se.

This last prospect – of the relationship between the cinematic medium and the figurations of dystopia – is a fascinating one, and raises important questions that have to do with the profound influence cinema has had and will continue to have on the shaping of the individual and collective psyche after supplanting the novel as the most popular vehicle for carrying forth ideology under a fictional guise. Extrapolating on Fredric Jameson’s description of utopian temporality as the supplementation of the present from the perspective of what is still to come (since it is the projection of a possible future that enables the present to define itself),[3] I will argue that the dystopian future prefigured contained by both the book and the film is used, in different manners, in order to subvert a comfortable sense of a presentified end of history seen as more dangerous than any of the threats the future might hold.

My account of the complex sense of time in Cloud Atlas, the novel and, to a certain extent, the film, crucially relies on Mark Currie’s definition of narrative temporality as the structure of the future perfect, or future anteriority (what has not yet occurred, but will occur in a completed form: “not what will happen, but what will have happened” (emphases in the original).[4] According to this view, “the hint of the impossible” inherent to the future perfect condition of narrative time accounts for the effect of mediation between our expectations and the reality of experience achieved through stories. This involves a counterintuitive recalibration of our idea of narrative, and we are forced to expand the boundaries of storytelling to accommodate both anticipation and the emergence of the unexpected, as the time of the reading unfolds by coalescing the past (related events that are usually presented as having already occurred) and the future (experienced in the expectation of cognitive closure, or at least the knowledge that there will be a textual ending) of the narrative into a sort of present. Rather than being a form of re-living and coming to terms with the past (a still valid, but – according to Currie – insufficient assumption of narratology), narrative becomes “a transaction between some recapitulation of past experience and a reading process in which that capitulation of the past is re-experienced, its retrospect decoded in that process as a quasi-present” that has more to do with answering questions about the future, than anything else.[5] Currie’s ultimate goal is to argue in favour of the need for a field of study mindful of poststructuralist variations of classical narratology and founded on what he terms “the philosophy of surprise.”[6] Pointing out that, ever since Aristotle, one of the basic features of all storytelling – fictional or nonfictional – seems to have been the production of the unforeseen (and in fact the “expectation of the unexpected” has come to define the most deeply-ingrained contemporary judgements of artistic or informational value), Currie shows that the temporal doubling involved by casting the expectation of the unknown as a sort of future anterior ties the interest in narratives to the study of time via the notion of surprise or the eventful, as connected to responsibility and action, manifest in the work  several contemporary philosophers, with Derrida, Badiou and Žižek as the foremost examples.

Currie’s insistence on the contribution of fiction to explaining and installing a sense of the future is verified by David Mitchell’s frequent experiments with a sweeping temporal span, more often than not reaching a future that is yet unexperienced as such, but whose historicised seeds have been germinating all along. As a recent interpretation of Mitchell’s novelistic projects has put it,

One way of regarding Mitchell’s writing is to see it as the fictionalization of futurity in plot, character, style, and theme. The hallmarks of this writing are many, but the principal signs are the many instances of prophecy, projection, and imagining possible futures that occur in his work. These, combined with the bi-location of characters (e.g. when Holly Sykes of The Bone Clocks imagines what would be going on in her house at a given hour; were she there to see it instead of from her observational point on the road as a runaway), the scattering of characters or character-ancestors and descendents among novels, and the multiplication of temporal zones that various characters inhabit, suggest the degree to which identity is plural, not singular in his fiction.^[7]

Unwittingly, Currie and Mitchell even use similar terms when talking about fictional temporality, as an extract from an interview I have already quoted shows: “Tense is an obvious variable: is the narrative purporting to describe events already happened, or is the narrative surfing along on the never-quite-breaking wave of the Eternal Present? (An anathema to some reviewers, as I’ve learned at my cost.)”^[8] Furthermore, Mitchell’s interest in time, which seldom goes unspoken of,[9] becomes even more interesting to explore if we consider the author’s assertion that he is actually engaged into producing one “macro-novel” spanning over the history of humanity and creating and what Paul A. Harris (to Mitchell’s delight) has called “the memory of the Anthropocene:”[10] in 2010, upon the publication of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, Mitchell famously confessed to one interviewer:

I’ve come to realize that I’m bringing into being a fictional universe with its own cast, and that each of my books is one chapter in a sort of sprawling macronovel. That’s my life’s work, for however long my life lasts. Of course, it’s important that each of the books works as a stand-alone, so that readers don’t have to read everything else I’ve written to make sense of the novel in their hands. But I write each novel with an eye on the bigger picture, and how the parts fit into the whole.[11]

To take only some obvious examples, Mitchell’s debut novel, Ghostwritten, which consists of a series of seemingly unrelated stories (most of them taking place at roughly the same time), geographically located on several contiguous regions of the globe, from Japan to New York, ends with an episode set in a not-too-distant future where an (ambiguously benevolent) artificial intelligence has taken over the control of military satellites. As will be made clear, Cloud Atlas’s “central” narrative, which splits the book into halves and paradoxically constitutes its structural middle, takes place in a distant, post-apocalyptic future. The Bone Clocks, published in 2014, revisits all themes and characters shedding light on some of their mysterious actions, and ends with a story that seems to be set immediately after the event of “Fall” of Cloud Atlas, and Mitchell has publicly spoken about his plans to complete a “Dr. Marinus trilogy” reaching back to the dawn of human history.

            Cloud Atlas neatly illustrates the imbrication of past, present and future, being composed by a series of embedded (seemingly) autonomous narratives, each set in a different century, ranging from 1850s to a fictional distant future, each centered around a different protagonist (sometimes an actant narrator), and each containing each other concentrically – an effect achieved by interrupting the first five stories midway in order to start the next one, and reprising them successively, so the book ends with the return to the nineteenth-century plot, and the only “uninterrupted” narrative is the “central” one, set in a post-apocalyptic future. The first story (reconstituted) consists of the diary of the idealist American clerk Adam Ewing who, on his way back from Polynesia, after being poisoned by an unscrupulous doctor, is saved by a Moriori stow-away whom he had shown kindness to. The second section, set inBelgium in the inter-war period, is made up by the letters addressed by Robert Frobisher, a young, impecunious and sexually adventurous composer (author of the little-known sextet “Cloud Atlas”) to his lover, just before committing suicide. “Half-Lives: The First Louisa Rey Mistery” is cast as a detective story featuring the eponymous heroine, a daring Californian reporter investigating rumours of misdeeds taking place at a nuclear power plant. The fourth section features the ludicrous memoirs of contemporary book publisher Timothy Cavendish, who, in the wake of machinations by a revengeful brother, finds himself imprisoned in a retirement home. The already mentioned “An Orison of Somni-451,” taking place in a futuristic consumerist dystopia, presents itself as the archival trace of the final interview with an ascended clone. Finally, “Sloosha’s Crossin’ an’ Ev’rythin’ After,” the innermost (at least in formal terms), and temporally most distant story, is narrated by Zachry, a member of the remains of humanity surviving in the a-technological world after the “Fall.” The effects of ambiguity and open-endedness created by the repeated deferrals of narrative closure are intensified by the “fictionalisation” of each section, as the protagonists are gradually turned into readers or audiences of the preceding story: Frobisher finds and reads Adam Ewing’s diary, Louisa Rey comes across both Frobisher’s letters and a recording of his “Cloud Atlas” sextet, Cavendish is considering publishing a novel about Rey’s adventures, Sonmi watches the movie based on Cavendish’s story, and Zachry comes across a hologram of Sonmi (who is now revered as a deity) publicly reciting her teachings.

According to Patrick O’Donnell, the novel’s projection of a plural identity is inextricably linked to “the conception of a temporary future” as “a transitory site where alternative narratives are disseminated” and which comes about at the intersection of causality and contingency, fate and chance.[12] It could be added here that it is precisely the attempt to create a unitary, universalistic future that is totalitarian and dystopic, because it rests on an image of homogeneous humanity which will necessarily submit difference to violence and erasure. Similarly, O’Donnell anchors Cloud Atlas in “a poetics of relation,” embodied by the paradox that “the similitude of human identity is visible in its movement through time and space only as a series of variations made most evident in those forms of cultural violence that attempt to install a homogeneous regime of ‘the human.’”[13] One cannot but agree with the suggestion that the novel’s meaning, as well as its philosophy of time, relies on the intricate relations between modes and forms of narrative, as the recursive structure makes it clear that “the primary work of the narrative” is “its potential for connectivity.” If anything, the complicated network of metaleptic contaminations confirms the idea that the process of signification is crucially, if somewhat arbitrarily, determined by the medium of transmission: rather than a geometrically arranged vision of space and time, the novel projects a fragmented “image of history […] conveyed as a series of partial stories serendipitously linking mediated identities across scattered spatiotemporal reaches and domains.” As O’Donnell shows, the novel’s structure underscores the dematerialisation of the utopian illusion, which functions by obfuscating the materiality and contingency of history through the projection of a perfect, “pure” and permanent future placed “at the end of history.” Founded on the forgetfulness of “temporariness as the primary condition of human continuance,” ^[14] utopia reveals its dystopian origins when placed against the special temporality of fiction and its dialectics of permanence and impermanence, remembrance and anticipation which creates a flickering present whose holes paradoxically enable the texture of human connectivity. The “elastic time” described by O’Donnell’s analysis of Mitchell’s writing, composed by accidental, pulsating events linking the past with the present and with the future in random sets dependent both on the multiplicity of the characters’ experiences and on the diversity of textual readings, breaks down the universalist temporality of utopia and reveals its intimate dystopian nature.

 If the novel’s exquisite textual web, made up of subject and object positions, intertextual allusions and cross-references, various demands on the readers, comes to supplement its sense of multi-layered time, how does the film figure the future and its dystopian protensions? One avenue for investigation is opened by a study by Jo Alison Parker, who, starting from the writer’s own musings on the directors’ success when it came to adapt his “unfilmable book,” argues that the changes brought about by the filming montage, which Mitchell had labelled a “pointillist mosaic” – distinct from the novel’s “boomerang structure” – enact a temporal shift from the novel’s “future in a flux” to a “future that is fixed, […] entailing a conclusion that is both less and more hopeful than Mitchell’s.”^[15] As Parker puts it, “[a]fter it ends, the novel then boomerangs back through the preceding stories in a reverse cascade, bringing each to closure for the readers of the text and the readers inside the text” [emphases in the original].^[16] The section are also related by common themes and recurring imagery, such as the comet-shaped birth mark of most of the main characters, thus creating a “global plot of reversing humanity’s drive for instant gratification” which the film actually turns into Zachry’s solitary quest for individual redemption. ^[17] 

The film starts and ends with Zachry’s story, thus rendering the fragile centrality of the novel’s innermost narrative into a frame that acts on multiple levels – temporal (firmly determining the future as the time of the telling and therefore as a point of reference); discursive (Zachry’s warning, “I’ll yarn you about the first time we met eye to eye” is immediately followed by  a rapid series of very brief scenes introducing the rest of the episodes of the novel, but in what looks like aleatory order – Adam Ewing meeting Dr Goose, Louisa Rey driving through the city, Timothy Cavendish at his editor’s desk ironically dismissing the writerly “gimmicks” of using flashbacks and flash-forwards enacted at that very moment by the filmic montage, Robert Frobisher writing his suicide note to Sixsmith, the Archivist starting the interview with Sonmi, etc. The Wachowski also had the same actor who impersonated Zachry, Tom Hanks, play the Dr. Goose, the villain of the earliest story in the chronological sequence, thus achieving a sort of unification of the fragmented set under the umbrella of the same identity gaining moral insight through temporal experience.

While Jo Alison Parker’s interpretation offers useful insights, it nevertheless fails to take into account the unusual pace of the cuts and the insurmountable effects of dissipation that the film produces. Here’s what a reviewer privileged with an early insight into the making of the film has to say about its conception:

The filmmakers’ initial idea was to establish a connective trajectory between Dr. Goose, a devious physician who may be poisoning Ewing, in the earliest story line, and Zachry, the tribesman on whose moral choices the future of civilization hinges, after the Fall. They had no idea what to do with all the other story lines and characters. They broke the book down into hundreds of scenes, copied them onto colored index cards, and spread the cards on the floor, with each color representing a different character or time period. The house looked like “a Zen garden of index cards,” Lana said. At the end of the day, they’d pick up the cards in an order that they hoped would work as the arc of the film. Reading from the cards, Lana would then narrate the rearranged story. The next day, they’d do it again.^[18]

It may be precisely because these effects were never intended to be overcome, with the film offering a unifying account of one protagonists’ experience, that it manages to credibly keep away from the lure of dystopia and offer a more “optimistic” ending, which is kept in line with the other major departure from the film: while in the book Sonmi’s partner Hae-Joo is revealed to be a mere puppet in the corprocracy’s plot to expose her ascension as an abomination, the filmmakers turned him into an idealistic freedom fighter and the ideal romantic partner for Sonmi. What is uncritically skipped over, though, because of such mutations, is Mitchell’s profound insight into the powers of narrative to undermine authority through its mere existence, as the record of ideas and experience that will resolutely remain authentic and subversive, no matter how distortedly they are manipulated.

Returning to the film’s experimentation with time, its fragmentation may be said to interrupt what the contemporary philosopher Bernard Stiegler has criticised as the disorienting, homogenising “cinematic consciousness” produced by the omnipresence of consumeristHollywoodflicks, which will be outlined below.  

Stiegler’s basic assumption is that technics and the human are not opposites, but co-constitutive: constantly emerging as a means of exteriorising thought, technology participated in the creation of what we think of as the human and acts as its supplement: “What is exteriorized is constituted in its very exteriorization and is preceded by no interiority: this is the logic of the supplement”.[19] Technology functions on a fundamental level as collective memory, since is allows not only for the material manifestation, but also for the recording and preservation of the historicity of shared experience. Stiegler’s aim is to continue Husserl’s investigation of the constitution of the human through a sense of temporality by focusing on what he claims phenomenology had ignored: the existence of “tertiary retentions” (in the form of [mnemo]technics) that will always precede, and thus govern, Husserl’s primary and secondary retentions. (Husserl had defined primary retentions as the persistence of recently perceived objects in our memory, and secondary retention as the larger background of recollections that constitute memory and therefore will crucially determine the experience of “temporalizing” the world.[20])

The directors of Cloud Atlas (most predictably, the Wachowski siblings, who were turned into global celebrities by The Matrix trilogy) are aware of the film’s ambiguous participation in the technosphere. As an essential technological product, whose artistic ontology depends on the development of advanced instruments and techniques, the film contributes to the technogenesis of the world and is part of what Stiegler calls “technological memory.” The Wachowskis’ reliance on innovative special effects has been notorious since the release of The Matrix, and Cloud Atlas is no exception, though in the latter special effects seem to be used in order to enhance the mimetic effect of the representation of the future, rather than with a view to disturbing the mimetic grounding of the cinematic image by providing a distorted representation of perceptual functioning. This may act as an explanation of the film’s ultimate avoidance of the catastrophic consequences of technology, which weakens the dystopian potential of the cinematic form. Both as a technological object, and as a set of artistic ideologies, Cloud Atlas stops at the threshold of dystopia and foregrounds the uses of technics by pointing out it remains a foundational part of the human.

On the other hand, the thematic critique of the darker aspects technology is poignant in the Louisa Rey and Sonmi episodes, and it is made all the more so by the Wachowski’s statement that their model when adapting the book was Kubrick’s A Space Odyssey.[21] However, it may be their treatment of time through fast cross-cutting that disturbs the continuity of the montage, revealing it as an artifice and probing the limits of the unifying capacities of our consciousness (the film essentially consists of a collage of rapidly moving scenes and a bombardment of receding informational loads) that may crucially contribute to the investigations of the effects of the technosphere. In the final volume of his important trilogy on Technics and Time, Stiegler posits the “essentially cinemato-graphic structure for consciousness in general,” based on film’s functioning through the same retentional integration of past, present and anticipated future as the human psyche. Nevertheless, the cohabitation of cinema and consciousness has installed a reified, homogenised identity at the heart of the techno-human continuum, one of whose versions can be traced back in several steps. The first one would be the Barthesian assumption of the temporal co-existence of the photographic image and the photographed object: “[t]he instant of the snap coincides with the instant of what is snapped, and it is in this coincidence of two instants that the basis of the possibility of a conjunction of past and reality allowing for a ‘transfer’ of the photograph’s immobility in which the spectator’s ‘present’ coincides with the appearance of the spectrum.” The illusion of referential presence, conducing to the overlapping of the time of the object with the time of the image and the time of the viewing, is complemented by the addition of sound and movement, so that “the coincidence between the film’s flow and that of the film spectator’s consciousness, linked by phonographic flux, initiates the mechanics of a complete adoption of the film’s time with that of the spectator’s consciousness – which, since it is itself a flux, is captured and “channelled” by the flow of images.”[22] The danger is the occurrence of the reproducibility of the flux of the consciousness itself,[23] which installs sameness at the expense of difference through a standardisation of reactions and protensions of the future.

The film’s insistence on temporal incompletion and rapid succession of themes challenges the chronological telling of events which, paradoxically, the intertwined stories still observe. The links between scenes are created by means of match cuts, cross-cutting, verbal juxtapositions, or are simply inexistent, leaving it to the viewer to experience the performance of connectivity required by the framework of the storylines. In other words, the directors make sure that each viewing will rely on projections of different connectors among the rapidly succeeding images, and thus, each viewing will be different. The film thus manages to recompose, with its specific means, the unstable equilibrium between unity and fragmentation suggested by the intricate texture of the books’ narrative strategies, even though it remains determined to avoid its darker suggestions. David Mitchell may well have been right to be appreciative of the adaptation, despite the cautionary tales that surrounded the novel’s “unfilmability.”

Bibliography

Currie, Mark. The Unexpected. Narrative Temporality and the Philosophy of Surprise.Edinburgh:EdinburgUniversity Press, 2013.

Jameson, Fredric. Archaeologies of the Future. The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions.London andNew York: Verso, 2005.

Harris, Paul A. “David Mitchell in the Laboratory of Time: An Interview with the Author,” SubStance, Volume 44, Number 1, 2015 (Issue 136, dedicated to Mitchell’s work), pp. 8-17.

Hemon, Aleksandar. “Beyond the Matrix” (2012), http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/09/10/beyond-the-matrix, NewYorker.com. Accessed October 31, 2015.

Mason, Wyatt. “David Mitchell, The Experimentalist,” New York Times Magazine, June 25, 2010, available at http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/27/magazine/27mitchell-t.html?_r=0, accessed October 30, 2015.

Mitchell, David. Cloud Atlas.London: Random House, 2008.

O’Donnell, Patrick. A Temporary Future: The Fiction of David Mitchell.New York:Bloomsbury Publishing, 2015.

Parker, Jo Alyson. “From Time’s Boomerang to Pointillist Mosaic: Translating Cloud Atlas into Film”123-124, in SubStance, Volume 44, Number 1, 2015 (Issue 136), pp. 123-135

Stiegler, Bernard. Technics and Time, 2. Disorientation. Translated by Stephen Barker. Stanford:StanfordUniversity Press, 2009.

Technics and Time, 3. Cinematic Time and the Question of Malaise. Translated by Stephen Barker. Stanford:StanfordUniversity Press, 2011.

Wachowski, Lana, Tom Tykwer, and Andy Wachowski, directors and screenwriters. Cloud Atlas. Warner Brothers, 2013. DVD.

Notes

Marius Conkan
Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania
mariusconkan@yahoo.com.sg

From Fantasy Fiction to Film:

The Chronicles of Narnia as Religious Spaces

Abstract: What is the nature of fantasy worlds created in literature and in cinema? If these worlds are not impossible in accordance to reality, what is their structure beyond the ontological rupture they generate? I will attempt an answer by discussing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950) and Prince Caspian (1951), the first two volumes from The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis and their cinematic adaptations, directed by Andrew Adamson and launched in 2005 and 2008, respectively. In my endeavor I will define the structure of the secondary worlds that showcase, on a first level, a mix of eutopian and dystopian spaces infused by a teratological imaginary, one of the main features of such spaces. How do fantasy worlds emerge, beyond their axiological features that confer them semantic value? In the attempt to establish a theoretical framework for the analysis of fantasy novels and films, my own definition of fantasy worlds can become useful in this particular context: fictional worlds in fantasy literature are artifacts created through aesthetic activities that merge cosmological narratives of religion with the alternative designs of reality/the universe (mostly speculated by science).

Keywords: Fantasy Film; The Chronicles of Narnia; Ontological Rupture; Possible Worlds; Alternative Design of Reality; Religious Spaces; Eutopia; Dystopia. 

The complexity of fantasy worlds has become visible once famous novels have been turned into movies for the big screen: The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien, The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling or A song of Ice and Fire series by George R. R. Martin. Fantasy literature is highly visual, a trait that arises as it creates fairy-like landscapes and a spectacular inconography that has as the major effect the sense of wonder. C. S. Lewis, for instance, confessed that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe started with an obsessive image he had, in which a faun walked around with an umbrella in a snowy forest. This miraculous image was the little “Big Bang” of Narnia, the mystical world that, along with Wonderland, Neverland and Middle-Earth, represents today alternative or even complementary universes to what we perceive as being real. Their heterotopian features increase as they transcend the boundaries of literature and enter the big screen. Katherine A. Fowkes and other researchers found the roots of fantasy and science-fiction films at the dawn of the cinema age:

The French filmmaker Georges Méliès (1861–1938) is rightly credited with being the father of science-fiction and fantasy film. His famous short film A Trip to the Moon (1902) is regarded as the first sci-fi film, and other one-reel shorts such as Cinderella (1899) established the fairy-tale tradition that would come to inform so many fantasy films.[1]

Fantasy literature emerged as a reaction against the 19th-century realism, but also against the values of rationality, the consequences of the rise of science and technology (due to the Industrial Revolution). This type of literature reflected the visions of romantic poets, like Wordsworth and Coleridge, in evoking the essential creative function of imagination that builds miraculous spaces, combined with a specific mysticism (George MacDonald wrote a type of religious fantasy that would later influence J. R. R. Tolkien’s and C. S. Lewis’ writings). Fantasy worlds in cinema are being displayed and staged by using sophisticated technologies, proving that such movies can harmoniously combine the imagination of fantasts and film directors with the instruments of science and technology. These entanglements recreate a third space, in which the miraculous and the means of its production come to life. A high quality fantasy movie uses special effects in order to depict the imaginary world and make the viewer perceive it as reality. A brilliant fantasy movie director must therefore have a fantast’s talent, if we were to follow George MacDonald’s and J. R. R. Tolkien’s line of arguments. Such a fantast-director has the mission to recreate autonomous worlds, coherent and in accordance with the inner laws they uphold. Hence, the viewer must never sense that he or she is part of an illusion. That is why the internal laws of fantasy movies have to be mathematically orchestrated, both on the level of the imaginary and in the technical production stage. Such an effort confers consistency to the secondary worlds and avoids mistakes that could cause the demise and dismissal of the created alternative reality.

The internal laws of fantasy worlds encountered in cinema depend on how the fantastic/the miraculous imagination, the fairy-tale structure and the technological mechanisms (special effects, editing scenes and images, manners of filming) merge together, as they reinterpret the narrative for the big screen. This is the main difference between fantasy and science-fiction movies, as “science fiction uses technology to tell stories about technology and science, we might say that fantasy harnesses cinema’s ability to create illusions in order to tell stories about illusions themselves.”[2] These so-called illusions (magical, supernatural) will be perceived as real, as long as viewers interact with and react to them. Cinema goers and passionate fantasy literature readers become a “constellated community,”[3] in which reality is interpreted by applying magical and miraculous principles. For such communities, fantasy films are not a mere source of pleasure and entertainment, but they can actually turn into personal and collective religions, catalyzing the ideas of joy and festival “where humanity actively affirms and celebrates life and community.”[4] The concept of festival inherently belongs to fantasy fictions, as found in Peter Pan and Wendy, The Chronicles of Narnia or The Lord of the Rings. In this respect, Tolkien states that the term joy defines all fairy-stories and it can be viewed in close relationship with the notion of “eucatastrophe,” meaning good catastrophe.

Fantasy Films and the “Ontological Rupture”

          Far from being a “box-office poison,”[5] as fantasy movies have been wrongfully labeled by critics, such films have become the object of studies that manage to define and depict their working mechanisms. The same reorientation can be found in the manner in which fantasy literature has become more than children’s literature, due to numerous researchers that have attempted to define and legitimate the term. Fantasy is seen as a territory of the impossible and non-reason, contradicting all that readers understand and see as reality and possibility (C. N. Manlove, Brian Attebery, Kathryn Hume). Moreover, fantasy literature today has found various territories and angles of interpretation: from psychoanalysis, theories of fiction to theories of space and place. There are some critics that explore the alternative worlds of cinema and fantasy genre using literary theory and instruments of analysis found in film theories. James Walters identifies three categories of alternative worlds depicted by the Hollywood industry:

The three categories that I suggest alternative world films fall into are (i) Imagined Worlds, where a character dreams or hallucinates a world away from the world they inhabit, (ii) Potential Worlds, where a character visits an alternative version – or – alternative versions – of the world they inhabit, and (iii) Other Worlds, where a character travels to a different world entirely from the world they inhabit.[6]

Portal-quest fantasy movies, in which one or several characters literally enter through a portal a miraculous territory, fit into the third category; nevertheless, it is not necessary that the Other Worlds display magical or supernatural traits. It is more relevant that “in these films, an access point is provided into a realm dramatically distinct from the ordinary (fictional) world of the film,”[7] a feature that actually differentiates Other Worlds from Imagined or Potential Worlds. Generally speaking, fantasy films can illustrate all three types of alternative worlds James Walters identifies. Moreover, this proves their structural diversity, but does not reveal the manner in which fantasy worlds are created. A more accurate approach to the nature and function of fantasy films and the alternative worlds they contain is offered by Katherine A. Fowkes:

My own definition is that that the audience must at the very least perceive an “ontological rupture” – a break between what the audience agrees is “reality” and the fantastic phenomena that define the narrative world. The word “rupture” distinguishes the fantastic elements in fantasy from those in science fiction, where fantastic phenomena are ostensibly extrapolations or extensions of rational, scientific principles. […] The term “ontological” denotes the fact that fantastic phenomena are understood to really exist within the story-world – an existence as real as the reference world from which they break.[8]

Both fantasy fiction and movies cause an ontological rupture in the readers’ and viewers’ perception. This ontological rupture can be explained, in the terms of Russian formalism, by the effect of an acute defamiliarization of reality. Such a rupture is especially visible in portal-quest movies and fictions, as characters leave their primary (quasi realistic) world and enter, through a portal, a secondary (miraculous) world that defamiliarizes the affective and imaginary content of the primary world. Fowkes’s definition (applied also to fantasy literature, as I pointed out) delivers premises for a new interpretation of the secondary worlds that were wrongfully seen in an impossible relationship with the real world, for the latter is understood as a system of reference. In accordance with the ontological rupture that takes place on the perception level of viewers and readers alike, magical and supernatural elements are possible inside the fantasy world, as they comply with the internal laws of these worlds; hence, they must not be interpreted and understood through the lenses of the laws governing reality. Such an approach gradually leads to theories of fiction and possible worlds. What is the nature of fantasy worlds created in literature and in cinema? If these worlds are not impossible in accordance to reality, what is their structure beyond the ontological rupture they generate? I will attempt an answer by discussing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950) and Prince Caspian (1951), the first two volumes from The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis and their cinematic adaptations, directed by Andrew Adamson and launched in 2005 and 2008, respectively. In my endeavor I will define the structure of the secondary worlds that showcase, on a first level, a mix of eutopian and dystopian spaces infused by a teratological imaginary, one of the main features of such spaces. How do fantasy worlds emerge, beyond their axiological features that confer them semantic value? For now, we can start by exploring some of the theories on fiction and possible worlds, seldom used by researchers of fantasy literature and film. These theories can offer a rather fruitful conceptual framework for understanding and describing fantasy, in all its appearances.

Fantasy and Possible Worlds

In the attempt to establish a theoretical framework for the analysis of fantasy novels and films, my own definition of fantasy worlds can become useful in this particular context: fictional worlds in fantasy literature are artifacts created through aesthetic activities that merge cosmological narratives of religion with the alternative designs of reality/the universe (mostly speculated by science). This definition has as a starting point Lubomír Doležel’s understanding of possible worlds found in religion and science.^[9] The first are represented by cosmological narratives and the latter describe potential versions, more or less true, of the real world/the universe. This is why it is important to look into the manner in which fantasy writers reinterpret and rewrite religious narrations, inside secondary worlds built as versions of reality (defined as an intertwining of possible words). On the other hand, in his analysis of the five fictional modes discussed by Northrop Frye^[10] (myths, romance, the high mimetic mode, the low mimetic mode and the ironic mode), Thomas Pavel states that “even in our reputedly ironic century, romance can be recognized in fantastic literature, or in religious fictions”^[11] as “we tend to exaggerate our period’s involvement with low and ironic modes, and its alleged withdrawal from the sacred and from myth.”^[12] For sure that the romance, with its heroes placed above the world they live in, is fantasy literature (I think Thomas Pavel does not refer to term fantastic literature as defined by Tzvetan Todorov).^[13]

The manner in which fantasy worlds are created can be explained and understood especially as a hybridization of possible worlds found in religion (as some fantasts do not discard the sacred and mythic material, but they rather brilliantly orchestrate it) and the alternative design of reality/the universe. The romance, reclaimed by fantasy, finds its correspondent in the modern myth,^[14] defined by Doležel in connection with the classical myth, starting through the semantic restructuration of the delimitation between the natural and the supernatural order. In the first version of the modern myth this border has been erased and the classical dyadic systems turns into a hybrid world; in the second version of the modern myth we find that the border has been kept, but the strong opposition between the natural and the supernatural order has become semantic communication. Doležel does not explore fantasy literature while discussing the modern myth. One can, nevertheless, place the immersive fantasy fictions (describing a vast and complex secondary world, as found in The Lord of the Rings) in the first version of the modern myth. The second version of the myth comes close to what Farah Mendlesohn defines as intrusive fantasy fictions (where the miraculous invades the primary world), but also portal-quest fantasy fictions that are the main object of study in the current paper. The semantic communication between the natural and the supernatural order is being insured through different portals, shaped in the form of fluid borders, that play a key role in the configuration of the dyadic fantasy system. Being both current expressions of the romance and versions of the modern myth, fantasy fictions are created through the merger of possible worlds in religion and the alternative design of reality/the universe. This is why such a definition can shed new light on the attempt to interpret secondary worlds.

Atone with the process of building and rebuilding possible words different in nature, the defamiliarization of the primary world (seen as a partial, fragmented mirror of reality) is the main structural procedure found at the core of secondary universes. Thomas Pavel states that despite being impossible versions of reality (as it is the case for fantasy worlds), fictional worlds are being perceived as possible due to the defamiliarization process: “whether fictional worlds represent credible accounts of our universes or give a version of universes contaminated by radical otherness, they tend to blur the distinction between laws in force in the actual world and small miracles specific to fiction.”^[15] I added to Thomas Pavel’s arguments the term defamiliarization, a term he also tackles when discussing the concept of mythification. The same manner of understanding fantasy fictions can be found in the comments of J. R. R. Tolkien, who affirms that secondary worlds must be created as such, in order to be perceived as real^[16] (the fantast has, therefore, the purpose to represent secondary worlds in a familiar manner, even if he or she defamiliarizes the reader’s reality). If we were to take the line argumentation a little further, it would be right to say that fantasy fictions hybridize cosmological narratives of religion with the alternative design of the universe, using defamiliarization as a structural procedure in building secondary worlds that are being perceived as possible.

This is how C. S. Lewis conceived his fantasy project The Chronicles of Narnia. The axiological and epistemic quests of the characters entering Narnia take place inside an alternative universe, coming to life through the rewriting of some mythological and Christian narrations. Religious elements, reinterpreted by the author, are the core of these journeys of initiation; moreover, they confer the secondary world a semantic depth.^[17] In other words, the characters’ initiations are marked by religious symbols and motives that configure the imaginary of The Chronicles of Narnia. The passage through a portal (the wardrobe, platform, painting, and gate) is continued by Christian, vegetal and Dionysian rites that turn out to be decisive in the axiological and epistemic quest of the characters.^[18] My endeavor begins with this particular argument, as I will analyze The Chronicles of Narnia and the manner in which C. S. Lewis rewrites several cultural narrations (found in numerous European spaces) and how, building on this, he creates an alternative cosmos with a hybrid cultural design. Moreover, I will interpret the main characters’ initiation journey into the secondary realm by exposing the link between their identity versions,^[19] the space and the religious imaginary found in the cinematic adaptation of the books. 

The primary world of the Pevensie brothers and of the other travelers into Narnia contain several ontic and deontic conflicts. These will be elements transferred into Aslan’s realm and defamiliarized. The portal showcases the structure of the secondary world by placing it under the mark of the miraculous. The latter is purified by dystopian images that emerge through the axiological and epistemic quests. Hence, next to the analysis of the cultural imaginary C. S. Lewis rewrites, my intent is to explore the connection between eutopian and dystopian fantasy that trigger the ontological transformations of the main characters and of the secondary space they inhabit. Dystopia in fantasy is of crucial importance, as it influences the fictional structure of the secondary world, due to the fact that the axiological and epistemic levels depend on the impact the negative imaginary has on the space and characters. Inside the secondary worlds, the general order is always flexible, as it oscillates between dystopian and eutopian structures, but solely eutopian fantasy has the capacity to regenerate itself. Characters from the primary world enter a dystopian land and through the structural metamorphosis of the miraculous realm, they manage to rebalance the primary world, as it emerges in symbiosis with the secondary world enabled by a semantic dialogue triggered by the portal. On the one hand, the mythological and Christian imaginary of C. S. Lewis[20] resembles a palimpsest that contains eutopian spaces. These spaces represent the inner quest of the characters and their rise into Aslan’s realm. On the other hand, dystopian spaces contain images of excessive rationality, of the negative miraculous found in fairy-tales (evil witches, dragons) and of infernal landscapes encountered in mythology. Through the rite of passing through a portal the main characters reach other ontological (identity) levels. Hence, I will discuss the eutopian character of Narnia to showcase how the secondary world keeps the primary world, affected by (de)ontic and axiological conflicts (the Pevensie brothers as orphans), in balance. If in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland the journey of the protagonist is marked by dystopia, The Chronicles of Narnia displays both eutopian and dystopian landscapes. This classical entanglement between eutopia and dystopia can be found in most portal-quest fictions, from the story of Peter Pan and Wendy (where the Darlings battle captain Hook), to The Neverending Story (Atreyu’s battle with the forces of Nothing) and the Harry Potter series (the clash between the protagonists and the devastating evil force of Voldemort).

Which are, in fact, the religious (mythic and Christian) elements that forge the alternative world imagined by C. S. Lewis and interpreted by the film director Andrew Adamson? Despite the cinematic adaptation of novel The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, directed by Michael Apted, I chose to discuss The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and Prince Caspian, as they display a unitary cinematic vision. Both movies contain a similar imaginary that combines Christian elements with fairy-tale features and stories taken form Greek mythology. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, on the other hand, builds on an aquatic and insular imaginary, as C. S. Lewis reinterprets symbolically old Celtic and Irish Sea journeys and quests for discovering terrestrial paradise. Katherine A. Fowkes took a closer look at the cinematic adaptation of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by linking it to other fantasy productions and underlining, with solid arguments, symbols and key scenes found in the movie.[21] Nevertheless, Fowkes just touches upon religious elements that mark the characters’ initiation journey, elements that are of key relevance for the existence of Narnia as Aslan’s realm.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe: Paradise Regained

Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe continues to be a negative realm, until Aslan appears. Jadis, becoming the White Witch, the daughter of Lilith, Adam’s first wife, uses black magic to turn Narnia into an eternal winter without Christmas. Jadis’ castle in Narnia resembles the post-apocalyptic kingdom she once ruled. This time her castle is filled with statues of satyrs, wolfs, foxes, centaurs and nymphs, Aslan’s supernatural creatures now turned into stone. One of the first signals that the lion returned and that paradise is being reestablished is the Pevensies’ encounter with Santa Clause and receiving their gifts. Banning Christmas suppresses the magical thinking in order to rebuild Narnia on an exclusively rational thinking, as the elements of the old Narnian (magical) paradise have been eradicated. Moreover, the White Witch, followed by her evil sidekick, the wolf Maugrim, as captain of the secret police, resembles the figure of the dictator. In this book C. S. Lewis depicts the characteristics of totalitarian regimes that came into power in the first half of the 20th century. 

Through Aslan’s return the paradisiac realm, found in The Magician’s Nephew, will be recreated. Narnia’s rebirth is narrated by C. S. Lewis in an ingenious manner by opposing Aslan’s regenerating powers to the White Witch’s dystopian powers. This rebirth is initiated while the Witch travels by sleigh to find Edmund’s siblings, while Narnia’s regeneration is represented through rituals resembling Aslan’s orphic hymns that initially created this landscape. Such a narrative strategy implies an alternation between dystopian and eutopian elements through which Lewis captures the gradual dissipation of malefic powers and the rise of a paradisiac nature.

In The Magician’s Nephew the lion emerges as a hybrid Demiurge (God, Dionysus and Pan), while in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe Aslan resembles the figure of Christ, sacrificing himself in order to free Edmund. The Christian archetype represented is the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ, with the lion taking the role of the savior. Moreover, Lewis depicts Aslan as a creature containing the Trinity – the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit –but also marked by a Dionysian identity. In exchange for Edmund’s freedom (for becoming king of Narnia, he will become the White Witch’s follower) Jadis asks Aslan to sacrifice himself, a ritual she will perform herself. The lion is killed on the Stone Table (symbolizing the Cross) placed on a hill, which stands for Golgotha. Aslan’s sacrifice is conducted on a Walpurgis Night, orchestrated by the White Witch. These scenes display the author’s intentions to merge Christian and pagan myths in order to rebuild an alternative world to these myths, but also a scripture that contains reminiscent magical rituals. Before being stabbed, Aslan like Samson gets his mane cut by an ogre, due to the fact that the mane symbolizes fertility and light. Susan and Lucy fulfill the roles of the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene (although they could also stand for Lazarus’ sisters, Martha and Mary) as they are the only ones to see Aslan after the resurrection. In this biblical scenario Edmund is Judas for being manipulated by the White Witch and betraying Aslan.

Another act of creation is the bringing to life of the miraculous creatures turned into stone by the White Witch. In this scene, Aslan displays features of a resurrected Christ and the Holy Ghost. The battle of the Fords of Beruna, between Peter’s army (having as coat of arms the lion – linking it to Richard the Lionheart crusades against the pagans) and the army of the White Witch represents a symbolic battle, as the one fought on the fields of Armageddon. The dystopian forces of the Witch are destroyed by creatures (giants, centaurs, dryads etc.) with magical powers, creatures resurrected by Aslan. Through this final clash, Paradise is reinstalled in Narnia.

Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy are crowned kings and queens of Narnia and are mythified in relation to their identity in the primary world, as, once they reach adulthood in Narnia, they forget their world of origin. Once they return to the world they escaped from through the wardrobe, the four children regain their initial identity. This time it is a hybrid identity, as it also contains the magical nature of Narnia. This hybrid identity is the result of the initiation journey the identity versions of the characters made into Narnia, identity versions that emerged inside the portal.

Prince Caspian – Seeing and Believing

In the Magician’s Nephew and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe the imaginary of the secondary world is a symbolic one, as it showcases cosmic conflicts and supernatural characters. Prince Caspian displays an imaginary built as a cross between magical elements and issues of socio-political nature. The role of the White Witch is taken by the Telmarine king Miraz, Caspian’s uncle, who killed his own brother (King Caspian IX), thus taking the throne from the rightful heir, his nephew the future Caspian X. Narnia is now similar to the world the Pevensie brothers originate from, because it has been demythified by Miraz’s tyranny. The return of Aslan and the kings of Narnia is necessary in order to reestablish the paradise in the realm conquered by the Telmarines.

Miraz attempts to suppress Caspian’s magical thinking and his beliefs in the existence of a landscape where Dryads, Fauns, Centaurs and other creatures of Aslan still roam free. This landscape and its magical inhabitants have been completely erased from the collective memory of the Telmarines. The old Narnia has been forgotten or fictionalized and myths have become inaccessible in the secondary world. The Telmarines are frightened by nature’s irrational forces (forests, waters) due to their pragmatic thinking and existence. Aslan will bring the sleeping spirits of the trees (Hamadryads) to life, spirits that will battle the usurper. In Prince Caspian we encounter a vegetal (panic-Dionysian) imaginary. This is reflected by Aslan’s followers, Bacchus, Silesius and the maenads, but also through the recurrence of Dionysian rituals and dances that celebrate nature’s fertility and the abolishment of the disenchanted order.

Aslan, considered by Trumpkin the dwarf, a mythical, hence an inexistent creature, appears to Lucy in a Christian manner, similar to how Jesus Christ, after the resurrection, came to Mary Magdalene. The resurrection motive is being reinterpreted throughout the novel. Hence, we find Nikabrik the dwarf, as doubting Thomas, who is skeptical about Aslan’s resurrection after being sacrificed by the White Witch; Peter, Susan and Edmund are not able to see Aslan, as they are disbelievers. Once again, the three brothers do not listen to Lucy (who already saw Aslan) and will not sense the lion’s presence. The same disbelief made their entrance to Narnia, through the wardrobe, impossible. This time it is the lack of faith in Aslan’s reappearance that bars them from seeing him and not the absence of magical thinking, as it was the case in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Peter and Susan cannot see Aslan from the beginning, as they are about to become adults and be fully part of the primary world. Moreover, at the end of the novel, the lion tells both Susan and Peter that they will never return to Narnia.

The Dionysian followers of Aslan will reestablish the vegetal order in the realm overtaken by the Telmarines. Aslan, in his Christian role, will heal Caspian’s nanny, cure Reepicheep’s the mouse tail (as Christ healed the blind man) and will travel through Narnia in order to convert as many Telmarines as possible to his magical cult. The Dionysian ritual of reconstructing Narnia as a vegetal paradise is ended by a dance and feast of abundance, celebrating the triumph of magical thought and the imagination over the coercive, rational order.

Caspian’s salvation is not a pretext used to narrate and initiate this mythical scenario. The Telmarines turned Narnia in a dystopia, quite different from the one created by the White Witch. This is now a world deprived of magic and blind to myth, hence a socio-political dystopia (in the limits of an imaginary found in fantasy). Caspian’s journey of initiation is a metamorphosis that will release any form of Telmarine evil and thus enabling him to reach the status of Adam’s Son. The young king is now worthy of his noble past, be part of the same line of the mythic kings of Narnia and be the real inheritor to Narnia’s throne. By reaching this status, Caspian also reaches “other levels of being”^[22] that exhibit Narnian features.

Conclusions

The novels written by C.S Lewis are complex religious narratives that shed light on the axiological and epistemic quest of the characters from the primary world, who enter Narnia through portals. The films directed by Andrew Adamson are an addition to the series, as they depict the miraculous realm with a tremendous imagistic power, staging original film scenes. Despite the fact that Lucy Pevensie (played by Georgie Henley) enters, through the wardrobe, a dystopian Narnia governed by the White Witch, the secondary world appears to the viewer in a fairy-like manner, while the atmosphere of this realm is one of joy fueled by the presence of Tumnus the Faun (played by James McAvoy). In other words, despite being turned into a negative and endangered space, Narnia in Andrew Adamson’s movies is a sacred landscape that reflects the idea of the numinous. Moreover, the White Witch’s castle, an essential evil space, is depicted as a glacial, crystal like beautiful scenery, proving that Adamson staged the sense of wonder found in dystopia, instead of portraying its classical, deathly and monstrous appearances. If C. S. Lewis created in Narnia an alternative cosmos, with religious traits and an universe containing both its Genesis and Apocalypse, the Narnia found in movies is masterfully coined and put into carefully crafted images, as the director sought a proper design for creating the idea of a miraculous world, but also a possible world, that would be perceived by the viewer as real. In Prince Caspian we are dealing with a negative and demythified realm, all by the hands of King Miraz, but the director chose to depict, in detail, Narnia’s resurrection through Dionysian rituals and Aslan’s intervention. Probably the most cleverly depicted scene is the one in which Lucy enters Narnia through the wardrobe, a moment that is just as famous as Alice’s fall through the rabbit’s hole in Tim Burton’s interpretation of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The manner in which Andrew Adamson orchestrates Lucy’s transition through the portal was one of the starting points of my theory on the portals in fantasy literature, a topic I extensively discussed in my dissertation. As Lucy enters Narnia, the viewer not only senses an ontological rupture, but also suffers a transformation of identity, as the portal ignites the founding rite of passage that will be carried out through the initiation journey into the secondary world. Fantasy fictions and movies do not have such a large audience just because they offer an escape from reality, but mostly because they manage to build magical worlds with a complex design and religious language, altering, on a daily basis, our images and perception of what reality really is.

Filmography

Prince Caspian (2008), directed by Andrew Adamson, Walden Media & Walt Disney Pictures.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005), directed by Andrew Adamson, Walden Media & Walt Disney Pictures.

Bibliography

Attebery, Brian, The Fantasy Tradition in American Literature, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1980.

Bloom, Harold (ed.), C. S. Lewis, New York, Chelsea House Publishers, 2006.

Doležel, Lubomír, Heterocosmica: Fiction and Possible World, Baltimore and London, The John Hopkins University Press, 1998.

Fowkes, Katherine A., The Fantasy Film, Chichester, Wiley-Blackwell, 2010.

Hume, Kathryn, Fantasy and Mimesis: Responses to Reality in Western Literature, New York, Methuen, 1984.

Manlove, C. N., Modern Fantasy: Five Studies, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1975.

Mendlesohn, Farah, Rhetorics of Fantasy, Middletown, Wesleyan University Press, 2008.

Pavel, Thomas, Fictional Worlds, Fictional Worlds, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1986.

Todorov, Tzvetan, Introduction à la littérature fantastique, Paris, Editions du Seuil, 1970.

Walters, James, Alternative Worlds in Hollywood Cinema, Chicago, Intellect Books, 2008.

Wolf, Mark J. P., Building Imaginary Worlds, New York, Routledge, 2012.

Wolfe, Gary K., Critical Terms for Science Fiction and Fantasy, New York, Greenwood Press, 1986.

This work was supported by a grant of the Romanian National Authority for Scientific Research, CNCS – UEFISCDI, project number PN-II-ID-PCE-2011-3-0061.

Notes

Marius Conkan
Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania
mariusconkan@yahoo.com.sg

From Fantasy Fiction to Film:

The Chronicles of Narnia as Religious Spaces

Abstract: What is the nature of fantasy worlds created in literature and in cinema? If these worlds are not impossible in accordance to reality, what is their structure beyond the ontological rupture they generate? I will attempt an answer by discussing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950) and Prince Caspian (1951), the first two volumes from The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis and their cinematic adaptations, directed by Andrew Adamson and launched in 2005 and 2008, respectively. In my endeavor I will define the structure of the secondary worlds that showcase, on a first level, a mix of eutopian and dystopian spaces infused by a teratological imaginary, one of the main features of such spaces. How do fantasy worlds emerge, beyond their axiological features that confer them semantic value? In the attempt to establish a theoretical framework for the analysis of fantasy novels and films, my own definition of fantasy worlds can become useful in this particular context: fictional worlds in fantasy literature are artifacts created through aesthetic activities that merge cosmological narratives of religion with the alternative designs of reality/the universe (mostly speculated by science).

Keywords: Fantasy Film; The Chronicles of Narnia; Ontological Rupture; Possible Worlds; Alternative Design of Reality; Religious Spaces; Eutopia; Dystopia. 

The complexity of fantasy worlds has become visible once famous novels have been turned into movies for the big screen: The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien, The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling or A song of Ice and Fire series by George R. R. Martin. Fantasy literature is highly visual, a trait that arises as it creates fairy-like landscapes and a spectacular inconography that has as the major effect the sense of wonder. C. S. Lewis, for instance, confessed that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe started with an obsessive image he had, in which a faun walked around with an umbrella in a snowy forest. This miraculous image was the little “Big Bang” of Narnia, the mystical world that, along with Wonderland, Neverland and Middle-Earth, represents today alternative or even complementary universes to what we perceive as being real. Their heterotopian features increase as they transcend the boundaries of literature and enter the big screen. Katherine A. Fowkes and other researchers found the roots of fantasy and science-fiction films at the dawn of the cinema age:

The French filmmaker Georges Méliès (1861–1938) is rightly credited with being the father of science-fiction and fantasy film. His famous short film A Trip to the Moon (1902) is regarded as the first sci-fi film, and other one-reel shorts such as Cinderella (1899) established the fairy-tale tradition that would come to inform so many fantasy films.[1]

Fantasy literature emerged as a reaction against the 19th-century realism, but also against the values of rationality, the consequences of the rise of science and technology (due to the Industrial Revolution). This type of literature reflected the visions of romantic poets, like Wordsworth and Coleridge, in evoking the essential creative function of imagination that builds miraculous spaces, combined with a specific mysticism (George MacDonald wrote a type of religious fantasy that would later influence J. R. R. Tolkien’s and C. S. Lewis’ writings). Fantasy worlds in cinema are being displayed and staged by using sophisticated technologies, proving that such movies can harmoniously combine the imagination of fantasts and film directors with the instruments of science and technology. These entanglements recreate a third space, in which the miraculous and the means of its production come to life. A high quality fantasy movie uses special effects in order to depict the imaginary world and make the viewer perceive it as reality. A brilliant fantasy movie director must therefore have a fantast’s talent, if we were to follow George MacDonald’s and J. R. R. Tolkien’s line of arguments. Such a fantast-director has the mission to recreate autonomous worlds, coherent and in accordance with the inner laws they uphold. Hence, the viewer must never sense that he or she is part of an illusion. That is why the internal laws of fantasy movies have to be mathematically orchestrated, both on the level of the imaginary and in the technical production stage. Such an effort confers consistency to the secondary worlds and avoids mistakes that could cause the demise and dismissal of the created alternative reality.

The internal laws of fantasy worlds encountered in cinema depend on how the fantastic/the miraculous imagination, the fairy-tale structure and the technological mechanisms (special effects, editing scenes and images, manners of filming) merge together, as they reinterpret the narrative for the big screen. This is the main difference between fantasy and science-fiction movies, as “science fiction uses technology to tell stories about technology and science, we might say that fantasy harnesses cinema’s ability to create illusions in order to tell stories about illusions themselves.”[2] These so-called illusions (magical, supernatural) will be perceived as real, as long as viewers interact with and react to them. Cinema goers and passionate fantasy literature readers become a “constellated community,”[3] in which reality is interpreted by applying magical and miraculous principles. For such communities, fantasy films are not a mere source of pleasure and entertainment, but they can actually turn into personal and collective religions, catalyzing the ideas of joy and festival “where humanity actively affirms and celebrates life and community.”[4] The concept of festival inherently belongs to fantasy fictions, as found in Peter Pan and Wendy, The Chronicles of Narnia or The Lord of the Rings. In this respect, Tolkien states that the term joy defines all fairy-stories and it can be viewed in close relationship with the notion of “eucatastrophe,” meaning good catastrophe.

Fantasy Films and the “Ontological Rupture”

          Far from being a “box-office poison,”[5] as fantasy movies have been wrongfully labeled by critics, such films have become the object of studies that manage to define and depict their working mechanisms. The same reorientation can be found in the manner in which fantasy literature has become more than children’s literature, due to numerous researchers that have attempted to define and legitimate the term. Fantasy is seen as a territory of the impossible and non-reason, contradicting all that readers understand and see as reality and possibility (C. N. Manlove, Brian Attebery, Kathryn Hume). Moreover, fantasy literature today has found various territories and angles of interpretation: from psychoanalysis, theories of fiction to theories of space and place. There are some critics that explore the alternative worlds of cinema and fantasy genre using literary theory and instruments of analysis found in film theories. James Walters identifies three categories of alternative worlds depicted by the Hollywood industry:

The three categories that I suggest alternative world films fall into are (i) Imagined Worlds, where a character dreams or hallucinates a world away from the world they inhabit, (ii) Potential Worlds, where a character visits an alternative version – or – alternative versions – of the world they inhabit, and (iii) Other Worlds, where a character travels to a different world entirely from the world they inhabit.[6]

Portal-quest fantasy movies, in which one or several characters literally enter through a portal a miraculous territory, fit into the third category; nevertheless, it is not necessary that the Other Worlds display magical or supernatural traits. It is more relevant that “in these films, an access point is provided into a realm dramatically distinct from the ordinary (fictional) world of the film,”[7] a feature that actually differentiates Other Worlds from Imagined or Potential Worlds. Generally speaking, fantasy films can illustrate all three types of alternative worlds James Walters identifies. Moreover, this proves their structural diversity, but does not reveal the manner in which fantasy worlds are created. A more accurate approach to the nature and function of fantasy films and the alternative worlds they contain is offered by Katherine A. Fowkes:

My own definition is that that the audience must at the very least perceive an “ontological rupture” – a break between what the audience agrees is “reality” and the fantastic phenomena that define the narrative world. The word “rupture” distinguishes the fantastic elements in fantasy from those in science fiction, where fantastic phenomena are ostensibly extrapolations or extensions of rational, scientific principles. […] The term “ontological” denotes the fact that fantastic phenomena are understood to really exist within the story-world – an existence as real as the reference world from which they break.[8]

Both fantasy fiction and movies cause an ontological rupture in the readers’ and viewers’ perception. This ontological rupture can be explained, in the terms of Russian formalism, by the effect of an acute defamiliarization of reality. Such a rupture is especially visible in portal-quest movies and fictions, as characters leave their primary (quasi realistic) world and enter, through a portal, a secondary (miraculous) world that defamiliarizes the affective and imaginary content of the primary world. Fowkes’s definition (applied also to fantasy literature, as I pointed out) delivers premises for a new interpretation of the secondary worlds that were wrongfully seen in an impossible relationship with the real world, for the latter is understood as a system of reference. In accordance with the ontological rupture that takes place on the perception level of viewers and readers alike, magical and supernatural elements are possible inside the fantasy world, as they comply with the internal laws of these worlds; hence, they must not be interpreted and understood through the lenses of the laws governing reality. Such an approach gradually leads to theories of fiction and possible worlds. What is the nature of fantasy worlds created in literature and in cinema? If these worlds are not impossible in accordance to reality, what is their structure beyond the ontological rupture they generate? I will attempt an answer by discussing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950) and Prince Caspian (1951), the first two volumes from The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis and their cinematic adaptations, directed by Andrew Adamson and launched in 2005 and 2008, respectively. In my endeavor I will define the structure of the secondary worlds that showcase, on a first level, a mix of eutopian and dystopian spaces infused by a teratological imaginary, one of the main features of such spaces. How do fantasy worlds emerge, beyond their axiological features that confer them semantic value? For now, we can start by exploring some of the theories on fiction and possible worlds, seldom used by researchers of fantasy literature and film. These theories can offer a rather fruitful conceptual framework for understanding and describing fantasy, in all its appearances.

Fantasy and Possible Worlds

In the attempt to establish a theoretical framework for the analysis of fantasy novels and films, my own definition of fantasy worlds can become useful in this particular context: fictional worlds in fantasy literature are artifacts created through aesthetic activities that merge cosmological narratives of religion with the alternative designs of reality/the universe (mostly speculated by science). This definition has as a starting point Lubomír Doležel’s understanding of possible worlds found in religion and science.^[9] The first are represented by cosmological narratives and the latter describe potential versions, more or less true, of the real world/the universe. This is why it is important to look into the manner in which fantasy writers reinterpret and rewrite religious narrations, inside secondary worlds built as versions of reality (defined as an intertwining of possible words). On the other hand, in his analysis of the five fictional modes discussed by Northrop Frye^[10] (myths, romance, the high mimetic mode, the low mimetic mode and the ironic mode), Thomas Pavel states that “even in our reputedly ironic century, romance can be recognized in fantastic literature, or in religious fictions”^[11] as “we tend to exaggerate our period’s involvement with low and ironic modes, and its alleged withdrawal from the sacred and from myth.”^[12] For sure that the romance, with its heroes placed above the world they live in, is fantasy literature (I think Thomas Pavel does not refer to term fantastic literature as defined by Tzvetan Todorov).^[13]

The manner in which fantasy worlds are created can be explained and understood especially as a hybridization of possible worlds found in religion (as some fantasts do not discard the sacred and mythic material, but they rather brilliantly orchestrate it) and the alternative design of reality/the universe. The romance, reclaimed by fantasy, finds its correspondent in the modern myth,^[14] defined by Doležel in connection with the classical myth, starting through the semantic restructuration of the delimitation between the natural and the supernatural order. In the first version of the modern myth this border has been erased and the classical dyadic systems turns into a hybrid world; in the second version of the modern myth we find that the border has been kept, but the strong opposition between the natural and the supernatural order has become semantic communication. Doležel does not explore fantasy literature while discussing the modern myth. One can, nevertheless, place the immersive fantasy fictions (describing a vast and complex secondary world, as found in The Lord of the Rings) in the first version of the modern myth. The second version of the myth comes close to what Farah Mendlesohn defines as intrusive fantasy fictions (where the miraculous invades the primary world), but also portal-quest fantasy fictions that are the main object of study in the current paper. The semantic communication between the natural and the supernatural order is being insured through different portals, shaped in the form of fluid borders, that play a key role in the configuration of the dyadic fantasy system. Being both current expressions of the romance and versions of the modern myth, fantasy fictions are created through the merger of possible worlds in religion and the alternative design of reality/the universe. This is why such a definition can shed new light on the attempt to interpret secondary worlds.

Atone with the process of building and rebuilding possible words different in nature, the defamiliarization of the primary world (seen as a partial, fragmented mirror of reality) is the main structural procedure found at the core of secondary universes. Thomas Pavel states that despite being impossible versions of reality (as it is the case for fantasy worlds), fictional worlds are being perceived as possible due to the defamiliarization process: “whether fictional worlds represent credible accounts of our universes or give a version of universes contaminated by radical otherness, they tend to blur the distinction between laws in force in the actual world and small miracles specific to fiction.”^[15] I added to Thomas Pavel’s arguments the term defamiliarization, a term he also tackles when discussing the concept of mythification. The same manner of understanding fantasy fictions can be found in the comments of J. R. R. Tolkien, who affirms that secondary worlds must be created as such, in order to be perceived as real^[16] (the fantast has, therefore, the purpose to represent secondary worlds in a familiar manner, even if he or she defamiliarizes the reader’s reality). If we were to take the line argumentation a little further, it would be right to say that fantasy fictions hybridize cosmological narratives of religion with the alternative design of the universe, using defamiliarization as a structural procedure in building secondary worlds that are being perceived as possible.

This is how C. S. Lewis conceived his fantasy project The Chronicles of Narnia. The axiological and epistemic quests of the characters entering Narnia take place inside an alternative universe, coming to life through the rewriting of some mythological and Christian narrations. Religious elements, reinterpreted by the author, are the core of these journeys of initiation; moreover, they confer the secondary world a semantic depth.^[17] In other words, the characters’ initiations are marked by religious symbols and motives that configure the imaginary of The Chronicles of Narnia. The passage through a portal (the wardrobe, platform, painting, and gate) is continued by Christian, vegetal and Dionysian rites that turn out to be decisive in the axiological and epistemic quest of the characters.^[18] My endeavor begins with this particular argument, as I will analyze The Chronicles of Narnia and the manner in which C. S. Lewis rewrites several cultural narrations (found in numerous European spaces) and how, building on this, he creates an alternative cosmos with a hybrid cultural design. Moreover, I will interpret the main characters’ initiation journey into the secondary realm by exposing the link between their identity versions,^[19] the space and the religious imaginary found in the cinematic adaptation of the books. 

The primary world of the Pevensie brothers and of the other travelers into Narnia contain several ontic and deontic conflicts. These will be elements transferred into Aslan’s realm and defamiliarized. The portal showcases the structure of the secondary world by placing it under the mark of the miraculous. The latter is purified by dystopian images that emerge through the axiological and epistemic quests. Hence, next to the analysis of the cultural imaginary C. S. Lewis rewrites, my intent is to explore the connection between eutopian and dystopian fantasy that trigger the ontological transformations of the main characters and of the secondary space they inhabit. Dystopia in fantasy is of crucial importance, as it influences the fictional structure of the secondary world, due to the fact that the axiological and epistemic levels depend on the impact the negative imaginary has on the space and characters. Inside the secondary worlds, the general order is always flexible, as it oscillates between dystopian and eutopian structures, but solely eutopian fantasy has the capacity to regenerate itself. Characters from the primary world enter a dystopian land and through the structural metamorphosis of the miraculous realm, they manage to rebalance the primary world, as it emerges in symbiosis with the secondary world enabled by a semantic dialogue triggered by the portal. On the one hand, the mythological and Christian imaginary of C. S. Lewis[20] resembles a palimpsest that contains eutopian spaces. These spaces represent the inner quest of the characters and their rise into Aslan’s realm. On the other hand, dystopian spaces contain images of excessive rationality, of the negative miraculous found in fairy-tales (evil witches, dragons) and of infernal landscapes encountered in mythology. Through the rite of passing through a portal the main characters reach other ontological (identity) levels. Hence, I will discuss the eutopian character of Narnia to showcase how the secondary world keeps the primary world, affected by (de)ontic and axiological conflicts (the Pevensie brothers as orphans), in balance. If in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland the journey of the protagonist is marked by dystopia, The Chronicles of Narnia displays both eutopian and dystopian landscapes. This classical entanglement between eutopia and dystopia can be found in most portal-quest fictions, from the story of Peter Pan and Wendy (where the Darlings battle captain Hook), to The Neverending Story (Atreyu’s battle with the forces of Nothing) and the Harry Potter series (the clash between the protagonists and the devastating evil force of Voldemort).

Which are, in fact, the religious (mythic and Christian) elements that forge the alternative world imagined by C. S. Lewis and interpreted by the film director Andrew Adamson? Despite the cinematic adaptation of novel The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, directed by Michael Apted, I chose to discuss The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and Prince Caspian, as they display a unitary cinematic vision. Both movies contain a similar imaginary that combines Christian elements with fairy-tale features and stories taken form Greek mythology. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, on the other hand, builds on an aquatic and insular imaginary, as C. S. Lewis reinterprets symbolically old Celtic and Irish Sea journeys and quests for discovering terrestrial paradise. Katherine A. Fowkes took a closer look at the cinematic adaptation of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by linking it to other fantasy productions and underlining, with solid arguments, symbols and key scenes found in the movie.[21] Nevertheless, Fowkes just touches upon religious elements that mark the characters’ initiation journey, elements that are of key relevance for the existence of Narnia as Aslan’s realm.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe: Paradise Regained

Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe continues to be a negative realm, until Aslan appears. Jadis, becoming the White Witch, the daughter of Lilith, Adam’s first wife, uses black magic to turn Narnia into an eternal winter without Christmas. Jadis’ castle in Narnia resembles the post-apocalyptic kingdom she once ruled. This time her castle is filled with statues of satyrs, wolfs, foxes, centaurs and nymphs, Aslan’s supernatural creatures now turned into stone. One of the first signals that the lion returned and that paradise is being reestablished is the Pevensies’ encounter with Santa Clause and receiving their gifts. Banning Christmas suppresses the magical thinking in order to rebuild Narnia on an exclusively rational thinking, as the elements of the old Narnian (magical) paradise have been eradicated. Moreover, the White Witch, followed by her evil sidekick, the wolf Maugrim, as captain of the secret police, resembles the figure of the dictator. In this book C. S. Lewis depicts the characteristics of totalitarian regimes that came into power in the first half of the 20th century. 

Through Aslan’s return the paradisiac realm, found in The Magician’s Nephew, will be recreated. Narnia’s rebirth is narrated by C. S. Lewis in an ingenious manner by opposing Aslan’s regenerating powers to the White Witch’s dystopian powers. This rebirth is initiated while the Witch travels by sleigh to find Edmund’s siblings, while Narnia’s regeneration is represented through rituals resembling Aslan’s orphic hymns that initially created this landscape. Such a narrative strategy implies an alternation between dystopian and eutopian elements through which Lewis captures the gradual dissipation of malefic powers and the rise of a paradisiac nature.

In The Magician’s Nephew the lion emerges as a hybrid Demiurge (God, Dionysus and Pan), while in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe Aslan resembles the figure of Christ, sacrificing himself in order to free Edmund. The Christian archetype represented is the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ, with the lion taking the role of the savior. Moreover, Lewis depicts Aslan as a creature containing the Trinity – the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit –but also marked by a Dionysian identity. In exchange for Edmund’s freedom (for becoming king of Narnia, he will become the White Witch’s follower) Jadis asks Aslan to sacrifice himself, a ritual she will perform herself. The lion is killed on the Stone Table (symbolizing the Cross) placed on a hill, which stands for Golgotha. Aslan’s sacrifice is conducted on a Walpurgis Night, orchestrated by the White Witch. These scenes display the author’s intentions to merge Christian and pagan myths in order to rebuild an alternative world to these myths, but also a scripture that contains reminiscent magical rituals. Before being stabbed, Aslan like Samson gets his mane cut by an ogre, due to the fact that the mane symbolizes fertility and light. Susan and Lucy fulfill the roles of the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene (although they could also stand for Lazarus’ sisters, Martha and Mary) as they are the only ones to see Aslan after the resurrection. In this biblical scenario Edmund is Judas for being manipulated by the White Witch and betraying Aslan.

Another act of creation is the bringing to life of the miraculous creatures turned into stone by the White Witch. In this scene, Aslan displays features of a resurrected Christ and the Holy Ghost. The battle of the Fords of Beruna, between Peter’s army (having as coat of arms the lion – linking it to Richard the Lionheart crusades against the pagans) and the army of the White Witch represents a symbolic battle, as the one fought on the fields of Armageddon. The dystopian forces of the Witch are destroyed by creatures (giants, centaurs, dryads etc.) with magical powers, creatures resurrected by Aslan. Through this final clash, Paradise is reinstalled in Narnia.

Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy are crowned kings and queens of Narnia and are mythified in relation to their identity in the primary world, as, once they reach adulthood in Narnia, they forget their world of origin. Once they return to the world they escaped from through the wardrobe, the four children regain their initial identity. This time it is a hybrid identity, as it also contains the magical nature of Narnia. This hybrid identity is the result of the initiation journey the identity versions of the characters made into Narnia, identity versions that emerged inside the portal.

Prince Caspian – Seeing and Believing

In the Magician’s Nephew and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe the imaginary of the secondary world is a symbolic one, as it showcases cosmic conflicts and supernatural characters. Prince Caspian displays an imaginary built as a cross between magical elements and issues of socio-political nature. The role of the White Witch is taken by the Telmarine king Miraz, Caspian’s uncle, who killed his own brother (King Caspian IX), thus taking the throne from the rightful heir, his nephew the future Caspian X. Narnia is now similar to the world the Pevensie brothers originate from, because it has been demythified by Miraz’s tyranny. The return of Aslan and the kings of Narnia is necessary in order to reestablish the paradise in the realm conquered by the Telmarines.

Miraz attempts to suppress Caspian’s magical thinking and his beliefs in the existence of a landscape where Dryads, Fauns, Centaurs and other creatures of Aslan still roam free. This landscape and its magical inhabitants have been completely erased from the collective memory of the Telmarines. The old Narnia has been forgotten or fictionalized and myths have become inaccessible in the secondary world. The Telmarines are frightened by nature’s irrational forces (forests, waters) due to their pragmatic thinking and existence. Aslan will bring the sleeping spirits of the trees (Hamadryads) to life, spirits that will battle the usurper. In Prince Caspian we encounter a vegetal (panic-Dionysian) imaginary. This is reflected by Aslan’s followers, Bacchus, Silesius and the maenads, but also through the recurrence of Dionysian rituals and dances that celebrate nature’s fertility and the abolishment of the disenchanted order.

Aslan, considered by Trumpkin the dwarf, a mythical, hence an inexistent creature, appears to Lucy in a Christian manner, similar to how Jesus Christ, after the resurrection, came to Mary Magdalene. The resurrection motive is being reinterpreted throughout the novel. Hence, we find Nikabrik the dwarf, as doubting Thomas, who is skeptical about Aslan’s resurrection after being sacrificed by the White Witch; Peter, Susan and Edmund are not able to see Aslan, as they are disbelievers. Once again, the three brothers do not listen to Lucy (who already saw Aslan) and will not sense the lion’s presence. The same disbelief made their entrance to Narnia, through the wardrobe, impossible. This time it is the lack of faith in Aslan’s reappearance that bars them from seeing him and not the absence of magical thinking, as it was the case in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Peter and Susan cannot see Aslan from the beginning, as they are about to become adults and be fully part of the primary world. Moreover, at the end of the novel, the lion tells both Susan and Peter that they will never return to Narnia.

The Dionysian followers of Aslan will reestablish the vegetal order in the realm overtaken by the Telmarines. Aslan, in his Christian role, will heal Caspian’s nanny, cure Reepicheep’s the mouse tail (as Christ healed the blind man) and will travel through Narnia in order to convert as many Telmarines as possible to his magical cult. The Dionysian ritual of reconstructing Narnia as a vegetal paradise is ended by a dance and feast of abundance, celebrating the triumph of magical thought and the imagination over the coercive, rational order.

Caspian’s salvation is not a pretext used to narrate and initiate this mythical scenario. The Telmarines turned Narnia in a dystopia, quite different from the one created by the White Witch. This is now a world deprived of magic and blind to myth, hence a socio-political dystopia (in the limits of an imaginary found in fantasy). Caspian’s journey of initiation is a metamorphosis that will release any form of Telmarine evil and thus enabling him to reach the status of Adam’s Son. The young king is now worthy of his noble past, be part of the same line of the mythic kings of Narnia and be the real inheritor to Narnia’s throne. By reaching this status, Caspian also reaches “other levels of being”^[22] that exhibit Narnian features.

Conclusions

The novels written by C.S Lewis are complex religious narratives that shed light on the axiological and epistemic quest of the characters from the primary world, who enter Narnia through portals. The films directed by Andrew Adamson are an addition to the series, as they depict the miraculous realm with a tremendous imagistic power, staging original film scenes. Despite the fact that Lucy Pevensie (played by Georgie Henley) enters, through the wardrobe, a dystopian Narnia governed by the White Witch, the secondary world appears to the viewer in a fairy-like manner, while the atmosphere of this realm is one of joy fueled by the presence of Tumnus the Faun (played by James McAvoy). In other words, despite being turned into a negative and endangered space, Narnia in Andrew Adamson’s movies is a sacred landscape that reflects the idea of the numinous. Moreover, the White Witch’s castle, an essential evil space, is depicted as a glacial, crystal like beautiful scenery, proving that Adamson staged the sense of wonder found in dystopia, instead of portraying its classical, deathly and monstrous appearances. If C. S. Lewis created in Narnia an alternative cosmos, with religious traits and an universe containing both its Genesis and Apocalypse, the Narnia found in movies is masterfully coined and put into carefully crafted images, as the director sought a proper design for creating the idea of a miraculous world, but also a possible world, that would be perceived by the viewer as real. In Prince Caspian we are dealing with a negative and demythified realm, all by the hands of King Miraz, but the director chose to depict, in detail, Narnia’s resurrection through Dionysian rituals and Aslan’s intervention. Probably the most cleverly depicted scene is the one in which Lucy enters Narnia through the wardrobe, a moment that is just as famous as Alice’s fall through the rabbit’s hole in Tim Burton’s interpretation of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The manner in which Andrew Adamson orchestrates Lucy’s transition through the portal was one of the starting points of my theory on the portals in fantasy literature, a topic I extensively discussed in my dissertation. As Lucy enters Narnia, the viewer not only senses an ontological rupture, but also suffers a transformation of identity, as the portal ignites the founding rite of passage that will be carried out through the initiation journey into the secondary world. Fantasy fictions and movies do not have such a large audience just because they offer an escape from reality, but mostly because they manage to build magical worlds with a complex design and religious language, altering, on a daily basis, our images and perception of what reality really is.

Filmography

Prince Caspian (2008), directed by Andrew Adamson, Walden Media & Walt Disney Pictures.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005), directed by Andrew Adamson, Walden Media & Walt Disney Pictures.

Bibliography

Attebery, Brian, The Fantasy Tradition in American Literature, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1980.

Bloom, Harold (ed.), C. S. Lewis, New York, Chelsea House Publishers, 2006.

Doležel, Lubomír, Heterocosmica: Fiction and Possible World, Baltimore and London, The John Hopkins University Press, 1998.

Fowkes, Katherine A., The Fantasy Film, Chichester, Wiley-Blackwell, 2010.

Hume, Kathryn, Fantasy and Mimesis: Responses to Reality in Western Literature, New York, Methuen, 1984.

Manlove, C. N., Modern Fantasy: Five Studies, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1975.

Mendlesohn, Farah, Rhetorics of Fantasy, Middletown, Wesleyan University Press, 2008.

Pavel, Thomas, Fictional Worlds, Fictional Worlds, Cambridge, Harvard University Press, 1986.

Todorov, Tzvetan, Introduction à la littérature fantastique, Paris, Editions du Seuil, 1970.

Walters, James, Alternative Worlds in Hollywood Cinema, Chicago, Intellect Books, 2008.

Wolf, Mark J. P., Building Imaginary Worlds, New York, Routledge, 2012.

Wolfe, Gary K., Critical Terms for Science Fiction and Fantasy, New York, Greenwood Press, 1986.

This work was supported by a grant of the Romanian National Authority for Scientific Research, CNCS – UEFISCDI, project number PN-II-ID-PCE-2011-3-0061.

Notes

Carmen-Veronica Borbely
Babes-Bolyai University
carmenborbely@yahoo.com

Body Drift: On the Precariousness of Posthuman Life in Never Let Me Go

Abstract: Using Arthur Kroker’s concept of “body drift” as the image that encrypts the polyvalent directions of posthuman culture, this study explores the inseverable utopian and dystopian moves whereby enselved human bodies are made and unmade in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go (2005) and its homonymous film adaptation (directed by Mark Romanek, 2010). Never Let Me Go projects a vision which outlines the perils that body drift might pose to the not-quite-human under the impact of the “new eugenics” and emphasizes the necessity to address the precariousness of posthuman life with utmost consideration for those whom Donna Haraway sees as inappropriate/d (biotechnological) others.

Keywords: Body Drift; De-Subjectivation; Posthuman; Kazuo Ishiguro; Precarious Life.

Body drift is our real technological autobiography[1]

According to cyberculture theorist Arthur Kroker, the corporeal imaginary is predicated on simultaneous gestures of deterritorialization and reterritorialization at the turn of the new millennium, as bodies are, on the one hand, subjected to “technologies of abjection, disappearance, inertia, and substitution” and, on the other hand, cast onto “counter-trajectories of resistance, hope and solidarity.”[2] In these “recombinant times,” Kroker shows, the body cannot be envisaged as a “cohesive singularity,” because “we no longer inhabit a body in any meaningful sense but rather occupy a multiplicity of bodies – imaginary, sexualized, disciplined, gendered, laboring, technologically augmented bodies.”[3] Subsumed to the all-encompassing phenomenon of “code drift,” which melds together the overarching narratives of biology and digitality,[4] body drift entails the ever provisional instantiation of corporeality both at the microlevel of “individual bodily inflections” and at the societal macrolevel, as “the multiplicity of bodies that we have become […] is caught up in a larger, more heterogeneous current.”[5] With the aid of the new technologies, the multifarious codes of health, gender, class, age or ethnicity are scrambled up, remixed, respliced and redesigned, making the body vulnerable and hospitable to new alliances (viral, molecular or molar), as bio-technologies – gene therapy, cloning and organ transplantation – are reconstructing the human as a posthuman body.[6]

In Never Let Me Go, novel and film adaptation, this collective, multiplicitous body gains shape through a two-pronged approach to the transhumanist dream of extropy.[7] Thus, in the background story (set in the aftermath of World War II), Ishiguro’s text outlines the accelerated technoscientific revolution that, in the first instance, enabled the creation of an alternative humanity through gene manipulation and that, in the second instance, lapsed into the decreation of this technofabricated population, devitalized through organ harvesting and transplantation. Whereas the first stage would correspond to the utopian design of a lateral human genetic pool (clones, the so-called donors) through the use of “light,” “invisible,” “transparent technologies” (genetics), the second would amount to a dystopian deployment of “heavy,” “visible,” “opaque technologies”[8] that enact the donation of organs from the replicants to the originals (surgery), revitalizing the latter, but that also serve as necro-technologies,[9] bringing about the completion or premature demise of the clones. Anatomical organs and parts literally drift from healthy to diseased bodies, from eucratic to dyscratic individuals, from the normal to the pathological population, supplying the latter with the necessary prostheses for reinstating their normativity. The aim behind the organ donations program[10] was, of course, to deflect the entropic dissolution of the debilitated and traumatized post-war body politic:

After the war, in the early fifties, when the great breakthroughs in science followed one after the other so rapidly […], suddenly there were all these new possibilities laid before us, all these ways to cure so many previously incurable conditions. […] There was no going back. However uncomfortable people were about your existence, their overwhelming concern was that their own children, their spouses, their parents, their friends, did not die from cancer, motor neuron disease, heart disease.[11]

By contrast with the novel, which defers until the end the explication of the evental mutations that provide the protagonists with a technogenetic back story, focusing on the state of liminality and ontological undecidability the clones are confined to, the film clarifies the historical context from the start: “The breakthrough in medical science came in 1952. Doctors could now cure the previously incurable. By 1967, life expectancy passed 100 years.”[12] It then delves into a first-person account (consistent with Ishiguro’s intentions) given by Kathy H., the 31-year old female whose humanity – compassion, patience, intelligence – insistently comes to the fore. As the exemplars of perfected strands of human DNA, Kathy H. and her fellow clones have exquisite morpho-anatomical features – their monstrosity, if at all existent, lies in their somatic and genomic overlap with naturally birthed individuals – and yet, in the alternative England of the late 1990s imagined by Ishiguro, the echoes of Frankenstein’s Promethean venture loom large.[13] The post-war scientific breakthroughs aimed at curing humanity of all manner of imaginable disease have successfully engendered, through cloning, a supplementary, abjectionable, disposable posthumanity, whose main function is to serve as a repository of harvestable body parts for the mainstream populace. Ironically, however, by incorporating these body parts – enfleshed fragments of otherness – through surgical means, the majority population, whose (in)humaneness is brought into question, is also inadvertently revealed as posthuman.

However, the posthuman body politic outlined in Ishiguro’s dystopian scenario has little reason to rejoice at these undesired corporeal alliances or misalliances that rhizomatically cut across the epidermal boundaries of humans and clones and are violently enforced on the latter.  Rather than being free-floating signifiers of somatic health, drifting along intersecting trajectories of posthuman becoming, these tissues and organs are collected not from cadavers of the kind Victor Frankenstein assembled from charnel houses in his teratogenic reconstruction of the body social, but from living human beings, who, as clones, simultaneously define and encroach the boundaries of normative humanity. As mirror images of the possibles or the persons they were modelled after, these replicas of humanity are both like and unlike the absent progenitors in whose image they were created, and they both reinforce and invalidate notions of individual autonomous selfhood, conceived, within the Western paradigm, as located within the separate, distinct, and impermeable contours of normatively embodied individuals.

In Precarious Life, Judith Butler discusses the normative frameworks within which the demarcation of the “human” produces, via “an exclusionary process, a host of ‘unlivable lives’ whose legal and political status is suspended.”[14] As recent phenomena like prisoner detainment or the refugee crisis have demonstrated, scapegoating based on national, ethnic, gender or religious criteria may lead to practices of de-subjectivation leveled at vulnerable populations. These tend to be “managed” under the regulatory gaze of power not through subjectification, that is, their production as human subjects with rights and obligations under the law, but through their constitution as an extrinsic domain of counternormativity, in which they become “less than human,” lacking “entitlement to rights” and becoming “humanly unrecognizable.”[15] These bodies drift, as Kroker might say, outside the scope of legality or even vitality, being “neither fully constituted as a subject nor fully deconstituted in death.”[16]

This dehumanizing treatment of humans that Butler places at the root of the power holders’ own “radically imperiled” and “indefinitely foreclosed” humanity[17] is also applied to the clones in Ishiguro’s pessimistic vision of these technologically fashioned subjects. They are, in fact, the “inappropriate/d others” within whom, as Donna Haraway argues, the barriers between “problematic selves and unexpected others” collapse.[18] They represent the artefactual identities that the new reproductive technologies are forging in speculative fiction on the utopian/dystopian potentialities of the future. They too, like the POWs from World War II, who were corralled in prison camps with electrified fences, are sheltered within heterotopian sites and secluded hinterlands, which both belong to and eschew hegemonic space: segregated schools (Hailsham), communes (the Cottages, the White Mansion, the Poplar FARM), hospitals or barren flats.[19] As revealed by Miss Emily, the protagonists’ former guardian/teacher, at the end of the narrative/film, after the war the prevailing concerns of the authorities were to materialize the extropian project and less to acknowledge the presence of the all-too-human clones whose lives were to be sacrificed on the altar of medical science:

people preferred to believe these organs appeared from nowhere, or at most that they grew in a kind of vacuum. […] So for a long time you were kept in the shadows, and people did their best not to think about you. And if they did, they tried to convince themselves you weren’t really like us. That you were less than human, so it didn’t matter […], there would always be a barrier against seeing you as properly human.[20]

To retrieve these biotechnological others from the margins of invisibility and silence to which – through de-subjectivation, in Judith Butler’s terms – they were relegated,[21] various enclaves of normality have been erected to provide these post-Frankensteinian offspring with the semblance of nurture that, by virtue of their own “nature,” most of them had been deprived of. Articulated as a humanitarian movement, the management/docilization of these cloned student populations in panopticist institutions like Hailsham, Glenmorgan, or the Saunders Trust was intended not only as a strategy of disciplining the clones and persuading them to acquiesce to a fate of successive organ excision and life depletion/termination, but also as a means of making visible their humanity and raising public awareness about their reasoning, communicative, affective and creative potential. Hailsham, for instance, is an insulated community of students whose bodies are subjected to constant surveillance and weekly medical checks and whose minds are ingrained with the ideological precepts of the greater good of humanity their sacrifice will serve, but whose teachers also cultivate their social and artistic skills, with a view to perpetuating and disseminating the humane treatment allotted to them in other similar encampments across the country. Rarely is the clockwork mechanism of this insulated utopian community – revolving around classes or collectively programmed activities, like the Exchanges of individually manufactured artworks and artefacts or the Sales of personal collectible objects – jammed by counterideological interventions, which tear holes in the fabric of disciplinarian discourse. When such subjugated knowledge surfaces,[22] it unsettles the youngsters’ minds, but such “told and not told” ideas eventually fail to derail the students from their pre-established paths and are interpreted as fuzzy intimations of their futures, incomprehensible at such an early age. Here is the interpellation that Miss Lucy, the rebel guardian, addresses to the Hailsham children:

None of you will go to America, none of you will be film stars. And none of you will be working in supermarkets as I heard some of you planning the other day. Your lives are set out for you. You’ll become adults, then before you’re old, before you’re even middle-aged, you’ll start to donate your vital organs. That’s what each of you was created to do. You’re not like the actors you watch on your videos, you’re not even like me. You were brought into this world for a purpose, and your futures, all of them, have been decided. So you’re not to talk that way any more. You’ll be leaving Hailsham before long, and it’s not so far off, the day you’ll be preparing for your first donations. You need to remember that. If you’re to have decent lives, you have to know who you are and what lies ahead of you, every one of you.[23]

The students have an uncanny apprehension of the otherness inherent within themselves, for they can sense the “difference from our guardians, and also from the normal people outside.”[24] In effect, Kathy H., Tommy D., Ruth and the other parentless children reared within pockets of simulated reality are liminal beings, hovering on the brink of ontological incertitude, as they are deprived of control over their bodies, made to query the humanness of their identities and divested of any chance at self-determination. The clones of Ishiguro’s narrative have been engineered within a grand utilitarian – utopian – narrative of salvaging humanity from corporeal decay and enhancing its viability and they are destined, according to the official ideology of a totalitarian state that passes for a liberal polity, to become carers or donors: this image is reminiscent of Frankenstein’s progeny tending to its own wellbeing, in the absence of its irresponsible parent. It is an image of the repulsive offspring folding unto itself, becoming disemboweled victim and therapeutic companion in one. Indeed, the sensible protection and empathetic palliatives these carers provide donors with renders them as more human than the implacable state governing them.

The capitalist desiring-machine, if I were to resort to a Deleuzian analogy, seeks to appropriate and pierce through the taut skin of the “body with/out organs,”[25] that is, the alternative set of individuals it has engineered into existence – for the community of children at Hailsham is, after all, a static, non-disjunctive enclave of innocent flows and serene intensities – and, in a consumerist frenzy, to plunder its corporeal wealth, gorging up body parts and disgorging them into the bodies of normative humans, all the while literally turning the more-than-human clones into less-than-human organless bodies. While the voracious appetite of the social aggregate appears to be subdued under the appeasing official discourse of necessity and the sanitizing gaze of the medical doctors performing these flesh transfers, as well as by the lengthy process of recovery that the intervals between the successive organ excisions require, this generalized act of cannibalism, seen as the incorporation of fragmented cloned selves into depleted original others, chews away at the distinction and separation between the human and the not-so-human, devours the very legitimacy of monolithic notions of self-contained identity and eliminates the uncomfortable realization that concorporation is becoming the new norm of embodied selfhood, one that resists, as Margrit Shildrick contends, “the binary of sameness and difference.”[26]

The clones are largely excluded from the specular regime in this post-technological world, which plunges them into self-reflexive quandaries, but enables the main population to derealize their atrocious treatment of the clones and to become desensitized to the suffering and sacrifices they are condoning. To give just one example, there is a scene astutely captured in the film in which the protagonists are peering through the glass window of a shop where the possible or model after which Ruth (an avatar of the human) was patterned might be found. This quest for origins is concurrently an analeptic gaze at the past and a proleptic gaze at the future:

Then there were those questions about why we wanted to track down our models at all. One big idea behind finding your model was that when you did, you’d glimpse your future. […] we all of us, to varying degrees, believed that when you saw the person you were copied from, you’d get some insight into who you were deep down, and maybe too, you’d see something of what your life held in store.[27]

It is also an attempt to turn the gaze within and understand the depth reality underneath the selfsame surface identity with the humans. Still, the gaze of the clones turns into a blank stare, it folds back onto itself, for there is no reciprocated look, and the donors are relegated – as they are, in fact, expelled throughout the narrative – to the domain of invisibility.

In her disquisitions on Precarious Life, from the study mentioned above, Judith Butler articulates two important points that are relevant for the rapport between the ostensibly essential humans and the cloned posthumans in Ishiguro’s text and its film adaptation. The first argument relies on the Levinasian ethical project of acknowledging the vulnerability of the self in assuming responsibility for the other. Butler discusses the twofold impulse attendant on the self’s encounter with the “precariousness of the Other,” whose face simultaneously communicates a “murderous temptation” and a “demand for peace,” the perpetration of violence against the other, so as to prevent the self from experiencing agony at the hands of this other, and the avoidance of harm unto the other, as an acknowledgement of the self residing within the other: “the face makes various utterances at once: it bespeaks an agony, an injurability, at the same time that it bespeaks a divine prohibition against killing.”[28] While Ishiguro’s narrative consistently emphasizes the strategies of effacement and avoidance that the humans resort to in order to silence and obliterate the clones, pushing them into blind corners and invisible recesses, the film makes insistent recourse to the imperative of the other’s face, as a means of sensitizing the self against causing suffering unto these technologized humans. Against the background sound of an intravenous drip, we encounter Kathy H.’s face, but her eyes are averted, staring at the empty central area in an operating room, soon to be occupied by the recumbent, scarred body of Tommy D., whose sutured skin bears tribute to the violence done unto him in the donations program so far. Before long, their gazes interlock and, through the eyes of the carer, who is also an other, the spectators also come visualize the precariousness of life transpiring from the donor’s visage. Reiterated towards the end of the film, the scene of the encounter between a helpless Tommy D. – face front, supine, defenseless and approaching completion – and the audience, whose empathetic response is vicariously elicited, does not find an equivalent in the prose narrative itself. The cinematic rendition of this face-to-face encounter, mediated through the gaze of the carer, addresses and, implicitly, redresses at a phantasmatic level the obliteration of the clones as subjects. Hegemonic normativity, which demands that all cloned students become donors and progress through several surgeries before completing the life permitted to them, operates here through what Judith Butler describes as inhumanization and ahumanization: one form of normative power produces a “symbolic identification of the face with the inhuman, foreclosing our apprehension of the human in the scene; the other works through radical effacement, so that there never was a human, there never was a life, and no murder has, therefore, ever taken place.”[29] For the majority population, effacement of the other occurs through the occlusion of the clones’ shared humanity, which entails a host of consequences: complacency in speciesist supremacy, the impossibility of “public grievability”[30] and the perpetuation of the cycle of violence.

The second possible way through which Judith Butler believes the self can understand the precariousness of the (other’s) life is by complying with the ethical demand of heeding the other’s “vocalization of agony,” that which, like the face that encapsulates the irreducible otherness of the divine, “rouses at once the temptation to murder and the interdiction against it.”[31] The novelist allows Kathy D., the former Hailsham student who is currently engaged in her liminal career as a carer, pending her own set of donations, to voice the bioethical concerns that a deadened, dehumanized society has conveniently put aside. Unlike the hegemonic discourse that obliterates these clones from the ranks of acceptable humans, indoctrinating them with notions of subservience and self-effacement, Kathy’s retrospective account is a testimonial of identity reconstruction that accommodates the individual narratives, memories and self-interrogations of these individuals with stunted destinies who, in an attempt to obtain a deferral from disembowelment and, eventually, disembodiment, strive to persuade the authorities that either through their creative potential or through their capacity for genuine erotic sentiment, they are endowed with souls and are, therefore, human. In The Vital Illusion, Baudrillard posits the question:

Is it possible to speak of the soul, or the conscience, or even of the unconscious from the point of view of the automatons, the chimeras, and the clones that will supersede the human race? Both the individual and the species’ capital are jeopardized by the erosion of the limits of the human, by the slide, not just into the inhuman but into something that is neither human nor inhuman: namely, the genetic simulation of life.[32]

By narrating herself into existence, by compassionately embracing the other and by cultivating memory as the bulwark of identitarian singularity,[33] Kathy D., the sentient clone in Ishiguro’s novel, is insistent on proving that a question like Baudrillard’s begs an affirmative answer. Unlike the novel, which makes little recourse to a graphic rendition of the physical carnage inflicted upon these hospitalized bodies in pain, insisting rather on the psychological convolutions and identitarian disarray they wreak upon these patients, the 2010 film adaptation of the novel resorts to a subdued version of the “body horror” genre, which stages “a spectacle of the human body defamiliarized, rendered other”[34] not by displaying the gory spectacle of organ excision under the surgical scalpel, but by making visible the scars, the emaciation, the debilitation inscribed on the epidermal canvas as traces of the violence done unto them.

Then one afternoon, maybe about a month after I’d started, I came up to his room and found him at his school desk, carefully going over a drawing, his face nearly touching the paper. He’d called for me to come in when I’d knocked, but now he didn’t raise his head or stop what he was doing, and just a glance told me he was working on one of his imaginary creatures. I stopped in the doorway, uncertain whether I should come in, but eventually he looked up and closed his notebook.[35]

By way of illustration, note should be taken of the above-cited encounter between Kathy, the carer, and Tommy, the donor. Glossed over in Ishiguro’s text, which foregrounds Tommy’s painterly efforts at making himself human through proof of his artisticity, the patient’s scarified skin, bearing witness to the processes of laceration, incision, excision, and suturing he has undergone, is simultaneously retrieved from invisibility and subjected to the triple, in-between gaze of Kathy, the director and the viewer alike. Skin, normally taken to delineate the boundaries between embodied selves, to provide defenses against encroachments from outside, is laid bare in the film as a testimonial of monstrification, not so much of the clone as of its progenitor-terminators. Under the director’s compassionate gaze, which serves as a substitute for the absent collective gaze of prototypal humans in the novel, the suffering clone’s scarrified skin is made accessible to viewers and, by extrapolation, to humanity at large. It is a gesture of restitution, consistent with Ishiguro’s intent of using the clone as a specific instantiation of postmodern monstrosity, a figure whose ontological difference from the human can no longer be predicated on dysmorphic corporeality, for clones are, indeed, “visually indistinguishable from the norm,”[36] but whose liminal entity/identity occupies “both terms (or rather, exists in the slash between them) of the opposition human/not-human.”[37] At the same time, because of their self-sameness with the human, clones serve not so much as copies of the original but, in respectable neo-Gothic fashion, as magnifying mirror images of the perils of dehumanization that body drift may generate at the intersection between biology and technology, highlighting the possibility that, in liquid modernity, the spontaneous, anarchic flows of bodies-without-organs may bring the voraciously consumerist systemic order down. Never Let Me Go projects, in the words of Arthur Kroker, “a vision of the hybridity that we are fated to become in this future-land of the present.”[38] It is a vision which outlines the sites of vulnerability that body drift might steer the not-quite-human into under the impact of the “new eugenics”[39] and the necessity to address the precariousness of posthuman life with utmost consideration for the inappropriate/d (biotechnological) others.

/

Bibliography

Baudrillard, Jean. The Vital Illusion. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000.

Braidotti, Rosi. The Posthuman. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013.

Butler, Judith. Precarious Life. The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London and New York: Verso, 2004.

Byron, Glennis and Linda Ogston. “Educating Kathy: Clones and Other Creatures in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.” In Daniel Olson (ed.), 21-Century Gothic. Great Gothic Novels since 2000. Lanham, Toronto and Plymouth: The Scarecrow Press, 2011.

Clark, Andy. Natural-Born Cyborgs. Minds, Technologies and the Future of Human Intelligence. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.

Deleuze, Gilles & Felix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus. Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem & Helen R. Lane. London: The Athlone Press, 1984.

Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus. Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1987.

Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge. Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972—1977. Trans. Colin Gordon, Leo Marshall, John Mepham and Kate Soper. New York: Pantheon Books, 1980.

Haraway, Donna. “The Promises of Monsters: A Regenerative Politics for Inappropriate/d Others.” In Cultural Studies. Ed. Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, Paula A. Treichler. New York: Routledge, 1992.

Hurley, Kelly. The Gothic Body. Sexuality, Materialism, and Degeneration at the Fin de Siècle. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. Never Let Me Go. London: Faber and Faber, 2006.

Kroker, Arthur. “Body Drift in the Writings of Judith Butler, Katherine Hayles, and Donna Haraway.” Interview with Peter Marvelis. Ctheory, “Theory beyond the Codes” (2012), http://journals.uvic.ca/index.php/ctheory/article/view/14936/5831, accessed 25 September 2015.

Kroker, Arthur. Body Drift. Butler, Hayles, Haraway. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2012.

Raz, Aviad E. “Eugenic utopias/dystopias, reprogenetics, and community genetics.” Sociology of Health & Illness. 31(4) (2009): 602-616

Shildrick, Margrit, Embodying the Monster. Encounters with the Vulnerable Self. London & New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2002.

Notes

Carmen-Veronica Borbely
Babes-Bolyai University
carmenborbely@yahoo.com

Body Drift: On the Precariousness of Posthuman Life in Never Let Me Go

Abstract: Using Arthur Kroker’s concept of “body drift” as the image that encrypts the polyvalent directions of posthuman culture, this study explores the inseverable utopian and dystopian moves whereby enselved human bodies are made and unmade in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go (2005) and its homonymous film adaptation (directed by Mark Romanek, 2010). Never Let Me Go projects a vision which outlines the perils that body drift might pose to the not-quite-human under the impact of the “new eugenics” and emphasizes the necessity to address the precariousness of posthuman life with utmost consideration for those whom Donna Haraway sees as inappropriate/d (biotechnological) others.

Keywords: Body Drift; De-Subjectivation; Posthuman; Kazuo Ishiguro; Precarious Life.

Body drift is our real technological autobiography[1]

According to cyberculture theorist Arthur Kroker, the corporeal imaginary is predicated on simultaneous gestures of deterritorialization and reterritorialization at the turn of the new millennium, as bodies are, on the one hand, subjected to “technologies of abjection, disappearance, inertia, and substitution” and, on the other hand, cast onto “counter-trajectories of resistance, hope and solidarity.”[2] In these “recombinant times,” Kroker shows, the body cannot be envisaged as a “cohesive singularity,” because “we no longer inhabit a body in any meaningful sense but rather occupy a multiplicity of bodies – imaginary, sexualized, disciplined, gendered, laboring, technologically augmented bodies.”[3] Subsumed to the all-encompassing phenomenon of “code drift,” which melds together the overarching narratives of biology and digitality,[4] body drift entails the ever provisional instantiation of corporeality both at the microlevel of “individual bodily inflections” and at the societal macrolevel, as “the multiplicity of bodies that we have become […] is caught up in a larger, more heterogeneous current.”[5] With the aid of the new technologies, the multifarious codes of health, gender, class, age or ethnicity are scrambled up, remixed, respliced and redesigned, making the body vulnerable and hospitable to new alliances (viral, molecular or molar), as bio-technologies – gene therapy, cloning and organ transplantation – are reconstructing the human as a posthuman body.[6]

In Never Let Me Go, novel and film adaptation, this collective, multiplicitous body gains shape through a two-pronged approach to the transhumanist dream of extropy.[7] Thus, in the background story (set in the aftermath of World War II), Ishiguro’s text outlines the accelerated technoscientific revolution that, in the first instance, enabled the creation of an alternative humanity through gene manipulation and that, in the second instance, lapsed into the decreation of this technofabricated population, devitalized through organ harvesting and transplantation. Whereas the first stage would correspond to the utopian design of a lateral human genetic pool (clones, the so-called donors) through the use of “light,” “invisible,” “transparent technologies” (genetics), the second would amount to a dystopian deployment of “heavy,” “visible,” “opaque technologies”[8] that enact the donation of organs from the replicants to the originals (surgery), revitalizing the latter, but that also serve as necro-technologies,[9] bringing about the completion or premature demise of the clones. Anatomical organs and parts literally drift from healthy to diseased bodies, from eucratic to dyscratic individuals, from the normal to the pathological population, supplying the latter with the necessary prostheses for reinstating their normativity. The aim behind the organ donations program[10] was, of course, to deflect the entropic dissolution of the debilitated and traumatized post-war body politic:

After the war, in the early fifties, when the great breakthroughs in science followed one after the other so rapidly […], suddenly there were all these new possibilities laid before us, all these ways to cure so many previously incurable conditions. […] There was no going back. However uncomfortable people were about your existence, their overwhelming concern was that their own children, their spouses, their parents, their friends, did not die from cancer, motor neuron disease, heart disease.[11]

By contrast with the novel, which defers until the end the explication of the evental mutations that provide the protagonists with a technogenetic back story, focusing on the state of liminality and ontological undecidability the clones are confined to, the film clarifies the historical context from the start: “The breakthrough in medical science came in 1952. Doctors could now cure the previously incurable. By 1967, life expectancy passed 100 years.”[12] It then delves into a first-person account (consistent with Ishiguro’s intentions) given by Kathy H., the 31-year old female whose humanity – compassion, patience, intelligence – insistently comes to the fore. As the exemplars of perfected strands of human DNA, Kathy H. and her fellow clones have exquisite morpho-anatomical features – their monstrosity, if at all existent, lies in their somatic and genomic overlap with naturally birthed individuals – and yet, in the alternative England of the late 1990s imagined by Ishiguro, the echoes of Frankenstein’s Promethean venture loom large.[13] The post-war scientific breakthroughs aimed at curing humanity of all manner of imaginable disease have successfully engendered, through cloning, a supplementary, abjectionable, disposable posthumanity, whose main function is to serve as a repository of harvestable body parts for the mainstream populace. Ironically, however, by incorporating these body parts – enfleshed fragments of otherness – through surgical means, the majority population, whose (in)humaneness is brought into question, is also inadvertently revealed as posthuman.

However, the posthuman body politic outlined in Ishiguro’s dystopian scenario has little reason to rejoice at these undesired corporeal alliances or misalliances that rhizomatically cut across the epidermal boundaries of humans and clones and are violently enforced on the latter.  Rather than being free-floating signifiers of somatic health, drifting along intersecting trajectories of posthuman becoming, these tissues and organs are collected not from cadavers of the kind Victor Frankenstein assembled from charnel houses in his teratogenic reconstruction of the body social, but from living human beings, who, as clones, simultaneously define and encroach the boundaries of normative humanity. As mirror images of the possibles or the persons they were modelled after, these replicas of humanity are both like and unlike the absent progenitors in whose image they were created, and they both reinforce and invalidate notions of individual autonomous selfhood, conceived, within the Western paradigm, as located within the separate, distinct, and impermeable contours of normatively embodied individuals.

In Precarious Life, Judith Butler discusses the normative frameworks within which the demarcation of the “human” produces, via “an exclusionary process, a host of ‘unlivable lives’ whose legal and political status is suspended.”[14] As recent phenomena like prisoner detainment or the refugee crisis have demonstrated, scapegoating based on national, ethnic, gender or religious criteria may lead to practices of de-subjectivation leveled at vulnerable populations. These tend to be “managed” under the regulatory gaze of power not through subjectification, that is, their production as human subjects with rights and obligations under the law, but through their constitution as an extrinsic domain of counternormativity, in which they become “less than human,” lacking “entitlement to rights” and becoming “humanly unrecognizable.”[15] These bodies drift, as Kroker might say, outside the scope of legality or even vitality, being “neither fully constituted as a subject nor fully deconstituted in death.”[16]

This dehumanizing treatment of humans that Butler places at the root of the power holders’ own “radically imperiled” and “indefinitely foreclosed” humanity[17] is also applied to the clones in Ishiguro’s pessimistic vision of these technologically fashioned subjects. They are, in fact, the “inappropriate/d others” within whom, as Donna Haraway argues, the barriers between “problematic selves and unexpected others” collapse.[18] They represent the artefactual identities that the new reproductive technologies are forging in speculative fiction on the utopian/dystopian potentialities of the future. They too, like the POWs from World War II, who were corralled in prison camps with electrified fences, are sheltered within heterotopian sites and secluded hinterlands, which both belong to and eschew hegemonic space: segregated schools (Hailsham), communes (the Cottages, the White Mansion, the Poplar FARM), hospitals or barren flats.[19] As revealed by Miss Emily, the protagonists’ former guardian/teacher, at the end of the narrative/film, after the war the prevailing concerns of the authorities were to materialize the extropian project and less to acknowledge the presence of the all-too-human clones whose lives were to be sacrificed on the altar of medical science:

people preferred to believe these organs appeared from nowhere, or at most that they grew in a kind of vacuum. […] So for a long time you were kept in the shadows, and people did their best not to think about you. And if they did, they tried to convince themselves you weren’t really like us. That you were less than human, so it didn’t matter […], there would always be a barrier against seeing you as properly human.[20]

To retrieve these biotechnological others from the margins of invisibility and silence to which – through de-subjectivation, in Judith Butler’s terms – they were relegated,[21] various enclaves of normality have been erected to provide these post-Frankensteinian offspring with the semblance of nurture that, by virtue of their own “nature,” most of them had been deprived of. Articulated as a humanitarian movement, the management/docilization of these cloned student populations in panopticist institutions like Hailsham, Glenmorgan, or the Saunders Trust was intended not only as a strategy of disciplining the clones and persuading them to acquiesce to a fate of successive organ excision and life depletion/termination, but also as a means of making visible their humanity and raising public awareness about their reasoning, communicative, affective and creative potential. Hailsham, for instance, is an insulated community of students whose bodies are subjected to constant surveillance and weekly medical checks and whose minds are ingrained with the ideological precepts of the greater good of humanity their sacrifice will serve, but whose teachers also cultivate their social and artistic skills, with a view to perpetuating and disseminating the humane treatment allotted to them in other similar encampments across the country. Rarely is the clockwork mechanism of this insulated utopian community – revolving around classes or collectively programmed activities, like the Exchanges of individually manufactured artworks and artefacts or the Sales of personal collectible objects – jammed by counterideological interventions, which tear holes in the fabric of disciplinarian discourse. When such subjugated knowledge surfaces,[22] it unsettles the youngsters’ minds, but such “told and not told” ideas eventually fail to derail the students from their pre-established paths and are interpreted as fuzzy intimations of their futures, incomprehensible at such an early age. Here is the interpellation that Miss Lucy, the rebel guardian, addresses to the Hailsham children:

None of you will go to America, none of you will be film stars. And none of you will be working in supermarkets as I heard some of you planning the other day. Your lives are set out for you. You’ll become adults, then before you’re old, before you’re even middle-aged, you’ll start to donate your vital organs. That’s what each of you was created to do. You’re not like the actors you watch on your videos, you’re not even like me. You were brought into this world for a purpose, and your futures, all of them, have been decided. So you’re not to talk that way any more. You’ll be leaving Hailsham before long, and it’s not so far off, the day you’ll be preparing for your first donations. You need to remember that. If you’re to have decent lives, you have to know who you are and what lies ahead of you, every one of you.[23]

The students have an uncanny apprehension of the otherness inherent within themselves, for they can sense the “difference from our guardians, and also from the normal people outside.”[24] In effect, Kathy H., Tommy D., Ruth and the other parentless children reared within pockets of simulated reality are liminal beings, hovering on the brink of ontological incertitude, as they are deprived of control over their bodies, made to query the humanness of their identities and divested of any chance at self-determination. The clones of Ishiguro’s narrative have been engineered within a grand utilitarian – utopian – narrative of salvaging humanity from corporeal decay and enhancing its viability and they are destined, according to the official ideology of a totalitarian state that passes for a liberal polity, to become carers or donors: this image is reminiscent of Frankenstein’s progeny tending to its own wellbeing, in the absence of its irresponsible parent. It is an image of the repulsive offspring folding unto itself, becoming disemboweled victim and therapeutic companion in one. Indeed, the sensible protection and empathetic palliatives these carers provide donors with renders them as more human than the implacable state governing them.

The capitalist desiring-machine, if I were to resort to a Deleuzian analogy, seeks to appropriate and pierce through the taut skin of the “body with/out organs,”[25] that is, the alternative set of individuals it has engineered into existence – for the community of children at Hailsham is, after all, a static, non-disjunctive enclave of innocent flows and serene intensities – and, in a consumerist frenzy, to plunder its corporeal wealth, gorging up body parts and disgorging them into the bodies of normative humans, all the while literally turning the more-than-human clones into less-than-human organless bodies. While the voracious appetite of the social aggregate appears to be subdued under the appeasing official discourse of necessity and the sanitizing gaze of the medical doctors performing these flesh transfers, as well as by the lengthy process of recovery that the intervals between the successive organ excisions require, this generalized act of cannibalism, seen as the incorporation of fragmented cloned selves into depleted original others, chews away at the distinction and separation between the human and the not-so-human, devours the very legitimacy of monolithic notions of self-contained identity and eliminates the uncomfortable realization that concorporation is becoming the new norm of embodied selfhood, one that resists, as Margrit Shildrick contends, “the binary of sameness and difference.”[26]

The clones are largely excluded from the specular regime in this post-technological world, which plunges them into self-reflexive quandaries, but enables the main population to derealize their atrocious treatment of the clones and to become desensitized to the suffering and sacrifices they are condoning. To give just one example, there is a scene astutely captured in the film in which the protagonists are peering through the glass window of a shop where the possible or model after which Ruth (an avatar of the human) was patterned might be found. This quest for origins is concurrently an analeptic gaze at the past and a proleptic gaze at the future:

Then there were those questions about why we wanted to track down our models at all. One big idea behind finding your model was that when you did, you’d glimpse your future. […] we all of us, to varying degrees, believed that when you saw the person you were copied from, you’d get some insight into who you were deep down, and maybe too, you’d see something of what your life held in store.[27]

It is also an attempt to turn the gaze within and understand the depth reality underneath the selfsame surface identity with the humans. Still, the gaze of the clones turns into a blank stare, it folds back onto itself, for there is no reciprocated look, and the donors are relegated – as they are, in fact, expelled throughout the narrative – to the domain of invisibility.

In her disquisitions on Precarious Life, from the study mentioned above, Judith Butler articulates two important points that are relevant for the rapport between the ostensibly essential humans and the cloned posthumans in Ishiguro’s text and its film adaptation. The first argument relies on the Levinasian ethical project of acknowledging the vulnerability of the self in assuming responsibility for the other. Butler discusses the twofold impulse attendant on the self’s encounter with the “precariousness of the Other,” whose face simultaneously communicates a “murderous temptation” and a “demand for peace,” the perpetration of violence against the other, so as to prevent the self from experiencing agony at the hands of this other, and the avoidance of harm unto the other, as an acknowledgement of the self residing within the other: “the face makes various utterances at once: it bespeaks an agony, an injurability, at the same time that it bespeaks a divine prohibition against killing.”[28] While Ishiguro’s narrative consistently emphasizes the strategies of effacement and avoidance that the humans resort to in order to silence and obliterate the clones, pushing them into blind corners and invisible recesses, the film makes insistent recourse to the imperative of the other’s face, as a means of sensitizing the self against causing suffering unto these technologized humans. Against the background sound of an intravenous drip, we encounter Kathy H.’s face, but her eyes are averted, staring at the empty central area in an operating room, soon to be occupied by the recumbent, scarred body of Tommy D., whose sutured skin bears tribute to the violence done unto him in the donations program so far. Before long, their gazes interlock and, through the eyes of the carer, who is also an other, the spectators also come visualize the precariousness of life transpiring from the donor’s visage. Reiterated towards the end of the film, the scene of the encounter between a helpless Tommy D. – face front, supine, defenseless and approaching completion – and the audience, whose empathetic response is vicariously elicited, does not find an equivalent in the prose narrative itself. The cinematic rendition of this face-to-face encounter, mediated through the gaze of the carer, addresses and, implicitly, redresses at a phantasmatic level the obliteration of the clones as subjects. Hegemonic normativity, which demands that all cloned students become donors and progress through several surgeries before completing the life permitted to them, operates here through what Judith Butler describes as inhumanization and ahumanization: one form of normative power produces a “symbolic identification of the face with the inhuman, foreclosing our apprehension of the human in the scene; the other works through radical effacement, so that there never was a human, there never was a life, and no murder has, therefore, ever taken place.”[29] For the majority population, effacement of the other occurs through the occlusion of the clones’ shared humanity, which entails a host of consequences: complacency in speciesist supremacy, the impossibility of “public grievability”[30] and the perpetuation of the cycle of violence.

The second possible way through which Judith Butler believes the self can understand the precariousness of the (other’s) life is by complying with the ethical demand of heeding the other’s “vocalization of agony,” that which, like the face that encapsulates the irreducible otherness of the divine, “rouses at once the temptation to murder and the interdiction against it.”[31] The novelist allows Kathy D., the former Hailsham student who is currently engaged in her liminal career as a carer, pending her own set of donations, to voice the bioethical concerns that a deadened, dehumanized society has conveniently put aside. Unlike the hegemonic discourse that obliterates these clones from the ranks of acceptable humans, indoctrinating them with notions of subservience and self-effacement, Kathy’s retrospective account is a testimonial of identity reconstruction that accommodates the individual narratives, memories and self-interrogations of these individuals with stunted destinies who, in an attempt to obtain a deferral from disembowelment and, eventually, disembodiment, strive to persuade the authorities that either through their creative potential or through their capacity for genuine erotic sentiment, they are endowed with souls and are, therefore, human. In The Vital Illusion, Baudrillard posits the question:

Is it possible to speak of the soul, or the conscience, or even of the unconscious from the point of view of the automatons, the chimeras, and the clones that will supersede the human race? Both the individual and the species’ capital are jeopardized by the erosion of the limits of the human, by the slide, not just into the inhuman but into something that is neither human nor inhuman: namely, the genetic simulation of life.[32]

By narrating herself into existence, by compassionately embracing the other and by cultivating memory as the bulwark of identitarian singularity,[33] Kathy D., the sentient clone in Ishiguro’s novel, is insistent on proving that a question like Baudrillard’s begs an affirmative answer. Unlike the novel, which makes little recourse to a graphic rendition of the physical carnage inflicted upon these hospitalized bodies in pain, insisting rather on the psychological convolutions and identitarian disarray they wreak upon these patients, the 2010 film adaptation of the novel resorts to a subdued version of the “body horror” genre, which stages “a spectacle of the human body defamiliarized, rendered other”[34] not by displaying the gory spectacle of organ excision under the surgical scalpel, but by making visible the scars, the emaciation, the debilitation inscribed on the epidermal canvas as traces of the violence done unto them.

Then one afternoon, maybe about a month after I’d started, I came up to his room and found him at his school desk, carefully going over a drawing, his face nearly touching the paper. He’d called for me to come in when I’d knocked, but now he didn’t raise his head or stop what he was doing, and just a glance told me he was working on one of his imaginary creatures. I stopped in the doorway, uncertain whether I should come in, but eventually he looked up and closed his notebook.[35]

By way of illustration, note should be taken of the above-cited encounter between Kathy, the carer, and Tommy, the donor. Glossed over in Ishiguro’s text, which foregrounds Tommy’s painterly efforts at making himself human through proof of his artisticity, the patient’s scarified skin, bearing witness to the processes of laceration, incision, excision, and suturing he has undergone, is simultaneously retrieved from invisibility and subjected to the triple, in-between gaze of Kathy, the director and the viewer alike. Skin, normally taken to delineate the boundaries between embodied selves, to provide defenses against encroachments from outside, is laid bare in the film as a testimonial of monstrification, not so much of the clone as of its progenitor-terminators. Under the director’s compassionate gaze, which serves as a substitute for the absent collective gaze of prototypal humans in the novel, the suffering clone’s scarrified skin is made accessible to viewers and, by extrapolation, to humanity at large. It is a gesture of restitution, consistent with Ishiguro’s intent of using the clone as a specific instantiation of postmodern monstrosity, a figure whose ontological difference from the human can no longer be predicated on dysmorphic corporeality, for clones are, indeed, “visually indistinguishable from the norm,”[36] but whose liminal entity/identity occupies “both terms (or rather, exists in the slash between them) of the opposition human/not-human.”[37] At the same time, because of their self-sameness with the human, clones serve not so much as copies of the original but, in respectable neo-Gothic fashion, as magnifying mirror images of the perils of dehumanization that body drift may generate at the intersection between biology and technology, highlighting the possibility that, in liquid modernity, the spontaneous, anarchic flows of bodies-without-organs may bring the voraciously consumerist systemic order down. Never Let Me Go projects, in the words of Arthur Kroker, “a vision of the hybridity that we are fated to become in this future-land of the present.”[38] It is a vision which outlines the sites of vulnerability that body drift might steer the not-quite-human into under the impact of the “new eugenics”[39] and the necessity to address the precariousness of posthuman life with utmost consideration for the inappropriate/d (biotechnological) others.

/

Bibliography

Baudrillard, Jean. The Vital Illusion. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000.

Braidotti, Rosi. The Posthuman. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013.

Butler, Judith. Precarious Life. The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London and New York: Verso, 2004.

Byron, Glennis and Linda Ogston. “Educating Kathy: Clones and Other Creatures in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.” In Daniel Olson (ed.), 21-Century Gothic. Great Gothic Novels since 2000. Lanham, Toronto and Plymouth: The Scarecrow Press, 2011.

Clark, Andy. Natural-Born Cyborgs. Minds, Technologies and the Future of Human Intelligence. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.

Deleuze, Gilles & Felix Guattari. Anti-Oedipus. Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem & Helen R. Lane. London: The Athlone Press, 1984.

Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus. Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1987.

Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge. Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972—1977. Trans. Colin Gordon, Leo Marshall, John Mepham and Kate Soper. New York: Pantheon Books, 1980.

Haraway, Donna. “The Promises of Monsters: A Regenerative Politics for Inappropriate/d Others.” In Cultural Studies. Ed. Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, Paula A. Treichler. New York: Routledge, 1992.

Hurley, Kelly. The Gothic Body. Sexuality, Materialism, and Degeneration at the Fin de Siècle. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. Never Let Me Go. London: Faber and Faber, 2006.

Kroker, Arthur. “Body Drift in the Writings of Judith Butler, Katherine Hayles, and Donna Haraway.” Interview with Peter Marvelis. Ctheory, “Theory beyond the Codes” (2012), http://journals.uvic.ca/index.php/ctheory/article/view/14936/5831, accessed 25 September 2015.

Kroker, Arthur. Body Drift. Butler, Hayles, Haraway. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2012.

Raz, Aviad E. “Eugenic utopias/dystopias, reprogenetics, and community genetics.” Sociology of Health & Illness. 31(4) (2009): 602-616

Shildrick, Margrit, Embodying the Monster. Encounters with the Vulnerable Self. London & New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2002.

Notes

Olga Ştefan
Babes-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania
olg.stefan@gmail.com

Identity Dissolutions in the Context of the Reality-Dream-Hyperreality Relationship in Vanilla Sky, The Truman Show and The Matrix

Abstract: This paper focuses on the way we interpret the relationship established between reality, dreams and hyper-reality in three cinematic productions that tackle this subject: Vanilla Sky, The Truman Show, and The Matrix. In this context, we are discussing both the plots of the movie scripts and the role of the spectator in negotiating hierarchies of reality at work in the afore mentioned movies. Also, the author was interested in stressing the challenges brought by these types of fictions, working with meanings of the real, the surreal, the realer than real. Both in The Matrix and Vanilla Sky but also, later, at the level of its underlying premises, in Cristopher Nolan’s Inception, dream represents the most adequate transformative ground for understanding the limits and the challenges associated with the hyper-real regime, a mimicry of postmodern reality. We see this in recurrent lines: I am living the dream, It feels like a dream. Dream is also a metaphor for man’s ignorance in mistaking it for reality, while it is, in fact, a web of illusions. An example is Peter Weimar’s film, The Truman Show.   

Keywords: Reality; Illusion; Lucid Dreaming; Vanilla Sky; The Truman Show; The Matrix.

“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”

T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

“We live and we feel just as well, in both our dreams and in our awakeness, and we are both one and the other. It is a privilege for man to dream and to be aware that he is dreaming, one we have not rightfully put to use so far. A dream is a life that, added to the rest of our existence, becomes what we call human life. In the state of awakeness, the dreams get lost little by little; it is hard to tell when a man’s awakening begins.”^[1]

Georg Cristoph Lichtenberg

In Buddhism, pure Reality is blocked by a veil, and this veil is the maya. The origin of this concept, in the writings of Mircea Eliade,^[2] representing illusion, non-reality, non-being, is closely connected with the idea of change, of “a cosmic order alteration.” The maya is, of course, destruction, but, at an even subtler level, conversion of the conversion. In the Rig Veda it designates demonic alternations, magical transformations, the trickster attribute of this Evil Genius. But the maya also assumes attributes of divine creativity, in the context that, later on, “the cosmos itself will become, in the Vedana, an illusory transformation (…), a system of changes that lack reality,” where the maya will be “assimilated with ignorance (avidya) and compared with dream,” in the sense that “the multi-shaped realities of the exterior world are just as illusionary as the contents of the dream.”^[3] In the context in which the “leitmotif” of the Hindu way of thinking is the “highlighting of pain as a law of existence” and “a sine qua non condition of liberation,” any form of awakening also involves the annulment of the plurality of objects that belong to the perverted web of masked fabrication into the authentic, the real. It also “hides and reveals at the same time,” playing the role of a frame, of an encasement that, once outmoded, accounts for leveling and even hierarchizing reality.

The seemingly positive hypostasis of the veil appears in myths that approach illusion as an attribute of art. In Scurtă istorie a umbrei (A Brief History of Shadows), Victor Ieronim Stoichiță recounts a paradigmatic legend told by Pliny the Elder in Natural History, a text that ambitiously certifies the fact that “painting was born when man’s shadow was inscribed in lines for the very first time”: a girl, in love with a young man that was about to leave his home town and, implicitly, exist no more as a reality perceivable draws the contour of her lover’s shadow, projected by the light of a candle, on a wall. This “birth in the negative” of the brushwork will forever ensure its status as an artwork that “appeared under the sign of an absence/ a presence (the absence of the body, the presence of its projection),” thus justifying its affiliation and, furthermore, its complicity in future contemplations and developments circumscribed in this dichotomous relation. Stoichiță adds, practically, “art history is checkpointed by the dialectics of this bond.”^[4] I would further notice how the act of representation does not have the will to be, in the context of this legend, “a result of a direct observation of the human body, but the interception of the projection of this body.”^[5] What the girl kept was not so much an image that was accessible to the unloving eye, but a symbolic substitute of the one she cared for.

“The representation of a representation (an image of the shadow), the first painting was nothing more than the copy of a copy.” Beyond the Platonist views of Pliny’s text, we discover, in relation to the topic, a continuance: the girl wanted to keep her absent lover’s shadow in order to weave a limitless illusionary story around her. We once again find ourselves within the orbit of a vicious circle, circumscribed in the limits of illusion and desire. The compromise of this trajectory lies, most often, in a fall back on image. An image amplified by its “meta-destructive” structure. Having the thing itself turned into a simple representation, we also are suggested that it is missing from the reality we are referring to. What is to happen if, as we dispose of the custom of certitudes, we conclude that, in fact, the thing itself, the thing that became an image, never belonged to us, or, even worse, never even existed, in the way we saw it or we experienced it? A most terminologically and eloquently adequate solution to turn to is the correlation of our doubtful situation suspended between the verbs of desire and those of frustration with the area fraught by the full solemnity of dangerous phantasms and, also, by the sarcasm of irreconcilable paradoxes, of simulation. The idea of the other reality, fabricated in the logic of a compensatory mechanism, is best highlighted in the dream domain.

The endless possibilities that today’s copy culture, characterized (according to Hillel Schwartz) by a fascination with doubles and exact reproductions has to offer are powered not only by the phantasms of an unwanted twinning, but also by the actual hypostasis of a doppelganger in oneiric contexts. The other (like in Jorge Luis Borges’ story, “Borges and I”) lives more intensely, more authentically, closer to the essence. Heraclitus asked himself “for what purpose does everyone have their own particular universe in their dreams, whereas all people have a common one in reality when awake,”^[6] and his question remains one of those issues that survives, through highlighting, in all the stages of philosophical thinking. Albert Béguin wrote in The Romantic Soul and Dream, an ample essay dealing with the oneiric fascination characterizing German romantic poetry, that “every age of human thinking could be defined, with enough profoundness, through the relationships established between the state of dreaming and that of awakening,”^[7] finding that the manner in which we can access these two different realities, often incapable to tell them apart, is both food for thought and a subject of anxiety referring to our limits in pinpointing reality. “Without a doubt,” Béguin notes, “it is puzzling how we can live with two parallel existences, one hidden in the other, without being able to reach a perfect correspondence between them”. So it happens that “sooner or later, with more or less clarity, continuity, and particularly haste,” every being ends up asking himself with a rather unsettling insistence: “am I the one dreaming?”^[8]. This dilemma is at stake in countless fables of dreamers and dreamed ones. This is, or so the Swiss explorer believes, “one of the three or four questions that you are not free to answer satisfyingly to feed your abstract thinking solely, departing from the problems of existence and elementary angst”. Béguin explains his affirmation through the idea that “these questions are not asked by us, and not rely on our autonomous thinking, but seem rather as if they have been thrown at us by an undefined reality, one broader than us, which we depend on to such an extent that we simply cannot refuse this dialog without condemning ourselves to a diminished reality.” Whichever answer should we provide for the name dilemma, it will be reducing to an option regarding inner potential, knowledge and a choice: whether to ignore it or dwell on it.

As mentioned before this paper focuses on the way we interpret the net of relationships woven between reality, dreams, and hyper-reality in three cinematic productions that tackle this subject: Vanilla Sky, The Truman Show and The Matrix. In this context, we are discussing both the plots of the movie scripts and the role of the spectator in dealing with the multi-surfaced concept of reality they offer. We also are interested in the challenges brought by these types of fictions, whose central obsession keeps resurfacing in contemporary poetry, publicity and in the lyrics of music hits even, as a constant cultural reference. In The Matrix, in Vanilla Sky and, later, at the level of the underlying premises, in Inception, dream is the most adequate transformative ground for understanding the limits and the challenges associated with the hyper-real regime. Artists use lucid dreaming as a mimicry of postmodern reality. We have gotten used to quoting, to false optimism or authentic dread, in recurrent lines such as: I am living the dream, It feels like a dream. Dream is also a metaphor for man’s ignorance in mistaking it for reality, while it is, in fact, a web of illusions. An example is Peter Weimar’s film, The Truman Show.   

This gliding between dream and reality also involves the transgression of certain limitations imposed by our very means of accessing mundane reality, thus framing the act of dreaming as one would symbolically frame a painting within a painting. In this respect, our interpretation intersects the observations of Victor Ieronim Stoichiţă regarding the function of the frame as a dividing line between image and all that is non-image. As Stoichiţă says, “that which was framed is a signified world, standing in front of what seems to be outside of the frame.”^[9] In these films, the idea of a frame is an abstract one: we know that we are dealing with two realms of existence, but what separates them “is not yet an image and is no longer a simple object of the surrounding space”: it does not belong to the ideal world of image, but “it makes it possible.”^[10]

The theme of life as a dream, iconic for the baroque period and programmatically rediscovered in Romanticism, is here revived in a profoundly dystopian vein, with the once serene act of dreaming turned into a leitmotif of anti-utopian awareness The solution that dream is a product of the subconscious is not satisfying, because

Even when introspection or the science of psychology teaches me to follow the mechanism in which the images of dream become intertwined with those of conscious experience, I will still have no reason to feel calm. I can find out the path images follow until the last moment of their infinite journey, but I will always ignore their origin; they did actually speak to me in a language that touches me through its quality and its apparent allusion to something very important, which I feel close to me. But no explanation will ever enlighten me on the nature of this language, or on the truthfulness of these allusions.^[11]

Dream becomes, thus, a constant language of consciousness: “Night dreams and the even more mysterious dreams that follow me throughout the day, so close to the surface that they appear at the slightest shock, here lies an existence whose permanent and fertile presence manifests itself through other signs.”^[12] A common theme is the distant memory activated while dreaming, that “something” acknowledged as coming “from somewhere further than me, from an ancestral memoir or from a realm which is not that of my individual being.” Béguin observes the kinship of these oneiric tropes in the production of mythologies and fairytales, reaching the conclusion that “the collective imagination, in its spontaneous creations and its individual imagination, freed by certain exceptional moments, seem to refer to the same universe.” In other words, “the resulting images have this ability to trigger an emotion in my interior dream, to call it up to surface and to project it on the things that surround me,” generating the feeling that “things cease to be outside of me and, at last called by their true magical name, come to life to enter a new relationship with me.”^[13]

The essence of psychoanalysis, in Béguin’s view, is opposite to the essence of romanticism because, while it admits the constant exchange of contents between consciousness and unconsciousness, “the cycle formed by these two halves of our ego is a closed one, of a purely individual nature (even if the survival of some primordial images are added to it).” On the other hand, the romantics “all admit that obscure life is that of continuous communication with another reality, vaster, prior and superior to the individual life.”^[14] Psychoanalysis assumes, at the same time, an adjusting role, healing diseases that infect both the mind and the body.

Regardless of this aspect, Romanticism will search for a way to the most unknown realms of the soul in images, even in the most morbid of them. It will do so not out of curiosity, not to purge them and make them more fertile for human life, but to find here the secret of all that, in time and space, extends us beyond ourselves and makes our actual existence a simple point on an infinite destiny line. The opposition that separates psychoanalysis from mysticism, and from romanticism, forbids any real understanding of what could not be more to it than a certified case of psychosis.^[15]

For the poet and for the reader of poetry, images exist just as they are, but for the psychoanalyst, they are documents and symptoms, “external to the quality and the efficiency of the poem.” Even though modern science overestimates “the quality” of our interior adventures, a “forgetting of our belonging, (…) of the ignorance in which we continue to remain in terms of our true belonging.”^[16]

Highlighting the considerable importance that all rationalist thinkers of the 18th century bestow on sleep phenomena, Beguin notices that “since around the year 1750, books about dreams and magazines that assign a partial or a regular column to this subject have increased in number,”^[17] without there being a psychological discourse to actually certify the importance of the matters. At the same time, he points out the prophetic dream histories and even a trope of this type of dream recurring in both memoirs of the period and modern contexts he invokes.^[18] Dream “has an irritating and a somewhat paradoxical attraction: it represents (…) a privileged place of mystery, a gate opening to superstitions, prophecies, dubious metaphysical temptations or, even worse, mystical ones.” Hence, “to reduce it to the proportions of a natural phenomenon, explainable through the same mechanism used to define any other vital manifestation, is, for the philosopher, the ultimate triumph, the supreme test of his sovereign operation.”^[19] On the other hand, the romantics discovered that “only just through the dream and through other subjective states,” descending into ourselves, we unite with that part of us that is “more us” than our conscious. According to their perception, the only authentic form of knowledge is “that of the leap into the inner abyss, the tuning of our personal rhythm with the universal rhythm: analogical knowledge of a Real that is not an exterior given,” and use as a proof the thesis that connotes dream as an “imperfect and blurry form of the conscious in normal state”, caving in to the idea that, honoring the imagination, it will give a positive note to “oneiric scenarios.”

In the context of hyper-reality, dream becomes the equivalent of a space created after the image and likeness of a now revolute reality. The dreamer is a copy of himself and, in the context of speaking about lucid, extensive dreams, which replace an unsatisfying reality, a simulacrum, but also a sign of a present-absent dichotomy, as well as a copy, an image, a fantasy. In Vanilla Sky, the lucid dream of David Aames copies an early revolute reality: the oneiric paradise created in accordance to the subject’s unconscious perception and/or personal definition of happiness generates an experience that will seem to last for a few months only. The happiness as a loop of careless day to day perfection is not unlike that depicted in the Romanian fairytale of Youth Everlasting and Life without End. David Aames is trapped in a utopia of his own unconscious creation for over 150 physical years, allowing his damaged body to heal and prepare for an advanced surgical procedure. The solution is as ingenious as it is unfocused: only an error makes the ego realize (without accepting and invoking madness or temporary alienation) “the frame” of fiction in which it is captive as if trapped in amber. The film is the Hollywood remake of Alejandro Amenabar’s movie, Abre los Ojos (1997). Its narrative plot is relatively simple. The tragic circumstances of an accident that disfigures David Aames makes him resort to the “lucid dream” solution in which he would live forever according to expectations he had the day prior to the accident, when he meets Sofia (whose name reminds one of the gnostic concept of wisdom). Even if the two will never get the chance to consume their relationship in real time, David’s induced dream will generate a tragic scenario, with only one way out: David’s option to ending the “harmonious” story played on in this parallel and simulated plan. The impact technology has on the development of this simulated existential plan could be defined as a contribution to depicting that “terminal identity” mentioned by Scott Bukatman.^[20] His experience in the hyper-real dimension is conditioned by maintaining his body in a latent state (an idea also exploited in The Matrix Trilogy). Beyond this, however, despite the pragmatically articulate and technologized environment, that which remains alive is desire, continuing its path unaffected by the flaws originating in the lack of coordination/synchronization between David and the environment that, unknowingly, he rules, building a system of memories as coherent and functional as possible. The main character’s reaction towards his own lack of reality is not one of discouragement, but rather gentleness. He does not establish a distance between himself and what turns out to be an illusion. We could say, paraphrasing the lyrics of T.S. Eliot, that he realizes ecstasy can be real, even though those who experience it have lost their reality.^[21]

The problem that arises is that of ethical dimensioning the paradigms these characters represent in what I would call “an ethical” manner. Is this predisposition to contaminate our living experiences with images so clear and eloquent that they are capable of suspending both meaning and limitation in our own reality? And, if not, can such a parallel moral actually be created in order to support their intrusion?

In The Postmodern Scene, Arthur Kroker and David Cook analyze Rene Magritte’s “disembodied eye” as an axiomatic symbol for a society contaminated with media signs. Their immersion infests the “private life” domain, exposing and disjointing it. There is a desiring eye that sees, undresses and judges each and every slice of life. The anxiety of living “under a magnifying glass” implies a histrionic dimension which, tempting as it may be, is yet insufficiently reinforced to become a constant. Jean Baudrillard  writes about the reality TV vogue focusing on the case of the Loud family, who, in 1971, became subjects, protagonists, stars in “seven months of non-stop filming, three hundred hours of live coverage, no script or scenario,” circumscribing “the odyssey of a family, their drama, their joys, their adventures, non-stop” as a phenomenon of the “ideology of living,” The effort of “exhuming the real in its basic platitude, in its radical authenticity” is a symptom^[22] for the hyperreal. The Loud family has been destructed (or deconstructed) by the invasion of the cameras. They have seen themselves realer than they thought themselves to be and hated the magnified obviousness of their dysfunctionality. Baudrillard regards “the fantasy of filming the Loud family as if the television was not there” and the triumph of the producer who would have then been able to say “They lived as though we were not there,” as even more interesting than a possible answer to the question “what would have happened if the television was not there”. He also finds this “what if” negotiation “absurd and paradoxical- neither true or false: utopic,” whereas “this ‘as if we were not there’ is equal to ‘as if you were not there’, and “this utopia, this paradox fascinated twenty million viewers, more than any ‘perverse’ pleasure of violating an intimacy.” The pleasure is not born from the experience of uncensored truth. It comes from “a sort of frisson of the real or an esthetic of the hyper-real, a frisson of vertiginous and phony exactitude, a frisson of simultaneous zooming in and out, of distortion of the scale, of an excessive transparency.” In a reality show “the unimportant is exalted by the camera.” We are made aware of the fact that “this real never existed (but it was ‘as if you were there’), without the distance that makes the outlook space and our profound view (but is ‘more true than the natural’) possible.

In Baudrillard’s opinion, this family “was already hyperreal by the very nature of its selection,” “its statistic perfection” leading to its destruction.^[23] Once under the limelight, television did nothing more but investing this family with the stigmata of truth (a cardboard truth nonetheless).

It is that which, at some paroxysmal level tries Peter Weier in his cult movie, The Truman Show. Truman, brilliantly played by a complex and versatile Jim Carrey  lives in the biggest TV set in the world, an artificial environment that offers him protection (one that generates a form of inexplicable anxiety of which he will only become aware of at the symbolic age of thirty-three). Truman Burbank is the only authentic character in his life. His parents, his wife, his friends, his colleagues are all actors hired to create the permanently broadcasted scenario of Truman’s life. The home he lives in resembles stage props, his whole world-view was swallowed up in an eternal virtual hyper-real repetition. Every gesture and every decision was influenced by the public’s request. Even coincidences were staged, and so were the misfortunes or traumas (the best example in this respect is the death of his father, who had to be removed from the set and who blows up the apparent mundane harmony of Truman’s privileged life when the same actor is hired to impersonate a beggar). The moment in which they meet overlaps with a crisis tied to a fantasy about an extra in the set. The dystopian scenario of her inexplicable disappearance (with the fragile motivation of her fake move to the Fiji Islands) becomes an obsession for Truman, one that can only be forgotten if embarking on a trip against the show’s “prescriptions.” Truman has all the symptoms of a being that is satisfied with the environment it is offered, incapable of questioning its limits and resorts. Desire unbalances and turns against this constant stability. Paradoxically, Truman, who is authentic without being authentic (although honest in his choices, he is indirectly manipulated by the staged moves of characters and extras that surround him), offers his viewers the illusion of a reality which they are or might be missing. Baudrillard’s idea of a slogan is “You are not the ones watching TV, it is the TV that is watching you (living)” because “switching from a panoptic surveillance device to a dissuasion system, in which the distinction between passive and active is broken” works completely in the case imagined by Peter Weier. Truman embodies “the next stage of the social relation, ours, which is no longer that of persuasion (publishing era), but that of dissuasion.” Practically, due to this change, “it becomes impossible to find an instance of the model, of the power, of the viewing, of the environment itself” because “there is no more subject, no more focal point, no more center, no periphery: just ‘information’, secret virulence, chain reaction, slow implosion and simulations of spaces where the real effect comes to play.”^[24] The spectacular itself is gone. Truman’s environment becomes one “indistinguishable, diffuse and diffracted into the real,” and its interference dooms its viewers to similar faith: subdued “not to irruption, pressure, violence and blackmail of the environments and models, but to their induction, their infiltration, their illegible violence.”^[25]

The ending is set to be a happy one: Truman discovers that his world is a décor and chooses to leave it. The implication that the real world he enters has no more authenticity than the set lingers on, like an echo. The truths are not studio truths, “greenhouse truths,” that is why their guarantees may seem more fragile than a superficial comparison would allow it.

Furthermore, Truman’s life was up to that point, a directed dream based on clues originating in rating numbers or in the director’s notes. In his case too, the female character is the antagonistic guide that sends desperate messages from the reality realm.

The Matrix converges two themes which circumscribe acceptations that the Baudrillardian concept of simulacra both attacks and appropriates: for once we have the human civilization under the threat of the machines and potential existence in a computer based simulation. Thus, is challenges and questions both the notions at stake in Vanilla Sky (authentic, unauthentic, imaginary turned real and palpable, the idea of personal truth opposed to historical truth), and the issue of the experiment and the annulment of free will in The Truman Show.

Jean Baudrillard,^[26] famous on account of his pessimistic outlook on the future, has described the way in which imitations or reproductions of reality acquire and stock a greater legitimation, a greater value and power than the originals themselves, resorting, for this purpose, to a term that will follow a glorious (and thus contestable) path: that of hyperreality. In a theoretical determination of the space in which the pre-established distinctions between representation and its original cease to exist, what Baudrillard has in mind is, in fact, the way in which all sorts of commodities suspend their Marxist use-value content in the favor of an “abstract” sense, closer to the one Saussure gave signs. A mutation that, he will further insist, is in no way devoid of consequences: the most obvious one consists in the ways in which the postmodern condition “is guilty” of erasing all signs that were naturally associated to a referent, creating chaos, confusion and a feeling of creative freedom, not unlike the divine creative energies posit by the maya. A risqué idea, with productive results, nonetheless: it gives way for other speculations that will prove inherent to a complete analysis of the ingrate age of postmodernism.

The aforementioned mutation, along with the net of obsessions surrounding the myths of our postindustrial society, becomes the main crucible of new inter-conceptual connections. The insertion of technological supports makes the splitting between the facts of reality and those of non-reality more efficient, justifying mirrored images of simulacra in their poetic and political hypostasis.

In “The Precession of Simulacra,” Baudrillard establishes a few of the “essential” facts for understanding the efficiency of a new constitutive reality characterizing the postmodern existence: “Today abstraction is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror, or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being, or a substance..” With things having fulfilled an evolutional course, the simulation no longer designated a coexistence of maps and territories like in Borges’s fable. We are faced with “the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal” .In these conditions, “the territory no longer precedes the map, nor does it survive it,” because it is “the map that precedes the territory, (…) that engenders the territory (…)”  in such a manner that “today it is the territory whose shreds slowly rot across the extent of the map. It is the real, and not the map, whose vestiges persist here and there in the deserts that are no longer those of the Empire, but ours. The desert of the real itself.”^[27]

“The raw material” of the hyperreality concept/frame is represented by paradigms or simulations that have lost their capacity to relate to reality and whose survival is ensured by series and series of replicas lacking any historical meaning. This break from the past or, should we say, this invalidation of chronology will justify the observations on the new nihilism and the renowed acceptions that Nietzsche’s view upon the “eternal recursion” acquires on the unstable postmodernist terrain (an idea also found in the writings of Gilles Deleuze). Simulations, in Baudrillard’s view, provoke objectivity, truth, and reality in one way solely: by faking their existence. The reality reproduced within the limits of the hyperreal seems more real, more tangible and more credible than reality itself. Simulacra’s discourse is violent and virulent, it involves an imminent awakening, in the turmoil of a reality lacking foundations other than those which eventually turned out to be illusions. “In this passing from a space that no longer bends the real, nor the truth, the era of the simulation opens, through a liquidation of all that is referential – worse: through their artificial revival in the sign systems.”^[28] What is taking place is in fact, a “replacement of the real with the signs of the real” or, in other words, “an operation of dissuasion of any real process by his operational double (…) that offers all the signs of the real, short circuiting all of its mishaps.” In these conditions, Baudrillard believes, the real will not get the chance to take place, for “is the vital function of the model in a system of death, or rather of anticipated resurrection, that no longer even gives the event of death a chance.” All that is left is a “a hyperreal henceforth sheltered from the imaginary, and from any distinction between the real and the imaginary, leaving room only for the orbital recurrence of models and for the simulated generation of differences.”^[29]

An attempt to further write about The Matrix involves skimming a bibliography both diverse and problematic. The trilogy is a correlative of all the interests that exceed the borders of the academic niche (sic!) and enter the sub-layers of underground cultures, of conspiracy theories and mass philosophy. The “academic” success that the Wachowski brothers’ trilogy has had also residues in the tenderer way in which it mounts key postmodernism concepts, such as intertextuality and meta-textuality. The allegory of the machines that get their energy from human bodies and humans “narratively” trapped in a past historical time, now fictional, a reference point year before the apocalypse, doubled, at what I would call the level of discourse, by an abundance of quotes and references that color and give shape to the idea of the real, feed the curiosity of researchers in many fields and further explains the movie’s ever growing success and the way it intruded even academic curricula. One could say that the logic of iconic references such as Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland,^[30] Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz (the film’s chromatic inevitably reminds of the Emerald City), Jean Baudrillard’s Simulation and Simulacra, all very handy, very transparent, countlessly inventoried and commented in Matrix Dictionaries and Compediums, is, in the context in which we find them inscribed like carvings, formulas, key phrases of the “awakened,” “conscious” characters, mere attempts of recovering the signs of an natural human inclination towards escapism, the kind that fiction solely has enough resources to offer. Recruited out of the panoply of universal culture that the new world order brackets into oblivion, they become potential apocryphal gospels, explanations meant to outline the post-human philosophy of the “real” present or, if one is strictly referring to The Matrix, references for the trompe l’oeil that is the city of Zion as a narrative assuming the function of pure Reality, an island of the authentic in a sea of fake history fabricated through artificial intelligence means.

I see this tension between the real – more real – true real in the Matrix trilogy similar to what Victor Ieronim Stoichiță designates as “meta-painting,” a technique that proliferated in the 16th and 17th centuries and which consists of the simultaneous presence, in the same tableau, of two indirectly linked scenes, whose overlapping cannot be ignored. The viewer is put in the position of opting for one of the representations to the detriment of the other (he will either choose to see as real the crease in the trompe l’oeil, the curtain or the window, or the actual narrative unfolding beyond these borders). The trompe l’oeil thus invests the spectator with the possibility of experiencing deception at a more profound level than the eye allows: he becomes witness to the unfolding of a ranking of Reality (conventionally perceived as such, since, regardless of the adjustment efforts of the matter in which the trompe l’oeil technique is engaged, the educated eye is truly aware that what it sees is nothing but a figment, a part of the fictional order). Preoccupied by “the role played by the inter-textual mechanisms in the emergence of still life as an independent genre,” Stoichiță insists on the oxymoron encapsulated in the phrase “still life,” questioning the paradox: “How can nature, whose main quality is life, be dead?”^[31] This example originates in Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, where we can read a whole chapter on tableaus that approached minor themes, vulgar ones, painted by a certain Piraikos. Pliny describes these works as “extremely pleasant,” and stresses their fame as residing on their “deceptive, illusionary” character, which he regards as a source of delight for the eye. After all, the programs responsible for the reconstruction of reality that maintains the human batteries alive generates the same type of pleasure/delight filtering the most derisory, dirty, miserable realities.” “Pliny’s Passage,” the art historian concludes, “confirms the birth of still life as a necessity based on the contrast between the unimportant, futile, character of the subject and the illusionary value of the representation” able to generate a “conflicting nucleus.” (It asked for a lesser mind, says the Architect in The Matrix, referring to the final produce of computer program generating the 1999 simulated world. We are suggested that, in its initial versions, based on utopic norms, the Matrix did not apply to human nature – a situation that The Truman Show exploits in the context of late 20th-century cult-cinema). Still life, as a new painting genre, appears “starting with three fundamental facts, connected to different motivations, although convergent: the illusionary representation (trompe l’oeil); the idea of the waste of things; the meta-painting character of the representation.”^[32] Another example is Sosos of Pergamon’s mosaic, presenting in a well-mastered trompe l’oeil of the leftovers of a feast. “The Mosaic,” as Victor Ieronim Stoichiță observes, “must obviously trick the viewer, making him believe that the scraps (fish bones, spitted seeds, etc.) were left by guests.” The same illusionary character is found in the still lives mentioned by Filostrate in his Images, that had, this time “a fictive painting frame (crease, hole in the wall).”^[33] This type of illusionism also works on the level of filmic narrative. The Matrix is iconic, thus, for the movie “fashion,” in which the conventional-reality-of-a-character is, metaphorically speaking, just the painting carved/dug in a wall..

“The placement of still life in a crease is a topos of the genre,” explained “through the fact that the crease offers a limited tridimensional space, in which objects can be placed, forever referencing to the surface of the representation.” In other words, “images function as an opening in the wall,” and the niche “becomes the sole compromise in  reconciling the surface of representation with a more profound impression. Using the wall behind the niche as reference point, the objects appear to be flooding the real space.”^[34] The manner of combining two levels of space in the interior of a single representation through the “creases” and objects that are painted as if placed in them, in niches or frames, implies, in the opinion of Victor Ieronim Stoichiţă, “an obvious illusionism.” Referring for example to the Adoration of the Magi, a 16th century painting by Englebert Nassau, he remarks the way in which the “still life” framework, contextually turned tridimensional, since “the central image belongs to a space of a totally different quality: the lost horizon of the landscape evokes an unlimited depth.” He argues this option by opposing the frame and the painting: if the first belongs to a world we rather call our own, to the mundane, to the earthly pleasures, the image appears as an “opening to another reality.” A specialized version of these images within an image, no strangers to comparisons to chinese boxes or matrioska dolls, is represented by “the images behind the image”: a painting painted on the reverse of the painting itself becomes a subversive means to create a counter-image and to supplement the sense that the central one posits. They can thus only be understood “by acknowledging their oppositional role in relation to the image on the back of the painting. They form the reverse of the image, the reverse of the painting. They offer a different representation, an anti-picture, an anti-painting.”^[35]

When the diptych was closed, the portrait became invisible, the only pictorial reality being that of the reverse still life: and this happens in The Matrix too. When the characters are not connected to the program that allows them to enter the simulation, they becomes invisible, unseen for the viewer/spectator, and they only exist in the Zion. This permanent double shifting and double contextualization of charecters allows the spectator to detect the actual fictional character of the world in general. The Zion is a realm in which the visceral predominates. It comes to redeem the disturbed existence, mystified by the “maya veil” that it places on the eyes of the machine slaves, the immense simulation in which they live and move “as if” or “as it were” the year 1999. There won’t be any disasters in 1999: they already happened in a time when history was unmistified. Artificial Intelligence will always be an hypothesis close to Science Fiction even more than empiric realizations, and this, according to Nick Bostrom’s works that seriously address the simulation theory and even consider it a provable truth, it is the first hint that we are indeed living in a unrealistic regime, in a computerized program, not at all different from games like Sims or Second Life.

In Zion, bodies are alive, triumphal, hyper-sexualized. The tribal allure parties appear as programed realizations of the preeminence of reality, veridical to the carnality, to a tangible connection between mind and body, in the face of the illusion which allows both connection and control. Their purpose is also ritualistic: living people, freed from the guardianship of the machines, form a community, and explore the limits of this freedom. This interface comes as a rebellion in the face of vanity: in Zion, death is, by default, real, bloody, gorey even. Reprising the parallelism with the reality-fiction game in meta-pictorial contexts, these descriptions and raids into death remind, on a narrative level, of the purpose of skulls and other such metaphors of the “vanitas” as seen on the back of the diptychs and triptychs Stoichiţă mentions in his work on metapainting. The post-apocalyptical space of Zion thus plays the role “of absolute negativity of objects,” an inverse projection of the sumptuous shiny world, that the ones captive in simulation can access. “The skull,” as Victor Ieronim Stoichiță writes, “is the portrait’s negative.” In these representations, the trompe l’oeil, the meta-pictorial, the vanitas structures problematize the image – anti-image dichotomy, as well as the report between what is credited as being real or rejected as illusionary, are converged.”

Beyond the narration’s organizational problems, the film is a true composing rack for the informed preoccupations with the obsession of the double, the copy and the chorus. This is how the character Smith is analyzed. Double “monster,” doppelganger, a program created to annihilate the self-conscious aberration that is Neo, evil twin, Smith has attributes that surpass the question of the copy and the double.^[36] The enigma solved by the Oracle makes one automatically think of the taboo theme of the inseparable twins, “the ones who merge, with common flesh and a just as common death.”^[37]

Another scene that is relevant for the way in which The Matrix script resolves the problem of the copy is the scene that shows Neo meeting the Architect. We are faced here with a copy of the former real world hypostasis generated by the Artificial Intelligence devices, but not in terms of telling, but in terms of a museal showing, an unsettling wxhibition: the walls of the key-room are filled with  TV portraits of Neo, suggesting that the scene of this meeting took place in countless versions and channeling the myth of the Eternal Return. On an imaginary and meta-physical level, we are faced with the meanings that the old world generated by the Machine gains as an “art of memory”: the year 1999, seen as a climax of human evolution, is built according to many classification criteria, and the room with screens is a form of relique, not unlike those Curiosity Cabinets of the 17th century. We are refering to a closed series (in the words of Stoichiță): to the collection/the gathering of Neos as an exercise of both exhibiting a memory, but also as a metaphorical representation of the closed system that made it possible. The Architect explains this spectacle of “the same” through the specific nature of all the failures he keeps track of: each of these Neos failed is his own way. The “simulated” insectarium, the collection of “vivant paintings” that it portrays captures reactions that imply the logic of a selection, of certain combinations^[38] of this system of images, of thid fictional product that The Matrix actually is. In this scene, we are dealing with both a contextual relation between the exhibits of a collection (these Neos, system failures, inherent anomalies), and an inter-textual one, one of a self-consciousness of the image system, that is The Matrix, as a fictional product.

The solutions of the real – lucid or induced dream dichotomies are paradoxical, tangible only at the simulated level. Mentioning the maya (the concept of illusion in Hinduism)-, in the beginning of this paper is not coincidental. While some researchers are interested in the problem of cyberpunk and dystopian cronotopes in The Matrix, correlating them to the “catastrophic” postmodern imaginary, others exploit its links to religious beliefs preoccupied by the question of reality. Frances Flannery-Dailey and Rachel Wagner published in the fifth number of the Religion and Film Journal, in 2001, an article entitled “Wake up! Gnosticism and Buddhism in The Matrix,” being mainly interested in the interstation zones between the philosophical substrate of the Wachowski brothers’ 1999 trilogy and a sum of religious traditions, the most prominent ones being gnostic Christianity and Buddhism, “that like the movie question humanity’s fundamental problem in terms of ignorance and enlightenment.” “Wake up” is the phrase that encapsulates the film’s plot: we are dealing with a character confronted with the problem of inadequacy to the material world. He intuits that the world as he knows it is damaged, wrong, a mere simulation generated by a program created in the near future, dominated by the Artificial Intelligence. The material reality as a means of enslavement of humanity by perpetuating ignorance under the form of illusionary perception called “the matrix,” a matrix that perfectly overleaps the multilayered significations of the gnostic reality concept, on one hand, and the Buddhist one, on the other. The Christian and Buddhist gnosis is based on initiation scenarios that imply the existence of a saving being, a guide or bodhisattva that enters the prison that is this world with the sole purpose to share freeing knowledge to the captive ones, helping who ever understands to escape. In the movie, this function is Neo’s, an anagram for The One, The Chosen One. “Due to the ignorance,” as Frances Flannery-Dailey and Rachel Wagner write, “people see the material world as the ultimate reality, being able to wake up from this illusionary dream with the help of a guide that takes on the function of teaching them about their true nature.”^[39] The beginning of the film is marked by the insistence of the mysterious message that appears on Neo’s computer screen (Neo, the one, is Thomas Anderson’s alias, a name that, the two suggest, is a reference to the gospel of Thomas on one hand, to the idea of Son of Man, justifying thus the intrusion of Christian and gnostic mythology elements in the plot of the film).

“Open your eyes” is a key phrase in Vanilla Sky too, being the title of Amenabar’s original movie, Abre los Ojos. Its meaning is once again magnified by the presence of Sofia, whose name  clearly refers to the female principle of knowledge, according to the gnostic gospels. We can say that beyond the hyper-real (lucid dream) realization claims of an accomplished real world, this film also takes on the subjects of freedom from illusion and access to an authentic truth, whose facts had been distorted.

In The World as a Labyrinth, Gustav Rene Hocke talks about the “unusual myths” that inspire the imagination of the materialists. The 17th century discovered an Antiquity of strangeness and myths like those presented in Ovid’s Metamorphoses or in Horus Apollo’s Hieroglyphica, the result of this focus shift being that “the myth loses its archetype character, of archetypal sign, to become an ideal abstract model, in which (…) contemporary problems can be embroidered.” The equivocal figures of the mythologies (featuring rather obscure characters of the Old Testament included) become favored and end up “being preferred by the late romantic literatures also.”^[40] Hocke motivates this interest towards the sources of the extraordinary, the fabulous, the irrational that these rewritten narrations (advertised as “books with pictures of the abnormal,” “based on images of the irrational”),^[41] highlighting the contribution that they bring as images (“as metaphorical structures that can be filled (…) like a cosmic cabinet of curiosities with wondrous disguises, like unreal intersection points between space and time, between pause and movement”). For the mannerists, myth means defeat, annihilation, despair. Its background is, as Hocke suggests, that of Monsu Desidorio’s painting of the Trojan horse: an Antiquity of collapse, an Antiquity “mythically drowned,” where figures of the paria, the non-adapted and the animal symbols of wickedness solely survive. “The sculptural metaphor,” the man-statue motif are themes that obsessed the 18th century, by virtue of the fascination with the game established by the natural-artificial dichotomy in the context of the curiosity cabinets, whose vogue marked the cultural landscape of the era. Descartes described the human body as a statue or an earthly machine (horologe),^[42] seeing it as a “mimetic device”^[43] of the soul^[44] (a notion that he implied without actually naming it) or a poetic extension. In the context that, as Victor Ieronim Stoichiță observes, “The Enlightenment Age was sooner inclined to destroy the myths than to cultivate them,”^[45] the direct interest for Pygmalion’s figure is a point of tension, translated with the arrogance (“intellectual defiance,” as Stoichiță calls it) of moving the act of creating life from God to man. The artist who gives life to his creation is gaining, thus, a paradigmatic value for what humans are able to make. The narrative processing of this fantasy posseses a value marked by the hybris: man can measure up to God with a price that he is not prepared to pay. In the end, the Platonic conception concerning the copy lacking a referent as a hypostasis of the monstrous and the harmful still stands under these auspices. I would tie these elements to the conclusion of my paper, stating that the dissolution of the subject in the fabricated is the ultimate consequence of the image of simulacra. From here on, it is either the desert of cyberspace that begins, or some different form of handling the facts of the multiplicative reality. The texts and the pretexts of this restless challenge remain, without a doubt, open. Looking back to the static poses of the absent image, we consider the distinction that Roland Barthes made between film and photography adequate, postulating that “as in the real world, the filmic world is sustained by the presumption that experience will continue to run constantly, in the same way,” whereas “photography is futureless.”^[46] 

This paper was supported by CNCS – UEFISCDI PN-II-ID-PCE-2011-3-0061

“Antiutopiile. A face şi a desface realitatea – Testarea lumilor posibile.”

Notes

Olga Ştefan
Babes-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania
olg.stefan@gmail.com

Identity Dissolutions in the Context of the Reality-Dream-Hyperreality Relationship in Vanilla Sky, The Truman Show and The Matrix

Abstract: This paper focuses on the way we interpret the relationship established between reality, dreams and hyper-reality in three cinematic productions that tackle this subject: Vanilla Sky, The Truman Show, and The Matrix. In this context, we are discussing both the plots of the movie scripts and the role of the spectator in negotiating hierarchies of reality at work in the afore mentioned movies. Also, the author was interested in stressing the challenges brought by these types of fictions, working with meanings of the real, the surreal, the realer than real. Both in The Matrix and Vanilla Sky but also, later, at the level of its underlying premises, in Cristopher Nolan’s Inception, dream represents the most adequate transformative ground for understanding the limits and the challenges associated with the hyper-real regime, a mimicry of postmodern reality. We see this in recurrent lines: I am living the dream, It feels like a dream. Dream is also a metaphor for man’s ignorance in mistaking it for reality, while it is, in fact, a web of illusions. An example is Peter Weimar’s film, The Truman Show.   

Keywords: Reality; Illusion; Lucid Dreaming; Vanilla Sky; The Truman Show; The Matrix.

“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”

T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

“We live and we feel just as well, in both our dreams and in our awakeness, and we are both one and the other. It is a privilege for man to dream and to be aware that he is dreaming, one we have not rightfully put to use so far. A dream is a life that, added to the rest of our existence, becomes what we call human life. In the state of awakeness, the dreams get lost little by little; it is hard to tell when a man’s awakening begins.”^[1]

Georg Cristoph Lichtenberg

In Buddhism, pure Reality is blocked by a veil, and this veil is the maya. The origin of this concept, in the writings of Mircea Eliade,^[2] representing illusion, non-reality, non-being, is closely connected with the idea of change, of “a cosmic order alteration.” The maya is, of course, destruction, but, at an even subtler level, conversion of the conversion. In the Rig Veda it designates demonic alternations, magical transformations, the trickster attribute of this Evil Genius. But the maya also assumes attributes of divine creativity, in the context that, later on, “the cosmos itself will become, in the Vedana, an illusory transformation (…), a system of changes that lack reality,” where the maya will be “assimilated with ignorance (avidya) and compared with dream,” in the sense that “the multi-shaped realities of the exterior world are just as illusionary as the contents of the dream.”^[3] In the context in which the “leitmotif” of the Hindu way of thinking is the “highlighting of pain as a law of existence” and “a sine qua non condition of liberation,” any form of awakening also involves the annulment of the plurality of objects that belong to the perverted web of masked fabrication into the authentic, the real. It also “hides and reveals at the same time,” playing the role of a frame, of an encasement that, once outmoded, accounts for leveling and even hierarchizing reality.

The seemingly positive hypostasis of the veil appears in myths that approach illusion as an attribute of art. In Scurtă istorie a umbrei (A Brief History of Shadows), Victor Ieronim Stoichiță recounts a paradigmatic legend told by Pliny the Elder in Natural History, a text that ambitiously certifies the fact that “painting was born when man’s shadow was inscribed in lines for the very first time”: a girl, in love with a young man that was about to leave his home town and, implicitly, exist no more as a reality perceivable draws the contour of her lover’s shadow, projected by the light of a candle, on a wall. This “birth in the negative” of the brushwork will forever ensure its status as an artwork that “appeared under the sign of an absence/ a presence (the absence of the body, the presence of its projection),” thus justifying its affiliation and, furthermore, its complicity in future contemplations and developments circumscribed in this dichotomous relation. Stoichiță adds, practically, “art history is checkpointed by the dialectics of this bond.”^[4] I would further notice how the act of representation does not have the will to be, in the context of this legend, “a result of a direct observation of the human body, but the interception of the projection of this body.”^[5] What the girl kept was not so much an image that was accessible to the unloving eye, but a symbolic substitute of the one she cared for.

“The representation of a representation (an image of the shadow), the first painting was nothing more than the copy of a copy.” Beyond the Platonist views of Pliny’s text, we discover, in relation to the topic, a continuance: the girl wanted to keep her absent lover’s shadow in order to weave a limitless illusionary story around her. We once again find ourselves within the orbit of a vicious circle, circumscribed in the limits of illusion and desire. The compromise of this trajectory lies, most often, in a fall back on image. An image amplified by its “meta-destructive” structure. Having the thing itself turned into a simple representation, we also are suggested that it is missing from the reality we are referring to. What is to happen if, as we dispose of the custom of certitudes, we conclude that, in fact, the thing itself, the thing that became an image, never belonged to us, or, even worse, never even existed, in the way we saw it or we experienced it? A most terminologically and eloquently adequate solution to turn to is the correlation of our doubtful situation suspended between the verbs of desire and those of frustration with the area fraught by the full solemnity of dangerous phantasms and, also, by the sarcasm of irreconcilable paradoxes, of simulation. The idea of the other reality, fabricated in the logic of a compensatory mechanism, is best highlighted in the dream domain.

The endless possibilities that today’s copy culture, characterized (according to Hillel Schwartz) by a fascination with doubles and exact reproductions has to offer are powered not only by the phantasms of an unwanted twinning, but also by the actual hypostasis of a doppelganger in oneiric contexts. The other (like in Jorge Luis Borges’ story, “Borges and I”) lives more intensely, more authentically, closer to the essence. Heraclitus asked himself “for what purpose does everyone have their own particular universe in their dreams, whereas all people have a common one in reality when awake,”^[6] and his question remains one of those issues that survives, through highlighting, in all the stages of philosophical thinking. Albert Béguin wrote in The Romantic Soul and Dream, an ample essay dealing with the oneiric fascination characterizing German romantic poetry, that “every age of human thinking could be defined, with enough profoundness, through the relationships established between the state of dreaming and that of awakening,”^[7] finding that the manner in which we can access these two different realities, often incapable to tell them apart, is both food for thought and a subject of anxiety referring to our limits in pinpointing reality. “Without a doubt,” Béguin notes, “it is puzzling how we can live with two parallel existences, one hidden in the other, without being able to reach a perfect correspondence between them”. So it happens that “sooner or later, with more or less clarity, continuity, and particularly haste,” every being ends up asking himself with a rather unsettling insistence: “am I the one dreaming?”^[8]. This dilemma is at stake in countless fables of dreamers and dreamed ones. This is, or so the Swiss explorer believes, “one of the three or four questions that you are not free to answer satisfyingly to feed your abstract thinking solely, departing from the problems of existence and elementary angst”. Béguin explains his affirmation through the idea that “these questions are not asked by us, and not rely on our autonomous thinking, but seem rather as if they have been thrown at us by an undefined reality, one broader than us, which we depend on to such an extent that we simply cannot refuse this dialog without condemning ourselves to a diminished reality.” Whichever answer should we provide for the name dilemma, it will be reducing to an option regarding inner potential, knowledge and a choice: whether to ignore it or dwell on it.

As mentioned before this paper focuses on the way we interpret the net of relationships woven between reality, dreams, and hyper-reality in three cinematic productions that tackle this subject: Vanilla Sky, The Truman Show and The Matrix. In this context, we are discussing both the plots of the movie scripts and the role of the spectator in dealing with the multi-surfaced concept of reality they offer. We also are interested in the challenges brought by these types of fictions, whose central obsession keeps resurfacing in contemporary poetry, publicity and in the lyrics of music hits even, as a constant cultural reference. In The Matrix, in Vanilla Sky and, later, at the level of the underlying premises, in Inception, dream is the most adequate transformative ground for understanding the limits and the challenges associated with the hyper-real regime. Artists use lucid dreaming as a mimicry of postmodern reality. We have gotten used to quoting, to false optimism or authentic dread, in recurrent lines such as: I am living the dream, It feels like a dream. Dream is also a metaphor for man’s ignorance in mistaking it for reality, while it is, in fact, a web of illusions. An example is Peter Weimar’s film, The Truman Show.   

This gliding between dream and reality also involves the transgression of certain limitations imposed by our very means of accessing mundane reality, thus framing the act of dreaming as one would symbolically frame a painting within a painting. In this respect, our interpretation intersects the observations of Victor Ieronim Stoichiţă regarding the function of the frame as a dividing line between image and all that is non-image. As Stoichiţă says, “that which was framed is a signified world, standing in front of what seems to be outside of the frame.”^[9] In these films, the idea of a frame is an abstract one: we know that we are dealing with two realms of existence, but what separates them “is not yet an image and is no longer a simple object of the surrounding space”: it does not belong to the ideal world of image, but “it makes it possible.”^[10]

The theme of life as a dream, iconic for the baroque period and programmatically rediscovered in Romanticism, is here revived in a profoundly dystopian vein, with the once serene act of dreaming turned into a leitmotif of anti-utopian awareness The solution that dream is a product of the subconscious is not satisfying, because

Even when introspection or the science of psychology teaches me to follow the mechanism in which the images of dream become intertwined with those of conscious experience, I will still have no reason to feel calm. I can find out the path images follow until the last moment of their infinite journey, but I will always ignore their origin; they did actually speak to me in a language that touches me through its quality and its apparent allusion to something very important, which I feel close to me. But no explanation will ever enlighten me on the nature of this language, or on the truthfulness of these allusions.^[11]

Dream becomes, thus, a constant language of consciousness: “Night dreams and the even more mysterious dreams that follow me throughout the day, so close to the surface that they appear at the slightest shock, here lies an existence whose permanent and fertile presence manifests itself through other signs.”^[12] A common theme is the distant memory activated while dreaming, that “something” acknowledged as coming “from somewhere further than me, from an ancestral memoir or from a realm which is not that of my individual being.” Béguin observes the kinship of these oneiric tropes in the production of mythologies and fairytales, reaching the conclusion that “the collective imagination, in its spontaneous creations and its individual imagination, freed by certain exceptional moments, seem to refer to the same universe.” In other words, “the resulting images have this ability to trigger an emotion in my interior dream, to call it up to surface and to project it on the things that surround me,” generating the feeling that “things cease to be outside of me and, at last called by their true magical name, come to life to enter a new relationship with me.”^[13]

The essence of psychoanalysis, in Béguin’s view, is opposite to the essence of romanticism because, while it admits the constant exchange of contents between consciousness and unconsciousness, “the cycle formed by these two halves of our ego is a closed one, of a purely individual nature (even if the survival of some primordial images are added to it).” On the other hand, the romantics “all admit that obscure life is that of continuous communication with another reality, vaster, prior and superior to the individual life.”^[14] Psychoanalysis assumes, at the same time, an adjusting role, healing diseases that infect both the mind and the body.

Regardless of this aspect, Romanticism will search for a way to the most unknown realms of the soul in images, even in the most morbid of them. It will do so not out of curiosity, not to purge them and make them more fertile for human life, but to find here the secret of all that, in time and space, extends us beyond ourselves and makes our actual existence a simple point on an infinite destiny line. The opposition that separates psychoanalysis from mysticism, and from romanticism, forbids any real understanding of what could not be more to it than a certified case of psychosis.^[15]

For the poet and for the reader of poetry, images exist just as they are, but for the psychoanalyst, they are documents and symptoms, “external to the quality and the efficiency of the poem.” Even though modern science overestimates “the quality” of our interior adventures, a “forgetting of our belonging, (…) of the ignorance in which we continue to remain in terms of our true belonging.”^[16]

Highlighting the considerable importance that all rationalist thinkers of the 18th century bestow on sleep phenomena, Beguin notices that “since around the year 1750, books about dreams and magazines that assign a partial or a regular column to this subject have increased in number,”^[17] without there being a psychological discourse to actually certify the importance of the matters. At the same time, he points out the prophetic dream histories and even a trope of this type of dream recurring in both memoirs of the period and modern contexts he invokes.^[18] Dream “has an irritating and a somewhat paradoxical attraction: it represents (…) a privileged place of mystery, a gate opening to superstitions, prophecies, dubious metaphysical temptations or, even worse, mystical ones.” Hence, “to reduce it to the proportions of a natural phenomenon, explainable through the same mechanism used to define any other vital manifestation, is, for the philosopher, the ultimate triumph, the supreme test of his sovereign operation.”^[19] On the other hand, the romantics discovered that “only just through the dream and through other subjective states,” descending into ourselves, we unite with that part of us that is “more us” than our conscious. According to their perception, the only authentic form of knowledge is “that of the leap into the inner abyss, the tuning of our personal rhythm with the universal rhythm: analogical knowledge of a Real that is not an exterior given,” and use as a proof the thesis that connotes dream as an “imperfect and blurry form of the conscious in normal state”, caving in to the idea that, honoring the imagination, it will give a positive note to “oneiric scenarios.”

In the context of hyper-reality, dream becomes the equivalent of a space created after the image and likeness of a now revolute reality. The dreamer is a copy of himself and, in the context of speaking about lucid, extensive dreams, which replace an unsatisfying reality, a simulacrum, but also a sign of a present-absent dichotomy, as well as a copy, an image, a fantasy. In Vanilla Sky, the lucid dream of David Aames copies an early revolute reality: the oneiric paradise created in accordance to the subject’s unconscious perception and/or personal definition of happiness generates an experience that will seem to last for a few months only. The happiness as a loop of careless day to day perfection is not unlike that depicted in the Romanian fairytale of Youth Everlasting and Life without End. David Aames is trapped in a utopia of his own unconscious creation for over 150 physical years, allowing his damaged body to heal and prepare for an advanced surgical procedure. The solution is as ingenious as it is unfocused: only an error makes the ego realize (without accepting and invoking madness or temporary alienation) “the frame” of fiction in which it is captive as if trapped in amber. The film is the Hollywood remake of Alejandro Amenabar’s movie, Abre los Ojos (1997). Its narrative plot is relatively simple. The tragic circumstances of an accident that disfigures David Aames makes him resort to the “lucid dream” solution in which he would live forever according to expectations he had the day prior to the accident, when he meets Sofia (whose name reminds one of the gnostic concept of wisdom). Even if the two will never get the chance to consume their relationship in real time, David’s induced dream will generate a tragic scenario, with only one way out: David’s option to ending the “harmonious” story played on in this parallel and simulated plan. The impact technology has on the development of this simulated existential plan could be defined as a contribution to depicting that “terminal identity” mentioned by Scott Bukatman.^[20] His experience in the hyper-real dimension is conditioned by maintaining his body in a latent state (an idea also exploited in The Matrix Trilogy). Beyond this, however, despite the pragmatically articulate and technologized environment, that which remains alive is desire, continuing its path unaffected by the flaws originating in the lack of coordination/synchronization between David and the environment that, unknowingly, he rules, building a system of memories as coherent and functional as possible. The main character’s reaction towards his own lack of reality is not one of discouragement, but rather gentleness. He does not establish a distance between himself and what turns out to be an illusion. We could say, paraphrasing the lyrics of T.S. Eliot, that he realizes ecstasy can be real, even though those who experience it have lost their reality.^[21]

The problem that arises is that of ethical dimensioning the paradigms these characters represent in what I would call “an ethical” manner. Is this predisposition to contaminate our living experiences with images so clear and eloquent that they are capable of suspending both meaning and limitation in our own reality? And, if not, can such a parallel moral actually be created in order to support their intrusion?

In The Postmodern Scene, Arthur Kroker and David Cook analyze Rene Magritte’s “disembodied eye” as an axiomatic symbol for a society contaminated with media signs. Their immersion infests the “private life” domain, exposing and disjointing it. There is a desiring eye that sees, undresses and judges each and every slice of life. The anxiety of living “under a magnifying glass” implies a histrionic dimension which, tempting as it may be, is yet insufficiently reinforced to become a constant. Jean Baudrillard  writes about the reality TV vogue focusing on the case of the Loud family, who, in 1971, became subjects, protagonists, stars in “seven months of non-stop filming, three hundred hours of live coverage, no script or scenario,” circumscribing “the odyssey of a family, their drama, their joys, their adventures, non-stop” as a phenomenon of the “ideology of living,” The effort of “exhuming the real in its basic platitude, in its radical authenticity” is a symptom^[22] for the hyperreal. The Loud family has been destructed (or deconstructed) by the invasion of the cameras. They have seen themselves realer than they thought themselves to be and hated the magnified obviousness of their dysfunctionality. Baudrillard regards “the fantasy of filming the Loud family as if the television was not there” and the triumph of the producer who would have then been able to say “They lived as though we were not there,” as even more interesting than a possible answer to the question “what would have happened if the television was not there”. He also finds this “what if” negotiation “absurd and paradoxical- neither true or false: utopic,” whereas “this ‘as if we were not there’ is equal to ‘as if you were not there’, and “this utopia, this paradox fascinated twenty million viewers, more than any ‘perverse’ pleasure of violating an intimacy.” The pleasure is not born from the experience of uncensored truth. It comes from “a sort of frisson of the real or an esthetic of the hyper-real, a frisson of vertiginous and phony exactitude, a frisson of simultaneous zooming in and out, of distortion of the scale, of an excessive transparency.” In a reality show “the unimportant is exalted by the camera.” We are made aware of the fact that “this real never existed (but it was ‘as if you were there’), without the distance that makes the outlook space and our profound view (but is ‘more true than the natural’) possible.

In Baudrillard’s opinion, this family “was already hyperreal by the very nature of its selection,” “its statistic perfection” leading to its destruction.^[23] Once under the limelight, television did nothing more but investing this family with the stigmata of truth (a cardboard truth nonetheless).

It is that which, at some paroxysmal level tries Peter Weier in his cult movie, The Truman Show. Truman, brilliantly played by a complex and versatile Jim Carrey  lives in the biggest TV set in the world, an artificial environment that offers him protection (one that generates a form of inexplicable anxiety of which he will only become aware of at the symbolic age of thirty-three). Truman Burbank is the only authentic character in his life. His parents, his wife, his friends, his colleagues are all actors hired to create the permanently broadcasted scenario of Truman’s life. The home he lives in resembles stage props, his whole world-view was swallowed up in an eternal virtual hyper-real repetition. Every gesture and every decision was influenced by the public’s request. Even coincidences were staged, and so were the misfortunes or traumas (the best example in this respect is the death of his father, who had to be removed from the set and who blows up the apparent mundane harmony of Truman’s privileged life when the same actor is hired to impersonate a beggar). The moment in which they meet overlaps with a crisis tied to a fantasy about an extra in the set. The dystopian scenario of her inexplicable disappearance (with the fragile motivation of her fake move to the Fiji Islands) becomes an obsession for Truman, one that can only be forgotten if embarking on a trip against the show’s “prescriptions.” Truman has all the symptoms of a being that is satisfied with the environment it is offered, incapable of questioning its limits and resorts. Desire unbalances and turns against this constant stability. Paradoxically, Truman, who is authentic without being authentic (although honest in his choices, he is indirectly manipulated by the staged moves of characters and extras that surround him), offers his viewers the illusion of a reality which they are or might be missing. Baudrillard’s idea of a slogan is “You are not the ones watching TV, it is the TV that is watching you (living)” because “switching from a panoptic surveillance device to a dissuasion system, in which the distinction between passive and active is broken” works completely in the case imagined by Peter Weier. Truman embodies “the next stage of the social relation, ours, which is no longer that of persuasion (publishing era), but that of dissuasion.” Practically, due to this change, “it becomes impossible to find an instance of the model, of the power, of the viewing, of the environment itself” because “there is no more subject, no more focal point, no more center, no periphery: just ‘information’, secret virulence, chain reaction, slow implosion and simulations of spaces where the real effect comes to play.”^[24] The spectacular itself is gone. Truman’s environment becomes one “indistinguishable, diffuse and diffracted into the real,” and its interference dooms its viewers to similar faith: subdued “not to irruption, pressure, violence and blackmail of the environments and models, but to their induction, their infiltration, their illegible violence.”^[25]

The ending is set to be a happy one: Truman discovers that his world is a décor and chooses to leave it. The implication that the real world he enters has no more authenticity than the set lingers on, like an echo. The truths are not studio truths, “greenhouse truths,” that is why their guarantees may seem more fragile than a superficial comparison would allow it.

Furthermore, Truman’s life was up to that point, a directed dream based on clues originating in rating numbers or in the director’s notes. In his case too, the female character is the antagonistic guide that sends desperate messages from the reality realm.

The Matrix converges two themes which circumscribe acceptations that the Baudrillardian concept of simulacra both attacks and appropriates: for once we have the human civilization under the threat of the machines and potential existence in a computer based simulation. Thus, is challenges and questions both the notions at stake in Vanilla Sky (authentic, unauthentic, imaginary turned real and palpable, the idea of personal truth opposed to historical truth), and the issue of the experiment and the annulment of free will in The Truman Show.

Jean Baudrillard,^[26] famous on account of his pessimistic outlook on the future, has described the way in which imitations or reproductions of reality acquire and stock a greater legitimation, a greater value and power than the originals themselves, resorting, for this purpose, to a term that will follow a glorious (and thus contestable) path: that of hyperreality. In a theoretical determination of the space in which the pre-established distinctions between representation and its original cease to exist, what Baudrillard has in mind is, in fact, the way in which all sorts of commodities suspend their Marxist use-value content in the favor of an “abstract” sense, closer to the one Saussure gave signs. A mutation that, he will further insist, is in no way devoid of consequences: the most obvious one consists in the ways in which the postmodern condition “is guilty” of erasing all signs that were naturally associated to a referent, creating chaos, confusion and a feeling of creative freedom, not unlike the divine creative energies posit by the maya. A risqué idea, with productive results, nonetheless: it gives way for other speculations that will prove inherent to a complete analysis of the ingrate age of postmodernism.

The aforementioned mutation, along with the net of obsessions surrounding the myths of our postindustrial society, becomes the main crucible of new inter-conceptual connections. The insertion of technological supports makes the splitting between the facts of reality and those of non-reality more efficient, justifying mirrored images of simulacra in their poetic and political hypostasis.

In “The Precession of Simulacra,” Baudrillard establishes a few of the “essential” facts for understanding the efficiency of a new constitutive reality characterizing the postmodern existence: “Today abstraction is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror, or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being, or a substance..” With things having fulfilled an evolutional course, the simulation no longer designated a coexistence of maps and territories like in Borges’s fable. We are faced with “the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal” .In these conditions, “the territory no longer precedes the map, nor does it survive it,” because it is “the map that precedes the territory, (…) that engenders the territory (…)”  in such a manner that “today it is the territory whose shreds slowly rot across the extent of the map. It is the real, and not the map, whose vestiges persist here and there in the deserts that are no longer those of the Empire, but ours. The desert of the real itself.”^[27]

“The raw material” of the hyperreality concept/frame is represented by paradigms or simulations that have lost their capacity to relate to reality and whose survival is ensured by series and series of replicas lacking any historical meaning. This break from the past or, should we say, this invalidation of chronology will justify the observations on the new nihilism and the renowed acceptions that Nietzsche’s view upon the “eternal recursion” acquires on the unstable postmodernist terrain (an idea also found in the writings of Gilles Deleuze). Simulations, in Baudrillard’s view, provoke objectivity, truth, and reality in one way solely: by faking their existence. The reality reproduced within the limits of the hyperreal seems more real, more tangible and more credible than reality itself. Simulacra’s discourse is violent and virulent, it involves an imminent awakening, in the turmoil of a reality lacking foundations other than those which eventually turned out to be illusions. “In this passing from a space that no longer bends the real, nor the truth, the era of the simulation opens, through a liquidation of all that is referential – worse: through their artificial revival in the sign systems.”^[28] What is taking place is in fact, a “replacement of the real with the signs of the real” or, in other words, “an operation of dissuasion of any real process by his operational double (…) that offers all the signs of the real, short circuiting all of its mishaps.” In these conditions, Baudrillard believes, the real will not get the chance to take place, for “is the vital function of the model in a system of death, or rather of anticipated resurrection, that no longer even gives the event of death a chance.” All that is left is a “a hyperreal henceforth sheltered from the imaginary, and from any distinction between the real and the imaginary, leaving room only for the orbital recurrence of models and for the simulated generation of differences.”^[29]

An attempt to further write about The Matrix involves skimming a bibliography both diverse and problematic. The trilogy is a correlative of all the interests that exceed the borders of the academic niche (sic!) and enter the sub-layers of underground cultures, of conspiracy theories and mass philosophy. The “academic” success that the Wachowski brothers’ trilogy has had also residues in the tenderer way in which it mounts key postmodernism concepts, such as intertextuality and meta-textuality. The allegory of the machines that get their energy from human bodies and humans “narratively” trapped in a past historical time, now fictional, a reference point year before the apocalypse, doubled, at what I would call the level of discourse, by an abundance of quotes and references that color and give shape to the idea of the real, feed the curiosity of researchers in many fields and further explains the movie’s ever growing success and the way it intruded even academic curricula. One could say that the logic of iconic references such as Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland,^[30] Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz (the film’s chromatic inevitably reminds of the Emerald City), Jean Baudrillard’s Simulation and Simulacra, all very handy, very transparent, countlessly inventoried and commented in Matrix Dictionaries and Compediums, is, in the context in which we find them inscribed like carvings, formulas, key phrases of the “awakened,” “conscious” characters, mere attempts of recovering the signs of an natural human inclination towards escapism, the kind that fiction solely has enough resources to offer. Recruited out of the panoply of universal culture that the new world order brackets into oblivion, they become potential apocryphal gospels, explanations meant to outline the post-human philosophy of the “real” present or, if one is strictly referring to The Matrix, references for the trompe l’oeil that is the city of Zion as a narrative assuming the function of pure Reality, an island of the authentic in a sea of fake history fabricated through artificial intelligence means.

I see this tension between the real – more real – true real in the Matrix trilogy similar to what Victor Ieronim Stoichiță designates as “meta-painting,” a technique that proliferated in the 16th and 17th centuries and which consists of the simultaneous presence, in the same tableau, of two indirectly linked scenes, whose overlapping cannot be ignored. The viewer is put in the position of opting for one of the representations to the detriment of the other (he will either choose to see as real the crease in the trompe l’oeil, the curtain or the window, or the actual narrative unfolding beyond these borders). The trompe l’oeil thus invests the spectator with the possibility of experiencing deception at a more profound level than the eye allows: he becomes witness to the unfolding of a ranking of Reality (conventionally perceived as such, since, regardless of the adjustment efforts of the matter in which the trompe l’oeil technique is engaged, the educated eye is truly aware that what it sees is nothing but a figment, a part of the fictional order). Preoccupied by “the role played by the inter-textual mechanisms in the emergence of still life as an independent genre,” Stoichiță insists on the oxymoron encapsulated in the phrase “still life,” questioning the paradox: “How can nature, whose main quality is life, be dead?”^[31] This example originates in Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, where we can read a whole chapter on tableaus that approached minor themes, vulgar ones, painted by a certain Piraikos. Pliny describes these works as “extremely pleasant,” and stresses their fame as residing on their “deceptive, illusionary” character, which he regards as a source of delight for the eye. After all, the programs responsible for the reconstruction of reality that maintains the human batteries alive generates the same type of pleasure/delight filtering the most derisory, dirty, miserable realities.” “Pliny’s Passage,” the art historian concludes, “confirms the birth of still life as a necessity based on the contrast between the unimportant, futile, character of the subject and the illusionary value of the representation” able to generate a “conflicting nucleus.” (It asked for a lesser mind, says the Architect in The Matrix, referring to the final produce of computer program generating the 1999 simulated world. We are suggested that, in its initial versions, based on utopic norms, the Matrix did not apply to human nature – a situation that The Truman Show exploits in the context of late 20th-century cult-cinema). Still life, as a new painting genre, appears “starting with three fundamental facts, connected to different motivations, although convergent: the illusionary representation (trompe l’oeil); the idea of the waste of things; the meta-painting character of the representation.”^[32] Another example is Sosos of Pergamon’s mosaic, presenting in a well-mastered trompe l’oeil of the leftovers of a feast. “The Mosaic,” as Victor Ieronim Stoichiță observes, “must obviously trick the viewer, making him believe that the scraps (fish bones, spitted seeds, etc.) were left by guests.” The same illusionary character is found in the still lives mentioned by Filostrate in his Images, that had, this time “a fictive painting frame (crease, hole in the wall).”^[33] This type of illusionism also works on the level of filmic narrative. The Matrix is iconic, thus, for the movie “fashion,” in which the conventional-reality-of-a-character is, metaphorically speaking, just the painting carved/dug in a wall..

“The placement of still life in a crease is a topos of the genre,” explained “through the fact that the crease offers a limited tridimensional space, in which objects can be placed, forever referencing to the surface of the representation.” In other words, “images function as an opening in the wall,” and the niche “becomes the sole compromise in  reconciling the surface of representation with a more profound impression. Using the wall behind the niche as reference point, the objects appear to be flooding the real space.”^[34] The manner of combining two levels of space in the interior of a single representation through the “creases” and objects that are painted as if placed in them, in niches or frames, implies, in the opinion of Victor Ieronim Stoichiţă, “an obvious illusionism.” Referring for example to the Adoration of the Magi, a 16th century painting by Englebert Nassau, he remarks the way in which the “still life” framework, contextually turned tridimensional, since “the central image belongs to a space of a totally different quality: the lost horizon of the landscape evokes an unlimited depth.” He argues this option by opposing the frame and the painting: if the first belongs to a world we rather call our own, to the mundane, to the earthly pleasures, the image appears as an “opening to another reality.” A specialized version of these images within an image, no strangers to comparisons to chinese boxes or matrioska dolls, is represented by “the images behind the image”: a painting painted on the reverse of the painting itself becomes a subversive means to create a counter-image and to supplement the sense that the central one posits. They can thus only be understood “by acknowledging their oppositional role in relation to the image on the back of the painting. They form the reverse of the image, the reverse of the painting. They offer a different representation, an anti-picture, an anti-painting.”^[35]

When the diptych was closed, the portrait became invisible, the only pictorial reality being that of the reverse still life: and this happens in The Matrix too. When the characters are not connected to the program that allows them to enter the simulation, they becomes invisible, unseen for the viewer/spectator, and they only exist in the Zion. This permanent double shifting and double contextualization of charecters allows the spectator to detect the actual fictional character of the world in general. The Zion is a realm in which the visceral predominates. It comes to redeem the disturbed existence, mystified by the “maya veil” that it places on the eyes of the machine slaves, the immense simulation in which they live and move “as if” or “as it were” the year 1999. There won’t be any disasters in 1999: they already happened in a time when history was unmistified. Artificial Intelligence will always be an hypothesis close to Science Fiction even more than empiric realizations, and this, according to Nick Bostrom’s works that seriously address the simulation theory and even consider it a provable truth, it is the first hint that we are indeed living in a unrealistic regime, in a computerized program, not at all different from games like Sims or Second Life.

In Zion, bodies are alive, triumphal, hyper-sexualized. The tribal allure parties appear as programed realizations of the preeminence of reality, veridical to the carnality, to a tangible connection between mind and body, in the face of the illusion which allows both connection and control. Their purpose is also ritualistic: living people, freed from the guardianship of the machines, form a community, and explore the limits of this freedom. This interface comes as a rebellion in the face of vanity: in Zion, death is, by default, real, bloody, gorey even. Reprising the parallelism with the reality-fiction game in meta-pictorial contexts, these descriptions and raids into death remind, on a narrative level, of the purpose of skulls and other such metaphors of the “vanitas” as seen on the back of the diptychs and triptychs Stoichiţă mentions in his work on metapainting. The post-apocalyptical space of Zion thus plays the role “of absolute negativity of objects,” an inverse projection of the sumptuous shiny world, that the ones captive in simulation can access. “The skull,” as Victor Ieronim Stoichiță writes, “is the portrait’s negative.” In these representations, the trompe l’oeil, the meta-pictorial, the vanitas structures problematize the image – anti-image dichotomy, as well as the report between what is credited as being real or rejected as illusionary, are converged.”

Beyond the narration’s organizational problems, the film is a true composing rack for the informed preoccupations with the obsession of the double, the copy and the chorus. This is how the character Smith is analyzed. Double “monster,” doppelganger, a program created to annihilate the self-conscious aberration that is Neo, evil twin, Smith has attributes that surpass the question of the copy and the double.^[36] The enigma solved by the Oracle makes one automatically think of the taboo theme of the inseparable twins, “the ones who merge, with common flesh and a just as common death.”^[37]

Another scene that is relevant for the way in which The Matrix script resolves the problem of the copy is the scene that shows Neo meeting the Architect. We are faced here with a copy of the former real world hypostasis generated by the Artificial Intelligence devices, but not in terms of telling, but in terms of a museal showing, an unsettling wxhibition: the walls of the key-room are filled with  TV portraits of Neo, suggesting that the scene of this meeting took place in countless versions and channeling the myth of the Eternal Return. On an imaginary and meta-physical level, we are faced with the meanings that the old world generated by the Machine gains as an “art of memory”: the year 1999, seen as a climax of human evolution, is built according to many classification criteria, and the room with screens is a form of relique, not unlike those Curiosity Cabinets of the 17th century. We are refering to a closed series (in the words of Stoichiță): to the collection/the gathering of Neos as an exercise of both exhibiting a memory, but also as a metaphorical representation of the closed system that made it possible. The Architect explains this spectacle of “the same” through the specific nature of all the failures he keeps track of: each of these Neos failed is his own way. The “simulated” insectarium, the collection of “vivant paintings” that it portrays captures reactions that imply the logic of a selection, of certain combinations^[38] of this system of images, of thid fictional product that The Matrix actually is. In this scene, we are dealing with both a contextual relation between the exhibits of a collection (these Neos, system failures, inherent anomalies), and an inter-textual one, one of a self-consciousness of the image system, that is The Matrix, as a fictional product.

The solutions of the real – lucid or induced dream dichotomies are paradoxical, tangible only at the simulated level. Mentioning the maya (the concept of illusion in Hinduism)-, in the beginning of this paper is not coincidental. While some researchers are interested in the problem of cyberpunk and dystopian cronotopes in The Matrix, correlating them to the “catastrophic” postmodern imaginary, others exploit its links to religious beliefs preoccupied by the question of reality. Frances Flannery-Dailey and Rachel Wagner published in the fifth number of the Religion and Film Journal, in 2001, an article entitled “Wake up! Gnosticism and Buddhism in The Matrix,” being mainly interested in the interstation zones between the philosophical substrate of the Wachowski brothers’ 1999 trilogy and a sum of religious traditions, the most prominent ones being gnostic Christianity and Buddhism, “that like the movie question humanity’s fundamental problem in terms of ignorance and enlightenment.” “Wake up” is the phrase that encapsulates the film’s plot: we are dealing with a character confronted with the problem of inadequacy to the material world. He intuits that the world as he knows it is damaged, wrong, a mere simulation generated by a program created in the near future, dominated by the Artificial Intelligence. The material reality as a means of enslavement of humanity by perpetuating ignorance under the form of illusionary perception called “the matrix,” a matrix that perfectly overleaps the multilayered significations of the gnostic reality concept, on one hand, and the Buddhist one, on the other. The Christian and Buddhist gnosis is based on initiation scenarios that imply the existence of a saving being, a guide or bodhisattva that enters the prison that is this world with the sole purpose to share freeing knowledge to the captive ones, helping who ever understands to escape. In the movie, this function is Neo’s, an anagram for The One, The Chosen One. “Due to the ignorance,” as Frances Flannery-Dailey and Rachel Wagner write, “people see the material world as the ultimate reality, being able to wake up from this illusionary dream with the help of a guide that takes on the function of teaching them about their true nature.”^[39] The beginning of the film is marked by the insistence of the mysterious message that appears on Neo’s computer screen (Neo, the one, is Thomas Anderson’s alias, a name that, the two suggest, is a reference to the gospel of Thomas on one hand, to the idea of Son of Man, justifying thus the intrusion of Christian and gnostic mythology elements in the plot of the film).

“Open your eyes” is a key phrase in Vanilla Sky too, being the title of Amenabar’s original movie, Abre los Ojos. Its meaning is once again magnified by the presence of Sofia, whose name  clearly refers to the female principle of knowledge, according to the gnostic gospels. We can say that beyond the hyper-real (lucid dream) realization claims of an accomplished real world, this film also takes on the subjects of freedom from illusion and access to an authentic truth, whose facts had been distorted.

In The World as a Labyrinth, Gustav Rene Hocke talks about the “unusual myths” that inspire the imagination of the materialists. The 17th century discovered an Antiquity of strangeness and myths like those presented in Ovid’s Metamorphoses or in Horus Apollo’s Hieroglyphica, the result of this focus shift being that “the myth loses its archetype character, of archetypal sign, to become an ideal abstract model, in which (…) contemporary problems can be embroidered.” The equivocal figures of the mythologies (featuring rather obscure characters of the Old Testament included) become favored and end up “being preferred by the late romantic literatures also.”^[40] Hocke motivates this interest towards the sources of the extraordinary, the fabulous, the irrational that these rewritten narrations (advertised as “books with pictures of the abnormal,” “based on images of the irrational”),^[41] highlighting the contribution that they bring as images (“as metaphorical structures that can be filled (…) like a cosmic cabinet of curiosities with wondrous disguises, like unreal intersection points between space and time, between pause and movement”). For the mannerists, myth means defeat, annihilation, despair. Its background is, as Hocke suggests, that of Monsu Desidorio’s painting of the Trojan horse: an Antiquity of collapse, an Antiquity “mythically drowned,” where figures of the paria, the non-adapted and the animal symbols of wickedness solely survive. “The sculptural metaphor,” the man-statue motif are themes that obsessed the 18th century, by virtue of the fascination with the game established by the natural-artificial dichotomy in the context of the curiosity cabinets, whose vogue marked the cultural landscape of the era. Descartes described the human body as a statue or an earthly machine (horologe),^[42] seeing it as a “mimetic device”^[43] of the soul^[44] (a notion that he implied without actually naming it) or a poetic extension. In the context that, as Victor Ieronim Stoichiță observes, “The Enlightenment Age was sooner inclined to destroy the myths than to cultivate them,”^[45] the direct interest for Pygmalion’s figure is a point of tension, translated with the arrogance (“intellectual defiance,” as Stoichiță calls it) of moving the act of creating life from God to man. The artist who gives life to his creation is gaining, thus, a paradigmatic value for what humans are able to make. The narrative processing of this fantasy posseses a value marked by the hybris: man can measure up to God with a price that he is not prepared to pay. In the end, the Platonic conception concerning the copy lacking a referent as a hypostasis of the monstrous and the harmful still stands under these auspices. I would tie these elements to the conclusion of my paper, stating that the dissolution of the subject in the fabricated is the ultimate consequence of the image of simulacra. From here on, it is either the desert of cyberspace that begins, or some different form of handling the facts of the multiplicative reality. The texts and the pretexts of this restless challenge remain, without a doubt, open. Looking back to the static poses of the absent image, we consider the distinction that Roland Barthes made between film and photography adequate, postulating that “as in the real world, the filmic world is sustained by the presumption that experience will continue to run constantly, in the same way,” whereas “photography is futureless.”^[46] 

This paper was supported by CNCS – UEFISCDI PN-II-ID-PCE-2011-3-0061

“Antiutopiile. A face şi a desface realitatea – Testarea lumilor posibile.”

Notes

Adriana Carrijo
Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro – Brasil
adrianacarrijo@terra.com.br

Marilena Jamur
Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, Brasil
marilena.jamur@terra.com.br

Une cartographie des désirs utopiques – Observations sur le film Mad Max: Fury Road

A Cartography of Utopian Desires – Notes on the Film Mad Max: Fury Road

Abstract: In this article we seek to examine to what extent and in what way utopia and dystopia are present in contemporary film production; we use procedures of semiotic analysis to identify the presence of these features and their relationship with real history in two ways: by textual analysis of a film set in a dystopian world, the newly released, Mad Max: Fury Road, as a significant object and as a discourse; then analyzing the interpretations, in the media, of the dystopian character of this film, and the controversy that film criticism generated on social networks in Brazil – which was one of the reasons of our choice of subject – as significant material for analyzing the viewer’s subjective relationship to this cinematographic narrative.

Keywords: Utopia/Dystopia; Cinema; Intertextuality; Aesthetic Experience; Representations; Subjective Identification.

Introduction

            Le travail de l’imaginaire dans la construction d’utopies et de dystopies mobilise en permanence la réflexion de plusieurs penseurs qui en font l’objet de nombreuses disciplines parmi les sciences humaines et sociales depuis plus de cinq siècles. Beaucoup d’entre elles cherchent à établir une distinction claire entre ces formulations dessinant des confrontations entre ces deux topoi à partir de l’exploitation de leurs principales caractéristiques et desseins; cependant il semble qu’un accord existe quant à certains traits présents aussi bien dans les utopies que dans les dystopies, le premier étant précisément leur relation avec la réalité. Ce rapport constitue le point de départ pour proposer réfléchir sur ce thème qui mobilise philosophes, politiciens, scientifiques, historiens, littéraires et producteurs artistiques.

            Même si l’utopie s’oppose à la réalité vécue, car elle projette une autre réalité imaginée et envisagée comme possible, elle prend sa source et ses origines dans le réel: l’imaginaire travaille à partir de l’étant pour y intervenir et le transformer à maintes reprises. De même, dans les dystopies, la production de l’imaginaire reprend à la réalité sa matière première, bien qu’elle s’oriente dans un sens opposé se caractérisant donc comme anti-utopie.

            En se fondant sur la croyance dans la possibilité de construire un monde meilleur, l’utopie indique quelquefois les outils pouvant créer des médiations capables de la rendre possible, transformant le réel vécu en une nouvelle réalité à venir, en un futur à produire comme résultat de l’action humaine.

            Néanmoins la dystopie part de la réalité vécue et emphatise de façon critique les traits profondément négatifs de ce qui existe: à partir de ces traits il serait impossible de croire que leur évolution conduise à un monde meilleur. Ainsi, s’inspirant de l’expérience vécue, le travail de l’imaginaire met l’accent sur le négatif, anticipant par là les pires des mondes.

            Selon l’hypothèse formulée par Berriel[1], au moment où ce genre a vu son essor, où il s’affirmait encore et dessinait ses contours, l’utopie était générée par deux principes distincts: premièrement, à partir d’une expérience historique en tant que métaphore – l’Utopia de More est exemplaire comme métaphore d’une Angleterre très concrète; deuxièmement, à partir d’une Idée, d’une construction abstraite qui descend du Ciel vers la Terre – la Civitas Solis en est le meilleur exemple, en tant que formalisation de la rationalité restrictive tridentine. Une telle hypothèse suggère que la dystopie prend ses racines essentiellement dans ce second principe en tant que dérivation des utopies détachées du monde empiriquement concret.

            Il ne conviendrait pas ici de traiter dans le détail une discussion philosophique très étendue qui, depuis le texte fondateur de Thomas More[2], se développe chez les différents auteurs et courants au sujet d’une thématique qui soulève des oppositions et des similarités depuis plusieurs siècles; les perspectives d’analyse de ce phénomène très complexe sont nombreuses. Un texte de Braga aborde ce phénomène depuis ses origines: d’abord, l’auteur analyse quatre variétés utopiques, dénommées utopies, eutopies, dystopies et anti-utopies, élaborant un «corpus des utopies littéraires des XVI^e-XIX^e siècles, selon la taxinomie des quatre variétés définies »; il examine ensuite les possibilités de combinaison entre ces variétés, la dynamique de ce processus ainsi que les constructions possibles selon le sens positif ou négatif qu’elles assument à partir de leur distribution sur un axe virtuel [3].

         Il existe encore un trait présent aussi bien dans les utopies que dans les dystopies, à savoir, leur relation dialectique avec le réel, en face duquel les deux formes jouent un important rôle social: à travers l’univers de la fiction qui mobilise des fantasmes stimulant l’imaginaire social, s’exprime le mécontentement avec l’expérience sociale quotidienne qui s’est manifesté tout au long de l’histoire par la production artistique, notamment les productions littéraires et cinématographiques; s’exprime aussi l’engagement éthique des auteurs qui cherchent à traduire cette insatisfaction à travers ces formes d’expression artistiques y évoquant d’autres réalités possibles.

            Quand nous parlons de réel historique, nous considérons que les rapports des individus et groupes sociaux avec la réalité expérimentée se font par le biais des représentations, comme démontrent les travaux développés par plusieurs disciplines des sciences humaines et sociales; en sociologie et en psychologie sociale ont été réalisées des études spécifiques comme celles entreprises par Moscovici et Jodelet, constituant un large domaine de recherche sur les représentations sociales et sur le travail de l’imaginaire[4].

         Utopie et dystopie sont articulées d’une façon dialectique dans la production littéraire et cinématographique qui s’élabore depuis le début du XX^e siècle. Ainsi, Nous autres (1920) de Evgueni Zamiatine est sans doute la première dystopie explicite, mais ce thème devient plus présent au long des dernières décennies. Les premiers films dystopiques ont été des adaptations d’œuvres littéraires pour le cinéma; des exceptions remarquables en sont Metropolis de Fritz Lang (Allemagne, 1927) ou les critiques satiriques réalisées par Chaplin aux États Unis – Modern Times (1936), The Great Dictator (1940) – dont les scénarios ont été écrits pour le cinéma. D’autres ouvrages classiques comme Brave New World de Aldous Huxley et 1984 de George Orwell ont inspiré des productions pour le cinéma. Le tableau ci-dessous présente les productions dystopiques les plus connues où la littérature et le cinéma sont en rapport[5].

         Néanmoins, à partir des années 1990, cette tendance s’inverse, suivant d’importants changements de la société qui s’accélèrent à partir de la fin des années 1980 quand on voit s’accroître la production de films dystopiques dont la source d’inspiration n’est pas forcément la littérature. Pour de nombreux historiens, la chute du mur de Berlin est l’événement de grande influence, le moment historique à partir duquel apparaissent les signes d’épuisement de l’utopie socialiste et d’une progressive affirmation du libéralisme renouvelé, désormais appelé néolibéralisme. Cette tendance s’affirme dans la majorité des pays, avec un autre phénomène, la globalisation ou la mondialisation qui atteint les sphères économique, sociale, culturelle et politique des sociétés[6]. Face à la relation entre production culturelle et temporalité, on comprend que la croissance du nombre de filmes dystopiques est en rapport avec les perspectives sociales en ce moment historique.

      Certains analystes des processus sociaux considèrent que la fonction des phénomènes cités, ainsi que des transformations intervenues dans les moyens de communication produisant de nouvelles formes d’action et d’interaction dans le monde moderne – associées au développement des institutions et à la croissance des nouveaux réseaux d’information et de communication – entraînent de nouvelles formes de rapport entre le public et le privé et des changements dans le lien entre visibilité et pouvoir. Pour de nombreux auteurs, la présence de telles caractéristiques dans les sociétés contemporaines signifierait que l’on vit dans une nouvelle ère, la « postmodernité ». D’autre part, d’autres versants, où l’on retrouve des auteurs comme Thompson[7] se consacrent à l’histoire de la culture et des communications en affirmant que malgré tous les discours sur le postmodernisme et la postmodernité, « si l’on laisse de côté la rhétorique à la mode, il y a peu de signaux valables que le monde à la fin du XX^e siècle soit entré dans une nouvelle ère ». Il y a donc une polémique théorique que l’on voulait juste souligner, tout en évoquant certains auteurs qui participent des deux versants[8]. Nous adoptons la position de Thompson déjà citée et sommes d’accord avec Steven Connor lorsqu’il affirme:

même si le terme de post-modernisme a été utilisé par certains écrivains des années [19]50 et [19]60, il ne s’est pas cristallisé avant le milieu des années [19]70 période où des affirmations sur l’existence de ce phénomène social et culturel si hétérogène commencent à prendre force dans la sphère de certaines disciplines académiques ainsi que dans les manifestations culturelles, dans la philosophie, l’architecture, dans les études sur le cinéma,  les études littéraires […] S’il est clair que le débat sur le post-modernisme offre à la pratique critique un moyen d’autodiffusion et d’autoprolongement, il reflète et personnifie en même temps l’implication  réelle de la critique culturelle avec ce que Jürgen Habermas a désigné comme la « crise de légitimation » qui touche la vie sociale contemporaine – le fait qu’il semblerait ne pas avoir de principes pouvant servir comme des critères de valeur pour aucune chose.[9]

         En conclusion à cette introduction, où nous avons essayé d’expliquer comment nous comprenons notre objet d’analyse – un film récent, situé dans un futur dystopique – et relever que le développement des moyens de communication atteint aujourd’hui une portée globale et instantanée, à une échelle jamais expérimentée auparavant. Cette globalisation de la communication instantanée s’articule à d’autres processus de développement des sociétés modernes – au-delà des désignations adoptées pour les caractériser. Plus important que n’importe quel habillage c’est que nous fassions des efforts pour comprendre les processus sociaux en cours ainsi que leurs conséquences; il faut garder toujours à l’horizon de la recherche le besoin de comprendre les contextes spécifiques où les médias sont produits et reçus, pour déchiffrer la forme dont ils touchent les personnes. Nous supposons que cette visibilité médiée par la technologie, assumant aujourd’hui la forme de communication instantanée, nous offre un matériel remarquable pour l’analyse du film dystopique choisi, ainsi que des formes de réception  par les spectateurs – traduites en polémique sur les réseaux sociaux.

Vers une cartographie des désirs dystopiques – quelques questions de méthode

         Dans ce travail d’analyse filmique, comme son titre le suggère, nous nous sommes servies de deux procédures de base: tout d’abord, la méthode cartographique qui nous a semblé la plus appropriée à l’objet film – un produit médiatique qui  touche l’imaginaire de son public, déchaînant des réponses; ensuite, l’examen des processus d’attribution de sens à ce qui est vu et entendu lorsqu’on voit un film.

            La cartographie, comme l’on sait, est une méthode formulée par Gilles Deleuze et Félix Guattari (1980) visant à suivre un processus plutôt qu’à représenter un objet. Il s’agit toujours d’interroger un processus de production. Quand on se sert de cette méthode dans des domaines d’étude touchant à la subjectivité, on écarte l’objectif de définir un ensemble de règles abstraites qu’on appliquerait au film en même temps qu’on renonce à emprunter une voie linéaire pour arriver à un but, la cartographie étant toujours une méthode construite, un work in progress. Par conséquent, en tant que procédure de recherche, elle exige des postures spécifiques, invitant le chercheur à un exercice cognitif singulier car il est orienté vers le dessin d’un champ problématique qui requiert certes une forme de cognition mais qui exige surtout qu’il soit aussi capable d’invention. Il s’agit alors d’une invention qui n’est rendue possible que par la rencontre féconde entre le chercheur et son champ de recherche, le matériau sur lequel il se penche ne devant donc pas être collecté mais plutôt produit. Cette démarche devient possible parce qu’elle émerge d’un point de contact impliquant un déplacement du chercheur pour voir autrement son champ de recherche, car  il doit voir et penser en même temps que l’objet s’offre à son regard. Les réflexions spécifiques élaborées par Deleuze sur le cinéma se trouvent  dans deux de ses ouvrages[10].

            Plusieurs chercheurs à avoir utilisé la cartographie indiquent des points importants de son application. Selon Kastrup, deux points doivent être examinés, le premier se référant à la fonction même de l’attention qui ne correspond pas à une simple sélection d’informations. En effet, son fonctionnement ne s’identifie pas à des actes de focalisation afin de préparer la représentation des formes des objets: elle s’exerce plutôt à travers la détection de signes et des formes circulantes, c’est-à-dire, des franges des processus en cours. Par conséquent, la détection et l’appréhension d’un matériau au départ déconnecté et fragmenté, des scènes et des discours, requiert une concentration sans focalisation, celle précisément qui est indiquée par Deleuze dans son Abécédaire: l’idée d’une attention aux aguets dont le fonctionnement nous cherchons à élucider. Le second point c’est que l’attention en tant que processus complexe peut assumer différentes formes: sélective ou flottante, ciblée ou floue, concentrée ou dispersée, volontaire ou involontaire; une combinaison de ces formes est aussi possible, produisant: sélection volontaire, flottaison involontaire, concentration floue, focalisation dispersée, etc. Adriana Carrijo souligne que la notion de cartographie s’articule à l’idée d’une ligne de fuite, celle-ci étant le principe de la déterritorialisation. Choisir la méthode cartographique signifie que nous travaillerons à travers des lignes de fuite, pour dessiner la carte qui caractérise le système dans lequel le problème s’insère. La subjectivité du cartographe ne privilégie donc aucun ancrage. Au contraire, il subit les tensions éveillées par les objets (ob-jets) trouvés, ce que suggère une autre forme, la cartographie sensorielle[11].

            Par conséquent cette méthode nous semble le mieux appropriée à l’observation des manières dont le film Mad Max: Fury Road touche l’imaginaire du public, sans oublier que ce produit médiatique audiovisuel intègre un champ complexe qui nourrit d’autres champs en même temps qu’ils le nourrissent; il y a donc des interrelations permanentes de tension et de distension potentielles entre la technique, les discours et les cultures. Dans ce processus nous voulions colleter des éléments et identifier les espaces propices à établir du consensus, des divergences et des standardisations; découvrir les sociabilités et les échanges symboliques que ce film engendre, ainsi que les usages, les appropriations, les configurations, les convergences, les expérimentations et les innovations qu’il opère sur des formats, des supports et des technologies mis à l’œuvre. Nous avons produit ainsi des données afin d’adopter un second procédé spécifique à l’analyse filmique – la traduction intersémiotique – une fois que ce produit audiovisuel peut se constituer comme langage et discours, dans une relation complexe entre technique et culture, des relations traversées par l’esthétique et par l’éthique.

            Nous avons pris en compte la distinction entre interprétation sémantique et interprétation critique proposée par Umberto Eco[12], dans l’intention de les réaliser simultanément pour comprendre pourquoi et comment le texte filmique produit du sens. Autrement dit, nous cherchions à saisir le sens et la production du sens établissant des connexions entre ce qui s’exprime et la façon dont cela s’exprime; selon Odin (1991), ces connexions étant toujours conjecturales, les hypothèses formulées sont ouvertes à la vérification, par un mouvement d’aller-retour sur le texte. Il n’y a pas une seule position concernant l’interprétation du sens produit par l’analyse textuelle – le sens est-il produit par le texte, par l’auteur, ou bien par le lecteur? Malgré les polémiques soulevées autour des réponses à cette question, à présent presque tous les critiques admettent qu’un même texte autorise une pluralité d’interprétations. Par conséquent, pour éviter que l’activité d’interprétation soit réduite à la simple projection des trames, des obsessions et des désirs du lecteur sur l’objet d’analyse, Eco suggère le recours au « sens littéral », à ce qui s’exprime vraiment dans le texte, à l’intention de l’œuvre, pour fonder la liberté d’interpréter sur des vérifications et des validations aussi concrètes que possible[13].

            Ainsi, si le film comme produit culturel s’inscrit dans un contexte socio-historique donné, il n’est alors pas possible de le voir comme un produit séparé d’autres secteurs de la vie sociale comme l’économie, la politique, les sciences, les techniques et les autres arts.  Dès lors, comme Marc Ferro (1976) et Umberto Eco (1992) l’indiquent, nous pouvons utiliser les films pour analyser les sociétés, car ils offrent un ensemble de représentations qui nous renvoient à la société réelle où ils s’inscrivent. Dans un film, indépendamment de son projet (décrire, distraire, critiquer, dénoncer, militer) une société n’est pas affichée mais plutôt mise en scène. Le réalisateur y opère certes des choix, en organise les éléments, découpe dans le réel et dans l’imaginaire, bref il construit un monde possible qui entretient des rapports complexes avec le monde réel. D’après Pierre Sorlin[14], ce monde mis en scène peut être un reflet, mais aussi bien un refus lorsqu’il dissimule les aspects pertinents du monde réel, en l’idéalisant et en en amplifiant certains défauts, pour proposer un autre monde. De toute façon, le film est un point de vue, un regard posé sur le monde qui lui est contemporain[15].

Partant de cette prémisse nous supposons que le cinéma, en tant qu’un art de la représentation, génère des productions symboliques et que ces productions expriment, plus ou moins explicitement, plus ou moins consciemment, un ou divers points de vue sur le monde réel; il revient au chercheur d’essayer d’identifier la nature de ces points de vue ainsi que la façon dont ils se manifestent. Ils peuvent être d’ordre idéologique, moral, spirituel et esthétique, sans que l’on puisse les assigner de forme définitive à une de ces catégories.

            Du point de vue méthodologique, nous avons eu recours ici aux procédés indiqués par Vanoye pour l’analyse filmique et pour l’interprétation symbolique, soulignant la double convergence du scénario vers la structuration du récit d’une part et la progression thématique d’autre part. Cet auteur propose une démarche simultanée fondée sur différents points de vue sur l’histoire et les personnages – moral, esthétique, politique et philosophique –, ainsi qu’il invite à en relever les connotations affectives, fantastiques, symboliques, toutes portées par les images du monde représenté. Selon Vanoye, en effet, pour l’identification du symbolique il y a deux procédés importants: l’étude du scénario et l’identification des métaphores et des réseaux métaphoriques. On y parviendra par la suite.

                En ce qui concerne le récit filmique, Vanoye considère que les scénarios se référent souvent à des « modèles structuraux, à de grands schémas narratifs appartenant au patrimoine universel opérant comme des supports de contenus symboliques voire mythiques ». Nous insistons sur le caractère explicite ou implicite de ces images figurées, des ressources qui aident dans l’identification des indices offerts à l’interprétation. Parmi ces ressources, on retrace en premier lieu la recherche d’un axe socio-historique, puis d’un  axe spirituel, qui s’articulent dans une approche psycho-socio-historique. Voici l’hypothèse de Vanoye[16]:

tout scénario de film remplit une double fonction: d’une part, le scénario structure un récit (une suite logique d’événements, de relations entre les personnages, de conflits, un ensemble d’informations que les films doivent diffuser pour assurer compréhension et vraisemblance), et une progression dramatique (selon les règles d’alternance entre temps forts et temps faibles, une progression continue jusqu’au dénouement en passant par le climax). D’autre part, le scénario propose simultanément un point de vue (moral, esthétique, politique, philosophique, poétique) sur l’histoire et les personnages, des images du monde représenté, des images plus ou moins chargées de connotations affectives, fantastiques, symboliques. Les deux scénarios ne sont pas nécessairement convergents.[17]

Un autre procédé méthodologique important c’est l’identification des métaphores ponctuelles, « la forme la plus condensée de l’image »; si dans la littérature la métaphore est une figure de l’expression verbale, au cinéma, ce sont les images qui se succèdent au lieu des mots. La compréhension des métaphores se fonde sur l’analogie de sens qui existe entre le terme actualisé et le terme absent, celui qui a été remplacé; dans un film, l’effet métaphorique peut être généré par l’association plus ou moins étroite d’une suite d’images qui rompent le continuum narratif, créant une configuration métaphorique plutôt qu’une « métaphore pure », les deux formes pouvant être identifiées selon les ressources employées: des formes de répétition et d’insistance (premiers plans, plans longs, angles insolites) ou d’amplification (déformations visuelles, augmentation, effets sonores etc.); le degré le plus fort ou plus faible d’incongruité d’une image par rapport à la norme narrative réaliste (de l’image délibérément non diégétique à la figure diégétisée, c’est-à-dire, pleinement intégrée au monde représenté); l’usage d’images évoquant la « condensation freudienne » – après un long trajet narratif, dramatique et qui passe par des figures, dans une même représentation se concentrent plusieurs séries d’association d’images qui convergent, sont synthétisées et dépassent toutes les significations jusqu’alors dispersées ou parallèles;  l’image condensation peut être le point de départ, le motif inaugural d’un parcours qui reviendra probablement sur elle[18].

Mad Max: Fury Road – Un film entouré par la polémique

Le film Mad Max: Fury Road choisi pour ce travail appartient à une catégorie de films désignés de différentes façons par la critique cinématographique: sci-fi, adventure post-apocalypse ou encore “blockbuster hollywoodiano” – ce qui pour beaucoup est un synonyme de cinéma léger, facile à digérer, au succès garanti et hautement rentable. Il n’y a pas de doute que, sous de nombreux aspects, ce film présenté comme une adventure post-apocalypse a comblé une grande partie de ces attentes: il a connu un énorme succès mondial – en moins d’un mois il avait déjà rapporté 300 millions de dollars, selon son distributeur[19].          

C’est le quatrième long-métrage d’une série (Franchise Series: Mad Max)[20] qui arrive au public trente ans après le troisième volet de la saga Mad Max: son tournage débute en juillet 2012 dans le désert du Namib et le film a été distribué mondialement dans les salles en mai 2015, après sa présentation hors-compétition au Festival de Cannes la même année.

Dans une première approche de Mad Max: Fury Road, nous avons suivi les procédés suggérés par Vanoye (1991), focalisant la double convergence du scénario – aussi bien pour la structuration du récit que pour la progression dramatique – dans le but d’identifier les traits caractéristiques de ce film, d’examiner dans quelle mesure et de quelle manière l’utopie et la dystopie s’y trouvent présentes et de saisir son articulation avec le réel historique.

À partir de l’analyse du contexte de production de Mad Max: Fury Road nous avons conçu l’hypothèse selon laquelle il s’agit d’un film qui « parle » du présent, car il « dit » quelque chose sur notre présent. Des difficultés financières ont retardé le tournage et dès ses débuts dans le désert du Namib, la polémique s’installe sur les conditions de ce tournage, notamment les ravages provoqués dans le plus vieux désert du monde, qui aurait été en partie détruit[21].

            Plusieurs auteurs ont démontré l’articulation dialectique entre utopie-dystopie, admettant par conséquent que ces deux termes peuvent participer à la composition du film. Nous suivons la position de Corin Braga qui semble s’accorder le mieux à la méthode cartographique adoptée. Selon l’auteur,

          […] il faudrait envisager l’hypothèse que l’utopie et l’anti-utopie ne constituent pas un système double mais quadruple, que chacune d’entre elles représente un système double, composé d’un astre lumineux (la cité parfaite) et d’un astre ténébreux (la cité de déréliction). Au lieu de concevoir l’utopie comme incarnant la cité idéale et l’anti-utopie la cité infernale, il faudrait voir dans l’utopie la combinaison d’une vision du bien et d’une vision du mal et dans l’anti-utopie, symétriquement, la combinaison d’une vision du mal et d’une vision du bien.[22]

            Adoptant par ailleurs la tripartition récit/narration/histoire-diégèse de Gérard Genette (2004) pour l’analyse textuelle, on s’aperçoit que le film se situe clairement dans un monde dystopique. Focalisant l’histoire-diégèse, c’est-à-dire, la partie du récit qui n’est pas spécifiquement filmique – le synopsis, le scénario et le développement – on constate que son contenu est indépendant de son milieu – un film en l’occurrence. L’histoire qui contient le sens et le contenu narratif est finalement assez sommaire nous montrant d’emblée le caractère dystopique que nous essayerons de synthétiser.

            Ayant pour décor une grande surface désertique, deux groupes inégaux en force de frappe, s’affrontent dans une poursuite sans trêve dans leurs véhicules: l’un d’eux est occupé par Imperator Furiosa, le personnage féminin principal, qui décide de saboter la mission dont elle est chargé: conduire un convoi blindé à destination de Gasoline Town et de Bullet Farm où elle devrait collecter munition et carburant pour le tyran Immortan Joe, sorte de leader religieux d’un groupe de survivants. Dans un des deux groupes sont embarquées Furiosa avec quelques femmes – les trésors du vilain, des beautés que le tyran maintient prisonnières dans le but d’assurer reproduction et allaitement; ces femmes sont accompagnées par un petit groupe d’hommes. Leur destination c’est la « terre promise » ou la « Terre Verte », un endroit idyllique où l’eau coulerait à flot et la nourriture ne manquerait pas, géré par des femmes, les Vuvalinis. L’autre ensemble est composé de véhicules véloces et bruyants conduits par des hommes, une armée intégrée par des « apprentis de la guerre », des jeunes hommes à la tête rasée et teintée, à la vie brève et dont la dévotion au tyran Immortan Joe est totale. Celui-ci les guide avec de la haine, dans une poursuite sans arrêt parmi la poussière qui se dégage du sol aride. Le tyran détient encore le contrôle sur les principaux moyens de survie dans une terre dévastée post-apocalyptique dans laquelle toute l’humanité a succombé et la planète (Wasteland) se réduit à un grand désert aux tonalités rougeâtres. Dans cet univers dystopique il y a des groupes isolés d’êtres humains, qui existent durement dans un monde dévasté: la plupart des survivants sont les guerriers (War Boys) assujettis par Immortan Joe, des hommes prêts à mourir pour lui, ce qui les ferait atteindre le paradis (Valhalla). Tous sont entourés par des clans de cannibales, des sectes et des gangs de motards qui s’affrontent dans le désert sans fin pour obtenir de l’essence et de l’eau, des ressources contrôlées par le tyran aux traits messianiques Immortan, personnage au masque frappant et commandant de la tour en pierre érigée sur un réservoir d’eau (The Citadel). C’est depuis cette tour qu’Immortan Joe distribue des jets d’eau selon son humeur et pour le plaisir, tâche dans laquelle il est aidé par ses deux enfants: Corpus Colossus, un type très intelligent mais souffrant d’un défaut de croissance, et Rictus Erectus, l’un de meilleurs guerriers de la Citadelle. Le tyran cherche encore un héritier à sa hauteur afin de perpétuer son legs. Max Rockatansky, le personnage-titre du film, est un ancien policier de la route, devenu à présent prisonnier – placé et lié à l’avant de la voiture des War Boys, dans une posture qui rappelle celle des figures à la proue des bateaux. Mais, au-delà de cette situation de danger, il est réduit au statut d’objet car il n’est qu’un globular, soit un réservoir de sang frais pour les War Boys.

            Même s’il y a beaucoup d’autres détails qui particularisent les personnages du film[23], nous considérons que ce synopsis suffit à illustrer le caractère dystopique de cet univers, à partir du scénario qui structure la trame narrative et la suite logique des événements, ainsi que les rapports entre les personnages et les conflits qui font partie de la réalité vécue, accentuent les traits profondément négatifs de l’existant. Á partir de ces traits il ne serait pas possible de présumer que leur évolution conduira vers un meilleur avenir. En effet, l’expérience montrée ou suggérée par les images active le travail de l’imaginaire du spectateur qui peut anticiper le pire des mondes; à partir de l’expérience présentée comme vraisemblable dans cet univers dystopique le public est capable d’évoquer un monde qui ne serait pas impossible à l’avenir. Les conflits pour la domination des zones pétrolifères, la privatisation de l’eau, la menace que cette denrée vitale s’épuise, le manque d’aliments pour la survie de nombreuses populations, ce sont des éléments amplifiés et exacerbés dans le film qui ne nous sont pas méconnus à l’heure actuelle.

            Des images explicites alliées aux ensembles métaphoriques saisissables dans le récit renvoient les spectateurs à des questions qui sont perceptibles dans notre quotidien. En effet, la destruction de l’environnement dans le seul but de la domination surgit comme une configuration métaphorique plus large qui conjugue et articule deux types de structures narratives: d’une part, des structures sémio-narratives, en tant que formes d’organisation profondes et générales sous-jacentes au film et d’autre part des structures de surface qui relèvent du domaine de l’observable. Ces structures peuvent être facilement aperçues par les spectateurs, cependant les deux sont nécessaires à une compréhension plus large de leur signification. Ainsi, le scénario-cadre du film – la planète (Wasteland) réduite à un grand désert aux tonalités rougeâtres, une terre dévastée par une catastrophe nucléaire d’où l’humanité fut chassée – condense des significations plus générales et profondes. À celles-ci viennent s’articuler les images qui suggèrent ou présentent les détails des difficultés de vivre sur cette planète sans avenir, où manquent les moyens de survie pour tous, une planète dont le passé n’existe plus, sauf  dans la mémoire et dans les mains des Vuvalinis; ce petit groupe de femmes âgées et fragiles poussées à la vie nomade avec leurs souvenirs de tout ce qui existait, jouent les gardiennes de l’histoire passée et un symbole d’espoir pour un meilleur futur – quelques graines de plantes, leur donation aux jeunes échappées.

            Une seconde configuration métaphorique est en rapport avec les caractéristiques du pouvoir dans ce monde post-apocalyptique qui dédouble la même articulation précédente, tissée par les deux types de structures narratives. D’abord sur le plan des structures sémio-narratives plus profondes, on a une synthèse de la concentration du pouvoir détenu par le tyran Immortan Joe. Celui-ci, en plus du contrôle de toutes les ressources permettant la survie des individus, détient un pouvoir absolu sur tous les survivants; les formes variées de domination s’exercent selon les intérêts du tyran: par la force des armes, la distribution de l’eau et de l’essence, la manipulation des consciences, moyennant une fausse identité messianique (il est celui qui « est retourné après la mort »). Ainsi Immortan Joe instrumentalise-t-il l’angoisse existentielle et la dévotion religieuse qu’il inspire chez les jeunes guerriers. Au niveau des structures de surface, on trouve de nombreuses indications de cette domination exercée par lui dans les rapports existants entre les personnages principaux et secondaires. Quelques métaphores renvoient encore à la réification des êtres humains transformés en outils du système: Immortan Joe réifie aussi bien les femmes que les hommes. Max est le prisonnier bâillonné et enchaîné au devant d’un char de guerre: il est un globular soit, un réservoir de sang frais pour les War Boys. Furiosa et le groupe de femmes prisonnières, portant des ceintures de chasteté, sont asservies pour assurer la descendance du dictateur. Dans la séquence, ces prisonniers refusent leur statut d’objet et se mettent en quête de liberté.

            Ces métaphores dénoncent le système patriarcal, l’oppression existante dans tout le monde et critiquent le régime dictatorial que le film évoque. Une autre dimension de la domination à analyser c’est la représentation métaphorique qui enrobe les personnages, par exemple: le mouchoir qui bâillonne et les chaînes qui tiennent Max fixé au char de guerre; le bras mécanique qui remplace en partie l’amputation subie par Furiosa; Immortan Joe est particulièrement disgracieux et effrayant dans un corps difforme et mou qu’il tente de cacher dans une armure censée le rendre plus « dur » et plus résistant; cela  se complète par un masque à la place du visage, tout aussi effrayant que sa voix grave et menaçante. Les War Boys sont des jeunes aux cheveux rasés et au visage blanc avec des peintures primitives; ils se trouvent en « demi-vie », donc ils ont besoin des globulars pour se revitaliser régulièrement. Enfin, le peuple qui est présenté comme une globalité, une masse – montrée sur des premiers plans et des plans longs – est constituée de corps amputés, édentés, abîmés, affaiblis: bref, masse qui doit rester dominée, ou bien, peut-être « sauvée » par des individus exceptionnels.

            Après cette lecture du caractère dystopique prédominant du film Mad Max: Fury Road, nous devons nous interroger sur la manière dont se présente l’articulation dialectique entre utopie et dystopie, soit de quelle façon le réalisateur a conçu « la combinaison d’une vision du mal et d’une vision du bien »[24]. Par la suite, nous signalerons les traits utopiques présents dans la trame narrative. L’utopie se configure dans le récit lorsque quelques personnages asservis par Immortan Joe – les femmes (Furiosa, les épouses, les Vuvalinis devenues nomades), Max emprisonné, Nux (un War Boy converti) s’associent pendant les affrontements dans le désert; alors ils refusent leur statut d’objet et se mettent en quête d’un monde plus libre. Le groupe acceptant une proposition de Max et dirigé par lui parviendra à s’emparer de la Citadelle sauvant au passage les humains réduits au semi-esclavage par le tyran. Ce projet exécuté par les prisonniers associés permettra de libérer tout le peuple de la servitude. Immortan Joe est mort décapité – son masque est accroché par Furiosa aux roues tournantes de sa voiture, déchirant son visage. La Citadelle que l’insurrection a permis de reconquérir sera régentée par Furiosa et son groupe de femmes; Max qui vient de jouer le sauveur altruiste, s’éclipsera discrètement dans la foule en liesse dans les dernières images du film. Comme on a pu l’observer par la description des décors, des personnages et des relations entre eux, ainsi que par l’analyse des images proposées ci-dessus, il est possible de saisir que le recours aux métaphores ponctuelles et aux réseaux métaphoriques constituent la stratégie du réalisateur tout au long du film, faisant recours à la condensation freudienne déjà mentionnée. Pour l’illustrer à l’aide d’un seul exemple, nous renvoyons à l’image du dictateur tyran Immortan Joe qui condense dans ses caractéristiques physiques, son masque effrayant et ses rapports avec la population survivant dans Wasteland, la domination absolue exercée sur l’ensemble des gens et les multiples formes d’exploitation et de contrôle qu’il leur impose.

Mad Max: Fury Road – film féministe? Une polémique à grands traits

            Un élément qui a attiré l’attention dans ce récit fut la déconstruction du personnage Mad Max dans le rôle du « loup solitaire qui sauve la jeune fille à la fin », déjà présent dans les versions précédentes de ce « blockbuster »; c’est un signe que le cinéma insiste encore dans les vieux clichés, en dépit des changements de la société et de l’existence de caractéristiques humaines réelles et intéressantes qui pourraient être exploitées. Cette déconstruction a été l’un des ingrédients de la controverse qui a pris d’assaut les médias suscitant l’ire de certains mouvements masculins, au sujet du « féminisme » présumé du film, comme nous allons le voir.

            La polémique commence lorsque l’article « Pourquoi il ne faut pas aller voir Mad Max: feminist road » sort dans les pages d’un blog américain nommé, rien moins que The return of kings; le bloggeur – Aaron Clarey – est connu pour son « masculinisme » virulent et ses propos ont mobilisé quelques groupes contre le film[25].

            Les éléments développés ensuite à propos de l’existence d’une controverse autour du « féminisme » présumé dans le film Mad Max: Fury Road, sont basés sur les données recueillies à partir de divers matériaux : des rapports publiés dans des revues et des journaux électroniques; des sites et des blogs sur Internet; des débats sur des programmes télévisés, diffusés dans les capitales ou dans les grandes villes dans 5 pays: le Brésil, l’Argentine, le Chili, la France et l’Uruguay. Dans le cas du Brésil ont été examinés les médias de deux villes – Rio de Janeiro et São Paulo.

            Cependant, notre but est limité à l’analyse de la perception du film par une partie du public qui dans ces deux villes brésiliennes se sentait encouragé à participer dans la controverse suscitée par le film. Parmi les divers matériaux collectés, nous avons examiné au total: 306 commentaires de lecteurs de sites et de blogs; 62 articles parus dans des journaux en ligne et sur des sites Web; l’observation de deux débats réalisés dans des émissions télévisées; l’observation directe d’un débat après la projection du film dans une salle de cinéma à Rio de Janeiro.

L’analyse de ce matériel indique la distribution statistique suivante dans l’ensemble des 306 commentaires analysés: 52% sont d’accord que le film présente une perspective féministe; 26% disent que le film n’est pas féministe; 14% disent ne pas avoir remarqué d’orientation ni féministe ni masculiniste; les autres 8% n’ont pas abordé cette question. Dans ce qui suit nous essayerons de faire une synthèse des arguments utilisés par ces différents groupes.

Parmi les observations de la majorité (52%) qui voit MMFR comme un film féministe, certains points de vue sont soulignés, comme la représentativité féminine, – ce n’est pas seulement le nombre de personnages féminins qui compte, mais surtout le rôle important que les femmes jouent tout au long de l’action:

dès le départ le film, on montre que Furiosa, une femme forte, est la leader d’autres femmes (les épouses du tyran) en quête de liberté et d’émancipation; quelques opinions mentionnent des traits du film comme exemples de dépassement de la place traditionnelle assignée aux femmes, selon le Test de Bechdel.[26]

            De nombreuses opinions attribuent à Furiosa le rôle de personnage principal à la place de Max. D’autres affirment que:

ce film remettrait en cause les assignations générées implicites dans ce type de narrative cinématographique et s’ouvrirait au public féminin en laissant plus de place « au deuxième sexe ». Au même temps le héros masculin est montré en position de faiblesse. D’autres mettent en relief une phrase répétée dans ce film aux dialogues rares: “Men did that” – cette phrase qui revient souvent semble dire que ce sont les hommes – par opposition aux femmes (et non pas aux humains) les responsables de l’état chaotique de la planète où se déroule le film; sont les hommes aussi qui tiennent les rênes de la société tyrannique montrée au cours du récit. Voilà donc une critique féroce de la « bêtise des mâles » et de leurs valeurs: la force, la puissance dans le combat, la domination des femmes réduites à la condition d’objets, qui sont là pour assurer la descendance et tous les besoins du tyran.

D’autre part, le réalisateur de MMFR s’est entouré d’une forte référence féministe: Eve Ensler, l’américaine auteure des « Monologues du Vagin », fut invitée comme dramaturge à partager ses expériences avec les actrices, en discussion sur leurs personnages.[27]

              D’autre côté les 26% de commentateurs qui pensent que MMFR n’est pas un film tout à fait féministe exposent leurs arguments où l’on voit que, selon les opinions de ce groupe, l’approche en apparence féministe du début sera fragilisée et contredite par l’évolution du récit, lorsque Max devient le personnage clé pour la solution des problèmes des femmes en fuite.

D’abord, lorsque Furiosa propose de traverser le désert, dans l’espoir de trouver de l’eau à l’autre côté, c’est lui qui va leur montrer la voie; pourtant les femmes sont près d’une dizaine et les Vuvalinis censées bien connaître la région seraient les plus à même de juger de la probabilité d’avoir de l’eau. Au cours de la bataille finale, Furiosa est sévèrement blessée et les femmes survivantes s’attroupent autour d’elle, mais elles sont bien incapables de l’aider; c’est Max qui va lui sauver la vie en lui transfusant son propre sang. Après, c’est encore Max qu’aura donné à Furiosa l’idée géniale de conquérir la citadelle – donc il pense à sa place. Dans la séquence finale – où le groupe arrive à la Citadelle – nous voyons Max aidant Furiosa, déjà à bout de ses forces, à sortir de son camion; il la soutient alors qu’elle se fait acclamer par la foule – cela pourrait suggérer que sans un « homme fort », elle s’effondrerait. Dans les séquences de leur fuite, Furiosa et Max sont présentés comme complémentaires; pourtant, dans les scènes sur la ligne d’arrivée, Max « le loup solitaire », garde un temps d’avance. On peut voir toute une série d’actes héroïques dont Max est le protagoniste et va se reprendre dans le rôle classique de l’homme protecteur.

            En ce qui concerne les autres appréciations sur le film MMFR, nous avons un ensemble d’opinions qui ne touchent pas la polémique: les 14% qui ne trouvent dans ce récit ni des tendances féministes ni masculinistes; et encore les 8% qui dans leurs commentaires n’abordent pas ce sujet. Les deux groupes additionnés composent un total de 22% sans remarques par rapport à la question que nous examinons. De ce fait, nous allons faire une brève indication des thèmes abordés par cet ensemble.

            La majorité des commentaires sont élogieux et ils soulignent:

             le talent du cinéaste George Miller encore intact malgré ses 70 ans, car il vient tout simplement de réaliser l’un des plus grands films d’action de tous les temps. C’est un film de pure adrénaline, enragé, furieux, extravagant, frénétique, hyper-spectaculaire. Le réalisateur reprend la saga post-apocalyptique dans un scénario simpliste mais qui prend toute sa force dans des montées de vitesse assez spectaculaires – il faut avoir un certain talent pour intéresser pendant deux heures durant le spectateur au sort de personnages si pauvrement dotés, qui passent l’essentiel de leur temps dans, sur ou sous un véhicule apparenté à un camion. L’avalanche d’action, les personnages plus fous les uns que les autres, les images incroyables mais aussi le scénario et la bande sonore ont largement séduit le public – le film est visuellement époustouflant, virtuose et inventif dans la forme, captivant par son rythme effréné; n’oublions pas l’excellence de la bande sonore ni le guitariste Coma-Doof Warrior avec ses mouvements explosifs et une guitare crachant du feu, est l’un des meilleurs personnages du film.

            Certaines opinions critiques, qui ne sont pas nombreuses, soutiennent que « le principal défaut du film tient dans le manque d’émotion, dans le refus de se confronter à des sentiments amoureux ou amicaux, humains en somme ».

En conclusion

            Le succès cinématographique de la série Franchise Series: Mad Max – quatrième volet, révèle l’attraction exercée sur le public d’un genre fictionnel particulier – la dystopie; depuis les années 1990, une véritable vogue du récit dystopique traverse le cinéma. Pourtant le film dystopique analysé se distingue d’autres branches narratives car il est défini comme « post-apocalyptique »: son thème est la survie dans un monde après une catastrophe majeure; il s’agit d’un récit de fiction décrivant une société imaginaire, dans le futur qui peut être perçu comme plus ou moins proche. Grâce à ses configurations métaphoriques, ce film adresse une critique radicale aux modèles de sociétés organisées de manière totalitaire, qui dans l’apparence prétendent assurer le bien-être collectif, au détriment de celui des individus, mais n’accomplissent ni l’un, ni l’autre.

            Indépendamment de l’approbation ou des critiques qui leur sont adressés depuis quelques mois, on peut attribuer aux réalisateurs et aux producteurs du film le mérite d’avoir attiré l’attention vers d’importantes questions d’actualité de façon inattendue, en face des expectatives associées aux films de la Franchise, au sens où ils touchent à des questions importantes de l’actualité et montre des conséquences futures des actions présentes.

La méthodologie d’analyse choisie semble avoir permis l’observation des manières dont le film a touché l’imaginaire du public, sans oublier que ce produit médiatique audiovisuel intègre un champ complexe qui se nourrit d’autres champs en même temps qu’ils le nourrissent; il y a donc des interrelations permanentes de tension et de distension potentielles entre l’expérience réelle et le travail de l’imaginaire insaisissables dans les limites de notre étude. Il n’y a pas de place ici pour discuter en profondeur toutes les questions concernant les rapports complexes entre dystopie, utopie, pouvoir et valeurs culturelles dans les sociétés contemporaines, dont ce film et la polémique qu’il a déclenchée à propos du féminisme ne font que soulever le rideau.

Deleuze, en parlant du cinéma indique qu’il est l’interférence de nombreuses pratiques qui produisent des êtres, des images, des concepts, bref toutes sortes d’événements. Peut-être la chose la plus importante dans le cinéma serait sa capacité d’exprimer, plus que tout art, la vie spirituelle, les mouvements de l’imaginaire dans une dimension inextricablement ontologique et pratique.

Références bibliographiques

Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, Oxford-UK, Polity Press, 1999.

Corin Braga, “Utopie, Eutopie, Dystopie et Anti-utopie”, Metábasis Philosophie et Communication, Rivista di Filosofia on-line, (septembre 2006), I^ère année, no 2, http://www.metabasis.it.rivistadifilosofia/online.

Christian Metz, Essais sur la signification au cinéma, Tomes 1 et 2, Paris, Klincksieck, 2013.

Francis Vanoye ; Anne Goliot-Lété, Précis d’analyse filmique, Paris, Éd. Nathan, 1992.

Gérard Genette, Métalepse. De la figure à la fiction, Paris, Seuil, 2004.

Gilbert Durand, Les structures anthropologiques de l’imaginaire, Paris, Dunod, 1992.

Gilbert Durand, L’imagination symbolique, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1964.

Gilles Deleuze, Félix Guattari, Mille plateaux – Capitalisme et schizophrénie, Paris, Les Éditions de Minuit, 1980.

Gilles Deleuze, L’Image-mouvement. Cinéma Tome 1, Paris, Éditions de Minuit, 1983.

Gilles Deleuze, Cinéma Tome 2, L’image-temps, Paris, Éditions de Minuit,1985.

Jacques Aumont (éd.), Esthétique du film, Paris, Éditions Nathan, 1994.

Jacques Rancière, Le spectateur émancipé, Paris, La Fabrique, 2008.

Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, Imaginaires du politique, Paris, Ellipses, 2001.

Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, La vie des images, Strasbourg, Presses Universitaires, 1995.

Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, L’utopie ou la crise de l’imaginaire, Paris, Jean-Pierre Delarge, 1979.

John B. Thompson, The Media and Modernity. A Social Theory of the Media,Oxford, Blackwell Publishers 1995.

Karl Mannheim, Idéologie et utopie, Traduit sur l’édition anglaise par Pauline Rollet, Paris, Librairie Marcel Rivière, 1956.

Marc Ferro, Cinéma et histoire, Paris, Denoël-Gonthier, 1977.

Michel Chion, Le son au cinéma, Paris, Éditions de L’Etoile, 1992.

Pierre Sorlin, Sociologie du cinéma, Paris, Aubier-Montaigne, 1977.

Roger Odin, Cinéma et production du sens, Paris, Armand Colin, 1991.

Roland Barthes, Éléments de sémiologie, Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 1964.

Sigmund Freud, L’interprétation du rêve, Paris, PUF, 2012.

Steven Connor, Theory and Cultural Value, Oxford-UK, Blackwell Publishers, 1992.

Thomas More, L’Utopie ou Le Traité de la meilleure forme de gouvernement, Traduction de Marie Delcourt, Paris, Flammarion, 1987.

Tzvetan Todorov, Symbolisme et interprétation, Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 1978.

Umberto Eco, Les limites de l’interprétation, Paris, Grasset, 1992.

Pages internet – Références spécifiques sur le film Mad Max: FuryRoad

http://www.madmaxmovie.com/ The official movie site for Mad Max: Fury Road

Références spécifiques à propos de la controverse déclenchée à partir du film:

http://www.revistaforum.com.br/blog/2015/05/mad-max-estrada-da-furia-feminista/MadMax:

Notes

Adriana Carrijo
Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro – Brasil
adrianacarrijo@terra.com.br

Marilena Jamur
Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, Brasil
marilena.jamur@terra.com.br

Une cartographie des désirs utopiques – Observations sur le film Mad Max: Fury Road

A Cartography of Utopian Desires – Notes on the Film Mad Max: Fury Road

Abstract: In this article we seek to examine to what extent and in what way utopia and dystopia are present in contemporary film production; we use procedures of semiotic analysis to identify the presence of these features and their relationship with real history in two ways: by textual analysis of a film set in a dystopian world, the newly released, Mad Max: Fury Road, as a significant object and as a discourse; then analyzing the interpretations, in the media, of the dystopian character of this film, and the controversy that film criticism generated on social networks in Brazil – which was one of the reasons of our choice of subject – as significant material for analyzing the viewer’s subjective relationship to this cinematographic narrative.

Keywords: Utopia/Dystopia; Cinema; Intertextuality; Aesthetic Experience; Representations; Subjective Identification.

Introduction

            Le travail de l’imaginaire dans la construction d’utopies et de dystopies mobilise en permanence la réflexion de plusieurs penseurs qui en font l’objet de nombreuses disciplines parmi les sciences humaines et sociales depuis plus de cinq siècles. Beaucoup d’entre elles cherchent à établir une distinction claire entre ces formulations dessinant des confrontations entre ces deux topoi à partir de l’exploitation de leurs principales caractéristiques et desseins; cependant il semble qu’un accord existe quant à certains traits présents aussi bien dans les utopies que dans les dystopies, le premier étant précisément leur relation avec la réalité. Ce rapport constitue le point de départ pour proposer réfléchir sur ce thème qui mobilise philosophes, politiciens, scientifiques, historiens, littéraires et producteurs artistiques.

            Même si l’utopie s’oppose à la réalité vécue, car elle projette une autre réalité imaginée et envisagée comme possible, elle prend sa source et ses origines dans le réel: l’imaginaire travaille à partir de l’étant pour y intervenir et le transformer à maintes reprises. De même, dans les dystopies, la production de l’imaginaire reprend à la réalité sa matière première, bien qu’elle s’oriente dans un sens opposé se caractérisant donc comme anti-utopie.

            En se fondant sur la croyance dans la possibilité de construire un monde meilleur, l’utopie indique quelquefois les outils pouvant créer des médiations capables de la rendre possible, transformant le réel vécu en une nouvelle réalité à venir, en un futur à produire comme résultat de l’action humaine.

            Néanmoins la dystopie part de la réalité vécue et emphatise de façon critique les traits profondément négatifs de ce qui existe: à partir de ces traits il serait impossible de croire que leur évolution conduise à un monde meilleur. Ainsi, s’inspirant de l’expérience vécue, le travail de l’imaginaire met l’accent sur le négatif, anticipant par là les pires des mondes.

            Selon l’hypothèse formulée par Berriel[1], au moment où ce genre a vu son essor, où il s’affirmait encore et dessinait ses contours, l’utopie était générée par deux principes distincts: premièrement, à partir d’une expérience historique en tant que métaphore – l’Utopia de More est exemplaire comme métaphore d’une Angleterre très concrète; deuxièmement, à partir d’une Idée, d’une construction abstraite qui descend du Ciel vers la Terre – la Civitas Solis en est le meilleur exemple, en tant que formalisation de la rationalité restrictive tridentine. Une telle hypothèse suggère que la dystopie prend ses racines essentiellement dans ce second principe en tant que dérivation des utopies détachées du monde empiriquement concret.

            Il ne conviendrait pas ici de traiter dans le détail une discussion philosophique très étendue qui, depuis le texte fondateur de Thomas More[2], se développe chez les différents auteurs et courants au sujet d’une thématique qui soulève des oppositions et des similarités depuis plusieurs siècles; les perspectives d’analyse de ce phénomène très complexe sont nombreuses. Un texte de Braga aborde ce phénomène depuis ses origines: d’abord, l’auteur analyse quatre variétés utopiques, dénommées utopies, eutopies, dystopies et anti-utopies, élaborant un «corpus des utopies littéraires des XVI^e-XIX^e siècles, selon la taxinomie des quatre variétés définies »; il examine ensuite les possibilités de combinaison entre ces variétés, la dynamique de ce processus ainsi que les constructions possibles selon le sens positif ou négatif qu’elles assument à partir de leur distribution sur un axe virtuel [3].

         Il existe encore un trait présent aussi bien dans les utopies que dans les dystopies, à savoir, leur relation dialectique avec le réel, en face duquel les deux formes jouent un important rôle social: à travers l’univers de la fiction qui mobilise des fantasmes stimulant l’imaginaire social, s’exprime le mécontentement avec l’expérience sociale quotidienne qui s’est manifesté tout au long de l’histoire par la production artistique, notamment les productions littéraires et cinématographiques; s’exprime aussi l’engagement éthique des auteurs qui cherchent à traduire cette insatisfaction à travers ces formes d’expression artistiques y évoquant d’autres réalités possibles.

            Quand nous parlons de réel historique, nous considérons que les rapports des individus et groupes sociaux avec la réalité expérimentée se font par le biais des représentations, comme démontrent les travaux développés par plusieurs disciplines des sciences humaines et sociales; en sociologie et en psychologie sociale ont été réalisées des études spécifiques comme celles entreprises par Moscovici et Jodelet, constituant un large domaine de recherche sur les représentations sociales et sur le travail de l’imaginaire[4].

         Utopie et dystopie sont articulées d’une façon dialectique dans la production littéraire et cinématographique qui s’élabore depuis le début du XX^e siècle. Ainsi, Nous autres (1920) de Evgueni Zamiatine est sans doute la première dystopie explicite, mais ce thème devient plus présent au long des dernières décennies. Les premiers films dystopiques ont été des adaptations d’œuvres littéraires pour le cinéma; des exceptions remarquables en sont Metropolis de Fritz Lang (Allemagne, 1927) ou les critiques satiriques réalisées par Chaplin aux États Unis – Modern Times (1936), The Great Dictator (1940) – dont les scénarios ont été écrits pour le cinéma. D’autres ouvrages classiques comme Brave New World de Aldous Huxley et 1984 de George Orwell ont inspiré des productions pour le cinéma. Le tableau ci-dessous présente les productions dystopiques les plus connues où la littérature et le cinéma sont en rapport[5].

         Néanmoins, à partir des années 1990, cette tendance s’inverse, suivant d’importants changements de la société qui s’accélèrent à partir de la fin des années 1980 quand on voit s’accroître la production de films dystopiques dont la source d’inspiration n’est pas forcément la littérature. Pour de nombreux historiens, la chute du mur de Berlin est l’événement de grande influence, le moment historique à partir duquel apparaissent les signes d’épuisement de l’utopie socialiste et d’une progressive affirmation du libéralisme renouvelé, désormais appelé néolibéralisme. Cette tendance s’affirme dans la majorité des pays, avec un autre phénomène, la globalisation ou la mondialisation qui atteint les sphères économique, sociale, culturelle et politique des sociétés[6]. Face à la relation entre production culturelle et temporalité, on comprend que la croissance du nombre de filmes dystopiques est en rapport avec les perspectives sociales en ce moment historique.

      Certains analystes des processus sociaux considèrent que la fonction des phénomènes cités, ainsi que des transformations intervenues dans les moyens de communication produisant de nouvelles formes d’action et d’interaction dans le monde moderne – associées au développement des institutions et à la croissance des nouveaux réseaux d’information et de communication – entraînent de nouvelles formes de rapport entre le public et le privé et des changements dans le lien entre visibilité et pouvoir. Pour de nombreux auteurs, la présence de telles caractéristiques dans les sociétés contemporaines signifierait que l’on vit dans une nouvelle ère, la « postmodernité ». D’autre part, d’autres versants, où l’on retrouve des auteurs comme Thompson[7] se consacrent à l’histoire de la culture et des communications en affirmant que malgré tous les discours sur le postmodernisme et la postmodernité, « si l’on laisse de côté la rhétorique à la mode, il y a peu de signaux valables que le monde à la fin du XX^e siècle soit entré dans une nouvelle ère ». Il y a donc une polémique théorique que l’on voulait juste souligner, tout en évoquant certains auteurs qui participent des deux versants[8]. Nous adoptons la position de Thompson déjà citée et sommes d’accord avec Steven Connor lorsqu’il affirme:

même si le terme de post-modernisme a été utilisé par certains écrivains des années [19]50 et [19]60, il ne s’est pas cristallisé avant le milieu des années [19]70 période où des affirmations sur l’existence de ce phénomène social et culturel si hétérogène commencent à prendre force dans la sphère de certaines disciplines académiques ainsi que dans les manifestations culturelles, dans la philosophie, l’architecture, dans les études sur le cinéma,  les études littéraires […] S’il est clair que le débat sur le post-modernisme offre à la pratique critique un moyen d’autodiffusion et d’autoprolongement, il reflète et personnifie en même temps l’implication  réelle de la critique culturelle avec ce que Jürgen Habermas a désigné comme la « crise de légitimation » qui touche la vie sociale contemporaine – le fait qu’il semblerait ne pas avoir de principes pouvant servir comme des critères de valeur pour aucune chose.[9]

         En conclusion à cette introduction, où nous avons essayé d’expliquer comment nous comprenons notre objet d’analyse – un film récent, situé dans un futur dystopique – et relever que le développement des moyens de communication atteint aujourd’hui une portée globale et instantanée, à une échelle jamais expérimentée auparavant. Cette globalisation de la communication instantanée s’articule à d’autres processus de développement des sociétés modernes – au-delà des désignations adoptées pour les caractériser. Plus important que n’importe quel habillage c’est que nous fassions des efforts pour comprendre les processus sociaux en cours ainsi que leurs conséquences; il faut garder toujours à l’horizon de la recherche le besoin de comprendre les contextes spécifiques où les médias sont produits et reçus, pour déchiffrer la forme dont ils touchent les personnes. Nous supposons que cette visibilité médiée par la technologie, assumant aujourd’hui la forme de communication instantanée, nous offre un matériel remarquable pour l’analyse du film dystopique choisi, ainsi que des formes de réception  par les spectateurs – traduites en polémique sur les réseaux sociaux.

Vers une cartographie des désirs dystopiques – quelques questions de méthode

         Dans ce travail d’analyse filmique, comme son titre le suggère, nous nous sommes servies de deux procédures de base: tout d’abord, la méthode cartographique qui nous a semblé la plus appropriée à l’objet film – un produit médiatique qui  touche l’imaginaire de son public, déchaînant des réponses; ensuite, l’examen des processus d’attribution de sens à ce qui est vu et entendu lorsqu’on voit un film.

            La cartographie, comme l’on sait, est une méthode formulée par Gilles Deleuze et Félix Guattari (1980) visant à suivre un processus plutôt qu’à représenter un objet. Il s’agit toujours d’interroger un processus de production. Quand on se sert de cette méthode dans des domaines d’étude touchant à la subjectivité, on écarte l’objectif de définir un ensemble de règles abstraites qu’on appliquerait au film en même temps qu’on renonce à emprunter une voie linéaire pour arriver à un but, la cartographie étant toujours une méthode construite, un work in progress. Par conséquent, en tant que procédure de recherche, elle exige des postures spécifiques, invitant le chercheur à un exercice cognitif singulier car il est orienté vers le dessin d’un champ problématique qui requiert certes une forme de cognition mais qui exige surtout qu’il soit aussi capable d’invention. Il s’agit alors d’une invention qui n’est rendue possible que par la rencontre féconde entre le chercheur et son champ de recherche, le matériau sur lequel il se penche ne devant donc pas être collecté mais plutôt produit. Cette démarche devient possible parce qu’elle émerge d’un point de contact impliquant un déplacement du chercheur pour voir autrement son champ de recherche, car  il doit voir et penser en même temps que l’objet s’offre à son regard. Les réflexions spécifiques élaborées par Deleuze sur le cinéma se trouvent  dans deux de ses ouvrages[10].

            Plusieurs chercheurs à avoir utilisé la cartographie indiquent des points importants de son application. Selon Kastrup, deux points doivent être examinés, le premier se référant à la fonction même de l’attention qui ne correspond pas à une simple sélection d’informations. En effet, son fonctionnement ne s’identifie pas à des actes de focalisation afin de préparer la représentation des formes des objets: elle s’exerce plutôt à travers la détection de signes et des formes circulantes, c’est-à-dire, des franges des processus en cours. Par conséquent, la détection et l’appréhension d’un matériau au départ déconnecté et fragmenté, des scènes et des discours, requiert une concentration sans focalisation, celle précisément qui est indiquée par Deleuze dans son Abécédaire: l’idée d’une attention aux aguets dont le fonctionnement nous cherchons à élucider. Le second point c’est que l’attention en tant que processus complexe peut assumer différentes formes: sélective ou flottante, ciblée ou floue, concentrée ou dispersée, volontaire ou involontaire; une combinaison de ces formes est aussi possible, produisant: sélection volontaire, flottaison involontaire, concentration floue, focalisation dispersée, etc. Adriana Carrijo souligne que la notion de cartographie s’articule à l’idée d’une ligne de fuite, celle-ci étant le principe de la déterritorialisation. Choisir la méthode cartographique signifie que nous travaillerons à travers des lignes de fuite, pour dessiner la carte qui caractérise le système dans lequel le problème s’insère. La subjectivité du cartographe ne privilégie donc aucun ancrage. Au contraire, il subit les tensions éveillées par les objets (ob-jets) trouvés, ce que suggère une autre forme, la cartographie sensorielle[11].

            Par conséquent cette méthode nous semble le mieux appropriée à l’observation des manières dont le film Mad Max: Fury Road touche l’imaginaire du public, sans oublier que ce produit médiatique audiovisuel intègre un champ complexe qui nourrit d’autres champs en même temps qu’ils le nourrissent; il y a donc des interrelations permanentes de tension et de distension potentielles entre la technique, les discours et les cultures. Dans ce processus nous voulions colleter des éléments et identifier les espaces propices à établir du consensus, des divergences et des standardisations; découvrir les sociabilités et les échanges symboliques que ce film engendre, ainsi que les usages, les appropriations, les configurations, les convergences, les expérimentations et les innovations qu’il opère sur des formats, des supports et des technologies mis à l’œuvre. Nous avons produit ainsi des données afin d’adopter un second procédé spécifique à l’analyse filmique – la traduction intersémiotique – une fois que ce produit audiovisuel peut se constituer comme langage et discours, dans une relation complexe entre technique et culture, des relations traversées par l’esthétique et par l’éthique.

            Nous avons pris en compte la distinction entre interprétation sémantique et interprétation critique proposée par Umberto Eco[12], dans l’intention de les réaliser simultanément pour comprendre pourquoi et comment le texte filmique produit du sens. Autrement dit, nous cherchions à saisir le sens et la production du sens établissant des connexions entre ce qui s’exprime et la façon dont cela s’exprime; selon Odin (1991), ces connexions étant toujours conjecturales, les hypothèses formulées sont ouvertes à la vérification, par un mouvement d’aller-retour sur le texte. Il n’y a pas une seule position concernant l’interprétation du sens produit par l’analyse textuelle – le sens est-il produit par le texte, par l’auteur, ou bien par le lecteur? Malgré les polémiques soulevées autour des réponses à cette question, à présent presque tous les critiques admettent qu’un même texte autorise une pluralité d’interprétations. Par conséquent, pour éviter que l’activité d’interprétation soit réduite à la simple projection des trames, des obsessions et des désirs du lecteur sur l’objet d’analyse, Eco suggère le recours au « sens littéral », à ce qui s’exprime vraiment dans le texte, à l’intention de l’œuvre, pour fonder la liberté d’interpréter sur des vérifications et des validations aussi concrètes que possible[13].

            Ainsi, si le film comme produit culturel s’inscrit dans un contexte socio-historique donné, il n’est alors pas possible de le voir comme un produit séparé d’autres secteurs de la vie sociale comme l’économie, la politique, les sciences, les techniques et les autres arts.  Dès lors, comme Marc Ferro (1976) et Umberto Eco (1992) l’indiquent, nous pouvons utiliser les films pour analyser les sociétés, car ils offrent un ensemble de représentations qui nous renvoient à la société réelle où ils s’inscrivent. Dans un film, indépendamment de son projet (décrire, distraire, critiquer, dénoncer, militer) une société n’est pas affichée mais plutôt mise en scène. Le réalisateur y opère certes des choix, en organise les éléments, découpe dans le réel et dans l’imaginaire, bref il construit un monde possible qui entretient des rapports complexes avec le monde réel. D’après Pierre Sorlin[14], ce monde mis en scène peut être un reflet, mais aussi bien un refus lorsqu’il dissimule les aspects pertinents du monde réel, en l’idéalisant et en en amplifiant certains défauts, pour proposer un autre monde. De toute façon, le film est un point de vue, un regard posé sur le monde qui lui est contemporain[15].

Partant de cette prémisse nous supposons que le cinéma, en tant qu’un art de la représentation, génère des productions symboliques et que ces productions expriment, plus ou moins explicitement, plus ou moins consciemment, un ou divers points de vue sur le monde réel; il revient au chercheur d’essayer d’identifier la nature de ces points de vue ainsi que la façon dont ils se manifestent. Ils peuvent être d’ordre idéologique, moral, spirituel et esthétique, sans que l’on puisse les assigner de forme définitive à une de ces catégories.

            Du point de vue méthodologique, nous avons eu recours ici aux procédés indiqués par Vanoye pour l’analyse filmique et pour l’interprétation symbolique, soulignant la double convergence du scénario vers la structuration du récit d’une part et la progression thématique d’autre part. Cet auteur propose une démarche simultanée fondée sur différents points de vue sur l’histoire et les personnages – moral, esthétique, politique et philosophique –, ainsi qu’il invite à en relever les connotations affectives, fantastiques, symboliques, toutes portées par les images du monde représenté. Selon Vanoye, en effet, pour l’identification du symbolique il y a deux procédés importants: l’étude du scénario et l’identification des métaphores et des réseaux métaphoriques. On y parviendra par la suite.

                En ce qui concerne le récit filmique, Vanoye considère que les scénarios se référent souvent à des « modèles structuraux, à de grands schémas narratifs appartenant au patrimoine universel opérant comme des supports de contenus symboliques voire mythiques ». Nous insistons sur le caractère explicite ou implicite de ces images figurées, des ressources qui aident dans l’identification des indices offerts à l’interprétation. Parmi ces ressources, on retrace en premier lieu la recherche d’un axe socio-historique, puis d’un  axe spirituel, qui s’articulent dans une approche psycho-socio-historique. Voici l’hypothèse de Vanoye[16]:

tout scénario de film remplit une double fonction: d’une part, le scénario structure un récit (une suite logique d’événements, de relations entre les personnages, de conflits, un ensemble d’informations que les films doivent diffuser pour assurer compréhension et vraisemblance), et une progression dramatique (selon les règles d’alternance entre temps forts et temps faibles, une progression continue jusqu’au dénouement en passant par le climax). D’autre part, le scénario propose simultanément un point de vue (moral, esthétique, politique, philosophique, poétique) sur l’histoire et les personnages, des images du monde représenté, des images plus ou moins chargées de connotations affectives, fantastiques, symboliques. Les deux scénarios ne sont pas nécessairement convergents.[17]

Un autre procédé méthodologique important c’est l’identification des métaphores ponctuelles, « la forme la plus condensée de l’image »; si dans la littérature la métaphore est une figure de l’expression verbale, au cinéma, ce sont les images qui se succèdent au lieu des mots. La compréhension des métaphores se fonde sur l’analogie de sens qui existe entre le terme actualisé et le terme absent, celui qui a été remplacé; dans un film, l’effet métaphorique peut être généré par l’association plus ou moins étroite d’une suite d’images qui rompent le continuum narratif, créant une configuration métaphorique plutôt qu’une « métaphore pure », les deux formes pouvant être identifiées selon les ressources employées: des formes de répétition et d’insistance (premiers plans, plans longs, angles insolites) ou d’amplification (déformations visuelles, augmentation, effets sonores etc.); le degré le plus fort ou plus faible d’incongruité d’une image par rapport à la norme narrative réaliste (de l’image délibérément non diégétique à la figure diégétisée, c’est-à-dire, pleinement intégrée au monde représenté); l’usage d’images évoquant la « condensation freudienne » – après un long trajet narratif, dramatique et qui passe par des figures, dans une même représentation se concentrent plusieurs séries d’association d’images qui convergent, sont synthétisées et dépassent toutes les significations jusqu’alors dispersées ou parallèles;  l’image condensation peut être le point de départ, le motif inaugural d’un parcours qui reviendra probablement sur elle[18].

Mad Max: Fury Road – Un film entouré par la polémique

Le film Mad Max: Fury Road choisi pour ce travail appartient à une catégorie de films désignés de différentes façons par la critique cinématographique: sci-fi, adventure post-apocalypse ou encore “blockbuster hollywoodiano” – ce qui pour beaucoup est un synonyme de cinéma léger, facile à digérer, au succès garanti et hautement rentable. Il n’y a pas de doute que, sous de nombreux aspects, ce film présenté comme une adventure post-apocalypse a comblé une grande partie de ces attentes: il a connu un énorme succès mondial – en moins d’un mois il avait déjà rapporté 300 millions de dollars, selon son distributeur[19].          

C’est le quatrième long-métrage d’une série (Franchise Series: Mad Max)[20] qui arrive au public trente ans après le troisième volet de la saga Mad Max: son tournage débute en juillet 2012 dans le désert du Namib et le film a été distribué mondialement dans les salles en mai 2015, après sa présentation hors-compétition au Festival de Cannes la même année.

Dans une première approche de Mad Max: Fury Road, nous avons suivi les procédés suggérés par Vanoye (1991), focalisant la double convergence du scénario – aussi bien pour la structuration du récit que pour la progression dramatique – dans le but d’identifier les traits caractéristiques de ce film, d’examiner dans quelle mesure et de quelle manière l’utopie et la dystopie s’y trouvent présentes et de saisir son articulation avec le réel historique.

À partir de l’analyse du contexte de production de Mad Max: Fury Road nous avons conçu l’hypothèse selon laquelle il s’agit d’un film qui « parle » du présent, car il « dit » quelque chose sur notre présent. Des difficultés financières ont retardé le tournage et dès ses débuts dans le désert du Namib, la polémique s’installe sur les conditions de ce tournage, notamment les ravages provoqués dans le plus vieux désert du monde, qui aurait été en partie détruit[21].

            Plusieurs auteurs ont démontré l’articulation dialectique entre utopie-dystopie, admettant par conséquent que ces deux termes peuvent participer à la composition du film. Nous suivons la position de Corin Braga qui semble s’accorder le mieux à la méthode cartographique adoptée. Selon l’auteur,

          […] il faudrait envisager l’hypothèse que l’utopie et l’anti-utopie ne constituent pas un système double mais quadruple, que chacune d’entre elles représente un système double, composé d’un astre lumineux (la cité parfaite) et d’un astre ténébreux (la cité de déréliction). Au lieu de concevoir l’utopie comme incarnant la cité idéale et l’anti-utopie la cité infernale, il faudrait voir dans l’utopie la combinaison d’une vision du bien et d’une vision du mal et dans l’anti-utopie, symétriquement, la combinaison d’une vision du mal et d’une vision du bien.[22]

            Adoptant par ailleurs la tripartition récit/narration/histoire-diégèse de Gérard Genette (2004) pour l’analyse textuelle, on s’aperçoit que le film se situe clairement dans un monde dystopique. Focalisant l’histoire-diégèse, c’est-à-dire, la partie du récit qui n’est pas spécifiquement filmique – le synopsis, le scénario et le développement – on constate que son contenu est indépendant de son milieu – un film en l’occurrence. L’histoire qui contient le sens et le contenu narratif est finalement assez sommaire nous montrant d’emblée le caractère dystopique que nous essayerons de synthétiser.

            Ayant pour décor une grande surface désertique, deux groupes inégaux en force de frappe, s’affrontent dans une poursuite sans trêve dans leurs véhicules: l’un d’eux est occupé par Imperator Furiosa, le personnage féminin principal, qui décide de saboter la mission dont elle est chargé: conduire un convoi blindé à destination de Gasoline Town et de Bullet Farm où elle devrait collecter munition et carburant pour le tyran Immortan Joe, sorte de leader religieux d’un groupe de survivants. Dans un des deux groupes sont embarquées Furiosa avec quelques femmes – les trésors du vilain, des beautés que le tyran maintient prisonnières dans le but d’assurer reproduction et allaitement; ces femmes sont accompagnées par un petit groupe d’hommes. Leur destination c’est la « terre promise » ou la « Terre Verte », un endroit idyllique où l’eau coulerait à flot et la nourriture ne manquerait pas, géré par des femmes, les Vuvalinis. L’autre ensemble est composé de véhicules véloces et bruyants conduits par des hommes, une armée intégrée par des « apprentis de la guerre », des jeunes hommes à la tête rasée et teintée, à la vie brève et dont la dévotion au tyran Immortan Joe est totale. Celui-ci les guide avec de la haine, dans une poursuite sans arrêt parmi la poussière qui se dégage du sol aride. Le tyran détient encore le contrôle sur les principaux moyens de survie dans une terre dévastée post-apocalyptique dans laquelle toute l’humanité a succombé et la planète (Wasteland) se réduit à un grand désert aux tonalités rougeâtres. Dans cet univers dystopique il y a des groupes isolés d’êtres humains, qui existent durement dans un monde dévasté: la plupart des survivants sont les guerriers (War Boys) assujettis par Immortan Joe, des hommes prêts à mourir pour lui, ce qui les ferait atteindre le paradis (Valhalla). Tous sont entourés par des clans de cannibales, des sectes et des gangs de motards qui s’affrontent dans le désert sans fin pour obtenir de l’essence et de l’eau, des ressources contrôlées par le tyran aux traits messianiques Immortan, personnage au masque frappant et commandant de la tour en pierre érigée sur un réservoir d’eau (The Citadel). C’est depuis cette tour qu’Immortan Joe distribue des jets d’eau selon son humeur et pour le plaisir, tâche dans laquelle il est aidé par ses deux enfants: Corpus Colossus, un type très intelligent mais souffrant d’un défaut de croissance, et Rictus Erectus, l’un de meilleurs guerriers de la Citadelle. Le tyran cherche encore un héritier à sa hauteur afin de perpétuer son legs. Max Rockatansky, le personnage-titre du film, est un ancien policier de la route, devenu à présent prisonnier – placé et lié à l’avant de la voiture des War Boys, dans une posture qui rappelle celle des figures à la proue des bateaux. Mais, au-delà de cette situation de danger, il est réduit au statut d’objet car il n’est qu’un globular, soit un réservoir de sang frais pour les War Boys.

            Même s’il y a beaucoup d’autres détails qui particularisent les personnages du film[23], nous considérons que ce synopsis suffit à illustrer le caractère dystopique de cet univers, à partir du scénario qui structure la trame narrative et la suite logique des événements, ainsi que les rapports entre les personnages et les conflits qui font partie de la réalité vécue, accentuent les traits profondément négatifs de l’existant. Á partir de ces traits il ne serait pas possible de présumer que leur évolution conduira vers un meilleur avenir. En effet, l’expérience montrée ou suggérée par les images active le travail de l’imaginaire du spectateur qui peut anticiper le pire des mondes; à partir de l’expérience présentée comme vraisemblable dans cet univers dystopique le public est capable d’évoquer un monde qui ne serait pas impossible à l’avenir. Les conflits pour la domination des zones pétrolifères, la privatisation de l’eau, la menace que cette denrée vitale s’épuise, le manque d’aliments pour la survie de nombreuses populations, ce sont des éléments amplifiés et exacerbés dans le film qui ne nous sont pas méconnus à l’heure actuelle.

            Des images explicites alliées aux ensembles métaphoriques saisissables dans le récit renvoient les spectateurs à des questions qui sont perceptibles dans notre quotidien. En effet, la destruction de l’environnement dans le seul but de la domination surgit comme une configuration métaphorique plus large qui conjugue et articule deux types de structures narratives: d’une part, des structures sémio-narratives, en tant que formes d’organisation profondes et générales sous-jacentes au film et d’autre part des structures de surface qui relèvent du domaine de l’observable. Ces structures peuvent être facilement aperçues par les spectateurs, cependant les deux sont nécessaires à une compréhension plus large de leur signification. Ainsi, le scénario-cadre du film – la planète (Wasteland) réduite à un grand désert aux tonalités rougeâtres, une terre dévastée par une catastrophe nucléaire d’où l’humanité fut chassée – condense des significations plus générales et profondes. À celles-ci viennent s’articuler les images qui suggèrent ou présentent les détails des difficultés de vivre sur cette planète sans avenir, où manquent les moyens de survie pour tous, une planète dont le passé n’existe plus, sauf  dans la mémoire et dans les mains des Vuvalinis; ce petit groupe de femmes âgées et fragiles poussées à la vie nomade avec leurs souvenirs de tout ce qui existait, jouent les gardiennes de l’histoire passée et un symbole d’espoir pour un meilleur futur – quelques graines de plantes, leur donation aux jeunes échappées.

            Une seconde configuration métaphorique est en rapport avec les caractéristiques du pouvoir dans ce monde post-apocalyptique qui dédouble la même articulation précédente, tissée par les deux types de structures narratives. D’abord sur le plan des structures sémio-narratives plus profondes, on a une synthèse de la concentration du pouvoir détenu par le tyran Immortan Joe. Celui-ci, en plus du contrôle de toutes les ressources permettant la survie des individus, détient un pouvoir absolu sur tous les survivants; les formes variées de domination s’exercent selon les intérêts du tyran: par la force des armes, la distribution de l’eau et de l’essence, la manipulation des consciences, moyennant une fausse identité messianique (il est celui qui « est retourné après la mort »). Ainsi Immortan Joe instrumentalise-t-il l’angoisse existentielle et la dévotion religieuse qu’il inspire chez les jeunes guerriers. Au niveau des structures de surface, on trouve de nombreuses indications de cette domination exercée par lui dans les rapports existants entre les personnages principaux et secondaires. Quelques métaphores renvoient encore à la réification des êtres humains transformés en outils du système: Immortan Joe réifie aussi bien les femmes que les hommes. Max est le prisonnier bâillonné et enchaîné au devant d’un char de guerre: il est un globular soit, un réservoir de sang frais pour les War Boys. Furiosa et le groupe de femmes prisonnières, portant des ceintures de chasteté, sont asservies pour assurer la descendance du dictateur. Dans la séquence, ces prisonniers refusent leur statut d’objet et se mettent en quête de liberté.

            Ces métaphores dénoncent le système patriarcal, l’oppression existante dans tout le monde et critiquent le régime dictatorial que le film évoque. Une autre dimension de la domination à analyser c’est la représentation métaphorique qui enrobe les personnages, par exemple: le mouchoir qui bâillonne et les chaînes qui tiennent Max fixé au char de guerre; le bras mécanique qui remplace en partie l’amputation subie par Furiosa; Immortan Joe est particulièrement disgracieux et effrayant dans un corps difforme et mou qu’il tente de cacher dans une armure censée le rendre plus « dur » et plus résistant; cela  se complète par un masque à la place du visage, tout aussi effrayant que sa voix grave et menaçante. Les War Boys sont des jeunes aux cheveux rasés et au visage blanc avec des peintures primitives; ils se trouvent en « demi-vie », donc ils ont besoin des globulars pour se revitaliser régulièrement. Enfin, le peuple qui est présenté comme une globalité, une masse – montrée sur des premiers plans et des plans longs – est constituée de corps amputés, édentés, abîmés, affaiblis: bref, masse qui doit rester dominée, ou bien, peut-être « sauvée » par des individus exceptionnels.

            Après cette lecture du caractère dystopique prédominant du film Mad Max: Fury Road, nous devons nous interroger sur la manière dont se présente l’articulation dialectique entre utopie et dystopie, soit de quelle façon le réalisateur a conçu « la combinaison d’une vision du mal et d’une vision du bien »[24]. Par la suite, nous signalerons les traits utopiques présents dans la trame narrative. L’utopie se configure dans le récit lorsque quelques personnages asservis par Immortan Joe – les femmes (Furiosa, les épouses, les Vuvalinis devenues nomades), Max emprisonné, Nux (un War Boy converti) s’associent pendant les affrontements dans le désert; alors ils refusent leur statut d’objet et se mettent en quête d’un monde plus libre. Le groupe acceptant une proposition de Max et dirigé par lui parviendra à s’emparer de la Citadelle sauvant au passage les humains réduits au semi-esclavage par le tyran. Ce projet exécuté par les prisonniers associés permettra de libérer tout le peuple de la servitude. Immortan Joe est mort décapité – son masque est accroché par Furiosa aux roues tournantes de sa voiture, déchirant son visage. La Citadelle que l’insurrection a permis de reconquérir sera régentée par Furiosa et son groupe de femmes; Max qui vient de jouer le sauveur altruiste, s’éclipsera discrètement dans la foule en liesse dans les dernières images du film. Comme on a pu l’observer par la description des décors, des personnages et des relations entre eux, ainsi que par l’analyse des images proposées ci-dessus, il est possible de saisir que le recours aux métaphores ponctuelles et aux réseaux métaphoriques constituent la stratégie du réalisateur tout au long du film, faisant recours à la condensation freudienne déjà mentionnée. Pour l’illustrer à l’aide d’un seul exemple, nous renvoyons à l’image du dictateur tyran Immortan Joe qui condense dans ses caractéristiques physiques, son masque effrayant et ses rapports avec la population survivant dans Wasteland, la domination absolue exercée sur l’ensemble des gens et les multiples formes d’exploitation et de contrôle qu’il leur impose.

Mad Max: Fury Road – film féministe? Une polémique à grands traits

            Un élément qui a attiré l’attention dans ce récit fut la déconstruction du personnage Mad Max dans le rôle du « loup solitaire qui sauve la jeune fille à la fin », déjà présent dans les versions précédentes de ce « blockbuster »; c’est un signe que le cinéma insiste encore dans les vieux clichés, en dépit des changements de la société et de l’existence de caractéristiques humaines réelles et intéressantes qui pourraient être exploitées. Cette déconstruction a été l’un des ingrédients de la controverse qui a pris d’assaut les médias suscitant l’ire de certains mouvements masculins, au sujet du « féminisme » présumé du film, comme nous allons le voir.

            La polémique commence lorsque l’article « Pourquoi il ne faut pas aller voir Mad Max: feminist road » sort dans les pages d’un blog américain nommé, rien moins que The return of kings; le bloggeur – Aaron Clarey – est connu pour son « masculinisme » virulent et ses propos ont mobilisé quelques groupes contre le film[25].

            Les éléments développés ensuite à propos de l’existence d’une controverse autour du « féminisme » présumé dans le film Mad Max: Fury Road, sont basés sur les données recueillies à partir de divers matériaux : des rapports publiés dans des revues et des journaux électroniques; des sites et des blogs sur Internet; des débats sur des programmes télévisés, diffusés dans les capitales ou dans les grandes villes dans 5 pays: le Brésil, l’Argentine, le Chili, la France et l’Uruguay. Dans le cas du Brésil ont été examinés les médias de deux villes – Rio de Janeiro et São Paulo.

            Cependant, notre but est limité à l’analyse de la perception du film par une partie du public qui dans ces deux villes brésiliennes se sentait encouragé à participer dans la controverse suscitée par le film. Parmi les divers matériaux collectés, nous avons examiné au total: 306 commentaires de lecteurs de sites et de blogs; 62 articles parus dans des journaux en ligne et sur des sites Web; l’observation de deux débats réalisés dans des émissions télévisées; l’observation directe d’un débat après la projection du film dans une salle de cinéma à Rio de Janeiro.

L’analyse de ce matériel indique la distribution statistique suivante dans l’ensemble des 306 commentaires analysés: 52% sont d’accord que le film présente une perspective féministe; 26% disent que le film n’est pas féministe; 14% disent ne pas avoir remarqué d’orientation ni féministe ni masculiniste; les autres 8% n’ont pas abordé cette question. Dans ce qui suit nous essayerons de faire une synthèse des arguments utilisés par ces différents groupes.

Parmi les observations de la majorité (52%) qui voit MMFR comme un film féministe, certains points de vue sont soulignés, comme la représentativité féminine, – ce n’est pas seulement le nombre de personnages féminins qui compte, mais surtout le rôle important que les femmes jouent tout au long de l’action:

dès le départ le film, on montre que Furiosa, une femme forte, est la leader d’autres femmes (les épouses du tyran) en quête de liberté et d’émancipation; quelques opinions mentionnent des traits du film comme exemples de dépassement de la place traditionnelle assignée aux femmes, selon le Test de Bechdel.[26]

            De nombreuses opinions attribuent à Furiosa le rôle de personnage principal à la place de Max. D’autres affirment que:

ce film remettrait en cause les assignations générées implicites dans ce type de narrative cinématographique et s’ouvrirait au public féminin en laissant plus de place « au deuxième sexe ». Au même temps le héros masculin est montré en position de faiblesse. D’autres mettent en relief une phrase répétée dans ce film aux dialogues rares: “Men did that” – cette phrase qui revient souvent semble dire que ce sont les hommes – par opposition aux femmes (et non pas aux humains) les responsables de l’état chaotique de la planète où se déroule le film; sont les hommes aussi qui tiennent les rênes de la société tyrannique montrée au cours du récit. Voilà donc une critique féroce de la « bêtise des mâles » et de leurs valeurs: la force, la puissance dans le combat, la domination des femmes réduites à la condition d’objets, qui sont là pour assurer la descendance et tous les besoins du tyran.

D’autre part, le réalisateur de MMFR s’est entouré d’une forte référence féministe: Eve Ensler, l’américaine auteure des « Monologues du Vagin », fut invitée comme dramaturge à partager ses expériences avec les actrices, en discussion sur leurs personnages.[27]

              D’autre côté les 26% de commentateurs qui pensent que MMFR n’est pas un film tout à fait féministe exposent leurs arguments où l’on voit que, selon les opinions de ce groupe, l’approche en apparence féministe du début sera fragilisée et contredite par l’évolution du récit, lorsque Max devient le personnage clé pour la solution des problèmes des femmes en fuite.

D’abord, lorsque Furiosa propose de traverser le désert, dans l’espoir de trouver de l’eau à l’autre côté, c’est lui qui va leur montrer la voie; pourtant les femmes sont près d’une dizaine et les Vuvalinis censées bien connaître la région seraient les plus à même de juger de la probabilité d’avoir de l’eau. Au cours de la bataille finale, Furiosa est sévèrement blessée et les femmes survivantes s’attroupent autour d’elle, mais elles sont bien incapables de l’aider; c’est Max qui va lui sauver la vie en lui transfusant son propre sang. Après, c’est encore Max qu’aura donné à Furiosa l’idée géniale de conquérir la citadelle – donc il pense à sa place. Dans la séquence finale – où le groupe arrive à la Citadelle – nous voyons Max aidant Furiosa, déjà à bout de ses forces, à sortir de son camion; il la soutient alors qu’elle se fait acclamer par la foule – cela pourrait suggérer que sans un « homme fort », elle s’effondrerait. Dans les séquences de leur fuite, Furiosa et Max sont présentés comme complémentaires; pourtant, dans les scènes sur la ligne d’arrivée, Max « le loup solitaire », garde un temps d’avance. On peut voir toute une série d’actes héroïques dont Max est le protagoniste et va se reprendre dans le rôle classique de l’homme protecteur.

            En ce qui concerne les autres appréciations sur le film MMFR, nous avons un ensemble d’opinions qui ne touchent pas la polémique: les 14% qui ne trouvent dans ce récit ni des tendances féministes ni masculinistes; et encore les 8% qui dans leurs commentaires n’abordent pas ce sujet. Les deux groupes additionnés composent un total de 22% sans remarques par rapport à la question que nous examinons. De ce fait, nous allons faire une brève indication des thèmes abordés par cet ensemble.

            La majorité des commentaires sont élogieux et ils soulignent:

             le talent du cinéaste George Miller encore intact malgré ses 70 ans, car il vient tout simplement de réaliser l’un des plus grands films d’action de tous les temps. C’est un film de pure adrénaline, enragé, furieux, extravagant, frénétique, hyper-spectaculaire. Le réalisateur reprend la saga post-apocalyptique dans un scénario simpliste mais qui prend toute sa force dans des montées de vitesse assez spectaculaires – il faut avoir un certain talent pour intéresser pendant deux heures durant le spectateur au sort de personnages si pauvrement dotés, qui passent l’essentiel de leur temps dans, sur ou sous un véhicule apparenté à un camion. L’avalanche d’action, les personnages plus fous les uns que les autres, les images incroyables mais aussi le scénario et la bande sonore ont largement séduit le public – le film est visuellement époustouflant, virtuose et inventif dans la forme, captivant par son rythme effréné; n’oublions pas l’excellence de la bande sonore ni le guitariste Coma-Doof Warrior avec ses mouvements explosifs et une guitare crachant du feu, est l’un des meilleurs personnages du film.

            Certaines opinions critiques, qui ne sont pas nombreuses, soutiennent que « le principal défaut du film tient dans le manque d’émotion, dans le refus de se confronter à des sentiments amoureux ou amicaux, humains en somme ».

En conclusion

            Le succès cinématographique de la série Franchise Series: Mad Max – quatrième volet, révèle l’attraction exercée sur le public d’un genre fictionnel particulier – la dystopie; depuis les années 1990, une véritable vogue du récit dystopique traverse le cinéma. Pourtant le film dystopique analysé se distingue d’autres branches narratives car il est défini comme « post-apocalyptique »: son thème est la survie dans un monde après une catastrophe majeure; il s’agit d’un récit de fiction décrivant une société imaginaire, dans le futur qui peut être perçu comme plus ou moins proche. Grâce à ses configurations métaphoriques, ce film adresse une critique radicale aux modèles de sociétés organisées de manière totalitaire, qui dans l’apparence prétendent assurer le bien-être collectif, au détriment de celui des individus, mais n’accomplissent ni l’un, ni l’autre.

            Indépendamment de l’approbation ou des critiques qui leur sont adressés depuis quelques mois, on peut attribuer aux réalisateurs et aux producteurs du film le mérite d’avoir attiré l’attention vers d’importantes questions d’actualité de façon inattendue, en face des expectatives associées aux films de la Franchise, au sens où ils touchent à des questions importantes de l’actualité et montre des conséquences futures des actions présentes.

La méthodologie d’analyse choisie semble avoir permis l’observation des manières dont le film a touché l’imaginaire du public, sans oublier que ce produit médiatique audiovisuel intègre un champ complexe qui se nourrit d’autres champs en même temps qu’ils le nourrissent; il y a donc des interrelations permanentes de tension et de distension potentielles entre l’expérience réelle et le travail de l’imaginaire insaisissables dans les limites de notre étude. Il n’y a pas de place ici pour discuter en profondeur toutes les questions concernant les rapports complexes entre dystopie, utopie, pouvoir et valeurs culturelles dans les sociétés contemporaines, dont ce film et la polémique qu’il a déclenchée à propos du féminisme ne font que soulever le rideau.

Deleuze, en parlant du cinéma indique qu’il est l’interférence de nombreuses pratiques qui produisent des êtres, des images, des concepts, bref toutes sortes d’événements. Peut-être la chose la plus importante dans le cinéma serait sa capacité d’exprimer, plus que tout art, la vie spirituelle, les mouvements de l’imaginaire dans une dimension inextricablement ontologique et pratique.

Références bibliographiques

Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, Oxford-UK, Polity Press, 1999.

Corin Braga, “Utopie, Eutopie, Dystopie et Anti-utopie”, Metábasis Philosophie et Communication, Rivista di Filosofia on-line, (septembre 2006), I^ère année, no 2, http://www.metabasis.it.rivistadifilosofia/online.

Christian Metz, Essais sur la signification au cinéma, Tomes 1 et 2, Paris, Klincksieck, 2013.

Francis Vanoye ; Anne Goliot-Lété, Précis d’analyse filmique, Paris, Éd. Nathan, 1992.

Gérard Genette, Métalepse. De la figure à la fiction, Paris, Seuil, 2004.

Gilbert Durand, Les structures anthropologiques de l’imaginaire, Paris, Dunod, 1992.

Gilbert Durand, L’imagination symbolique, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1964.

Gilles Deleuze, Félix Guattari, Mille plateaux – Capitalisme et schizophrénie, Paris, Les Éditions de Minuit, 1980.

Gilles Deleuze, L’Image-mouvement. Cinéma Tome 1, Paris, Éditions de Minuit, 1983.

Gilles Deleuze, Cinéma Tome 2, L’image-temps, Paris, Éditions de Minuit,1985.

Jacques Aumont (éd.), Esthétique du film, Paris, Éditions Nathan, 1994.

Jacques Rancière, Le spectateur émancipé, Paris, La Fabrique, 2008.

Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, Imaginaires du politique, Paris, Ellipses, 2001.

Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, La vie des images, Strasbourg, Presses Universitaires, 1995.

Jean-Jacques Wunenburger, L’utopie ou la crise de l’imaginaire, Paris, Jean-Pierre Delarge, 1979.

John B. Thompson, The Media and Modernity. A Social Theory of the Media,Oxford, Blackwell Publishers 1995.

Karl Mannheim, Idéologie et utopie, Traduit sur l’édition anglaise par Pauline Rollet, Paris, Librairie Marcel Rivière, 1956.

Marc Ferro, Cinéma et histoire, Paris, Denoël-Gonthier, 1977.

Michel Chion, Le son au cinéma, Paris, Éditions de L’Etoile, 1992.

Pierre Sorlin, Sociologie du cinéma, Paris, Aubier-Montaigne, 1977.

Roger Odin, Cinéma et production du sens, Paris, Armand Colin, 1991.

Roland Barthes, Éléments de sémiologie, Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 1964.

Sigmund Freud, L’interprétation du rêve, Paris, PUF, 2012.

Steven Connor, Theory and Cultural Value, Oxford-UK, Blackwell Publishers, 1992.

Thomas More, L’Utopie ou Le Traité de la meilleure forme de gouvernement, Traduction de Marie Delcourt, Paris, Flammarion, 1987.

Tzvetan Todorov, Symbolisme et interprétation, Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 1978.

Umberto Eco, Les limites de l’interprétation, Paris, Grasset, 1992.

Pages internet – Références spécifiques sur le film Mad Max: FuryRoad

http://www.madmaxmovie.com/ The official movie site for Mad Max: Fury Road

Références spécifiques à propos de la controverse déclenchée à partir du film:

http://www.revistaforum.com.br/blog/2015/05/mad-max-estrada-da-furia-feminista/MadMax:

Notes

Doru Pop
Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania
popdoru@gmail.com

Mad Max – Spare-Parts Heroes, Recycled Narratives, Reused Visualities and Recuperated Histories

Abstract: The main assumption of this paper is that the mechanisms science fiction cinema uses follow three directions in order to create new representations. One is the cinema narratives that develop new worlds by simply mimicking the already existing social realities, the present day political and cultural contexts. In their critical form, these are negations of present. Another major function is that of future projections using past histories and mythologies. In their negative form, they are often dystopian worlds. This dichotomy between the utopian vs. dystopian representations has been raised and dealt with in art and literature. Yet the divide between utopian (as modern, positive future projection) and dystopian (as postmodernism, defective representation) is described by the author as limited. The method used to move beyond is the negation of negation, practiced as an interpretative principle, which can deal with the issue of retroactive projections. In order to provide some answers to these complex problems, the author uses examples from the cult series “Mad Max”, analyzed as a coherent case study. One of the main arguments for selecting the saga developed by George Miller is the fact that it spans over a long period of time – since its first installment in 1979 to the most recent adventure in the Wastelands from 2015, there have been many changes that provide a relevant overview of the possible transformations of a narrative over a long time. This allows the articulation of multiple critical discourses, towards both the projection of ideology within the internal structure of the aesthetic representation and the relationship between utopias and dystopias within the narrative field.

Keywords: Mad Max; Utopian and Dystopian Movies; Science Fiction Cinema; Political Representation; Recycled Aesthetics; Reused Cultural Myths; Negation of Negation.

            Re-cycled Realities, Postcards from the Past

            In 1963 Pierre Boulle wrote La planète des singes, a parable about an intelligent simian race controlling humanity. Soon his story was turned into one of the longest and most enduring myths of popular culture, accompanied by an excess of bi-products like movies, television series and cartoons, all detailing the tragic fate of humanity on a possible “Planet of the Apes”. Remarkably enough, it was in 1959 that Able, the first monkey sent into space by NASA, returned safely to Earth. Then, in 1961, the flight of the NASA “Astrochimp” called Ham proved that normal activities can be performed in space, which lead to the first American human mission on a sub-orbital trajectory, the same year. Thus, in the middle of the space competition between the great powers, there was this unremarkable novel (in terms of its literary qualities), followed by a series of remarkable cinematic representations (in terms of their popularity), dealing with the troublesome consequences of humanity’s unprecedented efforts. It is from here that one of the main lines of questioning in my argument is developed – the relationship between the “traditional” representations of literary utopia and the cinematic dystopia. It is also here that we can identify the first mechanism of the narrative re-cycling of reality – one in which we can see a direct causal relationship between the story and the immediate reality. The first indicator is the clear connection between the political and the fictitious – the present is the source of a fictitious representation of the future, where the events of the recent present become possible versions of the future.

            The second mechanism, more difficult to deal with, is the amalgamation of the past and the present, in order to create a utopian or dystopian representation. The best example is Frank Herbert and his remarkable Duniverse. The first Dune novel, published in 1965, was followed by five award-winning stories and after 50 years the imagined future Herbert developed expanded to a total of twenty books, followed by TV miniseries, movies, short novels and, of course, video-games. The saga obviously includes several sequels and prequels authorized by the family but the premise, just as in the case of Pierre Boulle’s story, shows an immediate connection between the world of Arrakis – and the coveted spice produced there – to the Arab culture and the problems generated by oil extraction. If some of the connections are explicit – there is a sandy planet (Arrakis – Iraq) which produces a substance (spice – oil), coveted by all the powers in the universe – the rest of the narrative is heavily mixed with traces of Biblical messianism, re-mixed with jihadist lingo and amalgamated with Greek and Roman narratives and historical myths from the Norse sagas to the contemporary politics. All of these elements have created one of the most enduring science fiction universes. The assumption here, as indicated by many critics, is that the “melange” that Herbert puts forward can be subscribed to the troublesome decade he was contemporary with, his novels are postcards from a past when in the 1950s and the 1960s the Middle East was in turmoil, with the Suez Crisis creating a global threat, with and the Arab – Israeli tensions and the fall of the monarchy in Iraq generating world wide fears of an international meltdown.

            If in such cases we can link utopian fictions to political realities, as some critics have reasonably argued, the dystopian worlds raise a different problem insofar as their effects are concerned. Sometimes dystopian stories seem to be anticipations of “things to come”, not only a way to deal with the cruel realities of today, but extraordinary premonitions of the future. The most versatile example is that of Jules Verne, who is described as a science fiction mastermind, describing discoveries way before his time. Verne, who never left his home in Nantes, and who also depicted absurd machines and non-sensical inventions, was simply collating information from the journals, science books and travel logs of his time. As pointed out by many researchers[1], Verne’s so-called anticipations are often retrograde, outdated, recuperated junk scientific facts, and sometimes even infantile re-engineerings of actual realities. Relevantly enough for our argument here is that the mythological mechanisms built into the genre by the “father of science fiction” remain unchanged. Just like the geographies of the “Verniverse”, the universe of many futuristic anticipations are fantastic elaborations on existing information and subjects.

            This direct connection is best illustrated with two of the most exemplary dystopian novels, which only indicate this possible interpretation of sci-fi imagination. George Orwell’s 1984 (followed by the respective movie) and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World show their readers a universe where the future is projected as a negative utopia (identified by Jameson as dystopia)[2]. In Orwell’s case this fictional universe is distinctly identifiable with the critical version of Stalinism and its effects on human society. The same relation can be proved with the Animal Farm (with the cartoon that follows suit). And, as Booker[3] properly noted, although 1984 is not merely a criticism of Stalinism, since there are explicit condemnations of Fascism or of the Catholic Inquisition, or more recently McCarthyism[4], this sophistication of Orwell’s works cannot hide the simple fact that they function as anti-Stalinist manifestoes.

            This brings us to a mechanism which is probably identifiable in most of the cultural works of the history of humanity – the use of allegorical narratives in order to elaborate a critical view on the political contexts of the present[5]. Political realities which are otherwise impossible to deal with directly, are re-placed into a more manageable past. Although the authors claim that there are no allegorical references in their books – as is the case with Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings (LoTR) – their works often carry a multitude of references, many easily identifiable politically and ideologically. The LoTR saga present us with an excellent illustration. The Western coalition (the fellowship of the four “free peoples” of Middle Earth) is fighting a totalitarian regime (Sauron and his Orcs), in a worldwide conflict (the entire Middle Earth). The transparent reference to WWII does not make this extraordinary fantasy masterpiece less relevant narratively. Yet its mythological representations evolve with manifest connections with a troublesome present, rather than a fearful past or a desirable future. In Tolkien’s elaboration of the LoTR universe the transformations of the first novel, The Hobbit (1937), intended as a children’s tale, end up in the following three volumes (which were written during WWII and the early part of the Cold War) as profoundly dependent on historical realities and characters. Although the author himself adamantly claimed in the “Foreword” of the second edition that LoTR was developed before the war and that no hidden or allegorical meaning is intended – many critics have pointed out that Hitler’s rise to power has an explicit representation in Sauron’s progress, between the appeasement strategies of Chamberlain and Frodo’s speech, or the obvious representation of the Maginot line war and the depiction of the battle of Minas Tirith and other scenes from the Great War[6].

            The examples could be multiplied with many other fantasy or science fiction literary products. Without simplifying the profound connections and inner strategies of these literary works, they provide an interpretation premise. Any cultural object reflects the historical context and the ideological meanings of its current time, often hidden in plain sight of the narratives. The “fiction” in science fiction should thus be linked to the political contents it carries (knowingly or unknowingly). Without elaborating too much on this particular subject, we must refer also to the contradictory nature of the alleged “anticipatory” nature of the science fiction writings and narratives. As Thomas M. Disch has indicated, the genre itself has evolved as a “double natured” product[7]. On one hand, it satisfies our daydreams and positive projections for our social construct or desires. On the other, the literary/ cinematic utopias and dystopias are reflections on society, “allegories” of the present designed to help us cope with our fears, fantasies and illusions.

            This is the main premise – that science fictions should be understood in a double connection with the historical and political realities – at a direct level they are fantastic projections into another reality, based on the “materials” of the given situation and on another they are reflections of our own political and social self deception. The “other worlds” of science fiction are “our worlds”, they are fantastic versions of our societies, imagined versions of our possible and impossible realities. The consequence here is that science fiction imagination (literary, philosophical or otherwise) does not anticipate the future, it rather explores the past in order to make sense of the present.

            Political Criticism of Science Fiction Representations

            While the phenomenon is well documented in literature, some specific questions arise if and how the cinematic representations deal with the same mechanisms? The situation is even more problematic with science fiction cinema, since the medium itself presents us with a more complex manifestation – practically all films are projections of the past into the future, and while science fiction movies are using the techniques of a book, they are not just made in the past and they represent a future in the present, but they are re-negotiations of their own pre-visioned future. How much of the material used in the development of multiple science fiction stories, characters and social structures are ideas from and immediate or hypertrophied reality or they represent a re-written reality, that is a re-writing of the past?

            One possible explanation comes from Fredric Jameson, who considered that science fiction film narratives, just like the “classical” utopian discourses of literature, can not be separated from their political meanings, from their “here and now”. So one premise is that any interpretation of science fiction contents should be practiced as an archaeological research for the pieces of the present, collated and reconstructed into our fantastic imagination[8]. If we are to follow this author, who practices an ideological criticism, then the links between the science fiction discourse and the social fantasies are generated by the dominant modes of production. The best example would be our fascination with “robot stories”, which at this level must be seen as projections of the promise of an impossible liberation of humanity from the burden of labor. The second major hypothesis presented also by Jameson is that we need to understand science fiction fantasies as fulfilling the desires and repressed fears of political propaganda, mostly the ones that are not actually made possible by the dominant social and economic practices. As eloquently demonstrated by the interpretation of Jaws, the shark in the movie is only a representation of the internal fears of the capitalist society. At this level, no object of representation is void of ideological referencing.

            There is a classical example which is extremely relevant, one which already supports the inherent historicity of science fiction narratives – the Star Wars saga. As it is extremely well documented in the “Star wars and history” volume edited by Nancy R. Reagin and Janice Leidl, the “histories” of all the Star Wars movies are often “reflections or expressions of historical dynamics and individuals” inspired from the history of humanity[9]. There are explicit allegorical representations in the Star Wars universe to Buddhist lore (such as the rules and behaviors of the Jedi order), to the mythologies of the American Revolutionary Wars (the rebellious alliance fighting an evil empire) or, more suggesting, to Cold War conflicts.

            Other authors have pointed out an even closer connection with contemporary history and politics, suggesting that science fiction narratives are “sociopolitical” allegories[10]. This is the case with the prequels of the Star Wars series, which are deeply rooted in the political dynamics of the end of the Clinton era and the beginning of the Bush administration. Many references are direct – such is the cynical observation of Senator Amidala that the Republic falls to the sound of “thunderous applause”, with clear hints to the post-911 “hawks” taking over the US politics – while others are symbolically indirect – such as the clone armies and the mechanical droid armies hinting to the military experiments of the 90s. The analogies could go even deeper at the symbolic level where we can see in the attire of Darth Vader and the uniforms of the imperial guards the links to the SS, and with Emperor Palpatine’s rise to power a similarity to that of Hitler’s taking over of German.

            I would further suggest that we need to follow a third (and undeveloped) interpretation of such narratives and mythologies, which does not stand apart from Jameson’s argument, it rather provides a necessary extension. We must see science fiction movies as additions to a storytelling function going beyond present or past, one that re-mythologizes and amalgamates elements of the dominant discourses, but where the utopian projections and dystopian discontent are continuously re-shaped. This perspective allows in return the critical discourse to dismantle the mechanisms of imaginary projections and provides us with the necessary tools to interpret the limits of social discourse, since many science fictions are not just processing political realities or some of the most enduring myths of humanity, but they are also self-referential and generate a recycling of their own mythologies.

            The main interpretative argument of this line of thought follows another suggestion put forward by Douglas Keller and Michael Ryan, who critically postulated that Hollywood movies are evolving parallel to the political realities, mirroring the ideological transformations and the tribulations of the society. If we are elaborating on this hypothesis, and movies can be seen as “transcoders” of political discourses, forms of cultural re-codification of the ideological conflicts and representations of the internal dialectics of society, then we need to deal with the more complex issues of what happens when the politics of the present shift in the near future.

            For example, in their brief mapping of this process, Kellner and Ryan placed Easy Rider as an early representation of the counterculture of the 60s, linked with the first Star Wars movie[11]. The following films can be identified as manifestations of the increased conservatory domination over the 70s, as vehicles of the Reagan era global politics – while Rambo and other Vietnam war stories manifested as compensations for the shameful defeat of the American military. In this context, as Gerald Miller argued persuasively, science fiction must be used as a form of critical theory, not only as a form of narrative, or a genre designed to allow us explore the future, but also the a tool to discuss the present limitations of the human nature[12].

            The main problem with this type of cultural criticism of science fiction narratives is that, although sometimes the connections are explicit and factual – like seeing Isaac Asimov’s heptalogy about The Foundation as a clear projection of the struggle between a failing Empire (the Soviet Union) and the dynamic and commerce oriented Foundation (the United States) – there are instances where other, non-ideologically driven juxtaposition, are possible. For instance we can also track the influence of Asimov’s work in the galactic and spacial conflicts between the individualistic rebels and the militaristic and autocratic Empire in a movie like Star Wars. The problem becomes even more complicated when, as it was the case with president Reagan’s announcement in 1983, a global military project was named “Star Wars” and helped the United States to protect its interests agains the Soviet Union. The transformative nature of science fiction narratives gets extremely intricate when we add the internal transformations that take place in films with multiple episodes, based on sequels and prequels.

            How can we make sense of these transfers of symbolic structures from the imagined, science fiction universe, to the everyday politics and social exchanges, then to the re-writing of their own history? The assumption here is that the fundamental two layers of science fiction imaginary (social reality – imagined projections) are commingled and cannot be separated. Therefore we need a third possible answer – one that would described how science fiction discourses function retroactively. Once the social realities change, the narratives are obligated and coerced to follow these changes into fantasies – then through a process of interpenetration, that is narratives that operate like a re-writing of their own past (of previous similar story-lines), they are not only as projections of the present or fulfilling the desires of the future, but a negation of both.

            The Dialectics of Utopia and Dystopia in Mad Ma(r)x

            My presuppositions and the central method here would be centered around the idea that we can describe a series of mythological processes (explicit in the Mad-Max-verse) which are in a negative dialectics with both the present and the past. Using the Mad Max series, we can identify how the negation of negation is at work. And although I am not trying to provide a Marxist interpretation of Mad Max, the method would be based on the philosophy of the negation of negation, seen basically as the “midwife” which allows the extraction of the future from the past. This dialectic concept – as it was explained by Engels – provides us with the tool necessary to explain not only any “mystery of idealism”, but any product of imagination which apparently is impenetrable or even incomprehensible[13].

            The story of the road warrior roaming the Wastelands can be used as a case study for documenting how a mechanism of retroactive interpenetration operates, that is how utopia and dystopia are dialectically intertwined, generating a imagination framework based on recycling each other by negating each other. We will overview the whole array of mechanisms allowing the future to function as a subversive version of present and how, in the same time, this very present is retroactively changing the past. The process of negative negation borrows forms of expression from past narrations, which are initially negations of a reality, then they are included in the story-lines about the future, which in turn manifest as a total mix-up of characters, visual elements and references.

            This concept allows us to move beyond the natural polysemy of any visual object – more so since the problems get bigger when analyzing a movie or a series of movies (like Mad Max or Star Wars). The first question applied to the case study at hand is if we should describe Mad Max as a post-apocalyptic story, or rather as part of a philosophy of recycled narratives? The other is to describe the dysfunctional logic of the narratives, built-up by following an apparent nonsensical meaning formation, which then appears to become an intrinsic coherence.

            Once again we are faced with the complex issues raised by the dialectics between time frameworks in science fiction narratives, out of which ultimately derive either their utopian or dystopian traits. The classical reference should be once more Fredric Jameson’s definition of Utopia. For the post-Marxist author dystopias are simply negative cousins of utopias – that is a dystopian universe is rather a version of an utopia “gone bad”. Thus, in terms of a chronological dialectics, if Utopia prefigures the present needs and desires, then the Dystopia disfigures the fears of tomorrow. Thus the anticipation of the first level of projections (utopias) can be counterbalanced by the dissuasion of the second level (the dystopian universe). In this logic, which is clearly useful when Utopia and Dystopia function “properly”, that is when they are either rewards or warnings for their contemporaries, remains intact only if Utopia functions as the promise of a present time desire, and the Dystopia remains the disheartenment of the future’s fears.

            It would be easy then to apply an analysis of science fiction movies which would start with the assumption pointed out by Annette Kuhn that the production expands its meanings beyond the simple narratives, and that any film “expresses, enacts and produces ideology”[14]. Yet some films – and many other cultural products of late industrial societies – are no longer simply “mirrors of society”, and the interpretation cannot be limited to identifiable elements from reality turned into aesthetic or political representations. Here the best examples are Miller’s dystopian societies, characters and visualities which are not only built up from innumerable political residues of the present and which, in many instances, function as remnants of their own past meaning.

            If at a certain level there are valid explanations providing interpretations of inner dichotomies – for example the clear opposition between anarchy and social order in Mad Max – this separation becomes useless when no longer dealing with “classical critical dystopias”. When dystopian representations that are not necessarily exposing “deficiencies of the future”, as some authors claim[15], but rather they are representing convoluted disfigurations of the present which re-cycle the past in order to retroactively make sense of the future then the distinction negation (dystopian) versus affirmation (utopia) is not functional.

            Other directors (and writers) who were developing stories in a non-sequential way indicate similar traits. One of the most relevant examples is once more George Lucas and the Star Wars hexalogy. Lucas was constantly trying to coherently re-arrange his storytelling in order to fit some of his own previous narrative decisions. If CGI technology helped the director to erase, add and improve some of the unfortunate manifestations of oldest episodes – in the edited versions of the original trilogy – narratives are more impervious to transformation. Some of the classical examples of retroactive incoherence include dialogues – the fact that Leia clearly remembers her mother as being “beautiful”, when in fact in the first episode Amidala dies at birth; and characters – like the fact that in the initial trilogy Darth Vader is depicted as secondary, almost obedient to Grand Moff Tarkin. In fact, as many critics pointed out[16], Star Wars is a mix and re-use universe, including parts and pieces from other narratives. The Galactic Empire is borrowed from Asimov, the desert planet of Tatooine from Dune, Luke and Han are derived from Flash Gordon and Prince Barin, the Jedi Knights culture is copied from the shaolin monks, not to mention C3PO being a masculine version of the robot in Metropolis[17].

            A similar cultural poaching, muddy narrative re-writing and mythological re-cycling is extremely illustrative in the development the Mad Max saga. One relevant starting point would be the premise of the story itself. As it was documented by Shapiro, there are hardly any references to the causes of the destruction of society in the first movie of the Wastelands saga, and scarcely any in the second[18]. Only after the third installment of the series, where a nuclear war is hinted at, does the idea of a catastrophic event take shape. Finally the most recent production opens with an explicit indication of an apocalyptic H-bomb scenario. Thus, even if apparently there is a chronological involution of mankind, the “destruction” is coherently detailed only in the Max Max. Fury Road graphic novel. We now know that first there was an anarchic stage, when oil resources were depleted, with limited military conflicts, but no nuclear war; then the world “burned”, and “the waters dried out” and only later did thermonuclear destruction take place. Overall, the Mad Max quadrilogy (1979, 1981, 1985, 2015) seems to be following a linear logic of a gradual decay of the infrastructure of civilization.

            At a closer look, the early Mad Max movies were developed under a different projection of present. The politics and fears of the 1970s, with the Cuban missile crisis left behind, have put the nuclear disaster apocalypse at a lower level than the oil crisis[19]. As the Australian journalist James McCausland, the co-writer of the MM 1 movie (Mad Max, 1979) declared publicly, the storyline was directly inspired by the OPEC crisis in 1973[20]. The abandoned highways of the Australian deserts were visually shocking representations of the abandoned gas stations in the Western world, when in 1973 the OPEC countries decided to instate an oil embargo on the rest of the globe, as a penalty for the support of the Yom Kippur War[21]. The impact of what was often described as the “first oil shock” was soon to be over, yet it was followed by the “second oil shock”, in 1979 after the Iran crisis. This impacted most of the western world, Australia included, when violence erupted at the pumps, yet it transpired allegorically in MM 2 (Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior, 1981), where sudden references to the “Ayatollah of the rock and rollah” appeared. The third film, MM 3 (Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, 1985), is visibly an emanation of the Cold War conflicts, with both MM 2 and MM 3 being, as Douglas Kellner pointed out, “conservative nightmares” – they show what would happen if law and order are removed from society[22], thus linking the Reaganite conservatism to the anguish of a post-apocalyptic world dominated by anarchy. Populated by Mohawk bikers, Gayboy Beserkers, Road Marauders, the first three movies of the saga appear to be  are chronologically linked and narratively coherent, yet the first Mad Max (1979) has no explicit reference to a postnuclear world, while in The Road Warrior (MM 2) the only “apocalyptic” message is that “the vermin had inherited the world” and only the last installment of the early trilogy points to a possible nuclear destruction. Actually George Miller’s “apocalypses” are as uncertain as the societies he presents us with.

            Obviously Mad Max future societies are futuristic projections of the present, elaborations on the anxieties of his own time. This is the first level of negation, where “classical” critical narratives are developed. The problematic nature of these projections comes from the fact that the distance between episodes becomes so great that it generates the need for a second negation, which in turn produces incoherence, which is then filled with invented connections, the negation of negation. Thus the director/ writer is constantly retrofitting his narrations in order to make them compatible, and the storytelling and the story-lines which are developed “as they go” create gaps and confusions. The differences are even bigger between the first Mad Max (MM1), which places us in a recent future, where relative forms of state institutions continue to exist (police force, justice system), and MM4, where there is a dystopian society is formed, there is a time gap of almost 40 years. Clearly the societal organization in the movies adapts not only to the external transformations, but also keeps track of the internal logic of the storytelling – the leitmotif of lawlessness which produces tragedies and the lack of authority in society which makes possible any type of monstrosity is not enough to keep the cinematic structure together.

            Each of the movies of the franchise is centered around a different type of social organization – all of which are following the premise of the total collapse of society as we know it. Although Miller describes his films as taking place in a “neo-medieval dark age”[23] every type of society he describes is still keeping some elements of state institutions. In MM1 Max Rockatansky fights some road marauders as part of the so-called MFP (Main Force Patrol). This semi-military force, nick-named The Bronze, represents the last civilized barrier against the psychotic Nightrider and his rapist, sexually deviant gang. As pointed out before this “fuel-injected”, suicidal philosophy of the Nightrider, is a projection of the oil crisis in the 70s. The second film, MM2 is centered around an oil-rig phalanstery, lead by a former Chief Executive of Seven Sisters Petroleum, confronted like in MM1 with a gang of crazed rapists and killers. In MM3 the city of trade dominated by the a tyrannical Matriarch and in MM4 the reversed version, with the Patriarchal stronghold follow suit.

            All the movies indicate the same uncertainty of social structure, which cannot be explained by the first negation – that is the criticism of the existing political order. The second negation is also ineffective also, since in many cases the threat of a dictatorship is manifested simultaneously as a dystopian oppressive femininity and an utopian counter-balanced promise of a feminine liberation. Maybe this is why the main character is confusingly ensnared in impossible political strifes, he is always part of social conflicts over which he has no control, in which he enters accidentally and to which he provides no finality. For example, in MM 2 he is involved without wanting it, in MM3 Aunty wants him to change the status quo of Bartertown and he accepts, and in MM4 he is part of the women’s rebellion against the patriarchal rule of Immortan Joe, but does not take part in the rebuilding. Actually, just like Max, we are trapped in this logic of collapse (negation), re-building (negation) followed by another collapse (the negation of negation).

            This type of dialectical negation, which is presented as an almost Marxist criticism of classes, is completely void. Just as there is no conscience of class separation in the pig farm from MM 3 – which is simultaneously an enslavement enterprise, where people are living in conditions similar to the coal mines of early capitalism, and where methane is produced, from pig dejections, offering Master-Blaster an instrument of control over Aunty’s rule – the liberation in MM4 does not follow an ideological conscience. Although the social structure in “Fury Road” is based on the division of labor and the dichotomy between the exploiters and exploited, the critical separation between The Citadel, where the acolytes of Immortan Joe are growing plants, pumping “aqua-cola” and producing mother’s milk, and the mobs bellow the mountain, wanting the drops of water to fall from the upper levels, is non-critical. Just like the story in Beyond Thunderdome, Fury Road projects an apparent interest for exploitation and various forms of slavery, exposing the cruelty of humans exploiting other humans, yet these seemingly forms of social criticism are followed by their own negation. When we understand that it is actually about the demise of the capitalist exploitation which will lead to an even worse form of social violence the mingled mythological representations are transformed simultaneously into negations and negations of the initial negation.

            The same is true if we look at the most recent production as promoting the values of pro-environmental movies. There is a first negation at the beginning, when we witness Immortan wasting of water as an indication of his dictatorial nature. At a first look, the environmentalist dystopia created by Miller in MM4 follows the dichotomous logic of his other movies. With the exception of MM1, where there is no sign of environment destruction, the saga Miller developed based on anticipating the consequences of climate climate induced by the depletion of natural resources. The social projections are based on the manifest opposition between prosperity and devastation, between of order and chaos. If in MM 2 the voice-over narrator describes a conflict between two “mighty warrior tribes” for oil, the degradation is presented in MM 4 as complete, the viewer is told that the earth is “sour” after a nuclear war and that the bones of the people are “poisoned”. Yet just like in the other films, in the Wastelands of madness and disease, there is always a promise of salvation. In The Road Warrior there was the “North”, then in MM 3 it was the Tomorrow-morrow land and in Fury Road the the promised land is the “Green Place”, a utopian field of Matriarchy, where the Many Mothers cultivate plants, trees and organic food. This green place would prove to be the Citadel the women will take over after the death of Immortan Joe, where in an eco-feminist plot twist the seeds of the Vuvalini tribe will be planted. Another relevant example of the second negation is the mother milk farming at the Citadel, which is a parodic representation of the ecological and feminist principle of breastfeeding.

            Although it looks like an environmental film, with one of the Many Mothers, called The Keeper of the Seeds, “initiating” others into the philosophy of preserving nature’s gifts, Fury Road is a negation of ecological solutions (as it is of feminist promises). Although it mimics an awareness movie about the consequences of environment destruction, or with the issues of exploitation of the resources of the Earth, or the question of human to human exploitation, the film is not meant to bring forward the values of ecology or to improve our sensitivity about the threats to our ecosystem[24]. It actually digests these elements and re-cycles them within the typical patriarchal, violence driven, narrative. Once more, it ideologically functions as a negation of negation.

            Finally the so-called environmentalist views of the director or the pro-environmental attitude of the film are transformed into negative projection of the negation in the present. Miller’s mimicked ecocriticism, more than explicit in that chant of the war boys, who identify themselves as the “Fukacima Kamakrazee”, is turned into a negation of its previous negation. A brief semiotic interpretation shows that, if the term kamikrazee is symbolically referring to the suicidal Japaneze warriors, the Fukacima is an indirect critical comment on the Fukushima-Daichii incident in march 2011. This adds to the fact that the war boys are “half-life”, most probably suffering from a type of cancer caused by some sort of radiation fall out, yet this is no longer generated by a global thermonuclear confrontation, but by a limited incident.

            The Aesthetics of Salvaging and Recycling

            In four movies, which generated almost half a billion dollars in revenues, Miller builds a complex narrative, spanning over half a century, with a dozens of characters and social structures which apparently share an internal unity. My hypothesis is that, in fact, the Millerverse is a junkyard bi-product of history and contemporary politics, mixed with heterogenous elements from external mythologies, all welded together with the evolution of a ambiguous character, Max, which provides us with the illusion of coherence.

            The questions raised by the ex-post-facto chronology of destruction, one which was not explicit from the very beginning of the four installments, can be answered with the immediate and simple statement: chronological coherence did not exist from the beginning. George Miller retroactively reconstructed a historical timeline of the future as it developed in the past. Just like in other “sci fi sagas” – as it was the case with the Star Wars reversed chronology – the Millerverse is made to look orderly by its own redundancies. But more importantly, the Mad Max universe is not just discontinuous in its historical linearity or due to various social uncertainties. Mad Max provides a relevant example for the incoherent coherence of a cultural projection where there are no fixed dimensions, where everything is fluid, even the explanations are developed “as it goes”, without an overall vision of the facts or chronology.

            Just like the boomerang of the Feral Boy, Miller’s ideas return to the same places and the same tropes of his vision, and often he salvages and recycles his own inconsistencies. Although, as seen before, the social and political settings of each of the Mad Max movies is different, one key element seems to remain unchanged – the external struggle between a psychotic futuristic leaders and the heroic but troubled Protagonist and the internal conflicts of Max himself. At a closer look, we realize that the image of Max is a symbolic mixture of multiple elements in itself. As Gilles Millet[25] (quoted by McGregor) pointed out, the Road Warrior is simultaneously a rock star (Elvis), a cinema icon (James Dean, Marlon Brando) and a revolutionary. The image of the dystopian road cowboy, re-mixed with the traits of a rocker and superimposed on a phantasy of liberation, coalesces the entire Mad Mad universe around a “Jesus in black leather”[26]. In reality he is a manifestation of the superficial nature of representations in our culture. Not only does Max mix cultural images that do not belong together, but he is at the same time a repetitive manifestation of his own past into the present, then projected over the future. As a quintessential negation of negation, he is an integral part of a mythology-making based on recycling and re-usage. The main argument here is that Max is a redundant version of himself (the first negation), since each episode casts him in the same type of narrative, which allows him to behave as a superficial representation of his own image, which in turn was copied from other archetypes (the second negation). Each time a new episode is made, Max starts behaving like a Savior, only to retire from the scene into anonymity (the negation of negation). This is monotonously re-enacted with every new story line, which makes the main character behave not only as a “wanderer haunted by his past” (as stated in Road Warrior), but as a character haunted by his previous traits.

            Not only Max is constructed of salvaged materials and reclaimed symbolic structures. Discarded elements from previous episodes and other similar movies are reprocessed into the construction of all symbolic artifacts in these movies, which see to be reclaimed from wasted pieces themselves. Miller as a writer never takes time to explain the interstices between the episodes – for example it is never clear what happens with Max from one installment to the other (his relationship with Aunty Entity after he is captured is illustrative), or what is the future of the lost children or what will happen with the Citadel after his departure).

            The re-processing, re-using and re-claiming of cultural waste products and elements becomes essential for the development of all the positive or negative characters. All the Antagonists also follow this logic of re-mixing. In MM2, Lord Humungus, who is built up from chaotic pieces – he behaves like a punk “secutor”, a gladiator of the wastelands with strange elements put together, an absurd “Ayatollah of the rock and rollah” who is wearing ridiculous leather shorts and a metal cervical collar, behaving like a parodic BDSM figure – is later recuperated in the figure of Immortan Joe. In turn Humungus, who is dressed in a harness costume inspired by BDSM movies, shares many traits with the son of Immortan, Rictus. All three of them are represented through the motif of the mask, which is also recurrent in almost all the movies – if Humungus wears a hockey mask, in MM 4 Max carries a metal muzzle on his face the entire half of the movie. Once again, the director is retrofitting the images of past to converge with a future which could not have been anticipated.

            The same is true for the gayboy beserkers of Humungus, who looks as if they were part of the Accolites, the mad bikers of MM1, which in turn reappear as the Rock Riders in MM 4. Or the “Fukacima Kamakrazee” warriors in MM 4 who are deliriously connected with the “smegma crazee” beserkers in MM 2, or the fact that they unexplicably share similar characteristics with the Lost Tribe of children from MM3. These retroactive links that Miller put in place are sometimes over-explicit – as for example Furiosa in MM4, who is wearing a metallic prosthesis for her left arm, which is a self referencing to the leg gear of Max in MM3.

            Even the apparently dichotomized characters, constructed on series of binary oppositions (like Master-Blaster) are recuperated later into their own re-used versions. This dual symbol – which is actually a first negation, an expression of a natural division in capitalist societies – is then reproduced in a series of other binomial creatures (following the logic Master/ Blaster), but as negations. This repetitively referenced visual tropes appears in MM4 with the double progenies of Immortan Joe – Rictus Erectus and Corpus Colossus. Just like Master, Corpus is the brain, the administrator of the Citadel. Corpus shows intellectual prowess, while Rictus is a mindless brute, driven by sheer force. The same dual typologies of commander – second in command are also repetitive, with multiple similarities between all the evil lieutenants of the Mad Leader in the Millerverse. If in MM 1 Bubba plays the ruthless adjunct, in MM 2 this role is played by Wez, the homosexual punk-mohawk marauder. Wez, the right hand of Humungus, is accompanied by a young lover in the middle of the battle and the explicit sexual couple between him and the Golden Youth would later be reflected in the lieutenant of Aunty, Ironbar. Just as Wez is anticipated by Bubba, Ironbar is a return to the traits of the psychotically in-affectionate killer. This intentional linkage of unreasonable connexions is illustrated by the retroactive connectedness between Toecutter in MM1 and Immortan Joe in MM4. The otherwise unremarkable actor Hugh Keays-Bryne plays both The Toecutter and Immortan Joe – linking the first and the last of the Mad Max movies with a superficial tie-in, which is just anther manifestation of its forced cohesion.

            Just as the apparent richness of Miller’s characters is in fact repetitive, the entire Mad Max universe can be depicted as composed of interchangeable parts which lack interconnectedness. Every new form which appears in this mythology is following the explicit logic of the visual melange and the rule of the repetitive representation. In the Mad Max universe elements appear and re-appear without any natural justification. The baby heads in MM1 are referenced to the bodies of dolls and mannequins in MM2, which in turn reappear in MM3 and MM 4. In another relevant scene from MM2, Lord Humungus has his victims strapped in front of his muscle car – this is happening almost identically with Max in MM 4, when the hero is strapped to a pole in front of the war vehicle of Nux, as a “blood bag”.

            Often in the Mad Max universe this visual melange is trans-mediated, from the films to the comic books[27] and the video games– for example the gladiators of the Thunderdome arena are re-invented in the “Fury Road Part One” story from 2015, and the readers see the fights taking place in a Gastown depicted as a overdeveloped version of Bartertown. Yet this is a reprocessed reality since the Thunderdome in MM3 is a direct reference to the Superdome, the 163 million dollars stadium opened in 1975, where all the Super Bowls and the political conventions of American political parties take place. The Tunderdome is more than just a combination of politics, entertainment and testosterone filled symbolic place. The re-mixing shows at the narrative level, since just like Sugar Ray Leonard defeated Roberto Durán in the famous “No Mas” fight in 1980, Miller has Max to defeats his Master-Blaster opponent by confusing him.

            Even the vehicles provide cues for the improbable links within the visual field of all the Mad Max movies. The motorbikes are one of the common places of the narratives, providing innumerable combinations, which allow us to describe the Mad Max movies as carriers of a spare parts philosophy. This is a cultural predisposition to use the same tools and pieces only in different contexts, one explicit in many instances of the four installments. The very fact that the “early Max” is fighting a motorbike gang – as a counter-reference to movies like Easy Rider, where the projections of a positive, freedom connoted biker culture is exalted – represents the first negation. The bikers in first Mad Max are rapists, killers, barbarian torturers so they represent a negative image of contemporary society. Yet the bikers are negatively reversed several time, with the women of the Vuvalini the final negation of negation.

            Another example of rehashed visuality is the reversed punk imaginary and the integration of punk rock culture into the later Millerverse. Often this type of remixing leads to ridiculous projections – what is initially a brash punk-rock brutality (as it is in the early films) later becomes the almost caricature-like characters in MM4. Like the pajama heavy metal character, called the Doof Warrior, is propelling the war party while bungee jumping, using his fire throwing guitar to emotionally stimulate his fellows. This self parodic transformations of a movie which symbolically opens on Anarchie Road and ends up on Fury Road is amplified by the numerous simplistic onomastics of the Wastelands, where monikers and bynames are repetitively oversimplified. People have names like Max, Nux, Nix, or redundant metaphorical descriptions like People eater, Pig Killer, The Peacemaker, The Nightrider, Rictus Erectus or even Scabrous Scrotus (the name of the third of the first sons of Immortan from the video game).

            This nonsensical amalgamation is even more explicit in the linguistic mumbo-jumbo used by Miller – very far from the coherently built artificial languages of Tolkien, later mimicked in movies like Star Trek or Avatar. If the Nightrider in MM 1 uses a anti-prophetic language – “I am the chosen one, the hand of vengeance sent down to strike the unroadworthy” – the children in MM 3 tell the story of “Tomorrow-morrow land” in a primitive language transcoding present day realities – Pox-Eclipse, Planet Erf. Just like the references to the present, the allegorical meanings of Miller’s dystopias are often transparently historical. Living in the Crack of the Earth, the children in MM 3 have to “member” “The Tell”, an oral version of a biblically influenced story, centered around a Moses figure, the airplane pilot Walker who left without returning to save his tribe. The mixture of elements, languages and mythologies is omnipresent – in MM4 it reaches awful highs with elements of the Norse mythology (Valhalla, the Valkyrie) coupled with Welsh names (Angharad) and pseudo-environmentalist references.

            Even in his most effective dystopian criticism, Miller is practicing forms of amalgamations, where media consumerist elements are mixed with a pseudo-apocalyptic discourse. This is explicit in MM 3, where the trope of the Wheel of Fortune is transformed into a penal code, with the Justice system of Bartertown revolving around aleatory decisions that finally send the condemned to the “Gulag”. The same remixing of consumerist ideology with political fantasies of the past takes place when the war boys are making the “sign of V” as a fascist sign, only to go on a suicidal war party where everybody is ready to be “Mcfeasting in Valhalla”. Or the same War Boys described as kamakrazee, suggesting both a link to the militaristic suicide of the Japanese soldiers during WWII, and the chrome spraying of their mouths in a ridiculous drug induced frenzy, similar to that of the warring parties of the Wikings. This pastiche of commodification, coupled with an ideological criticism and a nonsensical historical reference begets derisory in manifestations in Fury Road, where they haul Aqua Cola, they trade mother’s milk (harvested from mothers coupled to silly looking, over-explicit, sucking machines).

            Yet the most visible mode of how the recycling mythology operates in Mad Max is represented by the the muscle cars in the entire Millerverse. If the characters, the stories and the social references are most often built by bits and pieces, using recuperated joints and parts that grow into a kitsch-like structure, this is not visible immediately. However, when we look at the Mad Max cars, we see that everything is built like a monster-truck mythology, one unsubtly incoherent, just like the forms of the mega-cars that appear in every episode, one which gets more and more absurd each time. The aesthetics of salvaging that we are discussing is best exemplified by the evolution of the vehicles used in the Wastelands. Semiotically, I consider them to be suggestive for the overall aesthetics of melange in the entire saga. Not only do all the narratives appear to be nothing more than a constant re-imagined car chase (since this is a trope repeated in all the films), but the car-modification expresses the ultimate negative commodification in the dialectics of the Mad Max imaginary. On one hand, having a car in a society lacking gasoline is a first level negation. This is followed by entire productions based on “car mod” technologies, with tuned up, over-modified monster machines. This second negation is accentuated by the pseudo-mythology of the V8 cult in the MM 4 movie, which retroactively recuperates the V8 driven fantasy of the MM 1 chases, with everything functioning according to the principle of the fusion of confusions, the coalescence of the inadequate joining together.

            The Mad Max movies are put together like the sections and pieces of the modified cars, where elements of limousines are matched with turbine engines, where Tatra trucks are mixed with Chevy Fleetmaster parts, in a madness of machineries. We can even see an evolution of the monstrously kitsch vehicles, which takes us from the modified version of the Ford Interceptor, beefed up with an impossible engine, to the Gigahorse driven by Immortan Joe. The links are multiple and the combinations are limited. Just as Furiosa’s War Rig is almost identical with the escape fuel tank in MM2, while themilitarized autos like the Beetle of the People Eater are linked to the war party in MM 3, the Cadillac stack-up driven by Immortan is equiped with a Chevy engine, mounted on monster-truck structure, with one carcase overlapping another, supported by a chassis from muscle cars races[28]. Not just the machines in the Millerverse follow the philosophy of maxing out by mixing in, as seen before that characters, the story-lines and the social contexts function as if they were welded one on top of the another, frames attached to unlikely parts and supported by an unbelievable structure.

            In this sense, the Mad Max universe is a ragbag mixture of the fantasies of mass culture today, simultaneously expressing the anxieties and the desires of the social consciousness, but also carrying structures empty of meaning, where everything can be substituted with anything else.

            Interchangeable Apocalyptic Sexualities

            Between MM 3, the 1985 movie which was displaying a woman as the Antagonist (where Tina Turner did her best), and MM 4, the 2015 version of the story where women are clearly empowered (with Charlize Theron at her best), Miller’s representation of women has radically changed. What happened during the 30 years that passed between the two films? And, again, if the Mad Max universe is coherent in its natural dichotomy, if it functions without any outside references, how were these extreme transformations of aesthetic and narrative cohesion made possible? What makes them even acceptable for the viewers? One more time, the negation of negation principle provides us with the best explanations for these apparently incomprehensible transformations of women. In fact the reversal of roles from Aunty Entity to Imperator Furiosa indicates the same laws of negative dialectic evolution.

            Some conservative online journalists, like Kit Daniels, saw in this huge ideological gap between the two films the explicit manifestation of a “feminist infestation” of Hollywood[29]. The movie industry is imposing strong female characters on the audiences, due to a purposeful trend in society, orchestrated by some occult political interests. Others, like Kate McDonough from Salon.com, called the movie “Mad Maxine”[30], yet contested the fact that it has anything to do with the feminist discourse, rather describing it as a continuation of masculine discourses of previous episodes.

            I would argue that once more we see at work the dialectic contradiction between utopian (women as powerful warriors) and dystopian (women as evil dictators) representations, one which simultaneously negates its assumption only to negate again the negation of the previous elaboration. Such contradictory story-lines include, of course, the neurotic nature of the Mad Max universe (one which would better be developed by a psychoanalytical approach) that we need to take into consideration. Yet the logic of recycling is visible in the nature of mythology re-making of women identity in Mad Max. If in the 1985 movie, Miller placed Aunty Entity, the all-controlling Mother-figure of Thunderdome, in the center of a political dictatorship, now the same director has Imperator Furiosa as the leader of a anti-dictatorship rebellion. In a typical negation of negation, female identities, like most of the representations of the Millerverse described before, are simultaneously undecided, problematic and amalgamated, while being contradictions of their own negative projection.

            In order to make things more clear, we should take MM 3 as an indicator for how Miller’s re-construction of reality operates. The 1985 film film was created during the global impact of Thatcherism, with the obvious consequence that an African American woman, wearing an “Iron Lady” wardrobe and a blonde haircut similar to that of the British prime-minister, has taken over a barter empire. The similarities are even more striking, since the newly elected British prime minister, after winning the Falklands war, was confronted with a year long national miners’ strike. Not very far from Thunderdome, a mercantile society based on class separation, where a dominant woman is confronted by an “energy strike” imposed by her working class below. The entire economy of the authoritarian regime of Aunty Entity is dependent on the production of methane, controlled by a proletarian monster, a dual entity, Master-Blaster who are able to boycott the entire upper level with their blockade. And it is not difficult to see how Aunty’s political manifesto – Where there was desert, now there’s a town; where there was robbery there’s trade; where there was despair, now there’s hope – is a conservatory political statement. As pointed out before, at the first level of negation the movie shows how, without the restrains of the capitalist order, the entire humanity is threatened to degrade and to return to a chaotic and irrational stage.

            Returning to the representation of women in MM 4, we can apply the interpretation mechanism of the second negation with Imperator Furiosa and her anti-patriarchal revolution. Like many environmental collapse movies before (Soylent Green, Logan’s Run), often described as critical towards capitalism and its destructive forces, there is an apparent feminist, anti-exploitation, ecologist message the most recent representation of the Millerverse.

            It would seem that a male-centric industry is gradually opening towards audiences that are no longer driven by misogyny or patriarchal values. As the MM4 story unfolds, the viewers discover that Furiosa is a revolutionary feminist rebel – dreaming of a dystopian all-female cooperative. This gender based commune (one that is strangely similar to works like Joan Slonczewski’s environmentalist feminist novel) is a feminist Promise Land. After the first level of negation, where a group of five ecofeminists oppose the patriarchal dominance of the tyrannical Immortan Joe, the group lead by Furiosa lead that their dreams about living on a fertile and green land is nothing but an illusion, so they all return to their initial starting point. At one level Miller’s storyline has agglutinated some explicit ecofeminist discourses, yet this is nothing more than the dominant narrative devouring the marginal speeches, which in turn is transformed into cinematic representations that confirm the domination. The best example comes from the character of Splendid, one of the sex-slaves of Immortan, his favorite actually, who is a pacifist, a non-violent feminist leader, condemning all killing and encouraging her “sisters” to denounce oppression. Relevantly enough, it is Splendid who dies and her child is extracted dead out of her body.

            This is true for the film industry – although some critics see that there is an increased opening in Hollywood to strong women, arguing that powerful female characters are more present on screen (with movies like The Hunger Games or Bigelow’s win of the Oscar in 2010 with The Hurt Locker), there is no equality between genders in the industry[31]. Although 50% of the movie tickets in the US are bought by women, this is an enterprise that remains gender biased – the data indicates that out of the top 250 films[32] from 2007 to 2012 only 9% of the directors are women, and 2% are cinematographers. Even the best paid female actors receive less then half of their male counterparts. The negation of negation actually shows that our visual culture remains a “man’s world”. A report from 2014 shows that women represent only 12% of the protagonists in the top 100 movies (Lauzen 2015) with female characters personified most often as young, sexually attractive and powerless, since films with female protagonists have shorter viewing time in theaters and have access to less screens.

            I would argue that the pseudo-feminist revolution in MM 4 follows the path of  double negation. If some critics saw in the movie a lecturing about “feminism” and “socialism”, with the bloviator Aaron Clarey calling for a boycott of the movie as a piece of feminist propaganda trying to erase the differences between men and women[33], it is impossible not to see in this recent narrative a criticism of the most controversial political histories of today. MM 4 operates as a typical dystopian discourse, it is an indirect criticism of the ISIS fundamentalists, kidnapping young women in the Middle East and using them as sex slaves. In a transparent way, the entire mythology of Immortan Joe is based on this reference. Angharad (also called Splendid), Cheedo the Fragile, The Dag, Toast the Knowing and Capable serve as “breeders” for Immortan Joe, locked up in a vault like precious treasures. Equiped with chastity belts, the women are presumably forced to have intercourse with the Leader in his effort to obtain healthy offspring. The first negation comes when, supported by Furiosa (probably a former sex slave, as the Furiosa comic book recounts, she used to be one of the wives), the five women escape, leaving behind the message “We are not things”, to the dismay of Immortan, finding his sexual vault empty. At this level there is more than just a plot decision – the direct consequence is that it generates a social transformation of dystopia (the monstrous rule of the killer patriarch) into utopia (a future society organized by women).

            Of course, such a move allowed some other critics to see Furiosa as the representation of a female liberator. When Miller conscientiously used Eve Ensler, the author of famous Vagina Monologues, as a consultant for better developing the dynamics between the abused women and their captor, this led to a narrative transformation. For the fans of the classical films, Mad Max appears to be “turned upside down”, the story transformed into a “feminist flick”, with Max only used as a shoulder support for Furiosa’s master marksmanship. Consequently it appears that the film tells the story of how masculinity destroyed the world, while women will regenerate it.

            In reality Furiosa is distinctly created as a substitute for Max – actually as a negation of the negation of Max. The best indications for this argument are the early sequences of the movie introducing her immediately after Max was about to be marked with the sign of the Lord Immortan. The frames are edited in such a way that initially the viewer would believe that the male hero enters the stage. Furiosa’s head is shaven as if she is the “anima” of the Wasteland warrior and she appears wearing a similar shoulder protection like Max. Miller, who acknowledged that Furiosa was developed as an equal to Max and that he purposefully created the character in order to follow-up with more episodes centered on a “gladiatrix”, fully geared with the famous galerus arm guard and a shocking prosthetic metal arm. One simple explanation would be that the franchise opens towards new audiences, with a marketing strategy better driven by a female hero. This might prove the argument drawn by authors like Adrienne Trier-Bieniek, that Hollywood and our popular culture can transform under the efforts of the socially conscious, awareness-raising groups, promoting balanced gender representations[34].

            This is why the most recent Mad Max is not what some have called a “feminist action movie”[35], where the members of the Vuvalini tribe (symbolically referring to the female genitals) are presented as warrior matriarchs, remnants of the former Many Mothers colony, positive shooter-heroes, who kill men mercilessly and might just save the world. The Vuvalini may look like Amazons on bikes, warriors descending symbolically from the “a-mazos”, the breast-less creatures of ancient mythology. We must point out a disregarded aspect – that almost all the Vuvalini (with the exception of The Valkyrie) are nameless. This is a universe where men carry caricature-like names and are granted eponyms, while The Matriarchs are without identity. More so, they are not portrayed as a positive social group – they use the nudity of their own young women to catch unsuspecting prey, they are cold-blooded killers and behave in a masculinized manner. It is here that the second negation comes into place – the Many Mothers are linked to the gangs of bikers in the other episodes and point to a negation of female identity. Last but not least, Furiosa’s masculinity and aggressive behavior, her dominance on the other women and her subsequent taking over of the Citadel are negations of negation towards femininity.

            The character of Imperator Furiosa becomes more explicit if she is carrying these negative traits of feminine identity – she is a desexualized woman, she leads a war party like a mercenary and is even depicted in a misogynistic way, as a dominatrix with a potentially dictatorial behavior. She portrays another stereotype of womanhood, the female hysteric manifestation. On one hand, Furiosa and the other fugitive women are identifiably with the Furies of Ancient Mythology. Although there is no specific number of existing furies, we have an account of at least three (Aeschilus in Eumenides names them as Alecto, Megara and Tisiphone), with four major mythical traits as Arai (curse), Poinai (revenge), Praxidikai (justice seeking) and Maniai (loss of reason). In the Greek mythology these creatures, who are also known as Erinyes, are linked to the death and revenge of the loved ones. This typology becomes explicit in the traits of the five fugitives – the female characters, often hysterical or upholders of moral integrity, are agents of anger, carriers of guilt, mobilized by a frenzy of soul. In fact the movie is called Fury Road, referring to Furiosa and her companion’s travel to extoll revenge.

            All the same, by the end of the movie there is a final reversal of roles. If at the beginning (the first negation) Furiosa is a feminine replacement for Max, she operates as the true Mad Max of this latest production, Max himself is downgraded, muted and reduced to a non-articulated supportive character. Yet this sexual transformation is followed by a second reversal of roles, when Max’s blood transfusion saves Furiosa and puts her back on her revolutionary track. Which finally generates a feminist message supported from behind by a male hero – which is not at all a the story of women empowerment. The ultimate negation of negations of sexual roles and identities.

            Dystopias of Dysfunctional Masculinity

            This line of arguments becomes more clear if we connect it with the so-called criticism of male aggression in Miller’s dystopias – which are crowded with homosexual fascists, perverse rapists and psychopathic leaders[36]. And although the first three movies of the series were often criticized as extolments of violent masculinity, the reality is that every film is indicating a defective manifestation of masculinity. In fact all the Mad Max movies are dystopias of dysfunctional masculinity.The apocalypse Miller seems to make us afraid of is that of the transformation of “standard” male identity. It is as if the director presents us with an answer to the question what would the world look like if Toecutter, Humungus, Master/ Blaster or Immortan Joe would be able to take over society?

            In Mad Max the political degeneration of society is accompanied by a private degeneration of individuals – it is as if normalcy is possible only in a conservative political and social environment. The false assumption is that a non-technological world can only create primitive human beings, with the immediate consequence (which is difficult to demonstrate) that any collapse of capitalism will be followed by the deterioration of the essences of humanity. In this sense, the degradation of masculinity is a negative projection of the possible effects of social revolutions against the existing order.

             There is another clear pattern of deviance in the Mad Max representations of genre, a negation of negation in the construction of all the dominant male figures, not just of the Antagonists. The monstrous males that populate the future imagined by Miller are often homoerotic or perverted creatures, genital perverts or sexually monstrous. The masculine and feminine identities in the Wastelands are not just troubled, they are profoundly mixed-up. As Miller acknowledged, post-apocalyptic sexualities are interchangeable[37] and this interchangeability is not a negative illustration of the discontent towards capitalist societies, instead it is a manifestation of its anxieties. These anguishes are exaggerated in a process where aggressive behavior is escalating to paroxysm, where violence engenders atrocious violence. One of the most suggestive episodes in the gratuitous male rape in MM1, ending up with a man running across the field naked and sullied in blood, points out a political allegory.

            In MM 1 the Nightrider gang is carrying all these negative traits – homosexuality, sadist-masochism – since they are radically opposed to those of Max Rockatansky, who remains the “good white guy”, the family man, the law imposing, self-centered male. This monstrous sexuality continues to have ideological functions in the following movies. From the homoerotic relationship between The Toecutter and Johnny the Boy in MM1, to the ridiculously sadist-masochist costume of “The Humungus” in MM 2 who rules over his “gayboy beserkers” in an indefinite sexual identity, then to the indefinite sexuality of the characters in MM3 and the total monstrosity in MM4, sexuality is always ambivalent in the Millerverse for a negative reason. Compliance with state violence becomes acceptable when faced with the improbable option of accepting the mindless violence of these social beasts. Even if the sexual predators from 1975 become the social predators of 1981 and end up as the political autocrats of the 2015 films, the message is similar. In the Wastelands the authorities are degraded and the only hope is individualistic strength.

            This process is self explanatory when we analyze the development of the “positive” characters. All the male leaders are degraded and show an incapacity to provide solutions for their subordinates. The head of the police force in MM 1 is called Fifi, and spends his free time watering his plant, walking around half naked, never capable to protect Max or the other policemen. Then there is the leader of the refinery community, called Pappagallo – a combination of father and parrot – unable to provide his community the necessary leadership. If we link these representations with the global competition for oil in the 70s, which became more acute during the 1980s, we see how the criticism in MM 2 is a political reference to Carterism. In the opposition between the leader of a democratic oasis of people dressed in white and self-governed by a humane Aryan (Papagallo typecast as a benign autocrat) and the mad gang of Lord Humungus, driven by sadist impulses, hungry for “guzzoline” there is a double negation of the current political leadership. Yet even if the political “non dominant males”, who were supposed to take care of the liberal oasis of the West have failed, on the other hand their possible replacements are decadent and heinous.

            This mechanism of several negations is even more explicit in “Fury Road” where a seemingly patriarchal society is negatively described as a final manifestation of the process that began with the attacks of the biker gangs of Nightrider in MM1. At first there is the positive negation – once again in MM 4 the story seems to carry an anti-militaristic, anti-patriarchal and anti-capitalist undertones. Again a post-apocalyptic society is dominated by a triumvirate of powerful and discretionary males. Immortan Joe, a former military now self-appointed prophet, the “People Eater”, who is an accountant administering the Gas Town, and Major Kalashnikov leading the Bullet Farm are controlling all possible resources of the Wasteland. The allegory of the military-economic-religious control overs society is explicit. It is as if the aggression of dominant males against their fellow humans has reached its paroxysmal outcome.

            In fact the description of all these men, just like the other male figures in the Millerverse, is ambiguously monstrous. The traits of the Mayor of Gas Town, a gouty overweighted, metal nosed cannibal, and those of the Bullet Farm leader, who wears a head band made of bullets, has bullet teeth and drives a bullet like machine are caricature-like representations of the defects of contemporary society. This is even more explicit with Immortan Joe – who is as monstrous as all the other males driven to destroy capitalist social order. He is a reversed father figure, called Daddy by all his followers, he is an egoistic Father, wanting only to perpetuate his own offsprings. Wanting to obtain a “healthy male heir”, he is unable to procreate anything else but monsters. Hiding his pestilent and rotting body behind a plastic body armor, with his face beyond a horse teeth mask, connected to a bladder on his back, he is, just like the Berkshire boar from Animal Farm, a militaristic tyrant, a hoggish creature driven by animalistic compulsions.

            As further detailed in the comic book “Nux & Immortan Joe”, this supreme leader of the Citadel was an ex-military, a colonel, Joe Moor, a veteran of the “Oil Wars” and hero of the “Water Wars”. A self-appointed leader of his own cult of personality, Immortan’s plexiglass armor makes him look a lot like the uniform of a Soviet general. This image is re-mixed, through his long white hair and ritualized manner in which he interacts with the others, with a parodic religious figure.Adding to these elements the image of a chieftain who has his own religion by taking over a desert aquifer, the references to the wars in the Middle East are complete.

            Apparently Immortan is the representation of the destruction of society brought out by the political worts in humanity or, as the voice-over of Max in MM4 states it, in the total corruption of humanity, everyone is “broken”, and there is no distinction between the individual forms madness takes. Yet at a profound ideological level, Miller’s movies represent a mirroring of a socialist political slogan. Just like the Soviet Power plus electrification equaled communism for Lenin, for Miller Capitalism without guzzoline equals anarchy and madness.

 Notes

Doru Pop
Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania
popdoru@gmail.com

Mad Max – Spare-Parts Heroes, Recycled Narratives, Reused Visualities and Recuperated Histories

Abstract: The main assumption of this paper is that the mechanisms science fiction cinema uses follow three directions in order to create new representations. One is the cinema narratives that develop new worlds by simply mimicking the already existing social realities, the present day political and cultural contexts. In their critical form, these are negations of present. Another major function is that of future projections using past histories and mythologies. In their negative form, they are often dystopian worlds. This dichotomy between the utopian vs. dystopian representations has been raised and dealt with in art and literature. Yet the divide between utopian (as modern, positive future projection) and dystopian (as postmodernism, defective representation) is described by the author as limited. The method used to move beyond is the negation of negation, practiced as an interpretative principle, which can deal with the issue of retroactive projections. In order to provide some answers to these complex problems, the author uses examples from the cult series “Mad Max”, analyzed as a coherent case study. One of the main arguments for selecting the saga developed by George Miller is the fact that it spans over a long period of time – since its first installment in 1979 to the most recent adventure in the Wastelands from 2015, there have been many changes that provide a relevant overview of the possible transformations of a narrative over a long time. This allows the articulation of multiple critical discourses, towards both the projection of ideology within the internal structure of the aesthetic representation and the relationship between utopias and dystopias within the narrative field.

Keywords: Mad Max; Utopian and Dystopian Movies; Science Fiction Cinema; Political Representation; Recycled Aesthetics; Reused Cultural Myths; Negation of Negation.

            Re-cycled Realities, Postcards from the Past

            In 1963 Pierre Boulle wrote La planète des singes, a parable about an intelligent simian race controlling humanity. Soon his story was turned into one of the longest and most enduring myths of popular culture, accompanied by an excess of bi-products like movies, television series and cartoons, all detailing the tragic fate of humanity on a possible “Planet of the Apes”. Remarkably enough, it was in 1959 that Able, the first monkey sent into space by NASA, returned safely to Earth. Then, in 1961, the flight of the NASA “Astrochimp” called Ham proved that normal activities can be performed in space, which lead to the first American human mission on a sub-orbital trajectory, the same year. Thus, in the middle of the space competition between the great powers, there was this unremarkable novel (in terms of its literary qualities), followed by a series of remarkable cinematic representations (in terms of their popularity), dealing with the troublesome consequences of humanity’s unprecedented efforts. It is from here that one of the main lines of questioning in my argument is developed – the relationship between the “traditional” representations of literary utopia and the cinematic dystopia. It is also here that we can identify the first mechanism of the narrative re-cycling of reality – one in which we can see a direct causal relationship between the story and the immediate reality. The first indicator is the clear connection between the political and the fictitious – the present is the source of a fictitious representation of the future, where the events of the recent present become possible versions of the future.

            The second mechanism, more difficult to deal with, is the amalgamation of the past and the present, in order to create a utopian or dystopian representation. The best example is Frank Herbert and his remarkable Duniverse. The first Dune novel, published in 1965, was followed by five award-winning stories and after 50 years the imagined future Herbert developed expanded to a total of twenty books, followed by TV miniseries, movies, short novels and, of course, video-games. The saga obviously includes several sequels and prequels authorized by the family but the premise, just as in the case of Pierre Boulle’s story, shows an immediate connection between the world of Arrakis – and the coveted spice produced there – to the Arab culture and the problems generated by oil extraction. If some of the connections are explicit – there is a sandy planet (Arrakis – Iraq) which produces a substance (spice – oil), coveted by all the powers in the universe – the rest of the narrative is heavily mixed with traces of Biblical messianism, re-mixed with jihadist lingo and amalgamated with Greek and Roman narratives and historical myths from the Norse sagas to the contemporary politics. All of these elements have created one of the most enduring science fiction universes. The assumption here, as indicated by many critics, is that the “melange” that Herbert puts forward can be subscribed to the troublesome decade he was contemporary with, his novels are postcards from a past when in the 1950s and the 1960s the Middle East was in turmoil, with the Suez Crisis creating a global threat, with and the Arab – Israeli tensions and the fall of the monarchy in Iraq generating world wide fears of an international meltdown.

            If in such cases we can link utopian fictions to political realities, as some critics have reasonably argued, the dystopian worlds raise a different problem insofar as their effects are concerned. Sometimes dystopian stories seem to be anticipations of “things to come”, not only a way to deal with the cruel realities of today, but extraordinary premonitions of the future. The most versatile example is that of Jules Verne, who is described as a science fiction mastermind, describing discoveries way before his time. Verne, who never left his home in Nantes, and who also depicted absurd machines and non-sensical inventions, was simply collating information from the journals, science books and travel logs of his time. As pointed out by many researchers[1], Verne’s so-called anticipations are often retrograde, outdated, recuperated junk scientific facts, and sometimes even infantile re-engineerings of actual realities. Relevantly enough for our argument here is that the mythological mechanisms built into the genre by the “father of science fiction” remain unchanged. Just like the geographies of the “Verniverse”, the universe of many futuristic anticipations are fantastic elaborations on existing information and subjects.

            This direct connection is best illustrated with two of the most exemplary dystopian novels, which only indicate this possible interpretation of sci-fi imagination. George Orwell’s 1984 (followed by the respective movie) and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World show their readers a universe where the future is projected as a negative utopia (identified by Jameson as dystopia)[2]. In Orwell’s case this fictional universe is distinctly identifiable with the critical version of Stalinism and its effects on human society. The same relation can be proved with the Animal Farm (with the cartoon that follows suit). And, as Booker[3] properly noted, although 1984 is not merely a criticism of Stalinism, since there are explicit condemnations of Fascism or of the Catholic Inquisition, or more recently McCarthyism[4], this sophistication of Orwell’s works cannot hide the simple fact that they function as anti-Stalinist manifestoes.

            This brings us to a mechanism which is probably identifiable in most of the cultural works of the history of humanity – the use of allegorical narratives in order to elaborate a critical view on the political contexts of the present[5]. Political realities which are otherwise impossible to deal with directly, are re-placed into a more manageable past. Although the authors claim that there are no allegorical references in their books – as is the case with Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings (LoTR) – their works often carry a multitude of references, many easily identifiable politically and ideologically. The LoTR saga present us with an excellent illustration. The Western coalition (the fellowship of the four “free peoples” of Middle Earth) is fighting a totalitarian regime (Sauron and his Orcs), in a worldwide conflict (the entire Middle Earth). The transparent reference to WWII does not make this extraordinary fantasy masterpiece less relevant narratively. Yet its mythological representations evolve with manifest connections with a troublesome present, rather than a fearful past or a desirable future. In Tolkien’s elaboration of the LoTR universe the transformations of the first novel, The Hobbit (1937), intended as a children’s tale, end up in the following three volumes (which were written during WWII and the early part of the Cold War) as profoundly dependent on historical realities and characters. Although the author himself adamantly claimed in the “Foreword” of the second edition that LoTR was developed before the war and that no hidden or allegorical meaning is intended – many critics have pointed out that Hitler’s rise to power has an explicit representation in Sauron’s progress, between the appeasement strategies of Chamberlain and Frodo’s speech, or the obvious representation of the Maginot line war and the depiction of the battle of Minas Tirith and other scenes from the Great War[6].

            The examples could be multiplied with many other fantasy or science fiction literary products. Without simplifying the profound connections and inner strategies of these literary works, they provide an interpretation premise. Any cultural object reflects the historical context and the ideological meanings of its current time, often hidden in plain sight of the narratives. The “fiction” in science fiction should thus be linked to the political contents it carries (knowingly or unknowingly). Without elaborating too much on this particular subject, we must refer also to the contradictory nature of the alleged “anticipatory” nature of the science fiction writings and narratives. As Thomas M. Disch has indicated, the genre itself has evolved as a “double natured” product[7]. On one hand, it satisfies our daydreams and positive projections for our social construct or desires. On the other, the literary/ cinematic utopias and dystopias are reflections on society, “allegories” of the present designed to help us cope with our fears, fantasies and illusions.

            This is the main premise – that science fictions should be understood in a double connection with the historical and political realities – at a direct level they are fantastic projections into another reality, based on the “materials” of the given situation and on another they are reflections of our own political and social self deception. The “other worlds” of science fiction are “our worlds”, they are fantastic versions of our societies, imagined versions of our possible and impossible realities. The consequence here is that science fiction imagination (literary, philosophical or otherwise) does not anticipate the future, it rather explores the past in order to make sense of the present.

            Political Criticism of Science Fiction Representations

            While the phenomenon is well documented in literature, some specific questions arise if and how the cinematic representations deal with the same mechanisms? The situation is even more problematic with science fiction cinema, since the medium itself presents us with a more complex manifestation – practically all films are projections of the past into the future, and while science fiction movies are using the techniques of a book, they are not just made in the past and they represent a future in the present, but they are re-negotiations of their own pre-visioned future. How much of the material used in the development of multiple science fiction stories, characters and social structures are ideas from and immediate or hypertrophied reality or they represent a re-written reality, that is a re-writing of the past?

            One possible explanation comes from Fredric Jameson, who considered that science fiction film narratives, just like the “classical” utopian discourses of literature, can not be separated from their political meanings, from their “here and now”. So one premise is that any interpretation of science fiction contents should be practiced as an archaeological research for the pieces of the present, collated and reconstructed into our fantastic imagination[8]. If we are to follow this author, who practices an ideological criticism, then the links between the science fiction discourse and the social fantasies are generated by the dominant modes of production. The best example would be our fascination with “robot stories”, which at this level must be seen as projections of the promise of an impossible liberation of humanity from the burden of labor. The second major hypothesis presented also by Jameson is that we need to understand science fiction fantasies as fulfilling the desires and repressed fears of political propaganda, mostly the ones that are not actually made possible by the dominant social and economic practices. As eloquently demonstrated by the interpretation of Jaws, the shark in the movie is only a representation of the internal fears of the capitalist society. At this level, no object of representation is void of ideological referencing.

            There is a classical example which is extremely relevant, one which already supports the inherent historicity of science fiction narratives – the Star Wars saga. As it is extremely well documented in the “Star wars and history” volume edited by Nancy R. Reagin and Janice Leidl, the “histories” of all the Star Wars movies are often “reflections or expressions of historical dynamics and individuals” inspired from the history of humanity[9]. There are explicit allegorical representations in the Star Wars universe to Buddhist lore (such as the rules and behaviors of the Jedi order), to the mythologies of the American Revolutionary Wars (the rebellious alliance fighting an evil empire) or, more suggesting, to Cold War conflicts.

            Other authors have pointed out an even closer connection with contemporary history and politics, suggesting that science fiction narratives are “sociopolitical” allegories[10]. This is the case with the prequels of the Star Wars series, which are deeply rooted in the political dynamics of the end of the Clinton era and the beginning of the Bush administration. Many references are direct – such is the cynical observation of Senator Amidala that the Republic falls to the sound of “thunderous applause”, with clear hints to the post-911 “hawks” taking over the US politics – while others are symbolically indirect – such as the clone armies and the mechanical droid armies hinting to the military experiments of the 90s. The analogies could go even deeper at the symbolic level where we can see in the attire of Darth Vader and the uniforms of the imperial guards the links to the SS, and with Emperor Palpatine’s rise to power a similarity to that of Hitler’s taking over of German.

            I would further suggest that we need to follow a third (and undeveloped) interpretation of such narratives and mythologies, which does not stand apart from Jameson’s argument, it rather provides a necessary extension. We must see science fiction movies as additions to a storytelling function going beyond present or past, one that re-mythologizes and amalgamates elements of the dominant discourses, but where the utopian projections and dystopian discontent are continuously re-shaped. This perspective allows in return the critical discourse to dismantle the mechanisms of imaginary projections and provides us with the necessary tools to interpret the limits of social discourse, since many science fictions are not just processing political realities or some of the most enduring myths of humanity, but they are also self-referential and generate a recycling of their own mythologies.

            The main interpretative argument of this line of thought follows another suggestion put forward by Douglas Keller and Michael Ryan, who critically postulated that Hollywood movies are evolving parallel to the political realities, mirroring the ideological transformations and the tribulations of the society. If we are elaborating on this hypothesis, and movies can be seen as “transcoders” of political discourses, forms of cultural re-codification of the ideological conflicts and representations of the internal dialectics of society, then we need to deal with the more complex issues of what happens when the politics of the present shift in the near future.

            For example, in their brief mapping of this process, Kellner and Ryan placed Easy Rider as an early representation of the counterculture of the 60s, linked with the first Star Wars movie[11]. The following films can be identified as manifestations of the increased conservatory domination over the 70s, as vehicles of the Reagan era global politics – while Rambo and other Vietnam war stories manifested as compensations for the shameful defeat of the American military. In this context, as Gerald Miller argued persuasively, science fiction must be used as a form of critical theory, not only as a form of narrative, or a genre designed to allow us explore the future, but also the a tool to discuss the present limitations of the human nature[12].

            The main problem with this type of cultural criticism of science fiction narratives is that, although sometimes the connections are explicit and factual – like seeing Isaac Asimov’s heptalogy about The Foundation as a clear projection of the struggle between a failing Empire (the Soviet Union) and the dynamic and commerce oriented Foundation (the United States) – there are instances where other, non-ideologically driven juxtaposition, are possible. For instance we can also track the influence of Asimov’s work in the galactic and spacial conflicts between the individualistic rebels and the militaristic and autocratic Empire in a movie like Star Wars. The problem becomes even more complicated when, as it was the case with president Reagan’s announcement in 1983, a global military project was named “Star Wars” and helped the United States to protect its interests agains the Soviet Union. The transformative nature of science fiction narratives gets extremely intricate when we add the internal transformations that take place in films with multiple episodes, based on sequels and prequels.

            How can we make sense of these transfers of symbolic structures from the imagined, science fiction universe, to the everyday politics and social exchanges, then to the re-writing of their own history? The assumption here is that the fundamental two layers of science fiction imaginary (social reality – imagined projections) are commingled and cannot be separated. Therefore we need a third possible answer – one that would described how science fiction discourses function retroactively. Once the social realities change, the narratives are obligated and coerced to follow these changes into fantasies – then through a process of interpenetration, that is narratives that operate like a re-writing of their own past (of previous similar story-lines), they are not only as projections of the present or fulfilling the desires of the future, but a negation of both.

            The Dialectics of Utopia and Dystopia in Mad Ma(r)x

            My presuppositions and the central method here would be centered around the idea that we can describe a series of mythological processes (explicit in the Mad-Max-verse) which are in a negative dialectics with both the present and the past. Using the Mad Max series, we can identify how the negation of negation is at work. And although I am not trying to provide a Marxist interpretation of Mad Max, the method would be based on the philosophy of the negation of negation, seen basically as the “midwife” which allows the extraction of the future from the past. This dialectic concept – as it was explained by Engels – provides us with the tool necessary to explain not only any “mystery of idealism”, but any product of imagination which apparently is impenetrable or even incomprehensible[13].

            The story of the road warrior roaming the Wastelands can be used as a case study for documenting how a mechanism of retroactive interpenetration operates, that is how utopia and dystopia are dialectically intertwined, generating a imagination framework based on recycling each other by negating each other. We will overview the whole array of mechanisms allowing the future to function as a subversive version of present and how, in the same time, this very present is retroactively changing the past. The process of negative negation borrows forms of expression from past narrations, which are initially negations of a reality, then they are included in the story-lines about the future, which in turn manifest as a total mix-up of characters, visual elements and references.

            This concept allows us to move beyond the natural polysemy of any visual object – more so since the problems get bigger when analyzing a movie or a series of movies (like Mad Max or Star Wars). The first question applied to the case study at hand is if we should describe Mad Max as a post-apocalyptic story, or rather as part of a philosophy of recycled narratives? The other is to describe the dysfunctional logic of the narratives, built-up by following an apparent nonsensical meaning formation, which then appears to become an intrinsic coherence.

            Once again we are faced with the complex issues raised by the dialectics between time frameworks in science fiction narratives, out of which ultimately derive either their utopian or dystopian traits. The classical reference should be once more Fredric Jameson’s definition of Utopia. For the post-Marxist author dystopias are simply negative cousins of utopias – that is a dystopian universe is rather a version of an utopia “gone bad”. Thus, in terms of a chronological dialectics, if Utopia prefigures the present needs and desires, then the Dystopia disfigures the fears of tomorrow. Thus the anticipation of the first level of projections (utopias) can be counterbalanced by the dissuasion of the second level (the dystopian universe). In this logic, which is clearly useful when Utopia and Dystopia function “properly”, that is when they are either rewards or warnings for their contemporaries, remains intact only if Utopia functions as the promise of a present time desire, and the Dystopia remains the disheartenment of the future’s fears.

            It would be easy then to apply an analysis of science fiction movies which would start with the assumption pointed out by Annette Kuhn that the production expands its meanings beyond the simple narratives, and that any film “expresses, enacts and produces ideology”[14]. Yet some films – and many other cultural products of late industrial societies – are no longer simply “mirrors of society”, and the interpretation cannot be limited to identifiable elements from reality turned into aesthetic or political representations. Here the best examples are Miller’s dystopian societies, characters and visualities which are not only built up from innumerable political residues of the present and which, in many instances, function as remnants of their own past meaning.

            If at a certain level there are valid explanations providing interpretations of inner dichotomies – for example the clear opposition between anarchy and social order in Mad Max – this separation becomes useless when no longer dealing with “classical critical dystopias”. When dystopian representations that are not necessarily exposing “deficiencies of the future”, as some authors claim[15], but rather they are representing convoluted disfigurations of the present which re-cycle the past in order to retroactively make sense of the future then the distinction negation (dystopian) versus affirmation (utopia) is not functional.

            Other directors (and writers) who were developing stories in a non-sequential way indicate similar traits. One of the most relevant examples is once more George Lucas and the Star Wars hexalogy. Lucas was constantly trying to coherently re-arrange his storytelling in order to fit some of his own previous narrative decisions. If CGI technology helped the director to erase, add and improve some of the unfortunate manifestations of oldest episodes – in the edited versions of the original trilogy – narratives are more impervious to transformation. Some of the classical examples of retroactive incoherence include dialogues – the fact that Leia clearly remembers her mother as being “beautiful”, when in fact in the first episode Amidala dies at birth; and characters – like the fact that in the initial trilogy Darth Vader is depicted as secondary, almost obedient to Grand Moff Tarkin. In fact, as many critics pointed out[16], Star Wars is a mix and re-use universe, including parts and pieces from other narratives. The Galactic Empire is borrowed from Asimov, the desert planet of Tatooine from Dune, Luke and Han are derived from Flash Gordon and Prince Barin, the Jedi Knights culture is copied from the shaolin monks, not to mention C3PO being a masculine version of the robot in Metropolis[17].

            A similar cultural poaching, muddy narrative re-writing and mythological re-cycling is extremely illustrative in the development the Mad Max saga. One relevant starting point would be the premise of the story itself. As it was documented by Shapiro, there are hardly any references to the causes of the destruction of society in the first movie of the Wastelands saga, and scarcely any in the second[18]. Only after the third installment of the series, where a nuclear war is hinted at, does the idea of a catastrophic event take shape. Finally the most recent production opens with an explicit indication of an apocalyptic H-bomb scenario. Thus, even if apparently there is a chronological involution of mankind, the “destruction” is coherently detailed only in the Max Max. Fury Road graphic novel. We now know that first there was an anarchic stage, when oil resources were depleted, with limited military conflicts, but no nuclear war; then the world “burned”, and “the waters dried out” and only later did thermonuclear destruction take place. Overall, the Mad Max quadrilogy (1979, 1981, 1985, 2015) seems to be following a linear logic of a gradual decay of the infrastructure of civilization.

            At a closer look, the early Mad Max movies were developed under a different projection of present. The politics and fears of the 1970s, with the Cuban missile crisis left behind, have put the nuclear disaster apocalypse at a lower level than the oil crisis[19]. As the Australian journalist James McCausland, the co-writer of the MM 1 movie (Mad Max, 1979) declared publicly, the storyline was directly inspired by the OPEC crisis in 1973[20]. The abandoned highways of the Australian deserts were visually shocking representations of the abandoned gas stations in the Western world, when in 1973 the OPEC countries decided to instate an oil embargo on the rest of the globe, as a penalty for the support of the Yom Kippur War[21]. The impact of what was often described as the “first oil shock” was soon to be over, yet it was followed by the “second oil shock”, in 1979 after the Iran crisis. This impacted most of the western world, Australia included, when violence erupted at the pumps, yet it transpired allegorically in MM 2 (Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior, 1981), where sudden references to the “Ayatollah of the rock and rollah” appeared. The third film, MM 3 (Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, 1985), is visibly an emanation of the Cold War conflicts, with both MM 2 and MM 3 being, as Douglas Kellner pointed out, “conservative nightmares” – they show what would happen if law and order are removed from society[22], thus linking the Reaganite conservatism to the anguish of a post-apocalyptic world dominated by anarchy. Populated by Mohawk bikers, Gayboy Beserkers, Road Marauders, the first three movies of the saga appear to be  are chronologically linked and narratively coherent, yet the first Mad Max (1979) has no explicit reference to a postnuclear world, while in The Road Warrior (MM 2) the only “apocalyptic” message is that “the vermin had inherited the world” and only the last installment of the early trilogy points to a possible nuclear destruction. Actually George Miller’s “apocalypses” are as uncertain as the societies he presents us with.

            Obviously Mad Max future societies are futuristic projections of the present, elaborations on the anxieties of his own time. This is the first level of negation, where “classical” critical narratives are developed. The problematic nature of these projections comes from the fact that the distance between episodes becomes so great that it generates the need for a second negation, which in turn produces incoherence, which is then filled with invented connections, the negation of negation. Thus the director/ writer is constantly retrofitting his narrations in order to make them compatible, and the storytelling and the story-lines which are developed “as they go” create gaps and confusions. The differences are even bigger between the first Mad Max (MM1), which places us in a recent future, where relative forms of state institutions continue to exist (police force, justice system), and MM4, where there is a dystopian society is formed, there is a time gap of almost 40 years. Clearly the societal organization in the movies adapts not only to the external transformations, but also keeps track of the internal logic of the storytelling – the leitmotif of lawlessness which produces tragedies and the lack of authority in society which makes possible any type of monstrosity is not enough to keep the cinematic structure together.

            Each of the movies of the franchise is centered around a different type of social organization – all of which are following the premise of the total collapse of society as we know it. Although Miller describes his films as taking place in a “neo-medieval dark age”[23] every type of society he describes is still keeping some elements of state institutions. In MM1 Max Rockatansky fights some road marauders as part of the so-called MFP (Main Force Patrol). This semi-military force, nick-named The Bronze, represents the last civilized barrier against the psychotic Nightrider and his rapist, sexually deviant gang. As pointed out before this “fuel-injected”, suicidal philosophy of the Nightrider, is a projection of the oil crisis in the 70s. The second film, MM2 is centered around an oil-rig phalanstery, lead by a former Chief Executive of Seven Sisters Petroleum, confronted like in MM1 with a gang of crazed rapists and killers. In MM3 the city of trade dominated by the a tyrannical Matriarch and in MM4 the reversed version, with the Patriarchal stronghold follow suit.

            All the movies indicate the same uncertainty of social structure, which cannot be explained by the first negation – that is the criticism of the existing political order. The second negation is also ineffective also, since in many cases the threat of a dictatorship is manifested simultaneously as a dystopian oppressive femininity and an utopian counter-balanced promise of a feminine liberation. Maybe this is why the main character is confusingly ensnared in impossible political strifes, he is always part of social conflicts over which he has no control, in which he enters accidentally and to which he provides no finality. For example, in MM 2 he is involved without wanting it, in MM3 Aunty wants him to change the status quo of Bartertown and he accepts, and in MM4 he is part of the women’s rebellion against the patriarchal rule of Immortan Joe, but does not take part in the rebuilding. Actually, just like Max, we are trapped in this logic of collapse (negation), re-building (negation) followed by another collapse (the negation of negation).

            This type of dialectical negation, which is presented as an almost Marxist criticism of classes, is completely void. Just as there is no conscience of class separation in the pig farm from MM 3 – which is simultaneously an enslavement enterprise, where people are living in conditions similar to the coal mines of early capitalism, and where methane is produced, from pig dejections, offering Master-Blaster an instrument of control over Aunty’s rule – the liberation in MM4 does not follow an ideological conscience. Although the social structure in “Fury Road” is based on the division of labor and the dichotomy between the exploiters and exploited, the critical separation between The Citadel, where the acolytes of Immortan Joe are growing plants, pumping “aqua-cola” and producing mother’s milk, and the mobs bellow the mountain, wanting the drops of water to fall from the upper levels, is non-critical. Just like the story in Beyond Thunderdome, Fury Road projects an apparent interest for exploitation and various forms of slavery, exposing the cruelty of humans exploiting other humans, yet these seemingly forms of social criticism are followed by their own negation. When we understand that it is actually about the demise of the capitalist exploitation which will lead to an even worse form of social violence the mingled mythological representations are transformed simultaneously into negations and negations of the initial negation.

            The same is true if we look at the most recent production as promoting the values of pro-environmental movies. There is a first negation at the beginning, when we witness Immortan wasting of water as an indication of his dictatorial nature. At a first look, the environmentalist dystopia created by Miller in MM4 follows the dichotomous logic of his other movies. With the exception of MM1, where there is no sign of environment destruction, the saga Miller developed based on anticipating the consequences of climate climate induced by the depletion of natural resources. The social projections are based on the manifest opposition between prosperity and devastation, between of order and chaos. If in MM 2 the voice-over narrator describes a conflict between two “mighty warrior tribes” for oil, the degradation is presented in MM 4 as complete, the viewer is told that the earth is “sour” after a nuclear war and that the bones of the people are “poisoned”. Yet just like in the other films, in the Wastelands of madness and disease, there is always a promise of salvation. In The Road Warrior there was the “North”, then in MM 3 it was the Tomorrow-morrow land and in Fury Road the the promised land is the “Green Place”, a utopian field of Matriarchy, where the Many Mothers cultivate plants, trees and organic food. This green place would prove to be the Citadel the women will take over after the death of Immortan Joe, where in an eco-feminist plot twist the seeds of the Vuvalini tribe will be planted. Another relevant example of the second negation is the mother milk farming at the Citadel, which is a parodic representation of the ecological and feminist principle of breastfeeding.

            Although it looks like an environmental film, with one of the Many Mothers, called The Keeper of the Seeds, “initiating” others into the philosophy of preserving nature’s gifts, Fury Road is a negation of ecological solutions (as it is of feminist promises). Although it mimics an awareness movie about the consequences of environment destruction, or with the issues of exploitation of the resources of the Earth, or the question of human to human exploitation, the film is not meant to bring forward the values of ecology or to improve our sensitivity about the threats to our ecosystem[24]. It actually digests these elements and re-cycles them within the typical patriarchal, violence driven, narrative. Once more, it ideologically functions as a negation of negation.

            Finally the so-called environmentalist views of the director or the pro-environmental attitude of the film are transformed into negative projection of the negation in the present. Miller’s mimicked ecocriticism, more than explicit in that chant of the war boys, who identify themselves as the “Fukacima Kamakrazee”, is turned into a negation of its previous negation. A brief semiotic interpretation shows that, if the term kamikrazee is symbolically referring to the suicidal Japaneze warriors, the Fukacima is an indirect critical comment on the Fukushima-Daichii incident in march 2011. This adds to the fact that the war boys are “half-life”, most probably suffering from a type of cancer caused by some sort of radiation fall out, yet this is no longer generated by a global thermonuclear confrontation, but by a limited incident.

            The Aesthetics of Salvaging and Recycling

            In four movies, which generated almost half a billion dollars in revenues, Miller builds a complex narrative, spanning over half a century, with a dozens of characters and social structures which apparently share an internal unity. My hypothesis is that, in fact, the Millerverse is a junkyard bi-product of history and contemporary politics, mixed with heterogenous elements from external mythologies, all welded together with the evolution of a ambiguous character, Max, which provides us with the illusion of coherence.

            The questions raised by the ex-post-facto chronology of destruction, one which was not explicit from the very beginning of the four installments, can be answered with the immediate and simple statement: chronological coherence did not exist from the beginning. George Miller retroactively reconstructed a historical timeline of the future as it developed in the past. Just like in other “sci fi sagas” – as it was the case with the Star Wars reversed chronology – the Millerverse is made to look orderly by its own redundancies. But more importantly, the Mad Max universe is not just discontinuous in its historical linearity or due to various social uncertainties. Mad Max provides a relevant example for the incoherent coherence of a cultural projection where there are no fixed dimensions, where everything is fluid, even the explanations are developed “as it goes”, without an overall vision of the facts or chronology.

            Just like the boomerang of the Feral Boy, Miller’s ideas return to the same places and the same tropes of his vision, and often he salvages and recycles his own inconsistencies. Although, as seen before, the social and political settings of each of the Mad Max movies is different, one key element seems to remain unchanged – the external struggle between a psychotic futuristic leaders and the heroic but troubled Protagonist and the internal conflicts of Max himself. At a closer look, we realize that the image of Max is a symbolic mixture of multiple elements in itself. As Gilles Millet[25] (quoted by McGregor) pointed out, the Road Warrior is simultaneously a rock star (Elvis), a cinema icon (James Dean, Marlon Brando) and a revolutionary. The image of the dystopian road cowboy, re-mixed with the traits of a rocker and superimposed on a phantasy of liberation, coalesces the entire Mad Mad universe around a “Jesus in black leather”[26]. In reality he is a manifestation of the superficial nature of representations in our culture. Not only does Max mix cultural images that do not belong together, but he is at the same time a repetitive manifestation of his own past into the present, then projected over the future. As a quintessential negation of negation, he is an integral part of a mythology-making based on recycling and re-usage. The main argument here is that Max is a redundant version of himself (the first negation), since each episode casts him in the same type of narrative, which allows him to behave as a superficial representation of his own image, which in turn was copied from other archetypes (the second negation). Each time a new episode is made, Max starts behaving like a Savior, only to retire from the scene into anonymity (the negation of negation). This is monotonously re-enacted with every new story line, which makes the main character behave not only as a “wanderer haunted by his past” (as stated in Road Warrior), but as a character haunted by his previous traits.

            Not only Max is constructed of salvaged materials and reclaimed symbolic structures. Discarded elements from previous episodes and other similar movies are reprocessed into the construction of all symbolic artifacts in these movies, which see to be reclaimed from wasted pieces themselves. Miller as a writer never takes time to explain the interstices between the episodes – for example it is never clear what happens with Max from one installment to the other (his relationship with Aunty Entity after he is captured is illustrative), or what is the future of the lost children or what will happen with the Citadel after his departure).

            The re-processing, re-using and re-claiming of cultural waste products and elements becomes essential for the development of all the positive or negative characters. All the Antagonists also follow this logic of re-mixing. In MM2, Lord Humungus, who is built up from chaotic pieces – he behaves like a punk “secutor”, a gladiator of the wastelands with strange elements put together, an absurd “Ayatollah of the rock and rollah” who is wearing ridiculous leather shorts and a metal cervical collar, behaving like a parodic BDSM figure – is later recuperated in the figure of Immortan Joe. In turn Humungus, who is dressed in a harness costume inspired by BDSM movies, shares many traits with the son of Immortan, Rictus. All three of them are represented through the motif of the mask, which is also recurrent in almost all the movies – if Humungus wears a hockey mask, in MM 4 Max carries a metal muzzle on his face the entire half of the movie. Once again, the director is retrofitting the images of past to converge with a future which could not have been anticipated.

            The same is true for the gayboy beserkers of Humungus, who looks as if they were part of the Accolites, the mad bikers of MM1, which in turn reappear as the Rock Riders in MM 4. Or the “Fukacima Kamakrazee” warriors in MM 4 who are deliriously connected with the “smegma crazee” beserkers in MM 2, or the fact that they unexplicably share similar characteristics with the Lost Tribe of children from MM3. These retroactive links that Miller put in place are sometimes over-explicit – as for example Furiosa in MM4, who is wearing a metallic prosthesis for her left arm, which is a self referencing to the leg gear of Max in MM3.

            Even the apparently dichotomized characters, constructed on series of binary oppositions (like Master-Blaster) are recuperated later into their own re-used versions. This dual symbol – which is actually a first negation, an expression of a natural division in capitalist societies – is then reproduced in a series of other binomial creatures (following the logic Master/ Blaster), but as negations. This repetitively referenced visual tropes appears in MM4 with the double progenies of Immortan Joe – Rictus Erectus and Corpus Colossus. Just like Master, Corpus is the brain, the administrator of the Citadel. Corpus shows intellectual prowess, while Rictus is a mindless brute, driven by sheer force. The same dual typologies of commander – second in command are also repetitive, with multiple similarities between all the evil lieutenants of the Mad Leader in the Millerverse. If in MM 1 Bubba plays the ruthless adjunct, in MM 2 this role is played by Wez, the homosexual punk-mohawk marauder. Wez, the right hand of Humungus, is accompanied by a young lover in the middle of the battle and the explicit sexual couple between him and the Golden Youth would later be reflected in the lieutenant of Aunty, Ironbar. Just as Wez is anticipated by Bubba, Ironbar is a return to the traits of the psychotically in-affectionate killer. This intentional linkage of unreasonable connexions is illustrated by the retroactive connectedness between Toecutter in MM1 and Immortan Joe in MM4. The otherwise unremarkable actor Hugh Keays-Bryne plays both The Toecutter and Immortan Joe – linking the first and the last of the Mad Max movies with a superficial tie-in, which is just anther manifestation of its forced cohesion.

            Just as the apparent richness of Miller’s characters is in fact repetitive, the entire Mad Max universe can be depicted as composed of interchangeable parts which lack interconnectedness. Every new form which appears in this mythology is following the explicit logic of the visual melange and the rule of the repetitive representation. In the Mad Max universe elements appear and re-appear without any natural justification. The baby heads in MM1 are referenced to the bodies of dolls and mannequins in MM2, which in turn reappear in MM3 and MM 4. In another relevant scene from MM2, Lord Humungus has his victims strapped in front of his muscle car – this is happening almost identically with Max in MM 4, when the hero is strapped to a pole in front of the war vehicle of Nux, as a “blood bag”.

            Often in the Mad Max universe this visual melange is trans-mediated, from the films to the comic books[27] and the video games– for example the gladiators of the Thunderdome arena are re-invented in the “Fury Road Part One” story from 2015, and the readers see the fights taking place in a Gastown depicted as a overdeveloped version of Bartertown. Yet this is a reprocessed reality since the Thunderdome in MM3 is a direct reference to the Superdome, the 163 million dollars stadium opened in 1975, where all the Super Bowls and the political conventions of American political parties take place. The Tunderdome is more than just a combination of politics, entertainment and testosterone filled symbolic place. The re-mixing shows at the narrative level, since just like Sugar Ray Leonard defeated Roberto Durán in the famous “No Mas” fight in 1980, Miller has Max to defeats his Master-Blaster opponent by confusing him.

            Even the vehicles provide cues for the improbable links within the visual field of all the Mad Max movies. The motorbikes are one of the common places of the narratives, providing innumerable combinations, which allow us to describe the Mad Max movies as carriers of a spare parts philosophy. This is a cultural predisposition to use the same tools and pieces only in different contexts, one explicit in many instances of the four installments. The very fact that the “early Max” is fighting a motorbike gang – as a counter-reference to movies like Easy Rider, where the projections of a positive, freedom connoted biker culture is exalted – represents the first negation. The bikers in first Mad Max are rapists, killers, barbarian torturers so they represent a negative image of contemporary society. Yet the bikers are negatively reversed several time, with the women of the Vuvalini the final negation of negation.

            Another example of rehashed visuality is the reversed punk imaginary and the integration of punk rock culture into the later Millerverse. Often this type of remixing leads to ridiculous projections – what is initially a brash punk-rock brutality (as it is in the early films) later becomes the almost caricature-like characters in MM4. Like the pajama heavy metal character, called the Doof Warrior, is propelling the war party while bungee jumping, using his fire throwing guitar to emotionally stimulate his fellows. This self parodic transformations of a movie which symbolically opens on Anarchie Road and ends up on Fury Road is amplified by the numerous simplistic onomastics of the Wastelands, where monikers and bynames are repetitively oversimplified. People have names like Max, Nux, Nix, or redundant metaphorical descriptions like People eater, Pig Killer, The Peacemaker, The Nightrider, Rictus Erectus or even Scabrous Scrotus (the name of the third of the first sons of Immortan from the video game).

            This nonsensical amalgamation is even more explicit in the linguistic mumbo-jumbo used by Miller – very far from the coherently built artificial languages of Tolkien, later mimicked in movies like Star Trek or Avatar. If the Nightrider in MM 1 uses a anti-prophetic language – “I am the chosen one, the hand of vengeance sent down to strike the unroadworthy” – the children in MM 3 tell the story of “Tomorrow-morrow land” in a primitive language transcoding present day realities – Pox-Eclipse, Planet Erf. Just like the references to the present, the allegorical meanings of Miller’s dystopias are often transparently historical. Living in the Crack of the Earth, the children in MM 3 have to “member” “The Tell”, an oral version of a biblically influenced story, centered around a Moses figure, the airplane pilot Walker who left without returning to save his tribe. The mixture of elements, languages and mythologies is omnipresent – in MM4 it reaches awful highs with elements of the Norse mythology (Valhalla, the Valkyrie) coupled with Welsh names (Angharad) and pseudo-environmentalist references.

            Even in his most effective dystopian criticism, Miller is practicing forms of amalgamations, where media consumerist elements are mixed with a pseudo-apocalyptic discourse. This is explicit in MM 3, where the trope of the Wheel of Fortune is transformed into a penal code, with the Justice system of Bartertown revolving around aleatory decisions that finally send the condemned to the “Gulag”. The same remixing of consumerist ideology with political fantasies of the past takes place when the war boys are making the “sign of V” as a fascist sign, only to go on a suicidal war party where everybody is ready to be “Mcfeasting in Valhalla”. Or the same War Boys described as kamakrazee, suggesting both a link to the militaristic suicide of the Japanese soldiers during WWII, and the chrome spraying of their mouths in a ridiculous drug induced frenzy, similar to that of the warring parties of the Wikings. This pastiche of commodification, coupled with an ideological criticism and a nonsensical historical reference begets derisory in manifestations in Fury Road, where they haul Aqua Cola, they trade mother’s milk (harvested from mothers coupled to silly looking, over-explicit, sucking machines).

            Yet the most visible mode of how the recycling mythology operates in Mad Max is represented by the the muscle cars in the entire Millerverse. If the characters, the stories and the social references are most often built by bits and pieces, using recuperated joints and parts that grow into a kitsch-like structure, this is not visible immediately. However, when we look at the Mad Max cars, we see that everything is built like a monster-truck mythology, one unsubtly incoherent, just like the forms of the mega-cars that appear in every episode, one which gets more and more absurd each time. The aesthetics of salvaging that we are discussing is best exemplified by the evolution of the vehicles used in the Wastelands. Semiotically, I consider them to be suggestive for the overall aesthetics of melange in the entire saga. Not only do all the narratives appear to be nothing more than a constant re-imagined car chase (since this is a trope repeated in all the films), but the car-modification expresses the ultimate negative commodification in the dialectics of the Mad Max imaginary. On one hand, having a car in a society lacking gasoline is a first level negation. This is followed by entire productions based on “car mod” technologies, with tuned up, over-modified monster machines. This second negation is accentuated by the pseudo-mythology of the V8 cult in the MM 4 movie, which retroactively recuperates the V8 driven fantasy of the MM 1 chases, with everything functioning according to the principle of the fusion of confusions, the coalescence of the inadequate joining together.

            The Mad Max movies are put together like the sections and pieces of the modified cars, where elements of limousines are matched with turbine engines, where Tatra trucks are mixed with Chevy Fleetmaster parts, in a madness of machineries. We can even see an evolution of the monstrously kitsch vehicles, which takes us from the modified version of the Ford Interceptor, beefed up with an impossible engine, to the Gigahorse driven by Immortan Joe. The links are multiple and the combinations are limited. Just as Furiosa’s War Rig is almost identical with the escape fuel tank in MM2, while themilitarized autos like the Beetle of the People Eater are linked to the war party in MM 3, the Cadillac stack-up driven by Immortan is equiped with a Chevy engine, mounted on monster-truck structure, with one carcase overlapping another, supported by a chassis from muscle cars races[28]. Not just the machines in the Millerverse follow the philosophy of maxing out by mixing in, as seen before that characters, the story-lines and the social contexts function as if they were welded one on top of the another, frames attached to unlikely parts and supported by an unbelievable structure.

            In this sense, the Mad Max universe is a ragbag mixture of the fantasies of mass culture today, simultaneously expressing the anxieties and the desires of the social consciousness, but also carrying structures empty of meaning, where everything can be substituted with anything else.

            Interchangeable Apocalyptic Sexualities

            Between MM 3, the 1985 movie which was displaying a woman as the Antagonist (where Tina Turner did her best), and MM 4, the 2015 version of the story where women are clearly empowered (with Charlize Theron at her best), Miller’s representation of women has radically changed. What happened during the 30 years that passed between the two films? And, again, if the Mad Max universe is coherent in its natural dichotomy, if it functions without any outside references, how were these extreme transformations of aesthetic and narrative cohesion made possible? What makes them even acceptable for the viewers? One more time, the negation of negation principle provides us with the best explanations for these apparently incomprehensible transformations of women. In fact the reversal of roles from Aunty Entity to Imperator Furiosa indicates the same laws of negative dialectic evolution.

            Some conservative online journalists, like Kit Daniels, saw in this huge ideological gap between the two films the explicit manifestation of a “feminist infestation” of Hollywood[29]. The movie industry is imposing strong female characters on the audiences, due to a purposeful trend in society, orchestrated by some occult political interests. Others, like Kate McDonough from Salon.com, called the movie “Mad Maxine”[30], yet contested the fact that it has anything to do with the feminist discourse, rather describing it as a continuation of masculine discourses of previous episodes.

            I would argue that once more we see at work the dialectic contradiction between utopian (women as powerful warriors) and dystopian (women as evil dictators) representations, one which simultaneously negates its assumption only to negate again the negation of the previous elaboration. Such contradictory story-lines include, of course, the neurotic nature of the Mad Max universe (one which would better be developed by a psychoanalytical approach) that we need to take into consideration. Yet the logic of recycling is visible in the nature of mythology re-making of women identity in Mad Max. If in the 1985 movie, Miller placed Aunty Entity, the all-controlling Mother-figure of Thunderdome, in the center of a political dictatorship, now the same director has Imperator Furiosa as the leader of a anti-dictatorship rebellion. In a typical negation of negation, female identities, like most of the representations of the Millerverse described before, are simultaneously undecided, problematic and amalgamated, while being contradictions of their own negative projection.

            In order to make things more clear, we should take MM 3 as an indicator for how Miller’s re-construction of reality operates. The 1985 film film was created during the global impact of Thatcherism, with the obvious consequence that an African American woman, wearing an “Iron Lady” wardrobe and a blonde haircut similar to that of the British prime-minister, has taken over a barter empire. The similarities are even more striking, since the newly elected British prime minister, after winning the Falklands war, was confronted with a year long national miners’ strike. Not very far from Thunderdome, a mercantile society based on class separation, where a dominant woman is confronted by an “energy strike” imposed by her working class below. The entire economy of the authoritarian regime of Aunty Entity is dependent on the production of methane, controlled by a proletarian monster, a dual entity, Master-Blaster who are able to boycott the entire upper level with their blockade. And it is not difficult to see how Aunty’s political manifesto – Where there was desert, now there’s a town; where there was robbery there’s trade; where there was despair, now there’s hope – is a conservatory political statement. As pointed out before, at the first level of negation the movie shows how, without the restrains of the capitalist order, the entire humanity is threatened to degrade and to return to a chaotic and irrational stage.

            Returning to the representation of women in MM 4, we can apply the interpretation mechanism of the second negation with Imperator Furiosa and her anti-patriarchal revolution. Like many environmental collapse movies before (Soylent Green, Logan’s Run), often described as critical towards capitalism and its destructive forces, there is an apparent feminist, anti-exploitation, ecologist message the most recent representation of the Millerverse.

            It would seem that a male-centric industry is gradually opening towards audiences that are no longer driven by misogyny or patriarchal values. As the MM4 story unfolds, the viewers discover that Furiosa is a revolutionary feminist rebel – dreaming of a dystopian all-female cooperative. This gender based commune (one that is strangely similar to works like Joan Slonczewski’s environmentalist feminist novel) is a feminist Promise Land. After the first level of negation, where a group of five ecofeminists oppose the patriarchal dominance of the tyrannical Immortan Joe, the group lead by Furiosa lead that their dreams about living on a fertile and green land is nothing but an illusion, so they all return to their initial starting point. At one level Miller’s storyline has agglutinated some explicit ecofeminist discourses, yet this is nothing more than the dominant narrative devouring the marginal speeches, which in turn is transformed into cinematic representations that confirm the domination. The best example comes from the character of Splendid, one of the sex-slaves of Immortan, his favorite actually, who is a pacifist, a non-violent feminist leader, condemning all killing and encouraging her “sisters” to denounce oppression. Relevantly enough, it is Splendid who dies and her child is extracted dead out of her body.

            This is true for the film industry – although some critics see that there is an increased opening in Hollywood to strong women, arguing that powerful female characters are more present on screen (with movies like The Hunger Games or Bigelow’s win of the Oscar in 2010 with The Hurt Locker), there is no equality between genders in the industry[31]. Although 50% of the movie tickets in the US are bought by women, this is an enterprise that remains gender biased – the data indicates that out of the top 250 films[32] from 2007 to 2012 only 9% of the directors are women, and 2% are cinematographers. Even the best paid female actors receive less then half of their male counterparts. The negation of negation actually shows that our visual culture remains a “man’s world”. A report from 2014 shows that women represent only 12% of the protagonists in the top 100 movies (Lauzen 2015) with female characters personified most often as young, sexually attractive and powerless, since films with female protagonists have shorter viewing time in theaters and have access to less screens.

            I would argue that the pseudo-feminist revolution in MM 4 follows the path of  double negation. If some critics saw in the movie a lecturing about “feminism” and “socialism”, with the bloviator Aaron Clarey calling for a boycott of the movie as a piece of feminist propaganda trying to erase the differences between men and women[33], it is impossible not to see in this recent narrative a criticism of the most controversial political histories of today. MM 4 operates as a typical dystopian discourse, it is an indirect criticism of the ISIS fundamentalists, kidnapping young women in the Middle East and using them as sex slaves. In a transparent way, the entire mythology of Immortan Joe is based on this reference. Angharad (also called Splendid), Cheedo the Fragile, The Dag, Toast the Knowing and Capable serve as “breeders” for Immortan Joe, locked up in a vault like precious treasures. Equiped with chastity belts, the women are presumably forced to have intercourse with the Leader in his effort to obtain healthy offspring. The first negation comes when, supported by Furiosa (probably a former sex slave, as the Furiosa comic book recounts, she used to be one of the wives), the five women escape, leaving behind the message “We are not things”, to the dismay of Immortan, finding his sexual vault empty. At this level there is more than just a plot decision – the direct consequence is that it generates a social transformation of dystopia (the monstrous rule of the killer patriarch) into utopia (a future society organized by women).

            Of course, such a move allowed some other critics to see Furiosa as the representation of a female liberator. When Miller conscientiously used Eve Ensler, the author of famous Vagina Monologues, as a consultant for better developing the dynamics between the abused women and their captor, this led to a narrative transformation. For the fans of the classical films, Mad Max appears to be “turned upside down”, the story transformed into a “feminist flick”, with Max only used as a shoulder support for Furiosa’s master marksmanship. Consequently it appears that the film tells the story of how masculinity destroyed the world, while women will regenerate it.

            In reality Furiosa is distinctly created as a substitute for Max – actually as a negation of the negation of Max. The best indications for this argument are the early sequences of the movie introducing her immediately after Max was about to be marked with the sign of the Lord Immortan. The frames are edited in such a way that initially the viewer would believe that the male hero enters the stage. Furiosa’s head is shaven as if she is the “anima” of the Wasteland warrior and she appears wearing a similar shoulder protection like Max. Miller, who acknowledged that Furiosa was developed as an equal to Max and that he purposefully created the character in order to follow-up with more episodes centered on a “gladiatrix”, fully geared with the famous galerus arm guard and a shocking prosthetic metal arm. One simple explanation would be that the franchise opens towards new audiences, with a marketing strategy better driven by a female hero. This might prove the argument drawn by authors like Adrienne Trier-Bieniek, that Hollywood and our popular culture can transform under the efforts of the socially conscious, awareness-raising groups, promoting balanced gender representations[34].

            This is why the most recent Mad Max is not what some have called a “feminist action movie”[35], where the members of the Vuvalini tribe (symbolically referring to the female genitals) are presented as warrior matriarchs, remnants of the former Many Mothers colony, positive shooter-heroes, who kill men mercilessly and might just save the world. The Vuvalini may look like Amazons on bikes, warriors descending symbolically from the “a-mazos”, the breast-less creatures of ancient mythology. We must point out a disregarded aspect – that almost all the Vuvalini (with the exception of The Valkyrie) are nameless. This is a universe where men carry caricature-like names and are granted eponyms, while The Matriarchs are without identity. More so, they are not portrayed as a positive social group – they use the nudity of their own young women to catch unsuspecting prey, they are cold-blooded killers and behave in a masculinized manner. It is here that the second negation comes into place – the Many Mothers are linked to the gangs of bikers in the other episodes and point to a negation of female identity. Last but not least, Furiosa’s masculinity and aggressive behavior, her dominance on the other women and her subsequent taking over of the Citadel are negations of negation towards femininity.

            The character of Imperator Furiosa becomes more explicit if she is carrying these negative traits of feminine identity – she is a desexualized woman, she leads a war party like a mercenary and is even depicted in a misogynistic way, as a dominatrix with a potentially dictatorial behavior. She portrays another stereotype of womanhood, the female hysteric manifestation. On one hand, Furiosa and the other fugitive women are identifiably with the Furies of Ancient Mythology. Although there is no specific number of existing furies, we have an account of at least three (Aeschilus in Eumenides names them as Alecto, Megara and Tisiphone), with four major mythical traits as Arai (curse), Poinai (revenge), Praxidikai (justice seeking) and Maniai (loss of reason). In the Greek mythology these creatures, who are also known as Erinyes, are linked to the death and revenge of the loved ones. This typology becomes explicit in the traits of the five fugitives – the female characters, often hysterical or upholders of moral integrity, are agents of anger, carriers of guilt, mobilized by a frenzy of soul. In fact the movie is called Fury Road, referring to Furiosa and her companion’s travel to extoll revenge.

            All the same, by the end of the movie there is a final reversal of roles. If at the beginning (the first negation) Furiosa is a feminine replacement for Max, she operates as the true Mad Max of this latest production, Max himself is downgraded, muted and reduced to a non-articulated supportive character. Yet this sexual transformation is followed by a second reversal of roles, when Max’s blood transfusion saves Furiosa and puts her back on her revolutionary track. Which finally generates a feminist message supported from behind by a male hero – which is not at all a the story of women empowerment. The ultimate negation of negations of sexual roles and identities.

            Dystopias of Dysfunctional Masculinity

            This line of arguments becomes more clear if we connect it with the so-called criticism of male aggression in Miller’s dystopias – which are crowded with homosexual fascists, perverse rapists and psychopathic leaders[36]. And although the first three movies of the series were often criticized as extolments of violent masculinity, the reality is that every film is indicating a defective manifestation of masculinity. In fact all the Mad Max movies are dystopias of dysfunctional masculinity.The apocalypse Miller seems to make us afraid of is that of the transformation of “standard” male identity. It is as if the director presents us with an answer to the question what would the world look like if Toecutter, Humungus, Master/ Blaster or Immortan Joe would be able to take over society?

            In Mad Max the political degeneration of society is accompanied by a private degeneration of individuals – it is as if normalcy is possible only in a conservative political and social environment. The false assumption is that a non-technological world can only create primitive human beings, with the immediate consequence (which is difficult to demonstrate) that any collapse of capitalism will be followed by the deterioration of the essences of humanity. In this sense, the degradation of masculinity is a negative projection of the possible effects of social revolutions against the existing order.

             There is another clear pattern of deviance in the Mad Max representations of genre, a negation of negation in the construction of all the dominant male figures, not just of the Antagonists. The monstrous males that populate the future imagined by Miller are often homoerotic or perverted creatures, genital perverts or sexually monstrous. The masculine and feminine identities in the Wastelands are not just troubled, they are profoundly mixed-up. As Miller acknowledged, post-apocalyptic sexualities are interchangeable[37] and this interchangeability is not a negative illustration of the discontent towards capitalist societies, instead it is a manifestation of its anxieties. These anguishes are exaggerated in a process where aggressive behavior is escalating to paroxysm, where violence engenders atrocious violence. One of the most suggestive episodes in the gratuitous male rape in MM1, ending up with a man running across the field naked and sullied in blood, points out a political allegory.

            In MM 1 the Nightrider gang is carrying all these negative traits – homosexuality, sadist-masochism – since they are radically opposed to those of Max Rockatansky, who remains the “good white guy”, the family man, the law imposing, self-centered male. This monstrous sexuality continues to have ideological functions in the following movies. From the homoerotic relationship between The Toecutter and Johnny the Boy in MM1, to the ridiculously sadist-masochist costume of “The Humungus” in MM 2 who rules over his “gayboy beserkers” in an indefinite sexual identity, then to the indefinite sexuality of the characters in MM3 and the total monstrosity in MM4, sexuality is always ambivalent in the Millerverse for a negative reason. Compliance with state violence becomes acceptable when faced with the improbable option of accepting the mindless violence of these social beasts. Even if the sexual predators from 1975 become the social predators of 1981 and end up as the political autocrats of the 2015 films, the message is similar. In the Wastelands the authorities are degraded and the only hope is individualistic strength.

            This process is self explanatory when we analyze the development of the “positive” characters. All the male leaders are degraded and show an incapacity to provide solutions for their subordinates. The head of the police force in MM 1 is called Fifi, and spends his free time watering his plant, walking around half naked, never capable to protect Max or the other policemen. Then there is the leader of the refinery community, called Pappagallo – a combination of father and parrot – unable to provide his community the necessary leadership. If we link these representations with the global competition for oil in the 70s, which became more acute during the 1980s, we see how the criticism in MM 2 is a political reference to Carterism. In the opposition between the leader of a democratic oasis of people dressed in white and self-governed by a humane Aryan (Papagallo typecast as a benign autocrat) and the mad gang of Lord Humungus, driven by sadist impulses, hungry for “guzzoline” there is a double negation of the current political leadership. Yet even if the political “non dominant males”, who were supposed to take care of the liberal oasis of the West have failed, on the other hand their possible replacements are decadent and heinous.

            This mechanism of several negations is even more explicit in “Fury Road” where a seemingly patriarchal society is negatively described as a final manifestation of the process that began with the attacks of the biker gangs of Nightrider in MM1. At first there is the positive negation – once again in MM 4 the story seems to carry an anti-militaristic, anti-patriarchal and anti-capitalist undertones. Again a post-apocalyptic society is dominated by a triumvirate of powerful and discretionary males. Immortan Joe, a former military now self-appointed prophet, the “People Eater”, who is an accountant administering the Gas Town, and Major Kalashnikov leading the Bullet Farm are controlling all possible resources of the Wasteland. The allegory of the military-economic-religious control overs society is explicit. It is as if the aggression of dominant males against their fellow humans has reached its paroxysmal outcome.

            In fact the description of all these men, just like the other male figures in the Millerverse, is ambiguously monstrous. The traits of the Mayor of Gas Town, a gouty overweighted, metal nosed cannibal, and those of the Bullet Farm leader, who wears a head band made of bullets, has bullet teeth and drives a bullet like machine are caricature-like representations of the defects of contemporary society. This is even more explicit with Immortan Joe – who is as monstrous as all the other males driven to destroy capitalist social order. He is a reversed father figure, called Daddy by all his followers, he is an egoistic Father, wanting only to perpetuate his own offsprings. Wanting to obtain a “healthy male heir”, he is unable to procreate anything else but monsters. Hiding his pestilent and rotting body behind a plastic body armor, with his face beyond a horse teeth mask, connected to a bladder on his back, he is, just like the Berkshire boar from Animal Farm, a militaristic tyrant, a hoggish creature driven by animalistic compulsions.

            As further detailed in the comic book “Nux & Immortan Joe”, this supreme leader of the Citadel was an ex-military, a colonel, Joe Moor, a veteran of the “Oil Wars” and hero of the “Water Wars”. A self-appointed leader of his own cult of personality, Immortan’s plexiglass armor makes him look a lot like the uniform of a Soviet general. This image is re-mixed, through his long white hair and ritualized manner in which he interacts with the others, with a parodic religious figure.Adding to these elements the image of a chieftain who has his own religion by taking over a desert aquifer, the references to the wars in the Middle East are complete.

            Apparently Immortan is the representation of the destruction of society brought out by the political worts in humanity or, as the voice-over of Max in MM4 states it, in the total corruption of humanity, everyone is “broken”, and there is no distinction between the individual forms madness takes. Yet at a profound ideological level, Miller’s movies represent a mirroring of a socialist political slogan. Just like the Soviet Power plus electrification equaled communism for Lenin, for Miller Capitalism without guzzoline equals anarchy and madness.

 Notes

What am I like in your world?

Let me take a peek.

Hey, Everett,

According to you, there are lots of different worlds

I’m not sure I understand

Oh, the dream of a never-ending dream

–          From X Jigen e Youkoso (“Welcome to the X^th Dimension”)

 performed by Etsuko Yakushimaru

Introduction

Prior to Space Dandy (2014), Shinichirō Watanabe’s critically acclaimed anime series, Cowboy Bebop (1998-1999), was conceived “not just [as] a space adventure series for adolescent boys but [as] a program that would appeal to adults.”[2] Set in the year 2071, on the spaceship Bebop, it “follows the adventures of a group of bounty hunters (two males and two females): ex-triad member Spike Spiegel, ex-cop Jet Black, con-artist Faye Valentine, and child computer hacker Radical Edward.”[3] The “Bebop” in the title, is a reference to “a modern movement in jazz that started at Minton’s Playhouse in Harlem in 1941. The artists there began a creative competition in an attempt to play jazz ‘freely’, and this competition resulted in the development of bebop.”[4] With the series’ “creator-of-record [being] ‘Hajime Yatate’ – Sunrise Studio’s well-known house pseudonym for a team effort”[5] – we can presume that the series creators were “playing “freely” or experimenting without ‘fear of risky things’ in the hope of creating a ‘new genre’.”[6]

The main character of Cowboy Bebop, Spike Spiegel, is in Susan Napier’s view, “literally and symbolically adrift in a universe that sustains him physically but offers him no emotional or spiritual nourishment.”[7] He is part of a reflexive commentary between what Annett regards as “the affects of cool, detached irony and a poignant longing for connection”[8] in a world inhabited by a sense of dispossession and spiritual homelessness. Foreshadowing a new trend in the anime medium during the late 1990s and onwards, Cowboy Bebop was an exponent of a phenomenon described by Napier as affected by “an increasing disillusionment with the promise of technology.”[9] This was identified in the “rough, retro look to […] technology [featured in the series which] rather than emphasizing amazing inventions, concentrates on the anguished psyches of its vulnerable and memorable characters.”[10]

On the other hand, Space Dandy is at first sight, the complete opposite of its predecessor. It has shed the grievous, brooding layers and quasi-dropped the postmodern / millenarian / technology-induced angst. Instead and in spite of its shortcomings, Space Dandy is a series that embraces the crisis, ridicules it and in doing so, opens the door to new original creations in a financially-pressed industry, catering, like other of its kindred, to the lowest common denominator. Its slapstick humor and occasional raunchiness is marked by an irreverent self-awareness. An A.V. Club review summarizes Space Dandy as follows:

The series premiere of Space Dandy goes out of it way to announce the show’s anarchic, irreverent tone. The show’s titular, pompadour-sporting hero is a freelance hunter for exotic, unregistered aliens in some far-flung future; he travels the galaxy in his broken-down starship, the Aloha Oe, with only a similarly broken-down robot and a useless, feline alien for company. A pre-credits introduction helpfully explains that these are the adventures of “Space Dandy and his brave space crew… in space.” The show’s belief that the word “space” is enough to make anything awesome teeters between earnest and ironic, as the over-the-top vocal performances and character animation are juxtaposed with eye-popping cosmic panoramas.[11]

This study examines the theme of utopia in what can be considered a postmodern pastiche series, comprised of mash-ups and drawing influence from Western sci-fi movies like Forbidden Planet (1950) or Tron (1982)[12] and Japanese animation classics alike. In order to more aptly contextualize the place of Space Dandy in the Japanese animated sci-fi genre, the paper first offers an overview of how dystopias and utopias function in anime, of what they represent for the East Asian culture while, at same time, running a parallel thread to Western movies and symbols. One particular aspect we explore deals with the causes that enabled the emergence of Space Dandy’s utopian communities / places and how in spite of the trope subversion at the centre of the series, they remain bound to a sum of externalities. Because of their inherent accidental origins, these alien utopias do not succumb to the classical entrapping of the dystopian hubris as a plot device. Even when in some of these instances, the conjuncture that allowed them to exist, disappears – as is the case with the end of sentience in one instance, we find in the sage words of a character that “this is not an ending, but a new beginning.”[13]

Observations on Dystopias and Japanese Animations: from the Bomb to the Automaton

We have been subordinate to our limitations until now. The time has come to cast aside these bonds and to elevate our consciousness to a higher plane. It is time to become a part of all things.

Puppet Master, Ghost in the Shell (1995)

Mainstream movies like The Matrix (1999), The Hunger Games (2012) or Inception (2010) were inspired by or were similar to Japanese cult films such as Akira (1988), Ghost in the Shell (1995), Battle Royale (2000) or Paprika (2006). Earlier, during the postwar period, Japanese sci-fi authors from Kōbō Abe, Shinichi Hoshi, Sakyo Komatsu to Kenzaborō Ōe and Haruki Murakami, were themselves influenced and hence embodied the literary “structural compromise” of writing in a genre that imported “[c]ontemporary American SF […] in part as a result of the American military occupation.”[14] Murakami’s works, for example, echo to varied degrees those of William Gibson’s Johnny Mnemonic (see Sekai noowari to hādo-boirudo wandārando / Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World) or George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (as is the case with ichi-kyu-hachi-yon / 1Q84) .[15]

The 1988 animated epic, Akira, directed by Katsuhiro Otomo, explored such themes as “the relationships between humans and machines and ultimately depict[ed] the potential for human development and evolution when confined by an oppressive police state.”[16] Originally a seinen manga,[17] developed by Masamune Shirow,[18] Ghost in the Shell achieved international mainstream success when it was made into an anime by Mamoru Oshii.[19] A stated source of inspiration for The Matrix,[20] Ghost in the Shell attracted parallels to Donna Haraway’s theories on the “Cyborg Manifesto”[21]: “we are all now cyborgs, we need to know how the computer sees, to learn to recognize its gaze and then to imitate it.”[22]

Haraway’s identified dualisms can be recognized in part or in their entirety in the dystopian anime subgenre: “representation / simulation; organic / biotic component; reproduction / replication; scientific management in home or factory / global factory (electronic cottage); labor / robotics; public or private / cyborg citizenship; sex / genetic engineering; mind / artificial intelligence.”[23] The dystopian Akira is according to a commentator cited by William M. Tsutsui, an exercise in “post nuclear sublime,” riddled with the traditional motifs of urban nihilism where the cinematic cityscape unravels into “riots in the streets, a venal authoritarian state, millenarian cults, terrorist movements, biker gangs, and a peculiar government program for developing psychic mutants.”[24] A memento of the present, Akira in Pellitteri’s view:

[…] introduces a narrative dystopia that goes allegorically over the main phases of contemporary Japanese history, transfiguring the visual spectacularity into a metaphor for the implosion / explosion of Japanese society, beginning from the trauma of the bombs up to the current hyper-industrialization and social decay.[25]

Shapiro, on the other hand, while still keeping in line with the “present as origin,” views Akira to be “more about the crises inherent in contemporary Japanese youth culture than what the bomb means.”[26] Still, in a case of art imitates life, Pellitteri continues:

Contemporary manga [and by extension, anime] was born in the fire of Hiroshima[27], which gave it what Saya Shiraishi (1997) has called the “Original Experience”: the story of a group of young survivors, bound by friendship and refusing to die, fighting in a post-apocalyptic world and allowing a new world to see the dawn. This traumatic scenario can be found in a thousand and one ways in manga and anime, where it acts as background to the battles of the robot: apocalypse avoided, apocalypse defeated.[28]

In other words, the bombs constitute representations of the unfathomable. A character from the story Seidōshoku no yami (A Bronze-coloured Dark, 1979), authored by Kurita Tōhei, speaks of the outcome of Nagasaki and how: “It was a tale from the land of the dead, impossible to believe,”[29] while Hiroshima survivor, medical practitioner Hachiya Michihiko writes in the eponymous Diary covering the period from August 6^th, 1945 to September 30^th, 1945 (Hiroshima nikki, 1955), how: “outsiders could not grasp the fact that they were witnessing the exodus of a people who walked in the realm of dreams.”[30] It is a case of aborted utopia which was during the 1980s, a leitmotif of the Japanese animated imaginary, revolving around “the vision of the Earth scoured by radiation and then spontaneously reborn.”[31]

Of familiar entropic results we are reminded of in Fritz Lang’s 1927 epic, Metropolis, where the robotic mechanical man is the logical expression for the “subverted utopia of ʻGerman technological modernization’ […] [outside the control] of those who had enthusiastically promoted modernization as the harbinger of democratic socialism and cultural purification.”[32] Lang’s automatons are denied a soul of their own and are deemed to be at the root of all problems – the epitome of hubris – “reflect[ing] th[e] increasingly negative assessment [at that time] of contemporary German realities and the dashed expectations for a technologically enabled utopian future.”[33] On the other hand, Oshii’s Other in Ghost in the Shell, “is a purely speculative or metaphysical entity without a trace of reality […] in [a depersonalized] city [that] can be both utopia and ruin.”[34]

 In a similar fashion to Lang, Oshii rejects on aesthetic grounds, “cultural nationalism, itself [spurred by the] rapid modernization [of the Japanese metropolis] since the mountains of rubble in 1945.”[35] Twenty years later, from 1947 to 1949, Lang’s Metropolis was reimagined by one of Japan’s groundbreaking manga artists, Tezuka Osamu. Expanding on the class divisions between humans and machines, the manga (animated in 2001) “feature[s] a vertically oriented city in which robots and humans live and work together, but in which they are strictly segregated by vertical divisions of space.”[36] Conversely, this division reoccurs at an ontological level, with only the most privileged humans able to maintain a completely organic body, while the others are “forced against their will to fuse in varying degrees with the machinic.”[37] 

Dystopias are echoes of the here and now. In spite of their uncanny features, one recognizes in them the idiosyncrasies, oxymora and cognitive dissonances associated with the present. The prefix “dys” “impl[ies] impairment or abnormality” of an “euchronian scheme”[38] rather then a premeditated descent into an ethically impaired abyss. Jennifer Gonzalez in addressing the cyborg bodies, posits that they are “reflections of a contemporary state of being.”[39] The cyborg representations “function[…] as a site of condensation and displacement,” coalescing “the multiple fears and desires of a [reality] in the process of transformation.”[40] Paraphrasing Joseph Raz, this autonomous reality is part author of its life, as such it “must be aware of [its] life as stretching over time. [It] must be capable of understanding how various choices will have considerable and lasting impact on [its] life.”[41] Taken to its paroxystic end, this micromanaged reality – by machines or technocrats – enables an “apocalyptic discourse, problematized as a condition that can no longer be counted to exist, thanks to the advances of technology and its increasing capabilities for both material and spiritual destruction.”[42]

Dystopian anime series like Texhnolyze (2003), Ergo Proxy (2006), Psycho Pass (2012, 2014), and even Steins Gate (2011), are built around or succumb to Frances Bonner’s 4 Cs tenets of cyberpunk: corporeality, computers, corporations and crime.[43] As far as corporeality is concerned, the body in its double alterity – of the (an)organic individual(s) and of the city, seen as a living mechanism controlled by A.I.-like programs[44] – becomes in Baudrillard’s words, “a fractal subject – an object among objects […] with an infinite set of surfaces.”[45] In Osamu Tezuka’s animated Metropolis for example, the city is represented as a huge machine where the humans inhabit “geographies of exclusion.”[46]

In these worlds, by fusing with the machine, the human body takes part in an estrangement, to the point that one wonders: “How much organic material is necessary to consider a being ‘human’?; What are the juridical ramifications of bodies that incorporate less and less organic material? Is human emotion possible in a world in which bodies are no longer containers for the mind/ soul?”[47] In Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell, “[a] cyborg’s ‘ghost’ is the remnant of the organic and human that remains beneath its technological supplements and alterations,”[48] with the main character standing for “a kind of archetypal cyborg entity, poised in the ever-shifting boundaries and borders between human and posthuman, technophilic and technophobic, utopian and dystopian, ordinary and extraordinary, conservative and radical.”[49] Stephen Teo accurately identifies the essence of these dystopian animations, as an expression of a posthuman imaginary which benefits from “the postmodernity of Asian cities as a motif of the future”[50]:

[…] with films such as Ghost in the Shell, Akira and Metropolis, anime […] question[s] the human self and its impact on the world around us. Metropolis appears to condense the endings of both Ghost and Akira as the robot protagonist, struggling with her identity, triggers off an apocalypse that is regenerative, for all its destructive power.[51]

Utopias: Recovering the Locus Mundi

They say there’s no such place… as Paradise. Even if you search to the ends of the Earth, there’s nothing there. No matter how far you walk, it’s always the same road. It just goes on and on. But, in spite of that… Why am I so driven to find it? A voice calls to me… It says: “Search for Paradise.”

Wolf’s Rain (2003)

On the other side of the spectrum, utopias embody both elements of the “good place / no place” binary[52]: the Golden Age[53] of yesteryear and the desired (post)human, orderly Eden version 2.0. Though one cannot access the former place, it will aspire to the latter for “[t]he rationale of a utopia has to be post-Golden Age, conceptually if not chronologically.”[54] In Roland Barthes’ view[55]: “to look at [the past] we must be excluded from it.”[56] In doing so, nostalgia settles in. Boym describes it “as a longing for [a] home that no longer exists or has never existed, […] a sentiment of loss and displacement, [and] also a romance with one’s own fantasy.”[57] Barthes adds: “[…] the time when my mother was alive before me is – History. No anamnesis could ever make me glimpse this time starting from myself,”[58] though one might long for and fantasize about it constantly.

Mutatis mutandis, the Japanese aesthetic concept of mono no aware (the pathos of things), “conveys fleeting beauty in an experience that cannot be pinned down or denoted by a single moment or image.”[59] Tze-Yue Hu explains it as “sensitivity to things and the language of feeling the incommunicable, as words are limited in expressing the intuitive undertaking.”[60] In spite of its fragility, Prusinsky adds, citing Andrijauskas: “in the Heian era,[61] […] mono no aware […] included ʻthe ability to discern and bring out the unique inner charm of every existing phenomenon or thing, to identify oneself with the object being contemplated, to empathize with its mysterious beauty’.”[62] This state is reminiscent of Ovid’s Golden Age aesthetics, where:

The earth herself, without compulsion, untouched by hoe or plowshare, of herself gave all things needful. […] Then spring was everlasting, and gentle zephyrs with warm breath played with the flowers that sprang unplanted. Anon the earth, untilled, brought forth her stores of grain, and the fields, though unfallowed, grew white with the heavy, bearded wheat. Streams of milk and streams of sweet nectar flowed, and yellow honey was distilled from the verdant oak.[63]

We drew this parallel since a number of Western scholars (Frank and Fritzie Manuel or Krishan Kumar) have argued that “true Utopias are impossible to find outside the Western tradition.”[64] Susan Napier explains that from their point of view, traditional Utopian paradigms are divided between on one hand, the city-state originating in Plato’s Republic, “combined with the post-apocalypse heavenly city of the Judeo-Christian tradition,”[65] and on the other, “the pastoral Utopia, the Arcadia of the Greeks combined with the pre-Lapsarian Eden of the Bible.”[66] With this said, Shinto – Japan’s foundational religion, which balances “influences from various parts of Asia and even Oceania”[67] with secular beliefs, divides the universe in five parts of which the last one – Tokoyo no Kuni (Land of endless nights) – is “a utopian land whose denizens neither age nor die.”[68] The oldest and second oldest chronicles of Japan, Kojiki (Record of Ancient Matters) (712) and Nihon Shoki (The Chronicles of Japan) (720) describe Tokoyo no Kuni “as linked to the dynamic of the whole life cycle – from harvest, regeneration and renewal to death.”[69] The influence of Platonian “static utopias” – in More and Campanella’s vein – could be replaced by the Confucian tradition and its focus on the creation of the perfect man or going even further back in time, to Duke of Zhou’s China – a 3000 years old casebook representation of the Golden Age.[70] While for the Western Arcadia, Napier identifies “the Taoist ideal of simplicity” and in particular, Tao Yuanming’s fable of a lost village, Tōgenkyō (The Peach Blossom Spring) (421), “a fictitious haven of peace, away from the turmoil of the world,”[71] accidentally uncovered by a lost fisherman “where people live in harmony with nature, happily unaware of the strife and problems of the outside world.”[72]

Aside from mono no aware, another concept, originating in Okinawa and still practiced today to a certain degree, yuimaru (reciprocity) represents: “a virtue that enabled the people […] to develop an idiosyncratic culture and identity, […] recall[ing] the ancient need for members of a family unit to work together to eke out a bare subsistence and for households to undertake projects for the common good.”[73] This type of communitarian identity is expressed through the notion of ichariba-chode (“Once we meet, we are like brothers and sisters”).[74] Chimugurisan (“someone’s pain is my pain”) and nuchidotakara (“life is the most precious thing in the world”) embody similar Okinawan values distilled in the crucible of the tumultuous and ardent experiences of island life.[75]

The animated version of these utopian experiences is encountered in Hayao Miyazaki – arguably one of Japan’s most acclaimed storytellers and filmmakers – and Studio Ghibli’s filmography. Hiroshi Yamanaka argues that Miyazaki’s movies “offer a new secularized spiritual vision of a world where Japanese can find salvation”[76] through an “appeal to ʻnostalgia’ for a usable past […] couched within [an] imaginary fantasy world.”[77] The core tenets of his body of work are: “memories (kioku), scenery (fūkei), one’s experiences with hometown (kokyō), one’s identity and understanding of local customs and environmental conditions (fūdosei), and one’s original experiences with sunset (yūkake).”[78] Miyazaki’s essentially bildungsroman movies subvert the theme of “good vs. evil” with the hero / heroine almost never fighting or opposing “a single monolithic enemy,” instead confronting conflicted individuals or groups defined by their redeeming qualities.[79] As James Mark Shields points out, what occurs is a premeditated deconstruction of the “good-evil divide.”[80]

Miyazaki himself was influenced by Isao Takahata,[81] whose Grave of the Fireflies (Hotaru no Haka) (1988) based on an semi-autobiographical short story (1967) by Akiyuki Nosaka,[82] is a masterful exercise in “disaster utopia.”[83] This type of stories despite representing overwhelming tragedy, “are also a promise of ʻhappy reconstruction days’, world-rectifying events that establish a new and fairer order – and a social universe renewed.”[84] Late film critic, Roger Ebert thought of Grave of the Fireflies as “an emotional experience so powerful that it forces a rethinking of animation”[85]:

Grave of the Fireflies (1988) is an animated film telling the story of two children from the port city of Kobe, made homeless by the bombs. Seita is a young teenager, and his sister Setsuko is about 5. […] The first shot of the film shows Seita dead in a subway station, and so we can guess Setsuko’s fate; we are accompanied through flashbacks by the boy’s spirit. […] There are ancient Japanese cultural currents flowing beneath the surface of Grave of the Fireflies, and they’re explained by critic Dennis H. Fukushima Jr., who finds the story’s origins in the tradition of double-suicide plays. It is not that Seita and Setsuko commit suicide overtly, but that life wears away their will to live.[86]

In a different tonality yet still maintaining the familiar nostalgic register, Miyazaki’s films from Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (Kaze no Tani no Naushika) (1984), My Neighbour Totoro (Tonari no Totoro) (1988), Princess Mononoke (Mononoke-hime) (1997), to Spirited Away (Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi) (2001, winner of the 75^th Academy Award for Best Animated Feature), Howl’s Moving Castle (Hauru no Ugoku Shiro) (2004, nominated at the 78^th Academy Awards for Best Animated Feature), Ponyo (Gake no Ue no Ponyo) (2008) or The Wind Rises (Kaze Tachinu) (2013, nominated at the 87^th Academy Awards for Best Animated Feature) – are accounts of utopian environments, that (with the exception of the last one) are located in a fantastic no-space, explained in Todorov’s words as “a frontier between two adjacent realms.”[87] In addition, these worlds built around the intersection between the sacred and the profane, the fantastical and the mundane, are also riddled with temporal dislocations and “scramble[d] sociohistorical points of references.”[88]

 In My Neigbour Totoro, for example, Wegner highlights “the utopian dimensions of animation,” characterized by the “absence of landscape” as is appropriate for the multipurposeful and resourceful satoyama regions (“forest commons managed by local agricultural communities”).[89] In the manga version of Nausicaä, we find a society of “forest people,” which in spite of inherent toils and tribulations, “are portrayed as perfect, optimistically representing the possibility of challenging but sustainable and fulfilling life in profound natural harmony, without sacrificing intellect.”[90] In so far as the environmental ubiquitousness is concerned, this can be in part attributed to the idea that even when travelling into the past[91] – like in Spirited Away – the pastoral utopian dimensions are composite elements of an idiosyncratic illo tempore and lost space,[92] where the “positive construction of nature [becomes] a prerequisite for [such] ideals.”[93]

In concluding this section, we are reminded of Karl Mannheim’s essay confronting the concepts of “ideology” and “utopia” whereupon the former is dependent on a historical perspective based on a complex game of socio-historical conditions, thoughts and actions. By contrast, the latter – when transposed in practice – wholly or partially – presupposes an annulment or dissolution of the prevalent and preordained order.”[94] Speaking of history, Himmelmann states that it cannot be understood by itself – in other words, it is not “natural,” since it is contingent on a spiritual initiative on the part of the social consciousness.[95] Miyazaki’s tales are exercises in contesting the idea that uncovering history means destiny,[96] instead he unveils glimpses of nostalgic dreams, remnants of a bygone era asleep in the uncharted sea of memories and millennia.[97]

Space Dandy – Reiterations of Postmodern Champloo[98]

This place is everywhere and nowhere.

Space Dandy (2014)

Space Dandy (2014) is the result of a collaborative effort helmed by Shinichirō Watanabe as general director and produced by Studio Bones. Like his two other previous original incarnations – Cowboy Bebop (1998-1999) and Samurai Champloo (2004-2005) – Space Dandy constitutes a similar mix of influences, themes and concepts laid over a 1970s disco inspired soundtrack, which gives the series an “old school and retro”[99] feel. Unlike the other two, Space Dandy is designed as a comedy that progresses across its two cours,[100] into more weird, brooding and darker tones, changing tonalities, from slapstick to Gallows, from lowbrow to highbrow, from droll to dry, from one style of animation to another depending on the directors, writers and animation supervisors assigned to every episode. Narrative wise, the series is wilfully disjointed, with every episode more or less rebooting the action across apparent parallel dimensions. Though not all 26 episodes provide an equally satisfying story-telling experience, in subtext, Space Dandy plays more along the lines of an ironic self-aware commentary on the state of the anime industry, than of simply yielding to the narrow-minded supply and demand for gratuitous fanservice (which is the case especially with the first episode, critically panned[101] and regarded as one of the series’ weakest parts).

A space opera dramedy at its core, Space Dandy follows the accident prone three-”manned” crew of the spaceship Aloha Oe, in their quest to find and capture rare or new alien life forms. The main characters – Dandy, the superficial alien hunter, QT, the robot with outdated software / vacuum cleaner capable of feelings and Meow, a lazy cat-like alien from the Planet Betelgeuse, addicted to Twitter – regularly die, are stranded in other dimensions or periods of time and in one instance, they even inadvertently trigger a chain reaction that turns the universe into a zombie utopia (further explored bellow).

 Since every episode reboots the characters, there does not seem to be a lot of character development and growth outside the character-driven episodes like episode 10: Ashita wa Kitto Tumorō Jan yo (There’s Always Tomorrow, Baby), which is Meow-centric and similar to Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day (1993); episode 13: Sōjiki Datte Koisuru Jan yo (Even Vacuum Cleaners Fall in Love, Baby), which is QT-centric and inspired by classics like Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot, Bicentennial Man, Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, or Steven Spielberg’s A.I: Artificial Intelligence (2001); or episode 21: Kanashimi no Nai Sekai Jan yo (A World with No Sadness, Baby), which is Dandy-centric and is reminiscent of late Robin Williams’ movie, What Dreams May Come (1998), Guillermo del Toro’s Pan Labyrinth (2006) or even Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris (1972). The characters function as plot devices, offering humour relief in the traditional stand-up comedy style of Manzai which involves a boke (funny man), usually Dandy and a tsukkomi (straight man), usually QT with Meow switching between the two roles. In the background, the Gogol and the Jaicro Empires are in a life or death stand off for the control of the universe. Without his knowledge, the first side is pursuing Dandy – thought as crucial for the future of the universe – yet is always unable to capture him (with the exception of the last episode).

 The parallel universes leitmotif appears from the first episode, Nagare Nagasarete Ikiru Jan yo (Live with the Flow, Baby) where while trapped in the void, Dandy pulls on a large wire which happens to be in QT’s assessment a cosmic string: “Oh wait, I know what that is! That’s a cosmic string. If we go pulling on it all willy-nilly, there’s a chance that space-time will distort even more and we’ll be trapped here forever”[102], while in the second episode, Maboroshi no Uchū Rāmen o Sagasu Jan yo (The Search for the Phantom Space Ramen, Baby), Dandy and Meow travel through a wormhole to an alternate dimension, with QT this time, stating that: “Since you just forced your way through the wormhole, the space-time warp has gotten more severe and dangerous.”[103] This culminates in episode 14: Onrī Wan ni Narenai Jan yo (I Can’t Be the Only One, Baby), after Meow asks himself: “In a universe where the possibilities are endless, how did I come to be friends with such irresponsible people?,” with the three of them meeting weirder and weirder counterparts from parallel universes. This was caused by the sudden appearance of a cosmic string – which is, in the narrator’s words:

better referred to as a dimensional fray. This is a string-like domain, the remnant of a phase defect at a certain point in space. By tugging on this string, a doorway to another parallel universe is opened. […] these universes are realms which encapsulate every conceivable possibility. […] All of them are neither counterfeits nor doubles but [Dandy’s] indisputable self for that particular world.[104]

If so far we examined where, how and why the themes of dystopia and utopia lead themselves to Japanese animations, in this final part, we analyse a set of episodes which are exponents or take place in what we have referred to as “accidental utopias”: one man’s (season 1, episode 2), a non-sentient one (season 1, episode 4), a plant-based one (season 1, episode 9), a temporal loop one (season 1, episode 10) and last but not least, an afterlife utopia (season 2, episode 8 (21)).

Journey into the Multiverse: Trope Reversals and Plot Devices

In search of new lands, I build a new house
I thatch the house with reed stalks… gathered neatly in bundles
At the stone wall, let us celebrate the golden house, that was built by a hundred carpenters.[105]
Obokuri-Eemui (Obtain Our Bearings, folk song) performed by Ikue Asazaki

In episode two, The Search for the Phantom Space Ramen, Baby (Maboroshi no Uchū Rāmen o Sagasu Jan yo), the characters are on a quest to find a rare alien who makes “other-dimensional flavored ramen” (Japanese noodle soup). Written by Dai Satō[106] and directed by Sayo Yamamoto,[107] the irony in this episode is that the long-sought for dish in the premise is actually none other than the terrestrial Ramen Jiro, listed by The Guardian UK in its “50 best things to eat in the world” and just like the series, “[r]amen Jiro is a very non-traditional, in your face, take it or leave it. You either love it or hate it.”[108] This episode is as much about one man’s tale as it is about the quasi-religious experience and spiritual quest to find the perfect culinary experience. Fittingly located on the other side of a wormhole, on an asteroid floating in space, the ramen-ya (restaurant) is managed by an old alien[109] that has been there for the last 10,000 years, with Dandy and Meow being the first customers in 90 years. In order to still make a living, he arranged to send ramen through the wormhole, noting that by the time it arrives, the noodles are stale and the flavor, changed. Prodded by Dandy and recognizing in him “an Earthling,” the old alien recounts how he went to Earth himself: “so long ago. I can’t even remember when it was.”[110] Responsible in his youth, for someone’s death, he flees his home-world and eventually growing exhausted in “both heart and soul” arrives on a world called Earth, where he learns the flavor of ramen, stating how it was something he would never forget and how afterwards, never able to return home, he went to the alternate dimension where: “All I can do is live here forever, making my ramen.” Asked by Dandy if he is lonely, the old man answers that he has “long since forgotten what the feeling of loneliness is.” With the wormhole destabilized and closing forever, the old alien chooses to remain there and along with him, the secret ingredient to the flavor – his tears.[111]

This episode encapsulates sci-fi writer Kim Stanley Robinson’s – author of the utopian Wild Shore Triptych and The Mars trilogy – definition on utopia as “the process of making a better world, the name for one path history can take, a dynamic, tumultuous, agonizing process, with no end. Struggle forever,”[112] scaled down to the path of atoning for one man’s sins yet with no one to offer absolution in return. It is accidental and it is an utopia because the experience is intermediated by a singularity and acknowledged by Dandy and thus – at least in this case – proves wrong the adage according to which “no man is an island” literally and figuratively.

Episode four, Sometimes You Can’t Live with Dying, Baby (Shinde mo Shini Kirenai Toki mo Aru Jan yo), directed by Ikuro Sato and penned by Kimiko Ueno, is an enterprise in deconstructing the zombie genre, with the main characters instead of fighting the walking dead, becoming themselves – the robot included – zombies. In this trope reversal, the creators construct an undead universe, narrated by God, in the spirit of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. This unconventional situation expands from the bottom to the top, beginning with daily activities: “A zombie’s morning starts early. At first, they could not accept the fact that they had become zombies and tried to find a way to turn back.” Failing to remedy their situation, the trio was initially, “haunted by the meaninglessness of their lives,” trapped in an endlessly repeating cycle of despair and “an inexplicable craving for raw meat.” Their senpai (elder) zombie – which they had previously captured and thus set in motion the zombie apocalypse – “tells” them how “changing your thinking may let you lead a happy zombie life.” The narrator explains how after they replaced “the word “rotting,” with the more positive word, “fermenting,” the half-rotting heroes were able to be more positive, too,” to the point that Dandy “thinks” how: “There’s not that big of a difference between being dead and being alive”[113] (this is reversed at first, only to be repeated in episode 21).

With slowness the only downside, life as zombies in space proves to be repetitive but peaceful. Moreover there is no discrimination since “in space, zombies don’t stand out so much.” Dandy obtains a death certificate and the payout from his life insurance policy and life continues undisturbed, with zombies converging for unexplained reasons at the mall. After “even the zombie hunter and the employees at the insurance agency that employed him, turned into zombies, [everyone] was able to live peacefully once again,” while the entire universe turned “at an astonishingly fast pace, where even robots turn[ed] into zombies.” When finally “every living thing has become a zombie,” the narrator proclaims: “no more species, no more sickness, no more differences. Everyone has become equal as zombies.”[114]

The movie Warm Bodies based on the eponymous novel, written by Isaac Marion, incorporates a similar genre subversion with the added romantic undertones between a human and a zombie that also happens to be the narrator of the story.[115] The absurdity of the premise as well as the positive outcome of the episode, would appear to confirm Geoghegan’s dual interpretations of utopia: on one hand, the “good place that, as of yet, has found no place” and which apparently can only be found in space and on the other, the “desire for goodness [peace] that could never realistically find a place”[116] (see endnote 55).

In episode nine, Plants Are Living Things, Too, Baby (Shokubutsu Datte Ikiteru Jan yo) the crew is searching for the mysterious alien – Code D – on Planet Planta. Directed by EunYoung Choi[117] and based on her story and Shinichirō Watanabe’s screenplay, the action takes places on the planet described by the narrator as being:

from times of yore, known as a world where plants alone grew rampantly. But in recent years, as a result of evolved plants, it has become a plant republic of 18 different states. Vegims – cerebral plants that live mainly in the northern hemisphere, possess an elevated intelligence and use tiny organisms known as microbes to do their labor. Elsewhere, Movies, which live in the southern hemisphere, are lower order plants which live a simpler lifestyle.[118]

The planet allows for the cohabitation of a utilitarian-inclined society and of a pastoral, Arcadian one. The episode focuses largely on the Vegims, especially on the scientist Doctor H and on his daughter, 033H. Having never previously encountered a human, Dandy is thought at first to be a strange plant. A review summarizes the events as follows:

Dr. H is kind and welcoming to Dandy once he’s been identified, and he too seeks to know more of the mysterious Code D – which […] causes plants to expand to even more preposterous sizes. What he doesn’t realize is that it’s also Code D’s presence that gave the plants of Planta their sentience – and when Dandy and 033H […] go on a magnificently surrealistic journey to find and retrieve Code D, the result is the end of sentience on Planta.[119] 

Before he regresses to his base form, Dr. H recounts how: “Long ago, we were ordinary plants. However, one day, that Code D, that meteorite landed here and everything changed. We all evolved. However, we were unable to control it. We will go back to our original forms, back where we once were,” with his parting words being: “This is not an ending. This is a new beginning.”[120] With sentience comes wisdom and Doctor H’s input on how Code D affects them in various ways – approaching its location, makes them grow exponentially – would anticipate a potential disturbing outcome to the continued evolution of life on the planet. Therefore, the only possible and reasonable outcome should be a return to a state prior self-awareness and cognizance, which is hastened by the fortuitous arrival of Dandy on his quest to retrieve what he believes to be a rare alien.

Episode 10, There’s Always Tomorrow, Baby (Ashita wa Kitto Tumorō Jan yo) is directed by Masayuki Miyaji and based on script by Kimiko Ueno. Miyaji participated in Studio Ghibli’s training program and afterwards was given the assistant director position to Hayao Miyazaki in Spirited Away, while Ueno is also responsible for the script in the zombie episode. In so far as they share the same writer, the two episodes also share a number of similarities such as the proclivity for repetitiveness, the mundane, or the banality of quotidian life. Through another subversive irony, in the zombie case, the main characters proved to be much more aware of their condition and even try to pro-actively improve it, while trapped in the time loop, they do not suspect that something is amiss for numerous cycles:

[At one point, the narrator explains:] I’m sure everyone’s noticed by now. The strong magnetic field caused by the [accidental burst] of Pyonium [an unintended effect of the war between the two empires] twisted time and space into a Möbius and that has caused them to fall into a space-time loop. They are repeating the same day over and over again.[121]

As mentioned above, this largely goes unnoticed by the trio and by anyone else on Meow’s planet, Betelgeuse. On the 88^th loop, QT wonders: “Oh? Do the days all seem the same to you?”; only for Dandy to dismiss it on account that “everyday is so monotonous.” When eventually, on the 108^th loop, all three start to anticipate random events: “For some reason I know what’ll happen next! (QT); “Is this what they call precognition?” (Dandy); followed by “Does this mean we have superpowers?” (Meow), the miffed narrator interjects and scolds them: “Of course not! It’s a loop! A loop! How many times do you think you’ve repeated the same day? The story can’t progress like this!” Owing to the deus ex machina intervention, the narrator adds: “they finally noticed that they were in a loop”[122], with a reviewer highlighting that: “They’re so content to simply sit in a bar drinking that it’s about three months before they even notice that anything’s wrong.”[123]

After a series of failed attempts at escaping their predicament, a pattern emerges: “Wake up in the morning, work up a sweat, and have a drink after work at the usual bar.” Having always wanted to escape his ordinary planet where nothing ever happens, Meow arrives to the conclusion that “doing what seems like the same thing every day like this [working at a manufacturing plant] … might not be too bad either.” But it is not about doing “what seems like the same thing,” it is actually “doing the same thing,” as QT aptly points out.[124]

There is a touch of Miyazaki’s l’esprit d’espace, in Miyaji’s direction of a story about reconciling the comfort brought by the native hearth with the infinite possibilities that wait to be discovered, once the first place is left behind. A reviewer underlines precisely this aspect:

[…] being forced to repeat the same day in a place he couldn’t wait to flee would be pure hell for Meow, but he actually begins to appreciate the appeal of it. […] There’s also a chance to let Meow’s father know that he appreciates him and that’s he’s sorry he can’t follow his path, and a “grass is always greener” realization that a comfortable daily routine has its own charms. The time loop is just a metaphor, of course, a stand-in for the daily routine that’s at the heart of so many lives – and highlights the choice so many young people must make between the lure of adventure and a new vista every day and the knowledge that you’ll never want for a bed, food on the table and people who care about you close-by.[125]

In this case, from an ontological standpoint, utopia is a Möbius-like closed system that has reached a plateau and in which any further change, mutation or transgression, would inevitably cause the collapse of this mundane order. It also amenable to Walter Benjamin’s idea “that under the surface of rationality the urban-industrial world had become re-enchanted on an unconscious level.”[126]

Finally, episode 21, A World with No Sadness, Baby (Kanashimi no Nai Sekai Jan yo), directed by Yasuhiro Nakura (who also provides the storyboards) and written by Shinichirō Watanabe, takes place on Planet Limbo, “filled with ghosts,” “a place between this world and that world,” inhabited by “the souls of the dead,” where the only thing that is alive, is the planet itself. Anthropomorphized, the planet takes the form of a girl named Poe that recounts how: “A long, long time ago, this planet had living beings on it. But they destroyed themselves with their own civilization. […] They are not around anymore.”[127] Instead what happens is that “the souls of the dead have a certain magnetism. Pulled in by the souls, other souls also come here” and since Poe has been lonely for a long time, it has made the planet a home for them. This is where Dandy wakes up – dead by all accounts – after what can only be described as a Viking ceremonial burial. Not being yet aware his condition, Dandy goes in search for “someone” to tell him where he is. This “someone” (dareka) happens to be Ferdinand, a veritable Virgil-like guide, a pure expression of a daimonic archetype,[128] a personified extension of the planet: “I guess you could say I’m rare. But you could also say I’m extremely common.”[129] Ferdinand leads Dandy on a journey of self-discovery where they encounter many strange creatures deliberating on the meaning of life and death.[130] When Dandy is finally confronted with the cause of his death, Ferdinand quips that:

[…] a lot of people forget the circumstances of their death […]. Do you accept that you’re dead now? Because […] this is a planet of the dead. […] It’s more unnatural to be alive. Anyway, you won’t grow older or get hungry here. You don’t have to work, and there is very little stress. It’s great. Come enjoy the party. […] [B]ecause there’s nothing for you to lose here. It’s a world with no sadness.[131]

Hearing this, Dandy asks how if there is no sadness, then “doesn’t that mean there’s no joy, either?” When he finally meets Poe and tells her he wants to escape the planet, she replies that he cannot go back but that he may be able to go to another dimension where he may have escaped death. In order for this happen, a sacrifice is required and it consists of Planet Limbo’s existence coming to an end: “[…] a large amount of energy is required for that. It would take all the energy on this planet” .[132] Once Dandy arrives to the conclusion that either dead or alive, he is still himself, the episode ends on an ambiguous note: showing him asleep on Aloha Oe as well as back on Planet Limbo, rejoining Poe and Ferdinand.

An alien minstrel playing Maurice Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte (Pavane for a dead princess) paints a fitting image to an Elysian world that exists only because of the grace of a solus deus and managed by its “reason” – seen in the episode as surveillance drone-like extensions of the planet, called Night Porters. What is a utopia if not a world without sadness, such as described by Ferdinand? All the analyzed episodes essentially offer the viewer glimpses into universes that in the end cannot be, not only due to the completely alien atmosphere and weltanschaung, but also because the theme of utopia is interpreted not just as a means to an end, but as the dead-end – that can be accepted like in episode 4 and 10 or which can be willfully discarded as in the case of Planets Planta and Limbo. As far as experimenting with the medium, episodes 2, 9 and 21, also happen to be the most rewarding visually and story-wise.

Conclusions

As we have already established, all the “accidental utopias” took place in alien environments where most of the aliens were beings unique among themselves; some manifested a benign surveillance element (episodes 9, 21); with the exception of the first case, they were generally structured within the confines of a raison d’être (episodes 9, 21) or self-contained (with the exception of episodes 4, 10); they were pattern generators (especially episodes 4, 10); there were external agents that enabled their coming into being (zombie alien in episode 4, meteorite in episode 9, random blast of Pyonium energy from an intergalactic war in episode 10, the planet’s conscience in episode 21) or on the contrary, that hastened their collapse (Dandy in episodes 2, 9, 21, the narrator through a deus ex machina in episode 10); they were shown to be both ephemeral (episodes 9, 10, 21) and eternal (episodes 2, 4). The only element they had in common was the distinct and overtly expressed lack of sadness at the heart of these worlds and the collective shrug when pointed out by external actors (Dandy in episodes 2, 21, the narrator in episodes 4, 10).

In counterpoint, it seems only appropriate that episode 13, Even Vacuum Cleaners Fall in Love, Baby (Sōjiki Datte Koisuru Jan yo), written by Dai Satō, presents us with a classical “rise of the machines, once they begin to manifest emotions” type of dystopian scenario,[133] which stays true to the creed that abuse, exploitation and neglect at the hand of organics, can have nefarious consequences for those who would abuse their power and privilege.

As we have detailed in the first part, dystopias are reflections of crisis, inevitable manifestations of when the fragile status quo of the present is disrupted malevolently or not, or just due to society as whole ignoring to take heed of the law of unintended consequences. In so far as the anime medium reflects the current state of the Japanese popular culture, it too is directly exposed to what is essentially an identity crisis. In an environment characterized by “nichification” as a result of monetary constraints and an apparent general stagnation in so far as original productions are concerned, Space Dandy incorporates the good and the bad of the industry and given the benefit of the doubt, regards the latter as a “necessary evil” associated with commercial mediums in general.

Utopia, as we have seen, remains an experiment in societal otherworldliness moored in an “uncanny valley.” Adapted to our case-study, this utopian uncanny valley refers to the ultimate rejection of these societies or experiences. It is no accident that the epitome of irony is reached in the zombie utopia: the usual cognitive functions required to reap the benefits of living peacefully and harmoniously in a homogenous community of shared values and emotions, are “zombified” and thus rendered obsolete. These are precisely the aspects which QT disregards in the beginning of episode 13 as “pointless things”[134] but whose importance could not be stressed enough. At its core, the outcome of dystopias and utopias is not a by-product of stealing from the “forbidden tree” but of disregarding the ontological values which constitute the society’s very own foundational tenets. From this sacrilegious act – as shown in the first part of the study – society inevitably falls into the entropic chain-reaction of abuses which pave the way, to more and more dystopian-prone outcomes. Reversely, the opposite is also possible, whereby upholding these values, one should not aim towards building an Eden-like city of God, down bellow in People’s edifices but should at the very least, acknowledge the silent / silenced dissonant tensions that amass more and more barriers between people and their creations and between peers alike.

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Notes

What am I like in your world?

Let me take a peek.

Hey, Everett,

According to you, there are lots of different worlds

I’m not sure I understand

Oh, the dream of a never-ending dream

–          From X Jigen e Youkoso (“Welcome to the X^th Dimension”)

 performed by Etsuko Yakushimaru

Introduction

Prior to Space Dandy (2014), Shinichirō Watanabe’s critically acclaimed anime series, Cowboy Bebop (1998-1999), was conceived “not just [as] a space adventure series for adolescent boys but [as] a program that would appeal to adults.”[2] Set in the year 2071, on the spaceship Bebop, it “follows the adventures of a group of bounty hunters (two males and two females): ex-triad member Spike Spiegel, ex-cop Jet Black, con-artist Faye Valentine, and child computer hacker Radical Edward.”[3] The “Bebop” in the title, is a reference to “a modern movement in jazz that started at Minton’s Playhouse in Harlem in 1941. The artists there began a creative competition in an attempt to play jazz ‘freely’, and this competition resulted in the development of bebop.”[4] With the series’ “creator-of-record [being] ‘Hajime Yatate’ – Sunrise Studio’s well-known house pseudonym for a team effort”[5] – we can presume that the series creators were “playing “freely” or experimenting without ‘fear of risky things’ in the hope of creating a ‘new genre’.”[6]

The main character of Cowboy Bebop, Spike Spiegel, is in Susan Napier’s view, “literally and symbolically adrift in a universe that sustains him physically but offers him no emotional or spiritual nourishment.”[7] He is part of a reflexive commentary between what Annett regards as “the affects of cool, detached irony and a poignant longing for connection”[8] in a world inhabited by a sense of dispossession and spiritual homelessness. Foreshadowing a new trend in the anime medium during the late 1990s and onwards, Cowboy Bebop was an exponent of a phenomenon described by Napier as affected by “an increasing disillusionment with the promise of technology.”[9] This was identified in the “rough, retro look to […] technology [featured in the series which] rather than emphasizing amazing inventions, concentrates on the anguished psyches of its vulnerable and memorable characters.”[10]

On the other hand, Space Dandy is at first sight, the complete opposite of its predecessor. It has shed the grievous, brooding layers and quasi-dropped the postmodern / millenarian / technology-induced angst. Instead and in spite of its shortcomings, Space Dandy is a series that embraces the crisis, ridicules it and in doing so, opens the door to new original creations in a financially-pressed industry, catering, like other of its kindred, to the lowest common denominator. Its slapstick humor and occasional raunchiness is marked by an irreverent self-awareness. An A.V. Club review summarizes Space Dandy as follows:

The series premiere of Space Dandy goes out of it way to announce the show’s anarchic, irreverent tone. The show’s titular, pompadour-sporting hero is a freelance hunter for exotic, unregistered aliens in some far-flung future; he travels the galaxy in his broken-down starship, the Aloha Oe, with only a similarly broken-down robot and a useless, feline alien for company. A pre-credits introduction helpfully explains that these are the adventures of “Space Dandy and his brave space crew… in space.” The show’s belief that the word “space” is enough to make anything awesome teeters between earnest and ironic, as the over-the-top vocal performances and character animation are juxtaposed with eye-popping cosmic panoramas.[11]

This study examines the theme of utopia in what can be considered a postmodern pastiche series, comprised of mash-ups and drawing influence from Western sci-fi movies like Forbidden Planet (1950) or Tron (1982)[12] and Japanese animation classics alike. In order to more aptly contextualize the place of Space Dandy in the Japanese animated sci-fi genre, the paper first offers an overview of how dystopias and utopias function in anime, of what they represent for the East Asian culture while, at same time, running a parallel thread to Western movies and symbols. One particular aspect we explore deals with the causes that enabled the emergence of Space Dandy’s utopian communities / places and how in spite of the trope subversion at the centre of the series, they remain bound to a sum of externalities. Because of their inherent accidental origins, these alien utopias do not succumb to the classical entrapping of the dystopian hubris as a plot device. Even when in some of these instances, the conjuncture that allowed them to exist, disappears – as is the case with the end of sentience in one instance, we find in the sage words of a character that “this is not an ending, but a new beginning.”[13]

Observations on Dystopias and Japanese Animations: from the Bomb to the Automaton

We have been subordinate to our limitations until now. The time has come to cast aside these bonds and to elevate our consciousness to a higher plane. It is time to become a part of all things.

Puppet Master, Ghost in the Shell (1995)

Mainstream movies like The Matrix (1999), The Hunger Games (2012) or Inception (2010) were inspired by or were similar to Japanese cult films such as Akira (1988), Ghost in the Shell (1995), Battle Royale (2000) or Paprika (2006). Earlier, during the postwar period, Japanese sci-fi authors from Kōbō Abe, Shinichi Hoshi, Sakyo Komatsu to Kenzaborō Ōe and Haruki Murakami, were themselves influenced and hence embodied the literary “structural compromise” of writing in a genre that imported “[c]ontemporary American SF […] in part as a result of the American military occupation.”[14] Murakami’s works, for example, echo to varied degrees those of William Gibson’s Johnny Mnemonic (see Sekai noowari to hādo-boirudo wandārando / Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World) or George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (as is the case with ichi-kyu-hachi-yon / 1Q84) .[15]

The 1988 animated epic, Akira, directed by Katsuhiro Otomo, explored such themes as “the relationships between humans and machines and ultimately depict[ed] the potential for human development and evolution when confined by an oppressive police state.”[16] Originally a seinen manga,[17] developed by Masamune Shirow,[18] Ghost in the Shell achieved international mainstream success when it was made into an anime by Mamoru Oshii.[19] A stated source of inspiration for The Matrix,[20] Ghost in the Shell attracted parallels to Donna Haraway’s theories on the “Cyborg Manifesto”[21]: “we are all now cyborgs, we need to know how the computer sees, to learn to recognize its gaze and then to imitate it.”[22]

Haraway’s identified dualisms can be recognized in part or in their entirety in the dystopian anime subgenre: “representation / simulation; organic / biotic component; reproduction / replication; scientific management in home or factory / global factory (electronic cottage); labor / robotics; public or private / cyborg citizenship; sex / genetic engineering; mind / artificial intelligence.”[23] The dystopian Akira is according to a commentator cited by William M. Tsutsui, an exercise in “post nuclear sublime,” riddled with the traditional motifs of urban nihilism where the cinematic cityscape unravels into “riots in the streets, a venal authoritarian state, millenarian cults, terrorist movements, biker gangs, and a peculiar government program for developing psychic mutants.”[24] A memento of the present, Akira in Pellitteri’s view:

[…] introduces a narrative dystopia that goes allegorically over the main phases of contemporary Japanese history, transfiguring the visual spectacularity into a metaphor for the implosion / explosion of Japanese society, beginning from the trauma of the bombs up to the current hyper-industrialization and social decay.[25]

Shapiro, on the other hand, while still keeping in line with the “present as origin,” views Akira to be “more about the crises inherent in contemporary Japanese youth culture than what the bomb means.”[26] Still, in a case of art imitates life, Pellitteri continues:

Contemporary manga [and by extension, anime] was born in the fire of Hiroshima[27], which gave it what Saya Shiraishi (1997) has called the “Original Experience”: the story of a group of young survivors, bound by friendship and refusing to die, fighting in a post-apocalyptic world and allowing a new world to see the dawn. This traumatic scenario can be found in a thousand and one ways in manga and anime, where it acts as background to the battles of the robot: apocalypse avoided, apocalypse defeated.[28]

In other words, the bombs constitute representations of the unfathomable. A character from the story Seidōshoku no yami (A Bronze-coloured Dark, 1979), authored by Kurita Tōhei, speaks of the outcome of Nagasaki and how: “It was a tale from the land of the dead, impossible to believe,”[29] while Hiroshima survivor, medical practitioner Hachiya Michihiko writes in the eponymous Diary covering the period from August 6^th, 1945 to September 30^th, 1945 (Hiroshima nikki, 1955), how: “outsiders could not grasp the fact that they were witnessing the exodus of a people who walked in the realm of dreams.”[30] It is a case of aborted utopia which was during the 1980s, a leitmotif of the Japanese animated imaginary, revolving around “the vision of the Earth scoured by radiation and then spontaneously reborn.”[31]

Of familiar entropic results we are reminded of in Fritz Lang’s 1927 epic, Metropolis, where the robotic mechanical man is the logical expression for the “subverted utopia of ʻGerman technological modernization’ […] [outside the control] of those who had enthusiastically promoted modernization as the harbinger of democratic socialism and cultural purification.”[32] Lang’s automatons are denied a soul of their own and are deemed to be at the root of all problems – the epitome of hubris – “reflect[ing] th[e] increasingly negative assessment [at that time] of contemporary German realities and the dashed expectations for a technologically enabled utopian future.”[33] On the other hand, Oshii’s Other in Ghost in the Shell, “is a purely speculative or metaphysical entity without a trace of reality […] in [a depersonalized] city [that] can be both utopia and ruin.”[34]

 In a similar fashion to Lang, Oshii rejects on aesthetic grounds, “cultural nationalism, itself [spurred by the] rapid modernization [of the Japanese metropolis] since the mountains of rubble in 1945.”[35] Twenty years later, from 1947 to 1949, Lang’s Metropolis was reimagined by one of Japan’s groundbreaking manga artists, Tezuka Osamu. Expanding on the class divisions between humans and machines, the manga (animated in 2001) “feature[s] a vertically oriented city in which robots and humans live and work together, but in which they are strictly segregated by vertical divisions of space.”[36] Conversely, this division reoccurs at an ontological level, with only the most privileged humans able to maintain a completely organic body, while the others are “forced against their will to fuse in varying degrees with the machinic.”[37] 

Dystopias are echoes of the here and now. In spite of their uncanny features, one recognizes in them the idiosyncrasies, oxymora and cognitive dissonances associated with the present. The prefix “dys” “impl[ies] impairment or abnormality” of an “euchronian scheme”[38] rather then a premeditated descent into an ethically impaired abyss. Jennifer Gonzalez in addressing the cyborg bodies, posits that they are “reflections of a contemporary state of being.”[39] The cyborg representations “function[…] as a site of condensation and displacement,” coalescing “the multiple fears and desires of a [reality] in the process of transformation.”[40] Paraphrasing Joseph Raz, this autonomous reality is part author of its life, as such it “must be aware of [its] life as stretching over time. [It] must be capable of understanding how various choices will have considerable and lasting impact on [its] life.”[41] Taken to its paroxystic end, this micromanaged reality – by machines or technocrats – enables an “apocalyptic discourse, problematized as a condition that can no longer be counted to exist, thanks to the advances of technology and its increasing capabilities for both material and spiritual destruction.”[42]

Dystopian anime series like Texhnolyze (2003), Ergo Proxy (2006), Psycho Pass (2012, 2014), and even Steins Gate (2011), are built around or succumb to Frances Bonner’s 4 Cs tenets of cyberpunk: corporeality, computers, corporations and crime.[43] As far as corporeality is concerned, the body in its double alterity – of the (an)organic individual(s) and of the city, seen as a living mechanism controlled by A.I.-like programs[44] – becomes in Baudrillard’s words, “a fractal subject – an object among objects […] with an infinite set of surfaces.”[45] In Osamu Tezuka’s animated Metropolis for example, the city is represented as a huge machine where the humans inhabit “geographies of exclusion.”[46]

In these worlds, by fusing with the machine, the human body takes part in an estrangement, to the point that one wonders: “How much organic material is necessary to consider a being ‘human’?; What are the juridical ramifications of bodies that incorporate less and less organic material? Is human emotion possible in a world in which bodies are no longer containers for the mind/ soul?”[47] In Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell, “[a] cyborg’s ‘ghost’ is the remnant of the organic and human that remains beneath its technological supplements and alterations,”[48] with the main character standing for “a kind of archetypal cyborg entity, poised in the ever-shifting boundaries and borders between human and posthuman, technophilic and technophobic, utopian and dystopian, ordinary and extraordinary, conservative and radical.”[49] Stephen Teo accurately identifies the essence of these dystopian animations, as an expression of a posthuman imaginary which benefits from “the postmodernity of Asian cities as a motif of the future”[50]:

[…] with films such as Ghost in the Shell, Akira and Metropolis, anime […] question[s] the human self and its impact on the world around us. Metropolis appears to condense the endings of both Ghost and Akira as the robot protagonist, struggling with her identity, triggers off an apocalypse that is regenerative, for all its destructive power.[51]

Utopias: Recovering the Locus Mundi

They say there’s no such place… as Paradise. Even if you search to the ends of the Earth, there’s nothing there. No matter how far you walk, it’s always the same road. It just goes on and on. But, in spite of that… Why am I so driven to find it? A voice calls to me… It says: “Search for Paradise.”

Wolf’s Rain (2003)

On the other side of the spectrum, utopias embody both elements of the “good place / no place” binary[52]: the Golden Age[53] of yesteryear and the desired (post)human, orderly Eden version 2.0. Though one cannot access the former place, it will aspire to the latter for “[t]he rationale of a utopia has to be post-Golden Age, conceptually if not chronologically.”[54] In Roland Barthes’ view[55]: “to look at [the past] we must be excluded from it.”[56] In doing so, nostalgia settles in. Boym describes it “as a longing for [a] home that no longer exists or has never existed, […] a sentiment of loss and displacement, [and] also a romance with one’s own fantasy.”[57] Barthes adds: “[…] the time when my mother was alive before me is – History. No anamnesis could ever make me glimpse this time starting from myself,”[58] though one might long for and fantasize about it constantly.

Mutatis mutandis, the Japanese aesthetic concept of mono no aware (the pathos of things), “conveys fleeting beauty in an experience that cannot be pinned down or denoted by a single moment or image.”[59] Tze-Yue Hu explains it as “sensitivity to things and the language of feeling the incommunicable, as words are limited in expressing the intuitive undertaking.”[60] In spite of its fragility, Prusinsky adds, citing Andrijauskas: “in the Heian era,[61] […] mono no aware […] included ʻthe ability to discern and bring out the unique inner charm of every existing phenomenon or thing, to identify oneself with the object being contemplated, to empathize with its mysterious beauty’.”[62] This state is reminiscent of Ovid’s Golden Age aesthetics, where:

The earth herself, without compulsion, untouched by hoe or plowshare, of herself gave all things needful. […] Then spring was everlasting, and gentle zephyrs with warm breath played with the flowers that sprang unplanted. Anon the earth, untilled, brought forth her stores of grain, and the fields, though unfallowed, grew white with the heavy, bearded wheat. Streams of milk and streams of sweet nectar flowed, and yellow honey was distilled from the verdant oak.[63]

We drew this parallel since a number of Western scholars (Frank and Fritzie Manuel or Krishan Kumar) have argued that “true Utopias are impossible to find outside the Western tradition.”[64] Susan Napier explains that from their point of view, traditional Utopian paradigms are divided between on one hand, the city-state originating in Plato’s Republic, “combined with the post-apocalypse heavenly city of the Judeo-Christian tradition,”[65] and on the other, “the pastoral Utopia, the Arcadia of the Greeks combined with the pre-Lapsarian Eden of the Bible.”[66] With this said, Shinto – Japan’s foundational religion, which balances “influences from various parts of Asia and even Oceania”[67] with secular beliefs, divides the universe in five parts of which the last one – Tokoyo no Kuni (Land of endless nights) – is “a utopian land whose denizens neither age nor die.”[68] The oldest and second oldest chronicles of Japan, Kojiki (Record of Ancient Matters) (712) and Nihon Shoki (The Chronicles of Japan) (720) describe Tokoyo no Kuni “as linked to the dynamic of the whole life cycle – from harvest, regeneration and renewal to death.”[69] The influence of Platonian “static utopias” – in More and Campanella’s vein – could be replaced by the Confucian tradition and its focus on the creation of the perfect man or going even further back in time, to Duke of Zhou’s China – a 3000 years old casebook representation of the Golden Age.[70] While for the Western Arcadia, Napier identifies “the Taoist ideal of simplicity” and in particular, Tao Yuanming’s fable of a lost village, Tōgenkyō (The Peach Blossom Spring) (421), “a fictitious haven of peace, away from the turmoil of the world,”[71] accidentally uncovered by a lost fisherman “where people live in harmony with nature, happily unaware of the strife and problems of the outside world.”[72]

Aside from mono no aware, another concept, originating in Okinawa and still practiced today to a certain degree, yuimaru (reciprocity) represents: “a virtue that enabled the people […] to develop an idiosyncratic culture and identity, […] recall[ing] the ancient need for members of a family unit to work together to eke out a bare subsistence and for households to undertake projects for the common good.”[73] This type of communitarian identity is expressed through the notion of ichariba-chode (“Once we meet, we are like brothers and sisters”).[74] Chimugurisan (“someone’s pain is my pain”) and nuchidotakara (“life is the most precious thing in the world”) embody similar Okinawan values distilled in the crucible of the tumultuous and ardent experiences of island life.[75]

The animated version of these utopian experiences is encountered in Hayao Miyazaki – arguably one of Japan’s most acclaimed storytellers and filmmakers – and Studio Ghibli’s filmography. Hiroshi Yamanaka argues that Miyazaki’s movies “offer a new secularized spiritual vision of a world where Japanese can find salvation”[76] through an “appeal to ʻnostalgia’ for a usable past […] couched within [an] imaginary fantasy world.”[77] The core tenets of his body of work are: “memories (kioku), scenery (fūkei), one’s experiences with hometown (kokyō), one’s identity and understanding of local customs and environmental conditions (fūdosei), and one’s original experiences with sunset (yūkake).”[78] Miyazaki’s essentially bildungsroman movies subvert the theme of “good vs. evil” with the hero / heroine almost never fighting or opposing “a single monolithic enemy,” instead confronting conflicted individuals or groups defined by their redeeming qualities.[79] As James Mark Shields points out, what occurs is a premeditated deconstruction of the “good-evil divide.”[80]

Miyazaki himself was influenced by Isao Takahata,[81] whose Grave of the Fireflies (Hotaru no Haka) (1988) based on an semi-autobiographical short story (1967) by Akiyuki Nosaka,[82] is a masterful exercise in “disaster utopia.”[83] This type of stories despite representing overwhelming tragedy, “are also a promise of ʻhappy reconstruction days’, world-rectifying events that establish a new and fairer order – and a social universe renewed.”[84] Late film critic, Roger Ebert thought of Grave of the Fireflies as “an emotional experience so powerful that it forces a rethinking of animation”[85]:

Grave of the Fireflies (1988) is an animated film telling the story of two children from the port city of Kobe, made homeless by the bombs. Seita is a young teenager, and his sister Setsuko is about 5. […] The first shot of the film shows Seita dead in a subway station, and so we can guess Setsuko’s fate; we are accompanied through flashbacks by the boy’s spirit. […] There are ancient Japanese cultural currents flowing beneath the surface of Grave of the Fireflies, and they’re explained by critic Dennis H. Fukushima Jr., who finds the story’s origins in the tradition of double-suicide plays. It is not that Seita and Setsuko commit suicide overtly, but that life wears away their will to live.[86]

In a different tonality yet still maintaining the familiar nostalgic register, Miyazaki’s films from Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (Kaze no Tani no Naushika) (1984), My Neighbour Totoro (Tonari no Totoro) (1988), Princess Mononoke (Mononoke-hime) (1997), to Spirited Away (Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi) (2001, winner of the 75^th Academy Award for Best Animated Feature), Howl’s Moving Castle (Hauru no Ugoku Shiro) (2004, nominated at the 78^th Academy Awards for Best Animated Feature), Ponyo (Gake no Ue no Ponyo) (2008) or The Wind Rises (Kaze Tachinu) (2013, nominated at the 87^th Academy Awards for Best Animated Feature) – are accounts of utopian environments, that (with the exception of the last one) are located in a fantastic no-space, explained in Todorov’s words as “a frontier between two adjacent realms.”[87] In addition, these worlds built around the intersection between the sacred and the profane, the fantastical and the mundane, are also riddled with temporal dislocations and “scramble[d] sociohistorical points of references.”[88]

 In My Neigbour Totoro, for example, Wegner highlights “the utopian dimensions of animation,” characterized by the “absence of landscape” as is appropriate for the multipurposeful and resourceful satoyama regions (“forest commons managed by local agricultural communities”).[89] In the manga version of Nausicaä, we find a society of “forest people,” which in spite of inherent toils and tribulations, “are portrayed as perfect, optimistically representing the possibility of challenging but sustainable and fulfilling life in profound natural harmony, without sacrificing intellect.”[90] In so far as the environmental ubiquitousness is concerned, this can be in part attributed to the idea that even when travelling into the past[91] – like in Spirited Away – the pastoral utopian dimensions are composite elements of an idiosyncratic illo tempore and lost space,[92] where the “positive construction of nature [becomes] a prerequisite for [such] ideals.”[93]

In concluding this section, we are reminded of Karl Mannheim’s essay confronting the concepts of “ideology” and “utopia” whereupon the former is dependent on a historical perspective based on a complex game of socio-historical conditions, thoughts and actions. By contrast, the latter – when transposed in practice – wholly or partially – presupposes an annulment or dissolution of the prevalent and preordained order.”[94] Speaking of history, Himmelmann states that it cannot be understood by itself – in other words, it is not “natural,” since it is contingent on a spiritual initiative on the part of the social consciousness.[95] Miyazaki’s tales are exercises in contesting the idea that uncovering history means destiny,[96] instead he unveils glimpses of nostalgic dreams, remnants of a bygone era asleep in the uncharted sea of memories and millennia.[97]

Space Dandy – Reiterations of Postmodern Champloo[98]

This place is everywhere and nowhere.

Space Dandy (2014)

Space Dandy (2014) is the result of a collaborative effort helmed by Shinichirō Watanabe as general director and produced by Studio Bones. Like his two other previous original incarnations – Cowboy Bebop (1998-1999) and Samurai Champloo (2004-2005) – Space Dandy constitutes a similar mix of influences, themes and concepts laid over a 1970s disco inspired soundtrack, which gives the series an “old school and retro”[99] feel. Unlike the other two, Space Dandy is designed as a comedy that progresses across its two cours,[100] into more weird, brooding and darker tones, changing tonalities, from slapstick to Gallows, from lowbrow to highbrow, from droll to dry, from one style of animation to another depending on the directors, writers and animation supervisors assigned to every episode. Narrative wise, the series is wilfully disjointed, with every episode more or less rebooting the action across apparent parallel dimensions. Though not all 26 episodes provide an equally satisfying story-telling experience, in subtext, Space Dandy plays more along the lines of an ironic self-aware commentary on the state of the anime industry, than of simply yielding to the narrow-minded supply and demand for gratuitous fanservice (which is the case especially with the first episode, critically panned[101] and regarded as one of the series’ weakest parts).

A space opera dramedy at its core, Space Dandy follows the accident prone three-”manned” crew of the spaceship Aloha Oe, in their quest to find and capture rare or new alien life forms. The main characters – Dandy, the superficial alien hunter, QT, the robot with outdated software / vacuum cleaner capable of feelings and Meow, a lazy cat-like alien from the Planet Betelgeuse, addicted to Twitter – regularly die, are stranded in other dimensions or periods of time and in one instance, they even inadvertently trigger a chain reaction that turns the universe into a zombie utopia (further explored bellow).

 Since every episode reboots the characters, there does not seem to be a lot of character development and growth outside the character-driven episodes like episode 10: Ashita wa Kitto Tumorō Jan yo (There’s Always Tomorrow, Baby), which is Meow-centric and similar to Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day (1993); episode 13: Sōjiki Datte Koisuru Jan yo (Even Vacuum Cleaners Fall in Love, Baby), which is QT-centric and inspired by classics like Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot, Bicentennial Man, Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, or Steven Spielberg’s A.I: Artificial Intelligence (2001); or episode 21: Kanashimi no Nai Sekai Jan yo (A World with No Sadness, Baby), which is Dandy-centric and is reminiscent of late Robin Williams’ movie, What Dreams May Come (1998), Guillermo del Toro’s Pan Labyrinth (2006) or even Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris (1972). The characters function as plot devices, offering humour relief in the traditional stand-up comedy style of Manzai which involves a boke (funny man), usually Dandy and a tsukkomi (straight man), usually QT with Meow switching between the two roles. In the background, the Gogol and the Jaicro Empires are in a life or death stand off for the control of the universe. Without his knowledge, the first side is pursuing Dandy – thought as crucial for the future of the universe – yet is always unable to capture him (with the exception of the last episode).

 The parallel universes leitmotif appears from the first episode, Nagare Nagasarete Ikiru Jan yo (Live with the Flow, Baby) where while trapped in the void, Dandy pulls on a large wire which happens to be in QT’s assessment a cosmic string: “Oh wait, I know what that is! That’s a cosmic string. If we go pulling on it all willy-nilly, there’s a chance that space-time will distort even more and we’ll be trapped here forever”[102], while in the second episode, Maboroshi no Uchū Rāmen o Sagasu Jan yo (The Search for the Phantom Space Ramen, Baby), Dandy and Meow travel through a wormhole to an alternate dimension, with QT this time, stating that: “Since you just forced your way through the wormhole, the space-time warp has gotten more severe and dangerous.”[103] This culminates in episode 14: Onrī Wan ni Narenai Jan yo (I Can’t Be the Only One, Baby), after Meow asks himself: “In a universe where the possibilities are endless, how did I come to be friends with such irresponsible people?,” with the three of them meeting weirder and weirder counterparts from parallel universes. This was caused by the sudden appearance of a cosmic string – which is, in the narrator’s words:

better referred to as a dimensional fray. This is a string-like domain, the remnant of a phase defect at a certain point in space. By tugging on this string, a doorway to another parallel universe is opened. […] these universes are realms which encapsulate every conceivable possibility. […] All of them are neither counterfeits nor doubles but [Dandy’s] indisputable self for that particular world.[104]

If so far we examined where, how and why the themes of dystopia and utopia lead themselves to Japanese animations, in this final part, we analyse a set of episodes which are exponents or take place in what we have referred to as “accidental utopias”: one man’s (season 1, episode 2), a non-sentient one (season 1, episode 4), a plant-based one (season 1, episode 9), a temporal loop one (season 1, episode 10) and last but not least, an afterlife utopia (season 2, episode 8 (21)).

Journey into the Multiverse: Trope Reversals and Plot Devices

In search of new lands, I build a new house
I thatch the house with reed stalks… gathered neatly in bundles
At the stone wall, let us celebrate the golden house, that was built by a hundred carpenters.[105]
Obokuri-Eemui (Obtain Our Bearings, folk song) performed by Ikue Asazaki

In episode two, The Search for the Phantom Space Ramen, Baby (Maboroshi no Uchū Rāmen o Sagasu Jan yo), the characters are on a quest to find a rare alien who makes “other-dimensional flavored ramen” (Japanese noodle soup). Written by Dai Satō[106] and directed by Sayo Yamamoto,[107] the irony in this episode is that the long-sought for dish in the premise is actually none other than the terrestrial Ramen Jiro, listed by The Guardian UK in its “50 best things to eat in the world” and just like the series, “[r]amen Jiro is a very non-traditional, in your face, take it or leave it. You either love it or hate it.”[108] This episode is as much about one man’s tale as it is about the quasi-religious experience and spiritual quest to find the perfect culinary experience. Fittingly located on the other side of a wormhole, on an asteroid floating in space, the ramen-ya (restaurant) is managed by an old alien[109] that has been there for the last 10,000 years, with Dandy and Meow being the first customers in 90 years. In order to still make a living, he arranged to send ramen through the wormhole, noting that by the time it arrives, the noodles are stale and the flavor, changed. Prodded by Dandy and recognizing in him “an Earthling,” the old alien recounts how he went to Earth himself: “so long ago. I can’t even remember when it was.”[110] Responsible in his youth, for someone’s death, he flees his home-world and eventually growing exhausted in “both heart and soul” arrives on a world called Earth, where he learns the flavor of ramen, stating how it was something he would never forget and how afterwards, never able to return home, he went to the alternate dimension where: “All I can do is live here forever, making my ramen.” Asked by Dandy if he is lonely, the old man answers that he has “long since forgotten what the feeling of loneliness is.” With the wormhole destabilized and closing forever, the old alien chooses to remain there and along with him, the secret ingredient to the flavor – his tears.[111]

This episode encapsulates sci-fi writer Kim Stanley Robinson’s – author of the utopian Wild Shore Triptych and The Mars trilogy – definition on utopia as “the process of making a better world, the name for one path history can take, a dynamic, tumultuous, agonizing process, with no end. Struggle forever,”[112] scaled down to the path of atoning for one man’s sins yet with no one to offer absolution in return. It is accidental and it is an utopia because the experience is intermediated by a singularity and acknowledged by Dandy and thus – at least in this case – proves wrong the adage according to which “no man is an island” literally and figuratively.

Episode four, Sometimes You Can’t Live with Dying, Baby (Shinde mo Shini Kirenai Toki mo Aru Jan yo), directed by Ikuro Sato and penned by Kimiko Ueno, is an enterprise in deconstructing the zombie genre, with the main characters instead of fighting the walking dead, becoming themselves – the robot included – zombies. In this trope reversal, the creators construct an undead universe, narrated by God, in the spirit of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. This unconventional situation expands from the bottom to the top, beginning with daily activities: “A zombie’s morning starts early. At first, they could not accept the fact that they had become zombies and tried to find a way to turn back.” Failing to remedy their situation, the trio was initially, “haunted by the meaninglessness of their lives,” trapped in an endlessly repeating cycle of despair and “an inexplicable craving for raw meat.” Their senpai (elder) zombie – which they had previously captured and thus set in motion the zombie apocalypse – “tells” them how “changing your thinking may let you lead a happy zombie life.” The narrator explains how after they replaced “the word “rotting,” with the more positive word, “fermenting,” the half-rotting heroes were able to be more positive, too,” to the point that Dandy “thinks” how: “There’s not that big of a difference between being dead and being alive”[113] (this is reversed at first, only to be repeated in episode 21).

With slowness the only downside, life as zombies in space proves to be repetitive but peaceful. Moreover there is no discrimination since “in space, zombies don’t stand out so much.” Dandy obtains a death certificate and the payout from his life insurance policy and life continues undisturbed, with zombies converging for unexplained reasons at the mall. After “even the zombie hunter and the employees at the insurance agency that employed him, turned into zombies, [everyone] was able to live peacefully once again,” while the entire universe turned “at an astonishingly fast pace, where even robots turn[ed] into zombies.” When finally “every living thing has become a zombie,” the narrator proclaims: “no more species, no more sickness, no more differences. Everyone has become equal as zombies.”[114]

The movie Warm Bodies based on the eponymous novel, written by Isaac Marion, incorporates a similar genre subversion with the added romantic undertones between a human and a zombie that also happens to be the narrator of the story.[115] The absurdity of the premise as well as the positive outcome of the episode, would appear to confirm Geoghegan’s dual interpretations of utopia: on one hand, the “good place that, as of yet, has found no place” and which apparently can only be found in space and on the other, the “desire for goodness [peace] that could never realistically find a place”[116] (see endnote 55).

In episode nine, Plants Are Living Things, Too, Baby (Shokubutsu Datte Ikiteru Jan yo) the crew is searching for the mysterious alien – Code D – on Planet Planta. Directed by EunYoung Choi[117] and based on her story and Shinichirō Watanabe’s screenplay, the action takes places on the planet described by the narrator as being:

from times of yore, known as a world where plants alone grew rampantly. But in recent years, as a result of evolved plants, it has become a plant republic of 18 different states. Vegims – cerebral plants that live mainly in the northern hemisphere, possess an elevated intelligence and use tiny organisms known as microbes to do their labor. Elsewhere, Movies, which live in the southern hemisphere, are lower order plants which live a simpler lifestyle.[118]

The planet allows for the cohabitation of a utilitarian-inclined society and of a pastoral, Arcadian one. The episode focuses largely on the Vegims, especially on the scientist Doctor H and on his daughter, 033H. Having never previously encountered a human, Dandy is thought at first to be a strange plant. A review summarizes the events as follows:

Dr. H is kind and welcoming to Dandy once he’s been identified, and he too seeks to know more of the mysterious Code D – which […] causes plants to expand to even more preposterous sizes. What he doesn’t realize is that it’s also Code D’s presence that gave the plants of Planta their sentience – and when Dandy and 033H […] go on a magnificently surrealistic journey to find and retrieve Code D, the result is the end of sentience on Planta.[119] 

Before he regresses to his base form, Dr. H recounts how: “Long ago, we were ordinary plants. However, one day, that Code D, that meteorite landed here and everything changed. We all evolved. However, we were unable to control it. We will go back to our original forms, back where we once were,” with his parting words being: “This is not an ending. This is a new beginning.”[120] With sentience comes wisdom and Doctor H’s input on how Code D affects them in various ways – approaching its location, makes them grow exponentially – would anticipate a potential disturbing outcome to the continued evolution of life on the planet. Therefore, the only possible and reasonable outcome should be a return to a state prior self-awareness and cognizance, which is hastened by the fortuitous arrival of Dandy on his quest to retrieve what he believes to be a rare alien.

Episode 10, There’s Always Tomorrow, Baby (Ashita wa Kitto Tumorō Jan yo) is directed by Masayuki Miyaji and based on script by Kimiko Ueno. Miyaji participated in Studio Ghibli’s training program and afterwards was given the assistant director position to Hayao Miyazaki in Spirited Away, while Ueno is also responsible for the script in the zombie episode. In so far as they share the same writer, the two episodes also share a number of similarities such as the proclivity for repetitiveness, the mundane, or the banality of quotidian life. Through another subversive irony, in the zombie case, the main characters proved to be much more aware of their condition and even try to pro-actively improve it, while trapped in the time loop, they do not suspect that something is amiss for numerous cycles:

[At one point, the narrator explains:] I’m sure everyone’s noticed by now. The strong magnetic field caused by the [accidental burst] of Pyonium [an unintended effect of the war between the two empires] twisted time and space into a Möbius and that has caused them to fall into a space-time loop. They are repeating the same day over and over again.[121]

As mentioned above, this largely goes unnoticed by the trio and by anyone else on Meow’s planet, Betelgeuse. On the 88^th loop, QT wonders: “Oh? Do the days all seem the same to you?”; only for Dandy to dismiss it on account that “everyday is so monotonous.” When eventually, on the 108^th loop, all three start to anticipate random events: “For some reason I know what’ll happen next! (QT); “Is this what they call precognition?” (Dandy); followed by “Does this mean we have superpowers?” (Meow), the miffed narrator interjects and scolds them: “Of course not! It’s a loop! A loop! How many times do you think you’ve repeated the same day? The story can’t progress like this!” Owing to the deus ex machina intervention, the narrator adds: “they finally noticed that they were in a loop”[122], with a reviewer highlighting that: “They’re so content to simply sit in a bar drinking that it’s about three months before they even notice that anything’s wrong.”[123]

After a series of failed attempts at escaping their predicament, a pattern emerges: “Wake up in the morning, work up a sweat, and have a drink after work at the usual bar.” Having always wanted to escape his ordinary planet where nothing ever happens, Meow arrives to the conclusion that “doing what seems like the same thing every day like this [working at a manufacturing plant] … might not be too bad either.” But it is not about doing “what seems like the same thing,” it is actually “doing the same thing,” as QT aptly points out.[124]

There is a touch of Miyazaki’s l’esprit d’espace, in Miyaji’s direction of a story about reconciling the comfort brought by the native hearth with the infinite possibilities that wait to be discovered, once the first place is left behind. A reviewer underlines precisely this aspect:

[…] being forced to repeat the same day in a place he couldn’t wait to flee would be pure hell for Meow, but he actually begins to appreciate the appeal of it. […] There’s also a chance to let Meow’s father know that he appreciates him and that’s he’s sorry he can’t follow his path, and a “grass is always greener” realization that a comfortable daily routine has its own charms. The time loop is just a metaphor, of course, a stand-in for the daily routine that’s at the heart of so many lives – and highlights the choice so many young people must make between the lure of adventure and a new vista every day and the knowledge that you’ll never want for a bed, food on the table and people who care about you close-by.[125]

In this case, from an ontological standpoint, utopia is a Möbius-like closed system that has reached a plateau and in which any further change, mutation or transgression, would inevitably cause the collapse of this mundane order. It also amenable to Walter Benjamin’s idea “that under the surface of rationality the urban-industrial world had become re-enchanted on an unconscious level.”[126]

Finally, episode 21, A World with No Sadness, Baby (Kanashimi no Nai Sekai Jan yo), directed by Yasuhiro Nakura (who also provides the storyboards) and written by Shinichirō Watanabe, takes place on Planet Limbo, “filled with ghosts,” “a place between this world and that world,” inhabited by “the souls of the dead,” where the only thing that is alive, is the planet itself. Anthropomorphized, the planet takes the form of a girl named Poe that recounts how: “A long, long time ago, this planet had living beings on it. But they destroyed themselves with their own civilization. […] They are not around anymore.”[127] Instead what happens is that “the souls of the dead have a certain magnetism. Pulled in by the souls, other souls also come here” and since Poe has been lonely for a long time, it has made the planet a home for them. This is where Dandy wakes up – dead by all accounts – after what can only be described as a Viking ceremonial burial. Not being yet aware his condition, Dandy goes in search for “someone” to tell him where he is. This “someone” (dareka) happens to be Ferdinand, a veritable Virgil-like guide, a pure expression of a daimonic archetype,[128] a personified extension of the planet: “I guess you could say I’m rare. But you could also say I’m extremely common.”[129] Ferdinand leads Dandy on a journey of self-discovery where they encounter many strange creatures deliberating on the meaning of life and death.[130] When Dandy is finally confronted with the cause of his death, Ferdinand quips that:

[…] a lot of people forget the circumstances of their death […]. Do you accept that you’re dead now? Because […] this is a planet of the dead. […] It’s more unnatural to be alive. Anyway, you won’t grow older or get hungry here. You don’t have to work, and there is very little stress. It’s great. Come enjoy the party. […] [B]ecause there’s nothing for you to lose here. It’s a world with no sadness.[131]

Hearing this, Dandy asks how if there is no sadness, then “doesn’t that mean there’s no joy, either?” When he finally meets Poe and tells her he wants to escape the planet, she replies that he cannot go back but that he may be able to go to another dimension where he may have escaped death. In order for this happen, a sacrifice is required and it consists of Planet Limbo’s existence coming to an end: “[…] a large amount of energy is required for that. It would take all the energy on this planet” .[132] Once Dandy arrives to the conclusion that either dead or alive, he is still himself, the episode ends on an ambiguous note: showing him asleep on Aloha Oe as well as back on Planet Limbo, rejoining Poe and Ferdinand.

An alien minstrel playing Maurice Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte (Pavane for a dead princess) paints a fitting image to an Elysian world that exists only because of the grace of a solus deus and managed by its “reason” – seen in the episode as surveillance drone-like extensions of the planet, called Night Porters. What is a utopia if not a world without sadness, such as described by Ferdinand? All the analyzed episodes essentially offer the viewer glimpses into universes that in the end cannot be, not only due to the completely alien atmosphere and weltanschaung, but also because the theme of utopia is interpreted not just as a means to an end, but as the dead-end – that can be accepted like in episode 4 and 10 or which can be willfully discarded as in the case of Planets Planta and Limbo. As far as experimenting with the medium, episodes 2, 9 and 21, also happen to be the most rewarding visually and story-wise.

Conclusions

As we have already established, all the “accidental utopias” took place in alien environments where most of the aliens were beings unique among themselves; some manifested a benign surveillance element (episodes 9, 21); with the exception of the first case, they were generally structured within the confines of a raison d’être (episodes 9, 21) or self-contained (with the exception of episodes 4, 10); they were pattern generators (especially episodes 4, 10); there were external agents that enabled their coming into being (zombie alien in episode 4, meteorite in episode 9, random blast of Pyonium energy from an intergalactic war in episode 10, the planet’s conscience in episode 21) or on the contrary, that hastened their collapse (Dandy in episodes 2, 9, 21, the narrator through a deus ex machina in episode 10); they were shown to be both ephemeral (episodes 9, 10, 21) and eternal (episodes 2, 4). The only element they had in common was the distinct and overtly expressed lack of sadness at the heart of these worlds and the collective shrug when pointed out by external actors (Dandy in episodes 2, 21, the narrator in episodes 4, 10).

In counterpoint, it seems only appropriate that episode 13, Even Vacuum Cleaners Fall in Love, Baby (Sōjiki Datte Koisuru Jan yo), written by Dai Satō, presents us with a classical “rise of the machines, once they begin to manifest emotions” type of dystopian scenario,[133] which stays true to the creed that abuse, exploitation and neglect at the hand of organics, can have nefarious consequences for those who would abuse their power and privilege.

As we have detailed in the first part, dystopias are reflections of crisis, inevitable manifestations of when the fragile status quo of the present is disrupted malevolently or not, or just due to society as whole ignoring to take heed of the law of unintended consequences. In so far as the anime medium reflects the current state of the Japanese popular culture, it too is directly exposed to what is essentially an identity crisis. In an environment characterized by “nichification” as a result of monetary constraints and an apparent general stagnation in so far as original productions are concerned, Space Dandy incorporates the good and the bad of the industry and given the benefit of the doubt, regards the latter as a “necessary evil” associated with commercial mediums in general.

Utopia, as we have seen, remains an experiment in societal otherworldliness moored in an “uncanny valley.” Adapted to our case-study, this utopian uncanny valley refers to the ultimate rejection of these societies or experiences. It is no accident that the epitome of irony is reached in the zombie utopia: the usual cognitive functions required to reap the benefits of living peacefully and harmoniously in a homogenous community of shared values and emotions, are “zombified” and thus rendered obsolete. These are precisely the aspects which QT disregards in the beginning of episode 13 as “pointless things”[134] but whose importance could not be stressed enough. At its core, the outcome of dystopias and utopias is not a by-product of stealing from the “forbidden tree” but of disregarding the ontological values which constitute the society’s very own foundational tenets. From this sacrilegious act – as shown in the first part of the study – society inevitably falls into the entropic chain-reaction of abuses which pave the way, to more and more dystopian-prone outcomes. Reversely, the opposite is also possible, whereby upholding these values, one should not aim towards building an Eden-like city of God, down bellow in People’s edifices but should at the very least, acknowledge the silent / silenced dissonant tensions that amass more and more barriers between people and their creations and between peers alike.

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Notes

Laurenţiu Malomfălean

Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania

laurentiu.malomfalean@ubbcluj.ro

Les machines à rêver dans le cinéma hypermoderne 

Dream-machines in Hypermodern Cinema

Abstract: The major intent of this article is to raise – if one is not able of giving an appropriate answer – one particular question: is a world where dreams are controllable a utopia or a dystopia? Since the 1970s, from less successful American sci-fi thrillers and horror movies to some iconic outputs (like Brazil, The City of Lost Children, Paprika, Inception), hypercinema has engendered many productions focusing on various hyper realistic whimsical machines of recording, erasing and even implanting dreams from human brains or minds. Thus, in the first part of my paper I review a series of movies that are simply featuring these devices made possible by mad scientists, while the remaining two sections are going to examine more in detail other films where dreams act either like utopian portals, or as an exit from a dystopia. Of course, if necessary, the synthetic approach will summon up network of comparisons.

Keywords: Dream-machine; Dystopia; Film; Hypercinema; Nightmare; Utopia; Oneirotopia.

Pour emprunter la terminologie hyper de Gilles Lipovetsky, toutes les productions cinématographiques analysées dans cet article appartiennent à l’hyper-cinéma[1] le plus récent, vu comme une nouvelle forme de transcendance, hypermoderne et hyper-décadente. Même si, lorsqu’on compare l’usage des rêves dans ces films avec les théories scientifiques sur le sujet, on trouve assez peu de ressemblances, le recours aux décors oniriques est fait premièrement pour des raisons artistiques[2], avec des intrigues déclenchées toujours par quelque chose qui ne marche pas comme il le faudrait. Dans ce qui suit, je vais présenter quelques films qui ne sont point intéressés d’être tout à fait réalistes en ce qui concerne les détails techniques, mais pour lesquels cet enjeu met en scène le rêve plutôt comme un prétexte d’envisager des mondes alternatifs.

1. Des dis-positifs à rêver

Brainstorm[3] (réalisé par Douglas Trumbull, sorti en 1983). Une équipe de scientifiques invente ce qu’on appelle une interface ordinateur-cerveau, qui permet d’enregistrer les sensations, les fantaisies et même les rêves d’une personne et puis de les convertir afin que d’autres puissent les expérimenter à leur tour. Poursuivant ce principe de copy-paste à playback, l’appareil peut simuler – donc hyper-réaliser – des émotions, des souvenirs mémoires et même une crise cardiaque. Même si l’infrastructure de ce mécanisme est ensuite rattachée au projet Brainstorm, que le gouvernement veut exploiter pour des buts militaires, le protagoniste achèvera l’inachevable quand il vivra les derniers instants de sa collègue décédée (pendant qu’elle était connectée au dispositif), en lui visualisant à nouveau les bulles de mémoire qui l’avaient bien sûr accompagnée dans une expérience de mort imminente. De plus, on peut pénétrer même dans l’espace éternel d’après la vie, à travers une telle vision de l’enfer, un vol des anges dans le cosmos ou des âmes perdues dans la lumière.

Dreamscape (réalisé par Joseph Ruben, sorti en 1984). Lorsqu’un médecin enseigne à un jeune voyant le moyen d’entrer dans les rêves des autres afin de guérir leurs cauchemars, il y a quelqu’un qui veut utiliser la technique pour des raisons maléfiques. Le professeur Novotny (Max von Sydow) a développé au cours des années cette méthode qui permet à certains individus de se lier volontairement avec les esprits des autres en se projetant eux-mêmes dans l’inconscient pendant le sommeil paradoxal (ou REM sleep), afin d’observer les rêves et, si nécessaire, les modifier. Les deux personnes apparaissent toujours avec des fils autour de la tête, la machine rendant possible l’interconnexion. De là, on a observé que le laboratoire hypnique dans le film évoquait des laboratoires qui fonctionnaient bien effectivement à cette époque-là ; le générique du final inclut également un conseiller médical. Dreamscape est ainsi l’une des œuvres cinématographiques les plus scientifiquement précises à avoir affaire à des rêves.[4]

Dream Lover (réalisé par Alan J. Pakula, sorti en 1986). Une femme souffrant d’un cauchemar récurrent post-traumatique de viol arrive au laboratoire du sommeil où elle va apprendre comment altérer le contenu de son rêve (tout en étant connectée à un dispositif) et même se réveiller à son gré. La production prend par la suite une tournure de science-fiction lorsqu’on introduit des mécanismes à contrôler la paralysie hypnique.

Jusqu’au bout du monde (Until the End of the World, réalisé par Wim Wenders, sorti en 1991) est un presque interminable road movie à la fin duquel nous admirons l’Australie. Ancré dans une année 1999 futuriste, le film fait figurer un homme qui voyage dans le monde entier en prenant des photos et des vidéos avec une caméra spéciale. Quand il atteint les Antipodes, on apprend que tout cela était préparé pour que sa mère aveugle puisse les voir. Dans une caverne, le père du protagoniste (on retrouve de nouveau le versatile von Sydow) dirige un établissement de recherche où il expérimente sur son dispositif capable de translater des impulsions cérébrales dans un cerveau différent ; les enregistrements réalisés par le fils seront regardées par celui-ci, de sorte que les ondes électriques résultées puissent être ensuite transférées dans le cerveau de la femme, qui arrive ainsi à discerner les images. Après la mort de celle-ci, on souhaite plus, et le savant découvrira le moyen d’utiliser l’appareil pour visualiser les rêves dans l’état de veille. Le processus est renversé : si les vidéos prises avec la caméra étaient transformées en information cérébrale, désormais la transposition agence les signaux du cerveau rêvant sous la forme des images.[5] Le résultat fait d’un chaos de données une symphonie de couleurs. Mais visionner de façon répétée les rêves des autres – sur quelques dispositifs qui font penser aux tablettes contemporaines où l’on verrait des courts métrages effacés – finit par créer de la dépendance : le fils et sa copine seront à peine arrêtés de regarder leur propres rêves, comme s’ils les avaient lus dans leurs journaux ayant cette seule fonction.

The Clocks Were Striking 13 (réalisé par Virginia Robertson, sorti en 1993) emprunte comme titre quelques mots de l’incipit de la dystopie orwellienne 1984. Il s’agit d’un court métrage dont l’action décrit The Dream Institute of Technology. Les visiteurs sont accueillis par une statue de marbre à l’instar du dieu Hypnos, qui semble être aussi une sorte de Cerbère à la porte d’une bibliothèque pleine de volumes reliés en cuir et traitant du sujet des rêves. Puisque les scientifiques ne peuvent être que des méchants, dans la cave placée en bas, un laboratoire du sommeil (dont l’aspect rappelle une baraque miteuse) contient des rangées de dormeurs, avec leurs EEG accrochées à un moniteur qui affiche les rêves en cours.[6]

La Cité des enfants perdus (réalisé par Marc Caro et Jean-Pierre Jeunet, sorti en 1995), nous propose à son tour un film de science-fiction consacré au sommeil rêvant. On est dans une société steampunk et surréaliste bien dystopique et, de plus, captive d’une époque indéterminée. Le vilain scientifique Cyclope, dont il ne reste qu’un cerveau dans une cuve, connecté à tel œil géant, prend soin de ses clones humains ratés, qui ont chacun des problèmes concernant le processus onirique. Si les petits six premiers souffrent de la narcolepsie, en tombant d’un coup dans le rêve, le septième clone s’avère même plus dysfonctionnel. En fait, le défaut de Krank est de ne pas avoir du sommeil paradoxal, donc des rêves. Aussi vieillit-il trop rapidement[7] et fait enlever des enfants pour les raccorder à son EEG qui est censé de le nourrir avec les rêves – par cela – volés. Il espère ainsi de ralentir les années, la vie, la mort. Malheureusement pour ce personnage assez grotesque, il s’agit toujours de cauchemars, puisqu’il fait peur.

Ouvre les yeux (Abre los ojos, réalisé par Alejandro Amenábar et sorti en 1997) est un film espagnol qui s’impose d’imaginer la compagnie utopique « Life Extension », spécialisée en suspension cryogénique: on fait geler des humains ayant des maladies incurables juste après l’instant de la mort, jusqu’à ce qu’un traitement devienne disponible dans le futur, quand ils seront d’une certaine façon ressuscités. Les personnes qui choisissent le procédé arrivent à garder leur cerveau actif en étant placés dans un état de rêve lucide – assez peu expliqué, même si le déroulement du film reste tout à fait brillant. On rappelle également le remake américain Vanilla Sky (réalisé par Cameron Crowe, sorti en 2001), plus connu mais moins substantiel.

Quant aux films toujours en quelque sorte oniriques de Michel Gondry, j’évoquerai au préalable la machinerie présente dans Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (sorti en 2004). Comme scénario du fantaisiste Charlie Kaufman, telle société « Lacuna Inc. » a inventé une méthode pour effacer tous les souvenirs des couples séparés, c’est-à-dire de faire évanouir à chacun son compagnon. La procédure se passe à travers une nuit de sommeil pendant laquelle on provoque un état d’amnésie grâce à une carte cérébrale de la présence de l’autre dans la mémoire. On devra par conséquent éradiquer le noyau émotionnel de chaque souvenir d’autrui, afin de les faire entrer dans un processus de dégradation. Au réveil, ils seront disparus à l’instar d’un mauvais rêve. À l’aide d’une simple requête Delete sur l’ordinateur en charge.[8] L’analogie rêves-souvenirs fonctionne lorsque ces derniers (qu’on visualise toujours dans le film) sont déroulés à l’inverse, et plutôt quand le protagoniste (Jim Carrey), en quittant lucidement la carte, arrive au territoire mental de l’enfance, d’où les scientifiques ne pourront que très difficilement le chasser vu le fait qu’il développe une espèce de résistance à l’intervention.

Dans La science des rêves (sorti en 2006) Gondry nous fabrique des rêves en carton qui s’efforcent à l’encontre des personnages de papier « postmodernes » ou textualistes. Mais la confusion rêve-réalité, on dirait hypermoderne, est réalisée par le biais des machines à imprimer, à écrire ou bien à explorer le temps d’une manière enfantine. Cette production française ne consacre au rêve que son début. On regarde (avec un Stéphane rêvant, bien compris) au « Stéphane TV ». Le nouvel épisode de « Télévision Éducative » nous montre comment les rêves sont préparés. Il s’agit d’une combinaison très délicate d’ingrédients assez complexes : d’abord on met des pensées aléatoires, puis on y ajoute quelques vagues souvenirs de la journée, mélangés à d’autres venant du passé, tels que des mélodies écoutées pendant la soirée, des choses vues, des questions personnelles. En bref, Michel Gondry fait que son personnage propose la métaphore classique d’une recette culinaire… tout en versant les condiments dans un pot de spaghetti. Cela provoque un rêve qui va se dérouler sur un écran géant derrière son dos, où il finit par entrer.

Paprika (パプリカ / Papurika, réalisé par Satoshi Kon, sorti en 2006) est un long métrage d’animation japonais d’après le roman homonyme de Yasutaka Tsutsui. Le caractère qui donne le titre du film est en fait l’alter ego de la doctoresse Atsuko Chiba. Elle se retrouve maintes fois dans l’imaginaire de son collègue, le docteur Konokawa, à l’aide de la soi-disant DC mini. Ce dispositif assez mignon est une clef (au sens propre et figuré) attaché derrière la tête du dormeur, qui permet de regarder ses rêves à l’ordinateur, de les analyser, d’en modifier le contenu, donc de les rendre lucides / volontaires / contrôlables, puis collectifs / communs / partagés, et même de les implanter dans un cerveau différent, sinon de les pénétrer. Quand l’un de ces mécanismes est volé, on arrive à passer de la réalité au rêve déjà de l’état vigile, avec des gardiens oniriques et des technologies tout à fait artificielles, de sorte qu’au final du film les rêves s’enchevêtrent dans le monde « réel ».

Enfin, la production la plus connue de la cinématographie récente utilisant le rêve comme un véritable moteur de l’intrigue est, certes, Inception (réalisé par Christopher Nolan, sorti en 2010). Une équipe des voleurs peuvent entrer dans les rêves d’autres personnes via des perfusions de médicaments faits par leur Chimiste. Il y a aussi une serviette avec un dispositif miraculeux, même si le scénariste ne fait point attention aux détails techniques. Le groupe exploite l’espionnage industriel afin d’extraire des secrets commerciaux ou pour l’inception : planter une idée que la victime pensera être sienne. C’est bien le mécanisme onirophore qui est en jeu, car on ne se souvient jamais du début d’un rêve – qu’on se rappelle toujours da fine al capo[9] , et de façon combien fragmentaire. Cependant, l’idée génératrice est implantée dans tel cerveau pendant le déroulement profond d’un rêve dans un rêve dans un rêve, où le temps s’écoule beaucoup plus lentement. Aux trois niveaux de réalité onirique engendrés par le film (les rêves du fourgon, de l’hôtel et du fort de neige, faits chacun par une autre personne, qui se trouve dans l’avion ou bien dans le rêve antérieur), on ajoute l’inattendu limbo, qui n’est rêvé par personne puisqu’il s’agit d’un espace de conscience partagée. On voit cette dystopie étagée de manière pluridimensionnelle, au fur et à mesure que l’Architecte ayant pour nom le mythique appellatif d’Ariadne élabore des labyrinthes assez bien définis ou des paysages conformes aux lois de la physique (tandis que les choses vont bien) ; et cela est fait de son propre désir (si nous aimons Freud), sinon de sa propre volonté de rêveuse lucide. En tout cas, nous n’avons rien expliqué de ce côté-là. On doit mentionner la présence des plans et des principes graphiques d’Escher, qui est une fort source d’inspiration pour l’escalier paradoxal sans fin, pour les miroirs juxtaposés face à face et la réflexion portée à l’infini (dans une séquence de probe qui se passe dans la cité lumière), ensuite pour les rues superposées ou d’autres images mouvantes qui trompent notre œil.[10]

2. Le rêve comme entrée dans l’utopie

Les trois films suivants sont censés expliciter un fait évident : chacun de nos rêves individuels est en effet un espace-temps utopique. Mais quand le rêve cesse d’être subjectif, en devenant par cela collectif, tous les mondes rêvés achèveront par être de pures dystopies. Et alors on ne peut parler que d’un cauchemar bien partagé. Dans le rêve, plus que nulle part ailleurs, l’enfer c’est les autres.

Qui veut tuer Jessie ? (Kdo chce zabít Jessii ? – réalisée par Václav Vorlíček, sorti en 1966) est une comédie tchécoslovaque. La professeure Beránková invente un sérum capable de transformer n’importe quel cauchemar dans un rêve agréable. Quand elle donne sa première démonstration sur une vache, on arrive à découvrir un effet secondaire grave: quelques-uns des mauvais morceaux oniriques originaux se manifestent dans le monde réel. Au cours d’une conférence avec des rêves transmis en direct sur un écran de télévision, les participants voient disparaître un taon du rêve de la vache, mais celui-ci réapparaît puis même dans la salle en effrayant l’auditoire. L’inventrice n’apprend rien de cette expérience et continue de se faire pénétrer dans les rêves des autres. La nuit, son époux Jindřich fait un rêve au terme duquel des personnages de bande dessinée lui apparaissent en pleine vue. Beránková essaie alors entièrement à son insu de le débarrasser de ce cauchemar. Mais dans la matinée on voit matérialisés dans l’appartement les dits-caractères, parmi lesquels on compte Jessie, Superman et le Flingueur. Et puis l’intrigue peut devenir folle, en s’achevant sur le procès de Beránek pour avoir introduit dans le monde réel des êtres invraisemblables.

Ensuite, je vais résumer les deux adaptations TV connus par le roman L’Autre Côté du rêve (The Lathe of Heaven) qu’Ursula K. Le Guin publie en 1971: la première, sous la direction de David Loxton and Fred Barzyk, sera lancée en 1980, tandis que la deuxième, sous forme de remake, est réalisée par Philip Haas en 2002.

C’est bien la dernière année mentionnée qui est d’ailleurs choisie pour ancrer les événements se déroulant dans le livre. Nous nous trouvons à Portland (Oregon, E.U.A), dans un futur proche où le protagoniste George Orr rend une visite à l’onirologue Bill (dans le premier film) / Walter (dans le deuxième) / William (dans le roman) Haber, puisqu’il ne veut plus rêver ses cauchemars qui changent la réalité. Soyons plus exacts, il s’agit en effet de « rêves effectifs », et non pas prémonitoires, qui arrivent à se dérouler par on ne sait quel subterfuge assez miraculeux – et jamais expliqué – de façon concomitante dans les endroits réels correspondants, ce qui fait que seul le rêveur ait conscience de l’état de choses antérieure.

Le médecin possède une espèce de machine appelée « L’Augmentor », par l’intermédiaire unique de laquelle George est fait passer rapidement à travers toutes les phases du sommeil jusqu’à celle nommée REM ; une fois arrivé là-bas, il y sera tout de suite bloqué. Pour voir comment il travaille son cerveau, Haber lui provoque / suggère / induit certains rêves à l’instar de la hypnose. On croyait ainsi améliorer une activité onirique tout à fait inhérente.

Mais le résultat qu’on apprend à forger avec cette cure est seulement utilitaire. Puisque le rêveur effectif ne fait que produire plusieurs mondes alternatifs, des utopies l’une après l’autre, où le monde réel survient corrigé, devenant utopique par force à la fois dans le rêve et dans la réalité. On arrête ainsi les interminables pluies acides, le beau soleil remplaçant le smog, on éradique  les problèmes écologiques, la famine, le cancer, les inégalités socio-économiques, on réussit à équilibrer la vie urbaine, suivant le dicton utilitariste « Le plus grand bonheur pour le plus grand nombre ». Tout va bien jusqu’à ce que le patient soit mis à rêver L’Institut onirologique William F. Haber.

Le psychiatre se sert de ces rêves pour changer la Terre à son image et à sa ressemblance. Quoiqu’il comprenne les capacités d’Orr, la série des alternatives s’avère bientôt n’être qu’autant de scénarios SF dystopiques. Les mondes rêvés ont chacun au moins un désagrément: dans un monde sans racisme, la peau devient grise; on résout la question démographique grâce à un fléau qui anéantit trois quarts de la population du Globe; la paix terrestre est acquise au prix de l’invasion de la Lune (devenue entre temps une colonie humaine) par des extraterrestres, les nations s’alliant contre cette menace. Quand les envahisseurs débarquent sur notre planète, ils se comportent de manière paisible, non agressive, mais finalement la Montagne Hood est bombardée, le volcan réveillé et son explosion assurée.

Les choses échappent à tout contrôle dès qu’Haber devient le dirigeant mondial. Mais lorsqu’il veut se provoquer lui-même des rêves effectifs, son patient détruit l’Augmentor pendant ce processus, de sorte que le thérapeute perdra ensuite le raisonnement psychique. En outre, d’un acte de volonté pure, George rêve d’avoir perdu son pouvoir utopique. Et c’est ainsi que la boucle se referme. On apprend qu’en avril 1998, Orr avait survécu à une catastrophe nucléaire en rêvant de façon bien effective un monde nouveau. Par un artifice deus ex machina, des fragments de toutes les réalités rêvées s’unissent et récréent la réalité originaire.

La deuxième adaptation du livre se passe dans l’ère pharmaceutique, avec la rationalisation des aliments sur le marché noir et beaucoup d’autres ajustements qui changeront l’existence  de mal en pis. À la fois, comme dans Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, George Orr et sa compagne sont obligés de partir vers un endroit – souterrain, cette fois-ci – où ils seraient introuvables pour l’onirologue fou. Le film s’éloigne souvent du roman signé par Le Guin.

3. Le rêve comme sortie de la dystopie

Brazil (réalisé par Terry Gilliam et sorti en 1985 d’après un scénario du même, écrit avec Tom Stoppard et Charles McKeown) est un film d’anticipation où les rêves – bien qu’il puisse s’agir en fait seulement d’une rêverie récurrente – fonctionnent comme une forte échappatoire. On parle donc d’une soupape onirique.

Le protagoniste arrive à sortir de la dystopie toujours collective par tel rêve compensateur, en pouvant faire disparaître pendant quelques instants une société d’hyperconsommation trop confiante dans ses machines fantaisistes et capricieuses, qui sont au commandement d’un tout aussi bizarre ou critiquable Ministère de l’Information. Durant sa vie de veille, Sam Lowry est en revanche un fonctionnaire capable de bien se complaire dans un monde futuriste assez totalitaire. Toutefois, il y a chaque jour des erreurs administratives et il essaye de réparer les petites et grandes injustices, donc il s’oppose en dissident contre le système.

Puis, l’apparition de la femme de ses rêves lui complique davantage l’existence. À travers les séquences d’effet composées par le réalisateur, il y a celle du rêve de vol parmi les nuages, désirée pour que le personnage puisse y rattraper sa figure bien-aimée. La scène « des monolithes » comporte d’immenses colonnes de briques surgissant du sol et bloquant le voleur. À propos de cela, Terry Gilliam peut commenter aisément : « Quelqu’un a dit que les rêves sont sexuels. Lorsque les monolithes sortent de terre, ce sont d’immenses érections qui lui bloquent la vue »[11]. En effet, rajoute ensuite le metteur en rêve, dans la séquence qui avait été initialement prévue, on voyait Sam transporter l’emprisonnée Jill vers une étendue campagnarde sans fin, tout en survolant ni plus ni moins qu’un océan de globes oculaires les fixant avec intensité ; la femme aurait fini par être aspirée dans l’eau des yeux grand ouverts.

      Mais les éléments de la dystopie sont bien assumés dans ce cauchemar, à côté de l’anima délivrée finalement par le héros-ego. Les enfants de Buttle – tué par une erreur bureaucratique tout comme dans Le Procès de Kafka – deviennent des pièces de puzzle cauchemardesques, le travail onirique les transformant bientôt en bêtes. Monsieur Helpmann joue le rôle du vieux sage jungien, déguisé en Père Noël. Ensuite, l’imago maternel du personnage principal est trop présent, responsable peut-être d’une certaine dévirilisation : au cours du rêve Sam Lowry est musculeux, alors qu’il ne l’est point à son réveil. Malheureusement, le final nous propose une victime. On/il ne fait plus la différence. Le retour à la réalité la plus réelle ou naturelle s’avère atroce. À l’intérieur d’un gros bâtiment steampunk, le protagoniste est lobotomisé.

Pour conclure mes lectures immanentes et les vues suscitées, je dois préciser que je ne me suis pas intéressé dans cette synthèse à des films ayant comme sujet de prédilection l’existence virtuelle générée par l’ordinateur (Matrix, Passé virtuel (The Thirteenth Floor), eXistenZ, ou The Cell), puisque même si les comparaisons rêveuses sont à la portée de chacun, ils n’ont affaire à l’onirique que de manière tangentielle. De plus, on parle d’analogies pour la plupart négatives (le rêve en tant qu’illusion, occultation de la vérité etc.).

Dans tous les cas cependant mentionnés au cours de l’article, on voit très bien la façon dont le mouvement hypermoderne de la rationalisation des rêves agit, visant à contrôler – autant que possible – l’incontrôlable. Quand les aventures nocturnes peuvent être fabriquées avec telle machinerie et tel dispositif, on se trouve aux antipodes absolus de l’appareil psychique.

Ensuite, lorsque j’envisage le rêve à l’instar d’une entrée dans l’utopie (donc un produit machinal / mécanique) ou bien comme une sortie de la dystopie (l’homme-dit machine), l’enjeu théorique de mon étude reste le même : chacun des mondes cinématographiques analysés mérite l’appellatif d’onirotopie filmique.

Bibliographie

Barrett, Deirdre, « Index of films and documentaries », reviews, International Association for the Study of Dreams, http://www.asdreams.org/videofil.htm ;

Băilă, Oana-Irina, Inception, compte rendu, Film Menu, n° 7, octobre 2010, p. 15.

Borhină, Sorana, « Sayonara, Satoshi Kon ! », Film Menu, n° 7, octobre 2010, p. 19.

Brooks, Janice E. & Vogelsong, Jay A., The conscious exploration of dreaming. Discovering how we create and control our dreams, foreword by J. Allan Hobson, with assistance from Ruth M. Sacksteder, [Bloomington], AuthorHouse, 2000.

Curry, Robert, « Films and Dreams », The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Vol. 33, No. 1, Autumn 1974, p. 83-9.

Gélinas, Marc F., « Du film, du texte et du rêve, en tant qu’objets et activités symboliques », Cinemas. Revue d’Études Cinématographiques, Vol. 2, N° 1, Automne 10/1991, p. 121-35, 190.

Gilliam, Terry : entretien réalisé par Alain Garel et François Guérif, La Revue du cinéma, n° 403, mars 85, p. 82-89.

Gillibert, Jean, « Film et rêve », Confrontations Psychiatriques, n° 45, 2005, p. 97-113.

Le Guin, Ursula K. : The Lathe of Heaven, [New York], Avon Books, 1971 ; L’Autre Côté du rêve, traduction de Henry-Luc Planchat, [Paris], Le Livre de Poche (Science-fiction, 7243), 2002.

Halpern, Leslie, Dreams on film. The cinematic struggle between art and science, foreword by Robert Smither, Jefferson, North Carolina, McFarland & Co., 2003.

Lipovetsky, Gilles & Serroy, Jean, L’Écran global : culture-médias et cinéma à l’âge hypermoderne, Éditions du Seuil, Paris, 2011 [2007].

Montangero, Jacques, « Dreams are narrative simulations of autobiographical episodes, not stories or scripts: a review », Dreaming. Journal of the Association for the Study of Dreams, Vol. 22, No. 3, September 2012, p. 157-72.

Nishimoto, Shinji [et al.], « Reconstructing Visual Experiences from Brain Activity Evoked by Natural Movies », Current Biology, Vol. 21, No. 19, 22 September 2011, p. 1641-6.

Pagel, J.F., Kwiatkowski, C., Broyles, K. E., « Dream Use in Film Making », Dreaming. Journal of the Association for the Study of Dreams, Vol. 9, No. 4, December 1999, p. 247-56.

Stephan, I., « Introduction. Literature – Dream – Film (Dreams and its effects) », Zeitschrift für Germanistik, Vol. 18, No. 1, Bern, Peter Lang, 2008, p. 7-10.

Notes

Laurenţiu Malomfălean

Babeş-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania

laurentiu.malomfalean@ubbcluj.ro

Les machines à rêver dans le cinéma hypermoderne 

Dream-machines in Hypermodern Cinema

Abstract: The major intent of this article is to raise – if one is not able of giving an appropriate answer – one particular question: is a world where dreams are controllable a utopia or a dystopia? Since the 1970s, from less successful American sci-fi thrillers and horror movies to some iconic outputs (like Brazil, The City of Lost Children, Paprika, Inception), hypercinema has engendered many productions focusing on various hyper realistic whimsical machines of recording, erasing and even implanting dreams from human brains or minds. Thus, in the first part of my paper I review a series of movies that are simply featuring these devices made possible by mad scientists, while the remaining two sections are going to examine more in detail other films where dreams act either like utopian portals, or as an exit from a dystopia. Of course, if necessary, the synthetic approach will summon up network of comparisons.