![]() Today I felt as if I came out of my last class just beaming. My freshman seminar, Photography and Literature, was absolutely intriguing. Three hours went by as if they were three minutes. Around seven other people are in this seminar with me, the professor is new, and this is the first time that this class has been listed. Somehow, all of these things combined to create a class that is refreshing; it just feels there are little bits of passion or newness, and maybe just a slight hint of something strikingly fresh—like when you get that after-taste of citrus when drinking freshly squeezed, maybe-a-little-too-sour lemonade. I’m not really sure how to describe it, but I loved it. Before class this week, the professor asked us to read Barthes’ Camera Lucida, which is a collection of musings on photography, mostly regarding theory, purpose, and essence in photography as a medium. When I first read this book, I probably only understood an optimistic half of it—this guy is really dense and philosophical, I guess. After discussion in class, I felt a little clearer. We spoke mostly about Barthes’ claim that photography, as a medium in itself, is actually quite useless. He claims that photography is just about the only “art” form in which the medium is nothing without its referent, or object/person. In painting, drawing, sculpting, etc., every stroke, shape and texture is purposeful and is meaningful. In photography, no such equivalent exists. Even the angle of the photograph and other “artistic” methods are only in relation to the referent. The photograph itself is a flat piece of paper. Then, Barthes argues that, in a way, even the referent itself is not meaningful in itself. The picture is merely a record of “what has been,” merely evidence of something that was there. This is where I became interested: The only thing that gives a photograph value is the value it creates in you. In other words, the photo, as a medium, is always contingent, always depending on the relationship it has with the observer, or spectator. Sure, this may be true for all “art,” but other art seems to have so many extraneous factors, so many complications, so many ways that the medium itself has meaning that change this simple relationship set forward by photography: the referent, the observer, and the medium which relies completely on both parties being present. I now realize that this mirrors so much in our own lives, in our daily living. So many times we are focused on how, or we get caught up with the little things that come along with that how. There are a million distractors—things that are pretty, intricate, and so aesthetically pleasing that somehow the two ends of the relationship become less important: in Barthes’ terms, the spectator and the referent, but in our terms, us and our living, our saints, and our Lord. Since when is our living about anything but this pure relationship? Since when is it about how we “paint” it, how we make it look, how nice and intricate our proposed medium is? We have a beautiful relationship because of the relationship, not because we create a medium that looks to be more beautiful than the two ends for which it was made. Our medium is our spirit, our connection to the only end that matters. And for that matter, our spirit is actually contingent on both sides . . . We have to be willing to release our spirit and the Lord receives our spirit (actually, that is all we can offer). A healthy spirit requires a complete subduing and a complete purity; every other part we think will help this medium, this connection is actually just superfluous and clouds the relationship. Looking even further, we see that not only is the means contingent upon the sources, but that the sources are contingent upon the means as well. In this symbiotic relationship lies the beauty that is our spiritual connection; the Lord gave us a singular way to be one with Him, just as the seemingly ordinary piece of paper we call a photograph is the only way we could ever be touched by the referent in the picture. In this thinking, Barthes has it correct. The most beautiful relationship—what makes photography a beautiful medium and what makes our spirit the most beautiful medium—is that which is pure, singular, and completely dependent on each end and the connection between them. Lord, we have a spirit! How beautiful.
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1. Introduction Since the conception of film in the late 19th to early 20th century, the categorization of film as an art form continues to be a prevalent topic of discourse among scholars. Film, in its most fundamental sense, desires a certain appeal to mass audiences for economic return. The necessity of commodification, thus, limits the perceived value of film, marking it as a low-brow and popular good rather than a high-brow and academic work of art. Acclaimed German director Werner Herzog calls film “not the art of scholars, but of illiterates.” While his films are often labeled as “artsy,” Herzog strongly denies categorization of his films as art. For Herzog, this identification is superfluous and useless, detracting from the real utility of film as a form of entertainment. While Herzog and other conservatives reject film’s potential as a high art form—a criticism unaccepted by many cinephiles and film scholars—this line between high and low art is not as clear as they would like to believe. In fact, as UCLA Professor Johanna Drucker shows in her essay “Sweet Dreams: Contemporary Art and Complicity,” the line is often blurred and unclear, especially among contemporary and modern art. She writes, “The value of fine art, after all, was never that it was ‘better’ in any transcendent sense, but that it had a capacity to create interest and sustain imaginative life” (Drucker 106). Here, Drucker proffers a definition for fine art, a definition she later supports through analysis of contemporary works by artists who present pornographic figures in various, imaginative ways. She argues that these genres, typically associated with low art or even no art form at all, may in fact “create interest and sustain imaginative life,” a conclusion that clearly challenges Herzog’s claim. Drucker’s argument, when placed within the context of film, only confirms the ability for films to achieve fine art status. Other influential scholars have found similar conclusion. Specifically, the works of acclaimed Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu[1] bring the topic of art and film into conversation. Ozu’s works highlight a tendency towards artistry, a desire to transform daily life and mundane conversations into a digestible art form that he called film. As Bard College Professor Ian Buruma writes: “Ozu's genius was to lift an essentially middlebrow genre to the level of high art, without losing the broad, natural audience for family dramas. He managed to please both the Japanese masses and intellectual cinephiles… Plot was never the main point for Ozu” (Buruma). Here, Buruma identifies both the need for commodification—a key recognition of film as a public good—and the elevation of film genre to “the level of high art.” Ozu, through his innovative focus on character and the ordinary Japanese family, creates an imaginative piece of art that blends the realist tendencies of high art during the early 20th century with the medium of film. When speaking of Ozu, American film theorist and historian David Bordwell has the highest appraisal and respect. His appraisal originates with Ozu’s engagement with the art world and, specifically, Ozu’s unique approach to film presentation and style that brands his works as artful. When speaking about Ozu and his contemporaries, Bordwell writes: “In brief, these filmmakers become engaging, even entertaining, when we realize that they are to some extent shifting our involvement from characters and situations to the manner of presentation. Not narrative but narration is what engages us” (Bordwell & Thompson). Bordwell argues that directors like Ozu focus on film narration, or in other words, film style as a means to present characters, situations, and narrative. For Bordwell, this is the most intriguing element of Ozu’s films; they have the ability to use cinematic technique as a mode of expression. The technique is then an individual character in dialogue with the rest of the film’s aspects. Ozu’s style of filming, thus, becomes an integral part of the function, meaning, and intent behind his films, enabling readings of his film to exist on another level much like how art requires and even demands this academic discourse. Drucker, with her definition of fine art, would undeniably support Ozu’s use of film as an artistic aestheticization[2] of Japanese family life. Yasujiro Ozu and film directors alike support the idea of film as a form of fine art or as a medium that attempts to and strives to achieve this status. As the aforementioned paragraph identifies, Ozu’s obsession with narrative through narration highlights his objective to create meaning out of his films, a common trend among artists and directors. American painter Louis Lozowick identifies this trend as a “double function” of art, the ultimate goal of an artist: “A composition is most effective when its elements are used in a double function: associative, establishing contact with concrete objects of the real word and aesthetic, serving to create plastic values… this is perhaps as high a goal as any artist might hope to attain” (Lozowick 19). Lozowick argues that a painting, or in this case a film, must have or hope to attain both associative and aesthetic[3] qualities—associative, in that the objects within the composition, image, or film can be relatable to real experiences, objects, and characters, and aesthetic, in that these objects can derive meaning. It is the latter, the ability of artwork to have metaphorical value, that enables an artwork to have acclaim and be granted fine art status. In film, objects are extended beyond the canvas and can pertain to, as Buruma identifies, the narration or film style and technique that form the important themes and metaphors. 2. Christmas in August This double function is what makes Hur Jin-ho’s Christmas in August (1998) particularly compelling and striking. This film embodies many aspects of Ozu’s film style and transforms them, using photographic qualities to produce a new masterpiece, resembling a new art form. It captures and moves the audience not only because of its real and tangible narrative, but also because of its genius cinematic presentation, highlighting its metaphorical value as a film striving and succeeding to be recognized as a form of fine art—a photograph—with a cohesive message about the limitations of youthful love. This paper, through analysis of Hur Jin-ho’s Christmas in August (1998), will articulate a case for the aforementioned claim in order to show the qualities and characteristics of Jin-ho’s film that makes it both compelling and intriguing. It will first identify major film techniques and then turn to textual analysis in order to dissect each scene and its role in the film. Analysis will include a focus on certain “objects” or cinematic stylizations within specific scenes that allow viewers to derive meaning out of these techniques. Finally, this paper will push the readers to consider Jin-ho’s film as an art form—a compilation of photographs—that may or may not go beyond the confines of Drucker’s definition of fine art. 3. Framing Director Hur Jin-ho uses the framing of his scenes in order to grant his film a photographic quality. Prevalent within much of the storyline, photography represents a critical aspect of Jin-ho’s commentary on life as well as the method in which he chooses to capture the daily life of his characters. His shots are often playfully composed in order to invoke a certain reflection on photography. For Jung-won, the main protagonist of the film, photography captures moments of life that can be preserved, even memorialized. Throughout much of the film, Jung-won and his lover Da-rim are framed by wooden panels, windows, and doorways; it is as if these characters are preserved in their moment of joy or that Jin-ho purposefully wants viewers to remember these moments. Associatively, these moments are easily identifiable as experiences of love, happiness, and joy. Metaphorically, Jin-ho calls for a preservation of these moments. In one particular scene in the beginning portion of the film, the camera captures a smiling Da-rim framed by the wooden posts of Jung-won’s camera shop. Here, this image embodies the youthfulness of both these characters; it is as if this is a memory that Jung-won never wants to forget, an experience which he wants to keep forever in his heart—it is this purity and simplicity that is captured by the camera’s lens and it is these same qualities that Jin-ho aestheticizes in his film. This one scene is repeated again and again throughout the course of the film, so much that the two protagonists and their uncanny relationship become a reflection of youthful love. Other elements of the photograph and the frame also reveal a similar reading about the preservation of childhood. In another scene, Jung-won and his sister are seen spitting watermelon seeds off their back porch, a childhood experience that brings back memories about Jung-won’s elementary school affection for another girl. Both Jung-won and his sister are framed by the wooden posts of his home; this simplistic depiction is like a sibling photograph, a candid image of a moment of pure joy and siblinghood. While his sister has grown up and gone her separate ways, this scene shows viewers the extent of her familial love and the care she has for her brother, a moment which Jin-ho urges viewers to remember. 4. Filming through Lenses Most importantly, a photograph is what it is not only because of its frame but also the lens it utilizes. In this respect, Jin-ho attempts to experiment with the idea of the gaze, changing camera perspectives in order to reflect the gaze of the camera. In this sense, much of this film is captured through a lens of some kind, as if the film itself was an embodiment of photography. Jung-won constantly looks through his window, searching for Da-rim. His gaze is met by a curious, youthful Da-rim, who also similarly looks through the glass at Jung-won. The camera shoots these scenes through a glass window, scenes that are often framed by wooden posts. With these two techniques in conjunction, Jin-ho further emphasizes the relationship between film and photography. The director, thus, urges the audience to critically view his film as an artistic representation of daily life, an aestheticized perspective on love and life. The lens, then, serves as another technique utilized by Jin-ho in order to preserve the moments of the film that define Jung-won’s character as well as the experiences of value and purpose. Filming through lens, however, may indicate a deeper reading on the presence of photography within Jin-ho’s film. Jung-won, for instance, washes his window as his elementary school lover sits inside his shop waiting to speak with him. She is obscured, however, by the water trickling down from the window, a distorted image that clearly indicates a fragmented relationship between these two figures. This moment represents a stylistic element of Jin-ho’s film that directs viewers towards the importance of photography in shaping the purpose of his film. While the lens may similarly represent a metaphorical memorialization and preservation of youth and childhood, it can also represent a distortion or inability of the protagonist to truly experience the images he captures. In other words, the youthful love, the times of joy, and the excitement of life are only fleeting and transient moments of Jung-won’s life; they reflect a sadness and even abject resignation towards Jung-won’s situation, showing the limitation or impossibility for Jung-won to love Da-rim. These moments are echoed by others like them. In two important scenes, Jin-ho films through the eye of an actual camera. The resulting image is either blurred or reversed, clearly indicating that the perspective is through another camera. These scenes have obvious metaphorical value. For instance, Jung-won’s funeral photograph as well as Da-rim’s photograph are both captured this way and can be seen as a preservation of happiness or, more extremely, the inability for Jung-won to hold onto that happiness and thus the need for him to memorialize those moments. Both of these readings seem to complicate Jin-ho’s film, a complication that intrigues and compels his audience. Thus, by shooting scenes through different lenses, Jin-ho is able to create a deeper dimension in which to look at his film, making it both interesting and substantial. 5. Long Takes and an Unmoving Camera Jin-ho goes even further to mimic the idea of the photograph by using long takes and a still camera with relatively little movement within the shot. These still images allow for reflection and digestion of the scene and its slow pace presses viewers to consider each individual image as meaningful and noteworthy. In one scene, Jung-won sits with Da-rim as they wait on the photographs to finish printing. During this time, the camera is completely still throughout their dialogue, eye-level with both protagonist. While the camera does not seem to be doing anything unique or special, and while it stays stagnant throughout the whole one minute sequence, the camera in fact accentuates each object within the room, allowing viewers to dissect and read into the meaning behind the two protagonist’s dialogue, the fan, the couch, their body language, the clock, and the portraits behind them. As with photographs, paintings, and other forms of fine art, the objects within the medium of art often derive meaning and purpose. This was Jin-ho’s ultimate aim and, as Drucker claims, is the “high goal” of all fine art. The clock, for instance, is constantly heard in the background and seen in the foreground. It reminds the viewers that time is ticking away and that these precious moments, although preserved in memory and photograph, are fleeting and passing experiences for Jung-won—that his love for Da-rim is only momentary; time will never stop—it will never reverse. The clock is both the fairest and the most unfair object within Jin-ho’s film. Through Jin-ho’s slow camera and long takes, the clock is highlighted and accentuated, stamping each scene with a reminder that time will continue running no matter the human circumstances. Images and sequences like these, the stills and photographic-like quality of Jin-ho’s films, push viewers to think, to reflect, and to consider the meaning behind the objects within his images. These mundane day-to-day objects become meaningful and even important to Jin-ho’s narrative, pieces of Jung-won’s life that are precious and invaluable. 6. Film as Photography Jin-ho, through his use of different cinematic techniques and focuses, enables viewers to look at film in a different way. In many respects, Jin-ho celebrates photography and uses it as a powerful tool of expression in his film that enhances both the images and the meaning behind his narrative. While this film both creates interest and has the ability to sustain imaginative life, it seems to work on a completely different dimension. His film no longer represents a viewing of one image or one still. It is a culmination and incorporation of many images, many paintings, and many photographs that, together, mean something much greater in proportion than a single piece of fine art. The imaginary boundaries of his work are limitless and boundless; his film is a masterpiece because of his ability to blend the cinematic with the photographic—the art world with the popular world. Jin-ho’s film is thus not only a celebration of photography, but also a celebration and appraisal of film. It fights against Herzog and “film-haters.” It fights against Drucker and her too general, too broad definition of fine art. It even fights against cinephiles who blindly cast all films as achieving fine art status. Jin-ho goes beyond all expectations, reaches beyond the realist mode of Ozu’s work, and makes Christmas in August (1998) a work of art in and of itself—an art that stretches and flexes in order to encompass many pieces and many parts. 7. Concluding Remarks The aestheticization of daily life in Jin-ho’s work, whether it is through framing, different lenses, or other cinematic techniques, succeeds in granting this film metaphorical value. These themes and metaphors running through his film make his work compelling and intriguing. In the end, the techniques work in tandem with the metaphors they invoke and succeed in creating a work of art, an album of photographs that say something deep about youth love: that love is something pure, simple, and yet fleeting; it is something capturable, yet escapable. Jung-won is a character within a photograph, a timeless figure that will always be preserved in memory. His love, although ultimately unrealized, is captured through touching interactions with objects of all kinds—interactions with even the camera and the film itself. Film and the camera then become personified characters that allow us to remember and even relive the moments we may never live to experience again. Works Cited Bordwell, David, and Kristin Thompson. "Observations on Film Art." David Bordwell's Website on Cinema. University of Wisconsin, n.d. Web. 12 May 2014. Buruma, Ian. "Yasujiro Ozu: An Artist of the Unhurried World." The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 09 Jan. 2010. Web. 12 May 2014. Christmas in August. Dir. Hur Jin-ho. Perf. Suk-kyu Han and Eun-ha Shim. 1998. DVD. Drucker, Johanna. Sweet Dreams: Contemporary Art and Complicity. Chicago: U Of Chicago, 2005. Print. Lozowick, Louis. "The Americanization of Art." Machine-Age Exposition Catalogue. N.p.: n.p., 1927. 18-19. Print. [1] This Japanese director was hailed for his portrayal of daily life and was acclaimed for his use of film as a realist tool of expression. Because of this, he earned much appraisal from the Western world. His style of long, slow takes has affected many modern filmmakers. [2] Here, aestheticization of Japanese family life means a form of beautification of life that makes his films not only real and representative of the real, but pleasing in both their style and composition. [3] Here, the aesthetic qualities are the characteristics and objects within paintings that derive meaning. In other words, they are representative of the metaphorical value of paintings in provoking thought, wonder, and conversation. This aspect is extremely crucial in understanding the double function of a work of art and will be important in understanding Jin-ho’s film. The idea of the American Dream is embedded within the Declaration of Independence, a crucial document within American history that prescribes each citizen the right to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” These inalienable rights grant citizens the freedom to pursue prosperity, happiness, and success through hard work and perseverance. As defined by James Truslow Adams in 1931, the American Dream is the fulfillment of this ability to achieve both external and internal gratification from a life in the United States. Whether it is upward social mobility or uplift, America is regarded as a place where equality in opportunity and society is exercised as the moral and political basis of the nation. While the existence of the American Dream seemed promising and even achievable in America’s history, many modern-day scholars tell a different story. With multiple financial crises looming over America’s shoulders over the last couple decades, the dream seems to be all but a myth. Specifically, 1980s America marked a period in time when the United States was facing huge uncertainties regarding its relationship with the Soviet Union conflict as well as a severe economic recession. With more than 10% of Americans unemployed, the early 80s was identified as the largest recession since the Great Depression. The American Dream seemed lost within the rubble of post-war America. Art provides a unique glimpse within history through cultural, social, and political perspectives and, in this case, a unique view on the American Dream and its continuation in modern America. It serves as a projection of opinions and thoughts onto a canvas, photograph, or other medium of expression, directing viewers and audiences to sustain political thought. Lozowick writes: “A composition is most effective when its elements are used in a double function: associative, establishing contact with concrete objects of the real word and aesthetic, serving to create plastic values” (Lozowick 19) Here, Lozowick identifies art’s dual function; that is, art maintains a certain contact with the real world while serving and sustaining an imaginative purpose—having a creative and social value. Art, thus, serves to use such identifications with the real world as a means to make an argument about reality through an aestheticized production. Art and the associated discourses are then inextricably linked to one another as integral pieces of history that can be unraveled to expose truths that may be hidden within cultural works. Eric Fischl puts Lozowick’s idea of a double function to work in his 1986 oil painting “The Black Sea.” In this painting, Fischl explores the ambiguities behind the American Dream. While on the surface Fischl’s work seems to glorify the existence of leisure, extravagance, and freedom, a patriotic representation of post-war America and a supportive claim for the existence of the American Dream, upon closer inspection, it actually provides a more cynical picture on America, concluding that the American Dream only exists in the realm of fantasy and that the identity of America is nothing more than a façade that covers it’s true “nakedness” or materiality. The title of Fischl’s painting, “The Black Sea,” provides a first look at Fischl’s argument. Here, the adjective “black” can be seen as both literal and metaphorical. In its most literal sense, the Black Sea is a body of water north of the Mediterranean Sea bordered by many European countries and modern-day Russia. It received its name due to its violent tendencies to swallow sailors in its dark stormy waters. Metaphorically, the color black is usually associated with death, scars, and forms of emptiness. It is a color of darkness and death, both key ideas associated with its literal identification. The title starkly differs from the painting’s picturesque portrayal of leisure. The irony involved in the discrepancy between the actual depiction in the painting and its title emphasize that America and the American Dream is in fact blackened, scarred, and more extremely, all but dead. The violent storm of the Cold War and economic crisis has all but swept away any life that attempts to sustain itself within the frame of the painting. The violent nature indicated by the painting’s title also resonates with Fischl’s unique style of presentation. Fischl focuses less on the detail of his subject matter but rather on the overall composition of his piece. In his painting, the people’s facial expressions and the miscellaneous leisurely items are obscured and unclear. While the subjects are not completely emotionless and are clear enough to associate with real world objects, viewers struggle to determine Fischl’s artistic meaning with a merely direct confrontation of his work. Fischl, thus, invites viewers to read into the ambiguity of these faces and objects. Its unclear quality and the aforementioned title place this painting within the context of Cold War America, highlighting the confusing and often chaotic times that defined that period. Even more extremely, Fischl’s brush stroke may be viewed as a purposeful effort to obscure his subjects—an explicit act by the author to blur the identities of his subjects. This reading, alongside the idea of blackness, proffers a similar conclusion that the idea of the American Dream is in fact separated from the identities of the subjects within the painting. That is, the hazy style of painting points to the inability for the individuals to fulfill the American Dream. In addition to the presentation of his painting, the composition and construction of his painting also adds another level of complication to Fischl’s message. His painting is in actuality two individual pieces that overlap over one another. His art, then, is more than just a two-dimensional piece of work; the canvas extends into the viewer’s space, providing motion and a sense of time through space. This effect brings the subjects within his work to life and directly juxtaposes his painting with another closely related industry of art: film. His painting is thus a storyboard and can be read as a record of time, a chronological capture of motion that heightens his claim that the American Dream may have disappeared through time. When analyzing the subject matter of Fischl’s work, however, these images and their metaphorical reincarnation yield a disconcerting response in the viewers. Fischl paints a picture of a naked man and woman at the beach, seemingly tanning their bodies as they enjoy a water and soda. The man is seen stroking the woman’s body as she lies on what looks to be a foam pad covered with a towel. The woman dons a fancy pair of sunglasses and is seen beside a single black high heel. On the right side, the same naked woman is seen lying on the beach with nothing but her sunglasses, staring back at herself and the man beside her. At first glance, this painting seems to showcase the American Dream at its finest. Nudity, here, is a liberating act of freedom and the fancy heels, glasses, and pads clearly place the woman and man within the context of leisure. Upon closer inspection, however, viewers are forced to consider the implications of the woman on the right. Her gaze can be interpreted in two ways. First, her gaze can be one of remembrance. That is, the two paintings are composed in chronological order, indicating that the woman somehow loses and is stripped of everything that makes her activity one of leisure. This reading matches Fischl’s compositional style and presentation of his painting. The subject is naked and alone, scorching and burning from the sun’s hot rays. This image, thus, highlights the effect of downward social mobility. Several questions come to light when forming this conclusion: Who is the man beside her? What kind of relations do they have? Fischl gives us clues that, although ambiguous, give room for multiple interpretations. He does, however, point to a more erotic and dark reading. That is, the man may have indeed raped the woman and taken her belongings. Society, especially in a time of economic and political turmoil, grants no room for this woman to fulfill the American Dream and rapes individuals unto they are forced to give up everything they have. While this is only one reading, an alternative reading may suggest that her gaze is indeed one of longing. The composition separates herself from the picturesque ideal of the American Dream; the woman was and will never be that woman in the left painting because she and the man himself are only a figment of her imagination. Although she desires such a life of affection, leisure, and money, this life only exists in her fantasies. Regardless of the viewer’s interpretation, the conclusion seems to be the same: Fischl concludes that in a society marred by an uncertain political and economic climate, individuals are unable to achieve the American Dream. “The Black Sea” is a cultural reflection of a point in United States history filled with many questions regarding the future. Fischl remarks on the absence of social mobility during this time and highlights the prevalence of immorality through his nude figures. The lack of clarity, both politically and socially, of the United States can be seen through not only the painting’s title, but also its presentation, composition, and subject matter. The painting, however, offers an additional clue that may dispel the American Dream and its existence altogether. That is, even in the left fantastical image, the woman is still incomplete; she is not seen with clothes and only has one heel. Perhaps, Fischl is claiming that the American Dream, from its beginnings, was never a reality and was always a work of the imagination, a myth that is swallowed up by “The Black Sea.” Works Cited Fischl, Eric. The Black Sea. 1986. Oil. Princeton Museum of Art, Princeton University. Lozowick, Louis. "The Americanization of Art." Machine-Age Exposition Catalogue. N.p.: n.p., 1927. 18-19. Print. People often call the United States a “melting pot” of different cultures, a social construction made up of the mixing and intermingling of various traditions. This term, coined in 1908 by Jewish immigrant Israel Zangwill, indicates the changing racial and social state of the United States during that time period. With women fighting for rights alongside African Americans and the newly emigrated Chinese, many traditional and conservative values of America were disputed and challenged. As new laws were created and enforced to accommodate these changing values, America slowly changed, transforming into what may be now referenced as an externalization[1] of Zangwill’s “melting pot.” Ethnicity, change, and differences became celebrated qualities that defined America as a booming society with mixed races and liberal ideologies. More importantly, individual cultural agency was established, giving each culture a sense of self-consciousness and place in American society. This idea of identity or “self-consciousness” stems from W.E.B. Du Bois 1903 book The Souls of Black Folk. In his book, Du Bois argues that African Americans have no self-consciousness and instead, must utilize his or her gift of double-consciousness in order to find peace, freedom, and identity in a world of contempt and hate. He writes: The Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world,—a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tap of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity (9). Here, Du Bois highlights the “peculiar sensation” of watching the blatant destruction of African origin, tradition, and culture. This double-consciousness or second-sight, however, is a tool—a gift. Although these people seemingly lack true self-consciousness, Du Bois claims that through the lens of others, the African American people can find identity. Perhaps, even more extreme, with the current racial state, Du Bois believed that it was through this ulterior lens that identity can then be constructed. Du Bois concludes with an argument to preserve the “America” and the “Africa” in African American, matching Zangwill’s now colloquial term the “melting pot.” Du Bois writes, “He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American…” (9). Du Bois’s argument, however, is challenged when extended beyond that of just one singular culture and identity. The 1958 song “Grant Avenue, USA” is a prime example of a modern confrontation of Du Bois’s claim. While this song, originally from the musical “Flower Drum Song,” seems to celebrate the American melting pot, it actually articulates a case against Du Bois’s idea of double-consciousness by creating a false illusion of Asian American identity, marking Chinese culture as a foreign spectacle rather than an integral part of America. Written and composed by Rodgers and Hammerstein, an American musical theatre writing team, this song was written as a part of a musical to be performed at large venues like Broadway. Interestingly, the song’s title is “Grant Avenue, USA,” clearly placing the musical in a relatively Chinese context. Thus, Du Bois would see this song as a form of double-consciousness in which Asians could view the portrayal of their culture through an American lens. The title has significance in and of itself. Grant Avenue is the home of San Francisco’s Chinatown, a city center for Chinese commerce. Rebuilt in 1906 following a disastrous San Francisco earthquake, Grant Avenue, originally called Dupont Avenue, was renamed. Thus, Grant Avenue represents a remade America, a newly constructed business district that embraces and even idolizes the appearance of foreign culture. This idolization, however, is not positive by any means. While on the forefront this title depicts the idealized melting pot of America, one that overcomes adversity, it is in fact a reflection of the ability to erase the historical discrimination of the Chinese in order to establish a new order. Grant Avenue’s one-way street also has a cynical nature; the United States is on this set path, one that triumphs over hardships by forgetting the past and paving a new road over the old. It doesn’t look back nor does it want to. This song, even by its title, represents only a mirage of cultural acceptance and in reality, shows how the idea of double-consciousness can be destructive rather than beneficial, asking listeners to mask rather than remember the atrocities of American discrimination toward the Chinese. The song begins with trumpets blaring to an upbeat instrumental. In the background, there is a muted snare, tapping to an offbeat rhythm with various woodwind and brass instruments accompanying the singer. Together, the instruments create a jazzy and joyful atmosphere, moving the music forward without stagnation. The music breaks the fourth wall between listeners and the instrumentalists, inviting listeners to tap and snap along to the rhythm. As the song continues, stringed instruments gradually enter the melody with light pizzicato, growing and intertwining with the woodwinds and brass to form a full, unified orchestral ensemble. These instrumental characteristics are undeniably American yet seem relatively out of place, even grossly disturbing, when placed within the historical context of 1960s America. During this period in time, America continued to struggle with racial discrimination, prejudice, and violence. While the instrumentalization of this song seems celebratory of Asian culture, it actually creates a false mirage for Asian identity. In fact, within the music itself, it is impossible to distinguish any foreign culture or influence; no Asian instruments were used. The song’s carefree and American sound only overshadows any form of Asian agency. Ironically, while this song attempts to celebrate Asian culture, it actually works to destroy any formation of Asian identity. The combination of the string ensemble with the woodwinds and brass can be read as the ultimate completion of the song’s message regarding Grant Avenue and Chinatown. On the surface, this message is positive, highlighting the mixture of two unlike cultures. Upon closer analysis, however, the complete ensemble merely indicates a purely Western conception of Chinese identity, a false illusion of unification between American and Asian culture; all instruments were Western and characterized Western styles of music. This song, thus, does not commemorate America’s “melting pot” or Asian American agency, but actually assimilation into American culture under the false pretense of a merely nominal Asian culture. While the music is undeniably Western, the lyrics may present a different story in regards to this song’s ultimate representation. The lyrics reference some relatively colloquial foods and traditional Chinese items such as shark fin soup, bean cake fish, tea, and jade. Some may argue that through the introduction of these Chinese traditions, the song allows for awareness and self-consciousness for the Chinese in America. While this argument seems valid, upon closer inspection, the lyrics actually point to an even more pessimistic reading. First, the song uses the second person, speaking directly to the listeners, telling them they can ride up Grant Avenue in a trolley and eat Chinese dishes. The use of the second person, when put in context, is in fact identifying Chinatown as a foreign spectacle; it neither embraces nor positively portrays Chinatown. Instead, this song addresses the white audience that, more or less, would have occupied the Broadway stands during that period in time. The song further supports this idea: “The girl who serves you all your food is another tasty dish!” In this part of the song, the Chinese woman is recognized as an object of consumption. This means that the Chinese people are in fact merely a spectacle and a form of entertainment, viewed as objects rather than individuals. This song does nothing to subvert conservative and traditional American prejudices and instead further exacerbates and exposes the inadequacy of Americans to fully embrace Chinese culture, creating a spectacle which is actually an illusion of identity. Du Bois argues that through the lens of others, one is able to find identity and agency that incorporates the best of both cultures. While his claim may stand for African Americans, “Grant Avenue, USA” actually refutes this claim in regard to Asian culture. Although on the surface the song introduces a mixture of two cultures and even celebrates this through upbeat, happy music, it actually showcases the inability of America to unreservedly recognize the true identity of another culture. The gift of double-consciousness may in fact not be a gift at all, but rather a curse for the Asian American people; they can only see the world’s perspective and society’s construction of their culture and cannot achieve true identity in the midst of a racist nation. Even when listening to a pop culture song like “Grant Avenue, USA,” Asians are again reminded of their lack of agency; that is, the only way to survive in racist America is through the formation of an American-constructed, assimilated identity rooted in the confounds of Grant Avenue, USA. Works Cited Broadway. Grant Avenue, USA. Rodgers & Hammerstein, 1958. MP3. Du Bois, W.E.B. The Soul of Black Folk. N.p.: Quiet Vision Pub, 2008. Print. [1] Here, I use the word “externalization” as a way to reference the modern racial state as a fulfillment of Zangwill’s idea of America as a “melting pot.” While this term was coined in the early 20th century, it can be argued that at that time, it was not yet a reality. This argument continues in the present-day, as many disagree with the idea of America as a true “melting pot” of cultures. 1. Introduction In his 2004 Democratic National Convention speech, President Obama defines the essential qualities that together have created modern America: Hope in the face of difficulty, hope in the face of uncertainty, the audacity of hope: In the end, that is God's greatest gift to us, the bedrock of this nation, a belief in things not seen, a belief that there are better days ahead. I believe that we can give our middle class relief and provide working families with a road to opportunity (Obama). Hope and opportunity, or rather, hope of opportunity, were and are the fundamental principles that have formed and are still forming America today. President Obama iterates a common idea among Americans—that perseverance and hard work will breed eventual success, opportunity, and social mobility. Although these ideas represent a more modern, colloquial identification with the current cultural, political, and social state in America—a nation of progress and equality, they also reflect the ideas of the frontier on American development, as presented in Frederick Jackson Turner’s piece, “The Significance of the Frontier in American History.” Turner argues that the ideas of “hope” and “opportunity” originate in American expansionism on the frontier. He claims that the frontier was the place of social development, representing a “perennial rebirth” that “furnish[ed] the forces dominating American character” (Turner 2). 2. Claim Turner’s thesis continues to operate as a mystified portrayal of the Western frontier, a place he claims is full of prosperity, opportunity, and equality—the cornerstone of American development. Even President Obama, in defining hope as “a belief in things not seen,” offers a case for the frontier’s mystified existence in modern culture—that America is still pursuing things yet to be discovered. While Turner provides a positive perspective on the American frontier, other works have conflicting readings. Specifically, competing works challenge Turner’s idea that the frontier was a place of “perennial rebirth.” They in fact conclude that American expansionism on the frontier was not the place of positive enlightenment, but rather a brutal destruction and stark contradiction to the very ideals that people have come to define as the United States. This paper, through a comparative analysis of David Milch’s television series Deadwood and Kevin Costner’s 1990 film Dances with Wolves, will articulate a case for the aforementioned claim in order to demystify an essential component of Turner’s thesis regarding the portrayal of the frontier and its impact on American development. It will first discuss the depiction of the frontier in Deadwood and then move onto Costner’s work, Dances with Wolves. Film analysis will be analyzed with two focuses in mind: 1) film narrative—that is, the dialogue of the film, and 2) film text—that is, the film’s cinematic language. This paper will then proceed to compare the motivations behind each work and provide a conclusion on the implications of such a reading. 3. Deadwood In David Milch’s imagined frontier, the language of the frontiersmen and women provide a distinct contradiction with Turner’s perceived frontier. Within the first twenty minutes of the Deadwood series’ opener, crude language is thrown around loosely. The frontier is a rough and raw place, a place not for a family, but rather, a place for gangsters, dirty businessmen, and people who want to escape the law. The streets are filled with prostitutes, bars, drunken men, crooks, and gangsters. On this frontier, nothing is clean—nothing is pure. The language is emblematic of this kind of culture, a living symbol of the nature of the frontier Milch explores in his television series. I'll tell you what. I may a fucked my life up flatter than hammered shit, but I stand here before you today beholden to no human cocksucker. And workin' a payin' fuckin' gold claim. And not the U.S. government sayin' I'm tresspassin' or the savage fuckin' red man himself or any of these limber dick cocksuckers passin' themselves off as prospectors had better try and stop me (Milch). This is Deadwood, a place without law, government, and morals. In this passage, Ellsworth reveals four major qualities of this frontier: 1) the people’s motivations to settle on the frontier are purely economic, 2) government did not and should not exist, 3) the Native American population is a present threat, and 4) settlers are competitors for the same land and thus denoted as “cocksuckers.” These four ideas seem far from the ideas of Turner’s “rebirth” or social development. In fact, the frontier is a place that denies labor, equal opportunity, and positive competitiveness. Perhaps even scarier is the troubling message Milch provides viewers—that the “rebirth” on the frontier was not progress at all, but rather, a step backwards from the original direction of American development. While Turner does claim that this “perennial rebirth” involves a period of transition into more primitive means of existence which he defines as adopting Indian ways, the Deadwood television series highlights the inconsistencies in Turner’s conclusion. In one scene, a local bar owner discusses business with a doctor in town. The room is filled with pregnant prostitutes who are gathering for their weekly checkup. This scene does not support the notion expressed by Turner. Instead, it shows that the frontier was a destruction of moral values, an idea far from the idealized progression Turner claims. 4. Dances with Wolves While Deadwood provides a gritty depiction of the frontier after settlement, Costner’s Dances with Wolves shows the deterioration of a land once unsullied by white settlers. The land is a peaceful place, a place where the protagonist journeys in order to find his own identity. The cinematography captures the landscapes’ beauty, emphasizing the ability of Native Americans to live harmoniously with nature, a concept seemingly unknown by their white neighbors. The natives are peaceful and inquisitive. They are not belligerent savages Turner would have readers believe. In fact, Costner reveals the true savage through wonderfully written non-diagetic reflections by the protagonist: Who would do such a thing? The field was proof enough that it was a people without value and without soul, with no regard for Sioux rights. The wagon tracks leading away led little doubt and my heart sank as I knew it could only be white hunters (Dances with Wolves). The question that the protagonist proposes to himself is also one that Costner proposes to viewers. This specific passage follows an immensely emotional shot of skinned buffalo strewn across the prairie, their red skin blaringly contrasted with the green grass behind them. Here, Costner notes two interesting things; hunters are a people without value and soul: two essential qualities for hope, opportunity, and progress—for American social development. Interestingly, however, the protagonist has his “rebirth.” He says: “I never knew who John Dunbar was. Perhaps the name itself had no meaning. But as I heard my Sioux name being called over and over, I knew for the first time who I really was” (Dances with Wolves). Here, Costner offers a different conclusion—that the frontier represents a “rebirth” that should occur internally, and that this “rebirth” did not take place on the frontier, but rather with an appreciation and acceptance of the Native American culture. This is what Costner believes is an expression of Americanism, a movement towards equality, progress, and opportunity for all—even Native Americans. This internal transformation is the roots of America. 5. Conclusion Although these two works differ in their expression of the frontier, they demystify the proposed frontier that Turner offers. The frontier in both examples was not a place of progress or American development. Rather, it was a place of destruction, loss, and defilement—qualities contradictory to the identified foundation of America. It was dirty, crude, and lawless. There was little hope of opportunity in either case and the glimpse of this hope was surprisingly found in the untouched lands of the West. The frontier, thus, should not serve as an icon of hope and progress, but rather a reminder of the atrocities committed by American settlers and the selfish, violent, and oppressive nature of white authority. It is a reminder to us all that the only frontier we should seek to cross is the one within ourselves. Works Cited Dances with Wolves. Dir. Kevin Costner. Prod. Kevin Costner. By Michael Blake. Perf. Kevin Costner, Mary McDonnell, and Graham Greene. Orion Pictures, 1990. Milch, David. "Deadwood." Deadwood. HBO. N.d. Television. Obama, Barack. "Keynote Address at the Democratic National Convention." Democratic National Convention. Boston. Address. Turner, Frederick Jackson. The Significance of the Frontier in American History. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1920. Print. 1. Introduction and Claim People often refer to the United States as a “melting pot” of various cultures, a term coined by Jewish immigrant Israel Zangwill in 1908. While this idea is commonly referenced in describing America’s current racial state, in reality, it oversimplifies the complex nature of American culture and altogether ignores the historical construction of America; that is, it overlooks, even bypasses, the discrimination, racial violence, and bigotry that are an undeniable part of America’s history. By calling America a “melting pot,” people deny agency to various cultures that are independent from this projected idea of one assimilated America; cultures are unique and cannot be categorized under a single descriptive entity. Thus, others have depicted America as a “mosaic,” a term that grants more agency to individual cultures, asserting that the nation was formed by many “pieces” of cultures that could then flourish in American society as a whole. While the “mosaic-America” supports the existence of different cultures, it assumes that the American mosaic is already complete—that no pieces of the puzzle are missing. The lack of Asian American national identity through American history highlights the incredible flaw in this colloquial terminology. Wayne Wang’s film Chan is Missing directly addresses this mistaken notion, concluding that America is indeed missing pieces from its mosaic—pieces that were never even recognized as missing. This paper, through Wang’s 1982 film Chan is Missing, will articulate a case for the aforementioned claim in order to shed light on the realities Wang urges viewers to consider. It will first discuss two key concepts evident within the film, visibility and legibility, and the dramatization of their relationship. This will then serve as the basis for the film analysis, which is separated into two sections: 1) film presentation, and 2) film text. In these sections, this paper will show how the inability to “see” and “read” in Wang’s film points towards the lack of Asian cultural identity in America and the refusal of society to recognize this culture as American. 2. Visibility and Legibility Wang’s film explores the concept of visibility and legibility in order to construct his claim. These two terms, at their most basic level, have very different meanings. Visibility is often related to the physical sight of something; legibility is the comprehension of that something. Thus, visibility serves as a precondition for legibility; that is, in order for something to be legible, it has to first be visible. Wang dramatizes the relationship between these two concepts, using visibility as a metaphor for legibility. That is, in his film, things unseen may point to the inability to comprehend those things and that things unseen may also point to the basic inability to recognize those things. These ‘things,’ in the context of Wang’s film, relate to Asian identity and thus, the recognition and comprehension of Asian culture. 3. Film Presentation The film itself represents an argument for this idea of visibility and legibility. Although the film was shot and released in the 80s when color film was already seen as commonplace in the film industry, the director shot the film in black and white. Thus, this action can be seen as a stylistic choice rather than one of necessity. Because of the desaturated and antiquated color of the film, images are often obscured; people’s faces are shrouded in shadow and the setting blurs with the background. At 26:41, the two friends walk up the stairs in search of the missing protagonist, Chan Hong. The carpet is unclear and the details become muddled and indistinguishable. The faces of the two friends are blurred by the black and white color. They effectively become shapeless, unidentifiable objects as they proceed up the stairs. As a result, they are not visible to the audience and, in effect, not legible. Wang uses the character’s lack of clear visibility to symbolize the lack of clear legibility of Asians in America. In other words, Wang argues that Asian Americans struggle to achieve agency. Just as the two friends are blurred amidst an unclear background, Asian Americans live without a recognized identity and clear place or sense of belonging in society. They are illegible and invisible; society not only refuses to comprehend their culture but also fails to recognize them as a people of a separate, independent culture. 4. Film Text The film’s repeated focus on reflections off of Jo’s taxicab also provides a pointed critique on American society. In the opening minutes of the film, the audience only sees Jo partially through the windshield of his taxi—Chinatown reflects off of his face as he drives through the city. This scene lasts almost a whole minute before the narrative begins. The idea of visibility and legibility is evident in this first minute. The audience sees Chinatown and Jo, but it is unclear who or what the focus should be. Jo is again invisible to the audience and thus illegible. Immediately, director Wang juxtaposes Jo with the white man in his taxi. Jo drives to earn a living. This man travels for entertainment and luxury. Jo’s identity is subject to a cruel hierarchy rooted in the subjugation of Asian immigrants in U.S. history. Although Jo is free in this world, he lacks agency in that he still serves the white man. While this is the only interaction Jo has with a white person, it subtly represents the invisibility of the Asian American. Jo’s identity is unclear and incomprehensible. In the end, he is still subservient and caged under the hierarchical structure of white supremacy; he is unrecognized and misunderstood. It is no surprise, then, that Chan Hong remains missing, and that nobody really cares to find him. He is an Asian immigrant and clearly did not belong in Wang’s perceived America. In the end, the audience is shown a picture of Chan Hong and Jo. Jo comments that he can barely see Chan Hong. Chan is not only a mystery to white Americans, but also to Asian Americans. Director Wang provides a scary conclusion; Asian Americans cannot even understand and comprehend their own origins. They have lost visibility and recognition of their heritage and culture; they have failed in the preservation of personal cultural authenticity and instead assimilated into a non-identifiable culture controlled by white authority. 5. Conclusion Chan Hong is neither visible nor legible; he has no identity in America. Jo is partially visible and only partially legible; he struggles to find his identity within Chan Hong. These characters are mere representations of the unrecognized, missing piece in America’s incomplete mosaic. While the current racial state vastly differs from even the time this film was released, director Wang highlights an issue still present within society—many individuals are still left out of American culture and denied agency and identity. Most interestingly, however, is the fact that the white American is also not visible, and thus also illegible in this film. Is he denied agency as well? Perhaps Wang wants viewers to construct their own identity, separate from societal concerns and opinions, all while accepting, understanding, and recognizing the multi-various cultures that define America’s mosaic. Works Cited Chan Is Missing. Dir. Wayne Wang. By Isaac Cronin, Terrel Seltzer, Michael Chin, and Robert Kikuchi-Yngojo. Perf. Wood Moy, Marc Hayashi, Laureen Chew, Peter C. Wang, and Presco Tabios. New Yorker Films, 1982. DVD. 1. Introduction Ever since the dawn of Hollywood, the global movie industry continues to transform. Many criticize Hollywood for its lack of originality—how the industry focuses on creating a profit rather than producing original films. Harvard University Professor Anita Elberse refers to this phenomenon as the “Blockbuster Trap” (Elberse). In her recent book Blockbusters: Hit-making, Risk-taking, and the Big Business of Entertainment, she explains that the basic blockbuster structure and strategy works; movies based off of other films, novels, or ideas fair almost two times better in the box offices than movies with an original script and plot. In other words, films have become increasingly homogeneous, using the same plot formulas, character construction, settings, themes, and filmmaking techniques as their Hollywood predecessors. Asian cinema, although criticized for its generic attempts to create Hollywood-style films, has an altogether different focus. This industry merges preexisting genres, creating an altogether new genre of film. While on the surface, Asian Cinema reflects many characteristic Hollywood norms, upon closer analysis, it subverts almost every aspect of genre construction. Professors of Film Richard Barsam and Dave Monahan identify the components of genre through five main genre conventions: “plot, setting, theme, character types, and presentation, [combine to establish movie genres].” (87). Barsam and Monahan argue that, within each genre, blockbusters all contain similar elements that can be easily categorized using these five conventions. They also note, however, that “A genre’s so-called rules can provide a foundation upon which the filmmaker can both honor tradition and innovate change” (Barsam and Monahan 86). Here, Barsam and Monahan show that the purpose of genre establishment is for innovation. Director Kiyoshi Kurosawa also supports this idea. In his essay titled “What is Horror Cinema,” he argues that the purpose of creating genres is not only to simplify a film’s scope for classification purposes, but also to generate originality. Films should not only fit the constraints of one genre. Rather, it should strive to challenge previous conventions. (Kurosawa). For instance, the “horror” genre, at its most basic conceptualization, focuses on the fourth wall of viewing and the development of “the other”; the idea that films were made to affect the emotion and mood of the audience, typically by scaring or frightening the viewer through the presence of something out of the ordinary. Films like The Host, The Tale of Two Sisters, and Cure all exhibit qualities of a horror film but contain components or conventions used in other genres. This technique is otherwise known as “hybridization.” The term hybridization comes from Pieterse’s piece “Globalization and Culture: Three Paradigms” (Pieterse). Here, Pieterse examines three different paradigms that represent globalization. Hybridization, in this context, reflects the exchange of cultural language and grammar. In the first sense—that is, cultural language—language is the superficial elements in a culture, such as customs, foods, dress, entertainment, etc. In the second sense—that is, cultural grammar--grammar is the deeper, more substantial elements that create the makeup of culture: attitudes, values, etc. Films function in the same ways; that is, through language and grammar. When films represent this concept of hybridization, they are not only morphing the superficial elements—the presentation, character, and setting—but also transforming the overall makeup of the films—the plot and theme. 2. Claim But, as David Bordwell, American film theorist and historian, puts it, “… experimentation is usually not anarchic messing about but self-conscious craftsmanship” (Bordwell 262). Hybridization has a purpose; it is a conscious effort to combine previous conventions and formulas to create something new. This idea defines Asian cinema. With the influx of unoriginal, money-making blockbuster films, the Asian film industry has found it increasingly difficult to compete with Hollywood. Thus, the purpose of Asian cinema has had to become arguably different than most entertainment industries. In fact, with such low average budgets, it is almost impossible for these films to generate multi-million dollar profits. With these limitations, the Asian film industry strives to differentiate itself from its competitors; it is less worried about the big dollars and audiences than it is on the idea and meaning of its film. By separating itself from the big giants of film, the Asian industry is able to achieve agency, creating something that is authentically theirs. Although it uses many of the same genre conventions, through hybridization, Asian cinema reflects a new genre of film that focuses not only on a transformation of language, but more so on a genuine crafting of film grammar in order to authenticate its productions. This paper seeks to explore the construction of Asian cinema—what qualities distinguish this type of cinema from others—through a comparative analysis of Hollywood and Asian films. It will utilize Barsam and Monahan’s five genre conventions and examine the authentication of Asian Cinema in each aspect. First, it will demonstrate how Asian cinema transforms film language by an in-depth analysis of the character, the setting, and the presentation. Second, it will investigate film grammar and show how Asian cinema transcends these mass-market productions by creating films with a greater focus on meaning. Last, it will address McDonaldization, a counterargument to hybridization, and conclude that these films indeed establish agency and authenticity in global cinema, marking itself as independent and original. 3. Film Language: Setting To further explore the concept of Asian cinema, film language, defined as the aforementioned superficial elements, is crucial in understanding Asian film. The setting of the film or the time period and geographic location, is often shaped by preexisting formulas. As Barsam and Monahan explain, horror films are often set in isolated, dark places, sci-fi films in futuristic, space, or post-apocalyptic locations when technology greatly affected the population, and Westerns in the American outback. While each genre has its own conventional setting, Asian Cinema defies these norms. Kim Jee-Woon’s The Good, the Bad, the Weird (2008) best exemplifies this transfiguration of setting. This film, complete with Western-style music and a desert-like setting, is, in fact, not located in the American outback. Instead, the film is set in Manchuria, a place not typically associated with the Western genre. It is neither a Western nor an “Asian” film—“Asian,” in this case, defined as a film with a clear connection to Asian culture. This contemporary film, based off of Sergio Leone’s classic film, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966), has its own distinctive flavor. This American production features many characteristic Western settings such as trains, wooden huts, and Western towns. Jee-Woon’s film, however, approaches the same settings in an Asian location. Although its action scenes are set in Manchurian huts and Chinese trains, viewers never doubt the validity and probability of the setting. The audience believes that the Asian characters in the film can function within this location, showcasing their distinct fighting-style within a Westernized context. One of the first scenes of the film, for example, follows a man through a distinctly multi-cultural train. At first, the train seems to be filled with the typical qualities and characteristics of an Asian train: Asian-style cricket holders, Chinese peasant hats, and Asian delicacies in an overcrowded and uncomfortable environment. Upon closer inspection, however, viewers see people in “Western” dress: cowboy hats, ties, and suits. Although this setting is historically Western, Jee-woon adopts and transforms the Western setting, creating an altogether unique convention. In other words, this film highlights the hybridization of two unique settings; because of this, the film seems authentic and new. The Host (2006), directed by Bong Joon-ho, also illustrates a defiance of conventional settings. As Barsam and Monahan write, horror films are typically located in dark, isolated places, serving to create a sense of helplessness and fear. Much of Joon-ho’s monster film takes place in crowded urban environments and in complete daylight. In fact, isolated locations in the film are almost nonexistent; the only scene with a setting more typical of horror films takes place in a sewer. Even in this location, however, Joon-ho plays with light and shadows. The sewer is still clearly lit; there is no sense of the inability to overcome darkness. Other Asian horror films also support such an interpretation. Although set in an isolated country home, Joon-ho’s A Tale of Two Sisters (2003) contains vibrantly lit colors. Reflections of green, blue, and red light redefine the setting and, although the effect creates an altogether scary and unexpected atmosphere, the scenes are still well-lit, many times even shot in direct sunlight. In one scene, the main character, outlined with hues of blue from her brightly colored bed, wakes up and scans the room. The camera pans towards a crouched figure. Unlike many horror films, however, light flows in from the windows and the girl is well-defined. Again, this scene embodies hybridization in Asian film. Even a horror scene is shot differently, defying previously set conventions. 4. Film Language: Character The setting, then, shapes the environment in which characters can function. As the second convention, characters further refine the meaning of place and time. The convention of character divides into two parts: internal personality traits and physical characteristics. Jee-Woon’s The Good, the Bad, the Weird (2008) again exemplifies the attempt of Asian cinema to construct authenticity, especially through character construction. The antagonist of the film dresses in modern suits, wears an earring on his left ear, and has a Korean pop-star hair style. He looks misplaced, almost like a 90s mob gangster, in comparison to the other characters in the film. Besides just his physical attire, this character also has a persona distinct from the typical villain in Western films. Most conventional villains are outright evil and simplistic; they live to rob, kill, and rape. His character, however, has a conflicted and complicated nature; Jee-Woon attempts to give him an added dimension. In one scene, he shows frustration by throwing what looks like a temper tantrum. He drinks to overcome his frustration and is easily angered: “Get up if you don’t want your head blown off…” (69:15). He is sinister, sick to the point he acts like a possessed demon; he won’t stop his search until he finds Chan-yi and kills him. At first glimpse, The Good, the Bad, the Weird (2008) seems like an attempt to copy Western style films—that is, as Pieterse puts it, McDonaldization, or the copy of genres and style from American industries. Upon deeper analysis, however, the director takes genre conventions such as character, as in the case of the antagonist, and transforms them to build completely innovative, even unusual, genres. Other Asian films do the same. Park Chan-wook’s film Oldboy (2003) tells the story of a jailed man who goes on a killing spree to find his jailer. This man, however, is unlike the commonplace action protagonist. He is neither well-kempt like Matt Damon nor bulging with muscle like Arnold Schwarzenegger. He lacks superhuman qualities and is rather lame throughout the film, constantly crying out in pain and misery. The Host (2006), Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon (2000), and In the Mood for Love (2000) all have similar peculiar characters and heroines who do not quite fit their role in the film; the protagonists are insane, extremely emotional, and awkward, respectively. 5. Film Language: Presentation In order to fully grasp the setting and characters, the presentation, or the overall look of the film, is crucial. The presentation refers to the language of cinematography and includes such concepts like lighting, color, lens, angle, editing, and camera movement. In Hollywood, the presentation is rather predictable; the same camera techniques and styles are used. Specifically, the action films all present a single filming style. According to Barsam and Monahan, “Movies in the action genre often shoot combat from many different angles to allow for a fast-paced editing style that presents the action from a constantly shifting perspective” (89). Films such as The Dark Knight (2008) and The Bourne Identity (2002) all embody this style of filmmaking. Characters are quickly thrown from side to side and combat is fast-paced, which is then matched by the constant shifting of the camera. Chan-Wook’s Oldboy (2003), however, defies these conventions. In this action-packed film, the camera serves as a tool for character accentuation rather than a tool for emphasizing the fighting itself. Through the static nature of the camera in action sequences, the audience reflects on the character’s emotions and feelings. The fighting is then viewed as a part of the character’s journey rather than an individual experience or circumstance. In one particular scene of Oldboy (2003), the camera tracks the main character from afar as he fights in a corridor; viewers see his whole body and the scene has the quality of a videogame as waves upon waves of enemies attack the protagonist. This videogame-like style pushes the audience to participate in the action, to take control and think about the action’s purpose. Because of the wide and encompassing camera perspective, the audience becomes aware of his internal dilemma. The man is enshrouded by his physical surroundings, and one can see the enormity of violence and conflict surrounding him. Similarly, he faces this conflict internally throughout the film. He is trapped in a cage even though he is supposedly free. Even outside his cage, he cannot fully experience freedom. He is a monster, yet a vulnerable and trapped monster; one moment during the fight scene he even stops to take a breath. This perspective of viewing that emphasizes vulnerability over crude fighting is much different than that of the oftentimes brainless, fast-paced action sequences offered by Hollywood blockbusters. In the conventional presentation of action films, action is for action’s sake. In Asian cinema, however, the presentation plays a deeper role in not only the construction of characters and settings, but also the refinement of ideas in the film. 6. Film Grammar: Plot In turn, this focus on ideas over other conventions allows for a more ambiguous, yet still more original plot. In this case, Asian film directors focus on the development of film grammar. In other words, Asian cinema allows for personal interpretation while the typical blockbuster does not. For instance, superhero films such as The Dark Knight (2008) and The Amazing Spiderman (2012) have a structured plot formula with a single heroine who overcomes a villain or a conflict. Romantic comedies have happy endings; the protagonists fight through their difficulties to find love. These types of films are unambiguous about their stories; the ending is straightforward and the director ties all loose ends. Asian films, on the other hand, often include open endings and unexplained events within the plot. Hur Jin-ho’s Christmas in August (1998) exemplifies this Asian film characteristic. This film follows the journey of a photography shop owner as he realizes he will soon die from an unspecified disease. During this time, he falls in love with a young traffic cop. In one of the last scenes, the protagonist writes a letter to the young woman but places it into a box, implying he did not send it. In the end, the viewers see the young woman smiling at a newly-placed photograph of her in the window of his shop. This scene epitomizes the open-ended nature of many Asian films; the disease the man had and whether or not the letter was sent to the woman remain unclear, leaving unanswered questions. Just as Christmas in August (1998) leaves the viewer with questions, The Cure (1997) also presents purposeful ambiguity in specific plot events. The storyline is consistently jumbled and puzzling. The audience is unsure about the true source and nature of the disease infecting the people in the film. Although an explanation of the disease is eventually given to the audience—the people are supposedly hypnotized to commit murder—this reasoning seems implausible. As Bordwell highlights, however, even this sometimes unclear plot is a “self-conscious effort” by the director to experiment (262). In the end, the protagonist succumbs to the spreading disease. Here, the audience confronts the possibility of two conclusions. First, the interpretation could be simplistic; the protagonist was hypnotized. The second reading, however, implies that there exists an innate disease in all human beings; the protagonist is not an exception—the viewers are not an exception. This type of deeper analysis of plot and story is exactly the goal of these Asian film directors. In fact, through the plot, not only do these films require close viewings, but they also form unique themes that may or may not fit in the context of that specific genre. 7. Film Grammar: Theme The focus of Asian directors on ambiguity in plot translates to an increased focus on theme development, the last and perhaps most important convention in film grammar. In other words, Asian directors are vested in forming a stronger theme, highlighting the emphasis of the Asian film industry on developing film grammar. Most blockbusters have traditional and unoriginal themes; romantic comedies are about youthful love and action films are about good conquering evil. These themes, however, have become watered-down and overused. The industry’s generic overproduction of similar-themed films has resulted in a market of shallow films with often little meaning. Asian films, however, strive to accentuate meaning and guide the viewers, not with fanciful computer graphics, but with content-based film grammar. Christmas in August (1998), at its most basic reading, merely follows a story of a man finding love. The plot is rather unoriginal and boring. Upon closer inspection, however, the film is rich in literary value. Themes are introduced, developed, and refined. The ticking of a clock follows the man every time he enters his shop. The protagonist constantly looks through reflections, lens, glasses, and window panes; he can only observe the world through an indirect lens but is unable to experience it in a real way. This is emblematic of time passing and love fading—a much deeper conclusion than most romantic comedies, all due to the director’s desire to be authentic. In much the same way, In the Mood for Love (2000) by Wong Kar-wai develops the idea of romance to a greater degree. Kar-wai uses slow-motion captures to highlight the odd nature of this storys’ romance. In each scene, this technique seems to embody the mundane quality of the two protagonists’ lives and their need for lust and desire. In addition, the film also contains an ambiguous plot; the audience never knows whether or not a sexual relationship develops between the two characters or even if they ever begin an actual, mutually-recognized relationship. Again, Kar-wai uses this ambiguity to generate meaning; love is more than just the youthful experience presented in many blockbusters. It is a careful, hidden, and secret endeavor that is altogether incomprehensible to the naked eye. This theme is only one of many peculiar themes in Asian cinema. Other films develop themes related to fantasy and the imagination. Infernal Affairs (2002) uses reflections off glass windows to create a fantastical, almost unbelievable environment for the protagonist. Oftentimes, the director shoots from a high angle, highlighting the protagonist’s helplessness and state of entrapment. Furthermore, the character is often framed by surrounding building structures, fences, and walls; he is seldom seen comfortable in his role. From this, the audience can conclude that fantasy and the unreal control the life of the protagonist. The world is so corrupt and so evil that the only way to cope with such realities is to find peace in the imaginary. While these themes reflect the purpose of the directors, it emphasizes the deeper nature of Asian themes—how they focus on themes with more substance, thus creating new, deep, and authentic genres. 8. McDonaldization These five conventions relating to film language and grammar illustrate the complexity of Asian film. Many may argue, however, that the conclusions drawn in this paper incorrectly define Asian cinema. According to Miriam Hansen, “… all the world’s mass market cinemas are based on the standard continuity style pioneered by classical Hollywood…” (295). Hansen points to what Pieterse identifies as “McDonaldization,” an attempt of many world cinema industries to copy Hollywood films. Some feel that Asian films are only an adaptation, a generic reconstruction, of American films. This reading, however, is rather simplistic. As Chris Berry, film theorist and writer, notes in his essay titled “What’s Big about the Big Film,” “borrowing and translation are only the first step on the road towards agency and creativity” (218). He goes on to argue that the blockbuster is no longer uniquely American but rather global and plural. In other words, although the borrowing of ideas is commonplace among the Asian film industry, the authentic expression of these ideas creates genres unique from Hollywood. In fact, they are so different that Hansen concludes that Asian films are not “simply variants of a dominant style” (295). Although it is clear that the Asian film industry is influenced greatly by Hollywood, it cannot be concluded that this industry is a mere copy, however reconstructed, of the American original. 9. Conclusion In every convention, whether it is film language or grammar, Asian cinema defies expectations. The industry is thus defined by its role in the marketplace. Hansen writes, “A significant impulse in the modernist break with tradition, the quest for the genuinely new and different – in poetry, music, and the visual arts – has been to oppose, negate, or at the very least undermine, the consumerist logic of capitalist mass-market culture” (Hansen 301-302). Asian films attempt to break away from any preset logical method of filming. The industry strives to find its own agency in a market dominated by Hollywood. Through the reconstruction of language and more importantly, grammar, Asian films have generated new genres, new conventions, and new films. They are not mere copies of the original, but rather a hybridization of genre conventions and genres with a focus on meaning and agency in order to establish Asian film authenticity. Works Cited The Amazing Spiderman. Dir. Marc Webb. Universal, 2012. DVD. Barsam, R., and D. Monahan. Looking at Movies: An Introduction to Film. 2009. Print. Berry, C. Movie Blockbusters. Routledge. 2003. Print. Bordwell, D. Planet Hong Kong: Popular Cinema and the Art of Entertainment. May 2000. Print. The Bourne Identity. Dir. Doug Liman. Universal Pictures, 2003. DVD. Christmas in August. Dir. Hur Jin-ho. 1998. DVD. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon = Wo Hu Cang Long. Dir. Li Ang. Sony Picture Classics, 2000. DVD. The Cure. Dir. Kiyoshi Kurosawa. 1997. DVD. The Dark Knight. By Christopher Nolan. Perf. Michael Caine, Aaron Eckhart, and Christian Bale. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2008. DVD. Elberse, A. Why Hollywood Is Caught in the Blockbuster Trap—and Won’t Break Free Anytime Soon. Vulture Magazine. October 2013. 13 January 2014. Web. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Dir. Sergio Leone. Perf. Clint Eastwood. 1966. The Good, the Bad, the Weird. Dir. Kim Jee-Woon. Perf. Kang-ho Song and Byung-hun Lee. 2008. DVD. Hansen, M. Vernacular Modernism: Tracking Cinema on a Global Scale. Classical Cinema as Vernacular Modernism. 1999. Print. The Host. Dir. Bong Joon-ho. 2006. DVD. In the Mood for Love. Dir. Kar-wai Wong. Block 2 Pictures, Inc., 2000. DVD. Infernal Affairs. Dir. Andrew Lau and Alan Mak. Perf. Andy Lau and Tony Chiu Wai Leung. Miramax Films, 2002. DVD. Pieterse, J.N. Globalization and Culture: Global Melange. 2003. Print. Old Boy. Dir. Park Chan-wook. 2003. DVD. A Tale of Two Sisters. Dir. Bong Joon-ho. 2003. DVD. 1. Introduction “The creative texts, be they visual, literary, or musical, stress the migration of one character, who stands in as representative of the mass… they create a sort of epic narrative on the scale of Exodus”[1] writes Farah Jasmine Griffin, Professor of African-American Studies at Columbia University, in Who Set You Flowin’?, a non-fiction work on migration. Griffin asserts that the oftentimes individualized experiences of migration narratives embody the overall nature of the African American Great Migration. Numerous literary texts, then, strive to have societal and political influence. While Griffin argues that migration literature is representative of a historical movement, Toni Morrison shows how these narratives serve an ulterior motive: “All of that art-for-art’s-sake is BS… all good art is political.”[2] That is, political in the sense that art—these narratives—encompasses a political response otherwise known as protest. While Griffin focuses on the historical context of migration narratives and Morrison on a political response to art, these objective analyses parallel movement and response on an internal level. As Lawrence Rodgers writes in his non-fiction work Canaan Bound, “Because who one is relies on possessing a sense of one’s place in the world… the process of migration is indelibly tied into the broader quest for identity.”[3] Rodgers argues that migration is not an altogether physical experience but rather an internal and individual pursuit for acceptance and recognition. In order for one to migrate, one has to both physically and internally move. Rodgers identifies African American migration as a search for the Promised Land. 2. Claim Much of African American literature, however, differs from this Biblical migration in that the migrants are often unprepared to journey into the so-called Promised Land and are thus easily misled and corrupted. In other words, the people fail to internally migrate before physically migrating. This results in a discrepancy between fantasy and reality. In their dreams, these migrants envision a bountiful land full of wealth, equality, and peace. Upon arrival, however, these migrants face a foreign world; unable to cope with this new environment, they are swallowed up by the city. The central argument of this paper, then, is that a transformation of the physical does not guarantee a transformation of the internal. Further, in order to fully manifest one’s physical condition, internal migration—a recognition of belonging, sense of identity, and agency—must take place. This paper, through Dunbar’s The Sport of the Gods, Attaway’s Blood on the Forge, and Wright’s Black Boy, will articulate a case for the aforementioned claim in order to shed light on whether these narratives depict a failed, half, or successful migration. It will utilize two perspectives of analysis: 1) the basic plot construction of each novel, and 2) the written text. Through this analysis, it will demonstrate two distinct components of migration: first, the physical, and second, the internal. Finally, it will argue that both Griffin and Morrison’s perspectives on migration literature can be applied to this re-analysis of migration. 3. A Failed Migration Paul Laurence Dunbar’s The Sport of the Gods represents a unique portrayal regarding the physical migration of African Americans. As Martin, Primeau, and Jarrett write in their introduction of The Collected Novels of Paul Laurence Dunbar, Paramount in his accomplishments completed over a short career was his propensity to experiment, [Dunbar’s] degree of success with little experience, and the way he managed to walk a very fine line between what might be accepted or even liked and the full range of his penetrating analysis and satiric wit.[4] Here, Martin, Primeau, and Jarrett note the experimental nature of Dunbar’s writing. In his novel, Dunbar consciously chooses to subvert previous conventions in order to satirically comment on racial injustices. He starkly presents his analysis through the plot; his altogether unique storyline supports the controversial quality of his novels. More specifically, the overall storyline is dark and bitter. The novel begins with the Hamilton family, a family content with the South and satisfied with, even proud of, their status in society as servants of the wealthy Oakley household. Dunbar writes, “The girl did have the prettiest clothes of any of her race in the town…”[5] This complacency and even contentedness with their lives is quickly destroyed after the Oakleys wrongly accuse Berry Hamilton, the father, of stealing money. The police arrest Berry and the Hamiltons flee to New York to escape persecution from both the black community, who is jealous of them, and the white community, who believes Berry to be a thief. The latter parts of this novel show the influence migration had on the family. Once the Hamiltons arrive in the city, the city corrupts them: the son murders a woman, the daughter becomes an abused singer, and the wife remarries. The ending is most tragic; Berry, who is freed after the Oakleys admit that he was falsely accused, migrates northward to find his son in jail, his daughter lost, and his wife married to another man. He takes his wife and returns to the South. Here, Dunbar concludes: It was not a happy life, but it was all that was left to them, and they took it up without complaint, for they knew they were powerless against some will infinitely stronger than their own.[6] Dunbar, here, presents a failed migration in two respects. The Hamiltons unsuccessfully migrated in the physical sense. That is, they were forced to return to the home of their ancestors and the origins of their persecution—and they were not happy. Therefore, they could neither find agency nor establish self-identity wherever they physically migrated, whether it be the South or the North. The author never highlights any redemptive moments throughout his work. Instead, Dunbar’s work points to the dangers of movement without purpose. The Hamiltons were played by “the Gods,” a power so “infinitely stronger than [the Hamiltons] own” that dictated their every move.[7] Their lack of control over their circumstances inhibited them from ever attaining any sense of a real migration. This conclusion points towards the consequences of an unsuccessful migration both in the physical and in the internal sense. 4. A Partial Migration While Dunbar’s work portrays a completely failed migration, both in the physical and internal components, William Attaway’s Blood on the Forge says something quite different. In this novel, three brothers, Big Mat, Melody, and Chinatown, migrate to a Pennsylvania steel mill after Big Mat murders a white man. Each character has distinct characteristics that define different themes in the novel. Melody is representative of the degradation of folk culture. Throughout the novel, he “slicks” away on his guitar whenever he feels the need to express himself or alleviate his sadness.[8] As Melody migrates, he loses his touch with music. “Right now all of Melody’s world was a little dull pain. He had left his guitar behind.”[9] Chinatown represents the loss of joy that accompanies a failed migration. A character that laughs and enjoys life freely, he is the most cheerful and vain character in the novel. Chinatown constantly stares at his golden tooth through a mirror and carries it with pride. Chinatown’s migration to Pennsylvania causes him to lose his sight, rendering him unable to see his golden tooth, but also rendering him unable to see joy in his life. He then changes into a quiet and subdued character, a result of a failed internal migration. Lastly, Big Mat shows how strength is lost without a proper internal migration. Through his strength, he keeps the family together and alive in the South, representing the pillar of the household. The anger and fury enlivened in him by his migration north lead to his tragic death: “Sometimes they broke through, and he filled with red madness – like a boar at mating – hog wild.”[10] Together, these three brothers constitute some of the qualities of many African American migrants. Attaway argues that physical migration strips these people of their culture, joy, and strength. In other words, the brothers were forced to search for these qualities in a foreign environment to attempt a complete migration. This migration, however, was not fulfilled: “‘Mill never be my home.’”[11] Here, the physical movement did not satisfy the brothers. Attaway implies that this migration was incomplete because of a lack in internal migration. Big Mat dies because he is unable to recognize human joy and culture; he can only survive through his relationships with his brothers—through joy and culture. Each brother was unable to fully accomplish migration because he was short-sighted; each one lacked the agency, sense of belonging, and pursuit of identity—three aspects crucial for the fulfillment of true migration. 5. A True Migration While Attaway depicts a tale of unaccomplished migration, Richard Wright writes an uplifting novel, Black Boy, that shows that true migration, in its physical and internal senses, is possible. Griffin identifies that African Americans, even in the South, could indeed find agency in the midst of oppressive forces.[12] In fact, Wright’s semi-autobiographical work recounts his personal search for identity and agency. He goes through various transitions throughout his lifetime. Early in the novel, he objects to the cultural barrenness[13] that exists in the black community: In shaking hands I was doing something that I was to do countless times in the years to come: acting in conformity with what others expected of me even though, by the very nature and form of my life, I did not and could not share their spirit.[14] Wright shows his indignation for this conformist culture—the idea that black people were lower than white people. He dedicates his life to finding a sense of belonging. Thus, he migrates to Chicago, searching for his identity. There, he develops and matures his perspective regarding humanity. He also encounters the Communist party, which he admires for their freedom of expression, however flawed: “But it seemed to me that here at last in the realm of revolutionary expression was where Negro experience could find a home, a functioning value and role.”[15] Here, Wright realized for the first time that black people could have agency in America. This agency came in the form of language, and thus embodies the one of the purposes of Wright’s Black Boy. Wright concludes, I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human.[16] In the end, Wright’s character matures to realize that, regardless of his physical position, he should stand for what he believes. Wright’s work embodies the concept of achieving true migration. Not only is his physical position fully manifested, but he also gains agency, a sense of belonging, and self-identity. Wright will march and fight, hurl words, and keep his heart alive, for he recognizes his own voice—his own black identity. 6. The African American Identity Griffin pushes us to consider a larger scope—history—when reading African American literature. The failed migration, the half migration, and the true migration are all representative of components of the African American Great Migration and the problems that marred a moving population. Thomas Morgan, Associate Professor of African American Studies at the University of Dayton, considers the search for urban identity as the main crux of African American narratives. Morgan writes, The specific construction of an urban identity for African Americans at the turn of the century is an important development in the narrative history of African American literature.[17] The search for urban identity, otherwise defined by the identity of African Americans after migration, characterizes these narratives. Morgan asserts his claim, viewing the whole of the Great Migration as an establishment of identity in the Northern regions of the United States. Thus, Dunbar, Attaway, and Wright, are emblematic of historical truths, reflecting critical aspects of the African American migration. Dunbar, through his experimentation, satirically comments on the helplessness of the people in their struggles to find a better life. Attaway provides a reflection of qualities lost during migration—joy, culture, strength. These novels highlight the consequences of physically migrating without internal migration. Wright, however, gives hope that African Americans can find and produce their own agency in the face of adversity—that they can achieve true migration. These three novels, and the individual migration struggles they present, together encompass African Americans’ need during the Great Migration to gain agency, identity, and a sense of belonging, as well as the consequences of failing to adequately meet this need. 7. Conclusion The variety of African American narratives, however, serve a deeper purpose. Morrison identifies the function of such African American narratives as The Sport of the Gods, Blood on the Forge, and Black Boy. Indeed, art is not for art’s sake alone; these narratives seek to highlight the inequities present in the Great Migration and encourage political response. The failure and success of internal migration in these migration narratives represent different expressions of the African American people during that time period; it requires the readers to react—to respond. Dunbar is sarcastic. Attaway is straightforward. Wright is reflective. In whichever literary style or format, the many of the conclusion are the same: the African American people need and desire a home—only then can they find identity and agency, and only then can they experience true migration. [1] Griffin, F.J. Who Set You Flowin’?. Page 46 [2] Toni Morrison. [3] Rodgers, L.R. Canaan Bound. Page 4 [4] Martin, Primeau, and Jarrett. The Collected Novels of Paul Laurence Dunbar. Page 308 [5] Dunbar, P.L. The Sport of the Gods. Page 3 [6] Ibid. Page 118 [7] Ibid. [8] Attaway, W. Blood on the Forge. Page 4 [9] Ibid. Page 234 [10] Ibid. Page 12 [11] Ibid. Page 84 [12] Griffin, F.J. Who Set You Flowin’?. Page 32 [13] This barrenness is in direct reference to his other work 12 Million Black Voices. Wright is referring to the loss of culture and the concession and conformation of the black community to white expectations. He argues here that African Americans have lost their agency and have only two options: fight or flight. [14] Wright, Richard. Black Boy. Page 37 [15] Ibid. Page 318. [16] Ibid. Page 384 [17] Morgan, Thomas. The City as Refuge: Constructing Urban Blackness in Paul Laurence Dunbar's The Sport of the Gods and James Weldon Johnson's The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man. Page 215 As Farah Jasmine Griffin, acclaimed African American historian and writer, argues, the African American migration encompasses not only the physical movement of men and women northward, but also the internal transformation of the “migrant psyche” (Griffin 18). The idea that migration is as much a physical sacrifice as it is an internal transition through pain and struggle resonates in many literary and scholarly works during that period. Specifically, religion is intertwined within both the physical and internal migration story. To the migrants, religion was more than a practice or doctrine. It was their life; it was faith, an ideology to pursue in a time when reality was too hard to accept. In the case of Richard Wright’s Black Boy, it may even be a form of escape, a denial of the past and present circumstances. Much scholarship, however, has linked the African American migration with the Christian religion. For example, Lawrence Rodgers identifies migration as a journey to Canaan, a defiled and forsaken land, connecting the migration narrative to this spiritual journey (Rodgers). When placed within the context of African American literature, however, migration is seldom recognized as a form of redemption, the crux of the Christian faith and the New Testament ministry. Instead, scholars have focused more intensely on the broader lens of faith influencing movement. This reading of African American literature can be deepened to capture the true motivation behind migration. While different causes of migration exist in these narratives, the promise of redemption, achieved or unachieved, is one of the driving forces of African American movement and is an essential theme in these narratives. The definition of redemption is crucial to establish the grounds to this paper’s claim. Redemption can be defined through analysis of Christianity and its texts. The Christian Bible defines redemption in various sections and can be dissected using certain components of Jesus’ crucifixion. Upon the death of Jesus on the cross, the Bible notes two details: the releasing of blood and water. Thus, redemption can be separated into two concepts. In biblical terminology, the blood of Jesus Christ covers all sins. In Ephesians 1:7, it is written, “In whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of offenses, according to the riches of His grace” (Recovery Version, Eph. 1:7). As this verse from the Bible highlights, man is able to achieve redemption through the blood of Jesus. Redemption, however, constitutes two parts. The water in Christianity typifies a release of life. In the Bible, water is living and flowing freely and often described as “the fountain of life” (Recovery Version, Psa. 36:9) It is organic and alive, representing a dispensation of life within each organic member of His Body. Redemption is not only forgiveness and repentance, but also a safeguarding of the precious life in man. Most importantly, upon redemption, the safeguarding of spiritual life is indeed an important concept in Christianity. Redemption is the process in which man is able to achieve a personal relationship with God. But the Bible goes further in explicating the true meaning of God’s dispensed life. Apostle Paul speaks, “Brothers, I do not account of myself to have laid hold; but one thing I do: Forgetting the things which are behind and stretching forward to the things which are before” (Recovery Version, Phil. 3:13). In this verse, Brother Paul defines accomplished redemption as forgetting the past while embracing the present. In other words, redemption is rooted in the fact that in order to be “in” and “of” Christ, sanctified, and righteous, men must not dwell on their past; on the contrary, they should pursue the present. By pursuing the present, man is not only forgiven of his sins, but is abiding by God’s will, safeguarding the new life within him. While redemption speaks of a glorified renewal of man away from previous sins towards a new and better life, this idea seems often contradictory to the reality of migration. In fact, upon migrating to the North, many African American migrants grew increasingly disillusioned. Low standards of living, persistent racism, and degradation of culture and ideals were commonplace. Migration narratives reflect on these experiences with a sense of nostalgia for the South and the past. William Attaway’s Blood on the Forge most strongly evokes this sense of nostalgia. Attaway tells a bleak story of three brothers who migrate to a Pennsylvania steel mill to escape the persecution from their white landowner in the South. Throughout the story, the brothers constantly reflect back on their lives in the South: “there was growing things everywhere … beautiful in the sun” (Attaway 44). Redemption seems missing in these crucial moments in the story. Instead, upon arriving to their new homes, these men are discomforted, yearning for the “red-clay hills” of the South. Upon closer inspection, however, redemption persists as the cause for movement, even in Attaway’s story of pain, grief, and death. While these men were clearly dissatisfied with their lives in the North, it is the promise of redemption that leads them there. Attaway writes, “He liked the wishing game. They had played at it all their lives, most times wishing they were at the grand places pictured in the old newspapers that livened the walls of the shack” (Attaway 8). The brothers, in this quotation, establish a desire for change. Discontented with their lives in the South, the brothers can only “wish” for a standard of life that is present within their dreams. They are desperate, stuck within the historical racial prejudices of America’s past. It is not long, however, that their wishes have the opportunity to turn into reality; a white man offers them a chance to work in the North. These men are given a glimpse of hope from their persecution and salvation from their grief. This defines the redemptive moment in Attaway’s novel. Attaway writes, “But if he was speakin’ facts… us makin’ a year crop money in one month… think what we have in a season… We have all the money in a year… In two years we got enough to fill a corn crib…Why China, in two years you wouldn’t have to do no work” (Attaway 33-34). Here, the brothers see hope. They recognize the prospect of moving North as an escape from their past and a movement towards their future. To further support this claim, the brothers move primarily because one of them commits murder, a clear connection to the concept of blood in redemption. The taking of another’s life is considered a sin in the Christian religion. The brothers thus seek redemption and find it within the opportunity to migrate north. In this picture, the chance for migration is their redemption, a movement away from their sinful past towards a new future. While the reality of the North may not be as picturesque as they imagined, and while many may argue that these brothers, in the end, found no redemption in the North, it is clear that redemption, even unachieved redemption, drove migration. The idea of unachieved redemption driving migration may be more or less a novel concept; achieved redemption, however, seems more obvious within migration narratives. James Baldwin’s Go Tell it on the Mountain illustrates achieved redemption through John, the protagonist. Baldwin interestingly juxtaposes John’s father, Gabriel the Reverend, to show the sinful nature of his past. In fact, at each stage of Gabriel’s life, Baldwin depicts a conflicted character, one who struggles between his personal desires and the Holy calling of God. While Gabriel claims to be a holy man, his actions speak otherwise, and his graceful speeches are hypocritically exercised. Gabriel’s past is dirty and full of sin. Again, this is a connection to the idea of seeking forgiveness from sins. Thus, his search for redemption leads to his migration away from the sins of his past. In the North, his marriage has a redeeming quality but is marred by the existence of his bastard son, John. However, unlike the unachieved redemption in Attaway’s work, Baldwin allows redemption to be fully accomplished. While Gabriel cannot forget the past, John represents the achieved redemption of his father. John is able to reconcile with his familial past. The past, which God calls us to forget, is for the present, which God says is for the purpose of turning to Him. John turns to God at the end of the novel. Baldwin writes, “no matter what anybody says, you remember – please remember – I was saved. I was there” (Baldwin 262). John embodies the qualities that his father lacks. Although he did not physically migrate, he has his own migration story. His migration is internal, a movement from his father’s dark past and his own personal sins of masturbation, towards a renewed life for God – a safeguarding of His life; not only does John have the blood of redemption but also the water of redemption. In fact, Baldwin ends his novel with an active representation of his internal movement: “I’m coming. I’m on my way” (Baldwin 263). This story of movement, both physical and internal, is rooted in the search and accomplishment of redemption. In both Baldwin’s Go Tell it on the Mountain and Attaway’s Blood on the Forge, redemption, both unachieved and achieved, seems to be a core theme that drives internal and physical migration. Migration is in many respects dictated by the desire of these men and women to seek redemption. As Baldwin and Attaway depict in their novels, this desire for change is often rooted in the sinful past of the protagonists. However, the final accomplishment of redemption is rooted in an internal migration away from the past. As migrants search for a better life, they are, in effect, embracing the present while forgetting the chains of the past that bind them. Works Cited Attaway, William. Blood on the Forge. New York: New York Review, 1941. Print. Baldwin, James. Go Tell It on the Mountain. New York: Vintage International, 2013. Print. Griffin, Farah Jasmine. "Who Set You Flowin'?": The African-American Migration Narrative. New York: Oxford UP, 1995. Print. Rodgers, Lawrence R. Canaan Bound: The African-American Great Migration Novel. Chicago: University of Illinois, 1997. Print. The Recovery Version Bible. Anaheim: Living Stream Ministry, 2003. Print. “There is, in fact, no serious social message in Sweeney Todd,” writes Richard Eder, critic for The New York Times. He calls Stephen Sondheim’s musical a “confusion of purpose” with “too much artistic power” (Eder). Set in London during the beginning of the industrial revolution, Sweeney Todd recounts the story of a demon barber who viciously murders his customers and bakes them into pies with the help of his neighbor, Mrs. Lovett. Originally published in 1846 as a “penny dreadful,”[1] The String of Pearls (Sweeney Todd) was widely acclaimed for its violent depiction of London. But as Rosalind Crone, Professor of History at the Open University, argues, “Like other genres in the culture from which [Sweeney Todd] emerged, its interest was not in promoting social reform” (Crone 4). Crone suggests that the purpose of these “penny dreadful” serial books were merely for entertainment. As Crone deftly argues, this specific story among the hundreds of other “penny dreadful” serial books only depicts the popular culture during a time of competition and technological advancement; it is not unique and many other variations of Todd’s story existed during that time.[2] Thus, any societal critiques suggested by this story, as duly noted by critics and reviewers, seem to be smeared and blurred at best. The 2007 film version of Stephen Sondheim’s musical Sweeney Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street does not escape this harsh criticism.[3] Steven Vineberg, Professor of Dramatic Literature and Film at the College of the Holy Cross, asserts that Burton’s film lacks “satirical edge or political punch” because the “social milieu… [is] insufficiently dramatized” (Vineberg). While critics praised this version of the demon barber myth for its brilliant artistic imagination, their responses reflect a general agreement that the recent film, its musical adaptation, and its 19th century origins lack political and social value. Even then, however, many literary scholars refuse to believe that these stories were really that simplistic. Specifically, scholars have extensively analyzed the 19th century String of Pearls penny dreadful story. According to Rohan McWilliam, Professor of Modern British History at Anglia Ruskin University, “it is clear that the Sweeney Todd mythology was an example of the Hogarthian impulse in popular culture” (McWilliam 732). In other words, McWilliam argues that the British literature strongly satirizes society and in actuality, comments on many social and political problems. Literary analyst Sally Powell makes a similar conclusion. Powell “argues that Mrs. Lovett’s pies [actually] drew on concerns about the use of diseased meat in products for human consumption, and even more particularly, fears about the vulnerability of urban foodstuffs to corporeal contamination” (Crone 19). For Powell, the story of Sweeney Todd reveals the “dispassionate relationship between the profiteer and the abject product,” highlighting the culture[4] of commercialism and consumerism which was at the forefront of the industrial revolution (Powell 53). The story, as Powell explains, also relays the growing consumer culture[5] as blissfully ignorant[6] of the harms that come concurrently with a business-oriented society. While these scholars have found stark criticism on consumer culture and industry buried in the original story, these findings hold no real application to the recent 2007 film adaptation. Although much of the storyline is still present within Burton’s work, critics such as Riley and Vineberg regard the new adaptation as nothing more than a washed down version of its penny dreadful origins. If this is the case, are critics correct in their conclusion regarding the film? Does this newer version of Sweeney Todd hold no real societal implications? On the surface, many reviewers have viewed the film as nothing more than a horrific tale about revenge, love, and greed, filled to the brim with blood and gore (Lamberson). Upon closer analysis, however, the film points to interesting topics concerning cannibalism and our current society. While it seems as though Burton’s film has been acclaimed to hold no social or political significance, it actually critiques both our current consumer fast food culture and the fast food industry through its portrayal of cannibalism. Before we can understand how Burton’s film actually critiques the fast food industry, we have to analyze previous scholarship who has found similar conclusions. Specifically, Professor of American Studies and English, Michael Newbury argues that the horror genre may actually critique the fast food industry and our current consumer culture. In his paper “Fast Zombie/ Slow Zombie: Food Writing, Horror Movies and Agribusiness Apocalypse,” Newbury shows that in the context of a post-apocalyptic world rampant with zombies, it seems as though humanity’s reliance on fast food is thoughtless. In fact, for the sake of taste and desire, society has chosen to blatantly disregard their personal welfare. In one of the analyzed scenes of 2002 film 28 Days Later, Newbury explicates that “The fast and rabid zombies of the very recent years embody quite literally the unrestrained, manic, hyper accelerated, and mindless appetite of the contemporary food consumer: an eater, according to apocalyptic journalists, produced by food marketing, fast-food chains, manufacturers of junk food, and corporate slaughterhouses” (Newbury 103). The appetite of today’s consumers is searching for a quick and easy solution to their diets that will satisfy not only their hunger and thirst but also their taste and wants. In this quotation, Newbury not only compares consumers with the zombies themselves, he actually asserts that the zombies in the film are in fact “us” - mindless and rabid, eating everything and anything. When speaking in regards to the food industry, Newbury attributes this “zombie” culture to the “unsustainable, unhealthy, deeply commercialized food system” (Newbury 100). Much scholarly work has pointed towards this same conclusion on our current food culture.[7] Although Newbury lays a solid premise for the horror genre, his paper focuses more on zombie films and their connection to fast food. Burton’s film, however, can be directly applied to Newbury’s analysis. Much of the film reflects on the food industry as an extremely economical and urban machine. According to Riley, Mrs. Lovett provides the fundamental connection between the film and the industry, “firmly establishing [herself] as the quintessential businesswoman: resourceful, practical, profit-driven, and ruthlessly amoral” (Riley 209). In one particular dark scene, after discussing how to rid the dead body of one of Sweeney Todd’s victims, Mrs. Lovett steals a pouch of coins from the victim’s breast pocket, casually saying, “Waste not, want not” (Sweeney Todd). By not wanting to waste the man’s money in his pocket, Mrs. Lovett demonstrates her money-driven personality. Furthermore, her black dress blends seamlessly with her shop; it is as if she was an integral part of the machine. Her eyes are coated with thick eyeliner and her garments barely cover her exposed breasts (Fig. 1). Ironically, in the face of grotesque circumstances - in this case murder - the industrial “machine” continues to operate. Mrs. Lovett is not only unfazed by humanities’ worst crime, but also takes advantage of this opportunity to make money. Her attire reflects her seductive nature, even using her body as a means to entice men. In the same way, the fast food industry desires to be seductive, luring people to consume their fatty foods. The industry acts in the shadows, often hiding the negative health consequences from its consumers. Most famously put by a 2008 documentary Food, Inc. by Robert Kenner, “The industry doesn’t want you to know the truth about what you’re eating, cause if you knew, you might not want to eat it” (Food, Inc). In the end, the goal of the industry is only to sell its product using any way possible, disregarding the legality and morality of its processes. Legality and morality are clearly not an issue of concern for the fast food industry; efficiency, however, is of utmost importance. Acting under this efficiency in mind, Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd conclude that the best way to rid the dead body is to grind it into meat and bake it into meat pies for the public’s consumption. Mrs. Lovett constantly chirps “no time like the present” as to signify her immediate approval for this idea; she realizes that this use of human meat was a way for her to gain more customers and actually sell “meat” in her meat pies (Sweeney Todd). With the death of the first gentleman, Todd and Mrs. Lovett decide to take revenge on a larger scale, killing innocent civilians and developing a prolific business. Todd, however, is the section of the industry that supplies the resources to create Mrs. Lovett’s product. In one particular scene, Todd holds his shaving razor under the eerie light from the sky window (Fig. 2). The minor chords in the background accompaniment boom as he raises his arm declaring, “At last, my arm is complete again” (Sweeney Todd). The music and this scene identify Todd as a living part of the murder machine – the supply for Mrs. Lovett’s meat pies. He is part of the industry itself, cold and unforgiving. He cares only about his cause, his money, and his need; consumers and their needs are second to his own. Similarly, the fast food industry operates using the chain of production as demonstrated by Mrs. Lovett and Todd. Certain factories specialize in providing the beef for burgers, potato for fries, and chicken for the chicken nuggets. These are all a sector of the industry, separated to make production faster and more efficient. Todd and Lovett’s business reflects this method of assembly out of efficiency, amorality, and illegality. Although on the face of it, efficiency has no negative connotations, the fast food industry values this speedy production over the welfare of its consumers. The film is plain in its critique of this process. As Mrs. Lovett journeys to refill her “meat” supply, she walks into a dark cellar and proceeds to grind human flesh out of an immense machine. The meat plops onto her pan and the sound of gears and grinding overwhelm the viewing experience (Fig. 3). The camera angles frame the meat to accentuate the grotesque process. The darkness of the screen depicts a cold scene, absent of joy. While this practice is difficult to watch, Mrs. Lovett seems to be apathetic towards her line of work. She is neither bothered nor delighted by throwing humans into a pit of fire or a gigantic grinder. Burton’s film critiques the fast food industry and blames it for its immorality and inhumanity. As identified in many documentaries,[8] the fast food industry has often been the culprit of food adulteration, feeding consumers harmful products, much different than advertised. Some viewers, however, argue that this reading is too radical. Sweeney Todd is but a “fable about a world from which the possibility of justice has vanished, replaced on one hand by vain and arbitrary power, on the other by a righteous fury that quickly spirals into madness” (Scott). They argue that the film is nothing more than a story driven by anger, grief, and revenge. While their argument seems appealing, a closer analysis reveals that the film actually goes further and critiques our degrading eating culture. Immediately following the depiction of the meat grinding in Mrs. Lovett’s cellar, Burton juxtaposes this scene with one of happiness and joy. Candles light up the restaurant’s tables as hundreds of customers sit eating the new meat pies (Fig. 4). Candles are often used for special occasions. They romanticize dinners and provide light in the darkness. Interestingly, even in the midst of candlelight, all of the customers are oblivious to the true ingredients of the pies; their oblivion to them is bliss, suggesting a deeper viewing more than merely a scene about Todd’s manic revenge. Newbury provides an explanation for this in his connection between zombie films and the fast food industry: “The candlelight dinner scenes seek to recover … a world before the dominance of corporate and fast food” (Newbury 106). Most of the time, these scenes are actually only a façade of reality. Newbury identifies that dinner scenes in the midst of natural candlelight actually reflect a fake sense of reality, a fake sense of control and purpose. While the consumers believe they are eating quality food, they are actually actively participating in cannibalism. With this picture, it seems that Burton illustrates an important message in regards to our daily consumption. No man or woman questions the origins of their pie nor asks for the nutritional values or ingredients. They are content with their ignorance. In fact, the only two characters who actually question the pie shop’s practices are a street orphan and a beggar woman on the street. The street orphan is but a boy, holding no real authority in the face of the public. The beggar woman holds no status in society. Her voice is peculiar and flaky, signifying her powerless state in the face of industry. Together, they are the most disrespected in society, spited for their low status and class. The public refuses to listen to them and even when they voice their opinions in the store, they are quickly shooed away: “Get her out!” cries Mrs. Lovett (Sweeney Todd). In this case, cannibalism depicts the consumer culture of today. Although many people have reported on the health issues of fast food, we, as mindless zombies, continue to consume what we know as unhealthy. Specifically, it shows the consumer ignorance and negligence towards the origins of fast food. We want quick, easy, fast food, regardless of our health. In its extreme, we could be cannibals without even knowing. But what is the purpose of cannibalism in the film? Is it merely to show our degrading consumer culture? The film actually not only critiques our consumer culture but goes further to ask us to change our eating habits. While cannibalism is representative of culture,[9] in film, however, cannibalism can mean more than this; it can relay a powerful voice. According to Maggie Kilgour, Professor of English Language and Literature at McGill University, when seen in literature and film, “Cannibalism is thus again a means of satire, a trope with which we parody more idealized myths about ourselves” (Kilgour 241). In other words, cannibalism is a literary tool[10] many authors and directors use in order to portray and comment on societal issues. With this understanding, Kilgour’s claim can be tied to Burton’s film to show the actual meaning of cannibalism in the film. In order to digest the meaning of cannibalism in Burton’s film, however, cannibalism must holistically be regarded as barbaric. This seems to provide the line of division between the civilized world and the savage world. Crystal Bartolovich, Associate Professor of English at Syracuse University, argues in her essay “Consumerism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Cannibalism” that “The cannibals are most in need of retraining.” (Bartolovich 220). Bartolovich argues that cannibals and their origins are barbaric in nature. They are in need of “retraining” and do not belong in a civilized world.[11] While it seems like Bartolovich’s claim regarding cannibals has little relation to Burton’s film, it actually presses us to change our current consumer eating culture. As seen in previous analysis by Bartolovich, cannibals in a civilized society were expected to be “retrained” and “tamed” for the good of society. We, as cannibals in a civilized society consuming fast food products, are in need of taming. If a cannibalistic culture does not belong in a civilized society, than a fast food culture must also not belong. Specific scenes in Burton’s film affirm this same conclusion. Burton uses roaches as a means to distinguish the difference in public reaction on roach and human pies. This difference reveals the need for consumers to modify their diets. In the beginning of the film, Mrs. Lovett is seen as a pitiful store owner without any “real” meat pies to sell to her customers. Instead, she uses insects, specifically, roaches, as a substitute for meat. Mrs. Lovett seems to disregard sanitation; insects scurry off the floors and counters at every movement (Fig. 5). She sarcastically sings that her pies are “the best pies in London;” all the while she is roughly and rather disgustingly cooking her pies (Sweeney Todd). In one instance, she blows dust off one of her pies and serves it to Todd. All in all, this addresses a larger picture of food adulteration. Roaches eat the garbage of humans; they thrive off of the filth of the streets. Eating Mrs. Lovett’s pies means that one is, in essence, eating the sewers of London. Interestingly, unlike Mrs. Lovett’s meat pies, the public stayed away from her roach pies. While it is clear that the public disliked these pies, why were they so eager to try Mrs. Lovett’s new and improved meat pies? The ingredients of the new pies were in reality worse than the original roach fillings. Consumers, however, were more satisfied with not knowing the contents of their pies. They cared only about the taste of the food; nutrition was secondary. Burton purposefully juxtaposes these two different reactions to show the extremity between the two reactions. As a society, we should be even more disgusted with the idea of eating one another. This, however, was not the reaction in the film. The street orphan shows Burton’s ultimate critique on our consumer culture. Representative of the minority population who appreciates the simplicity of eating, the street orphan was the only person who, upon eating a human pie, immediately discovers a bone and spits it out (Fig. 6). He finds the truth of the situation and is horrified by the implications. Burton is saying something unique about our consumer culture. The film suggests that, like the street orphan, it is imperative to be wary of the origins of food. While the fast food industry constantly lures consumers to eat its food, such consumption should be considered as cannibalistic. In a civilized society, this practice must be “retrained.” While Burton shows us the problems of the food industry and our consumer culture, there is a key part of his commentary that is missing. The end of the movie gives little sense of hope. It seems the only way of stopping the consumption of pies is to physically kill the industry itself. In the end, both Todd and Lovett are killed: Todd killed by his own blade and Mrs. Lovett killed by the oven, a metaphor that the industry one day will kill itself through its greed and carelessness for consumers. This, however, seems rather gloomy. In fact, Burton provides no hint towards a solution for the fast food industry’s production of unhealthy foods and the consumer culture of eating these foods. Newbury may shed light on this situation. In his analysis of zombie films, he found that in most cases, apocalyptic films contained no solution towards the zombie diseases. Perhaps Burton’s film is more similar to the zombie genre than previously hypothesized. Much like Newbury’s findings, Burton posits a similar dismal conclusion: no matter the solutions available, consumers will not change their mindset. The industry will not die until it kills itself. We will always be “cannibals” in this fast food dominated world. [1] A type of British fiction publication that printed stories in series [2] To note, in 1826, the Terrific Register published a short story entitled ‘Horrible Affair in the Rue de la harpe at Paris’ which also relayed the story of a demon barber with cannibalistic tendencies. [3] According to Brian Patrick Riley, esteemed lawyer and writer for the Literature Film Quarterly, “Burton’s adaptation results in a more coherent, if somewhat less ambitious, text” (212). [4] This disconnection of the “profiteer” from their product comments on the apathy of commercial businesses towards the general welfare of the consumers. For them, the desire for money and success overrides any other desire for social reform or humanitarian improvement. [5] In fact, “so thoroughly seduced are they by the “magic” of an industry that delivers hundreds of delicious and affordable pies, so happy are they to fulfill their desire for the commodity, that they do not wish to question the product’s origin or the integrity of its production” (Powell 51). [6] This blatant portrayal of ignorance may be connected with political and social reform during the 1820s and 1860s, resulting in the 1875 Sale of Food Act which specifically “addressed the issue of food adulteration” (Price). [7] In many scholarly documentaries, similar connections between consumer culture and the food industry have also been made. Morgan Spurlock’s 2004 documentary-turned book Don’t Eat This Book, also points to this same issue. In the end, consumers were blissfully unaware of their food’s origins (Spurlock). [8] Schlosser and Wilson’s book Chew on This locates the actual origins of fast food, from their smell and coloring, all they way to their flavor and taste. Shockingly, the book reveals that the unique texture and taste of McDonald’s French fries is attributed to being cooked in beef-fat and that McDonald’s genetically modified chickens to have fatter breasts for mass production (Schlosser and Wilson). [9] Peter Hulme, Professor in Literature at the University of Essex, also concurs with this finding. In his introduction of a collection of literary research on anthropophagy called Cannibalism and the Colonial World, Hulme posits that cannibalism is a “feature of life” and “is practiced over the seas and beyond the hills” (Barker, Hulme, and Iverson 3-5). [10] In her work “The Function of Cannibalism at the Present Time,” she concludes that “for us, cannibalism is inversely a means of demystification, a satiric weapon which literalizes in order to expose the dark truth under our ideals” (Kilgour 259). In essence, Kilgour regards cannibalism as a tool to truly see the truths and hypocrisy in our society. [11] This conclusion is starkly similar to Patrick Brantlinger’s observation in his book Taming Cannibals. In the historical context, white Anglo Saxon explorers set to tame cannibals as a means of creating civilization. This “taming” of men describes how society needed to exterminate this cultural practice (Brantlinger). Works Cited Barker, Francis, Peter Hulme, and Margaret Iversen. Cannibalism and the Colonial World. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998. Print. Bartolovich, Crystal. "Consumerism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Cannibalism. Print. Brantlinger, Patrick. Taming Cannibals: Race and the Victorians. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 2011. Print. Crone, Rosalind. "From Sawney Beane to Sweeney Todd: Murder Machines in the Mid-Nineteenth Century Metropolis." Cultural and Social History 7.1 (2010): n. pag. Ingentaconnect. Web. 8 Apr. 2013. Food, Inc. Movie One, 2008. Kilgour, Maggie. "The Function of Cannibalism at the Present Time." Print. Lamberson, Carolyn. "'Sweeney' Side up." The Spokesman-Review [Spokane, WA] 8 Feb. 2013: n. pag. Print. McWilliam, Rohan. "The Wonderful and Surprising History of Sweeney Todd: The Life and Times of an Urban Legend. (review)" Victorian Studies 50.4 (2008): 731-32. Print. Newbury, Michael. "Fast Zombie/ Slow Zombie: Food Writing, Horror Movies, and Agribusiness Apocalypse." American Literary History 1st ser. 24.Spring (2012): n. pag. Project MUSE. Web. 13 Apr. 2013. Powell, Sally. "Black Markets and Cadaverous Pies: The Corpse, Urban Trade and Industrial Consumption in the Penny Blood." Victorian Crime, Madness and Sensation. Cornwall: Ashgate, 2004. 45-58. Print. Price, Mark. "Why Meat Can No Longer Be Considered a Cheap Commodity." Telegraph UK [London] 17 Feb. 2013, Retail and Consumer sec.: n. pag. Print. Riley, Brian P. ""It's Man Devouring Man, My Dear": Adapting Sweeney Todd for the Screen." Literature Film Quarterly 38.3 (2010): 205. Print. Schlosser, Eric, and Charles Wilson. Chew on This: Everything You Don't Want to Know about Fast Food. Boston [Mass.: Houghton Mifflin, 2006. Print. Scott, A. O. "Murder Most Musical." New York Times 21 Dec. 2007: n. pag. Print. Spurlock, Morgan. Don't Eat This Book: Fast Food and the Supersizing of America. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 2005. Print. Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Dir. Tim Burton. Prod. Richard D. Zanuck, Walter F. Parkes, Laurie MacDonald, and John Logan. By John Logan and Stephen Sondheim. Perf. Johnny Depp, Carter Helena Bonham, Alan Rickman, and Timothy Spall. DreamWorks SKG, 2007. Lebanese-American poet Khalil Gibran once said, “a life without love is like a tree without blossom or fruit.” Love is and will always be an essential element of human life. The Pygmalion fable, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a collection of myths describing the transformation of the world from its creation (ca. 8 AD), most vividly explores this connection between love and life. The story tells of a sculptor, Pygmalion, who carves a female statue out of “snow-white ivory” (Ovid). He falls in love with his work and proceeds to have sexual interactions with the statue. On the festal day of Venus, Pygmalion prays for a wife like that of his ivory statue. He returns home and makes love with her, finding warmth in her lips. Venus gave the statue life and answered the prayers of Pygmalion. Although this fable seemingly has little connection to the world and its creation, it explores the concept of love that has remained throughout human history. As the world continues to change and technology gives birth to new forms of entertainment, the concept of Pygmalion has extended beyond literature into silent films, animation, and modern-day cinema. Although different versions offer unique perspectives on the Pygmalion concept of bringing life into the inanimate, in all of these examples, life is always connected with love and desire. This paper serves to first identify the progressions of the Pygmalion concept over time and then to show how love links even the most unique versions of the story together. It is important to grasp the full meaning behind the story of Pygmalion: the extent to which his fable concerns ideas of love and life. The modifier “snow-white” typifies a nature of pureness. Ivory, a dental property found only in the tusks of certain mammals, is acquired within the living. The statue represents Pygmalion’s desire for a pure and living female, one not spoiled by the earthly shame of the world. Because of his high standards and disillusionment, Pygmalion lived alone. Ovid writes that Pygmalion “saw women waste their lives in wretched shame, and [was] critical of faults which nature had so deeply planted through their female hearts” (Ovid). His pessimistic attitude toward the female gender led him to create a lifeless representation, a reflection of his lonely state. But deep within, Pygmalion desired more. A lifeless statue was, after all, lifeless. Pygmalion’s sudden change in attitude led him to discover the importance of love. The statue was now more than just a beautiful work; it was the culmination of Pygmalion’s desires. It, however, was merely an inanimate statue. Thus, Pygmalion directed his prayer towards Venus, the goddess of love, to provide him a counterpart. This was no accident. Ovid shows that love is the foundation and root of life. That, without love, even the living can be lifeless statues. Charlie Chaplin’s City Lights portrays the concept of Pygmalion through the genre of silent film. Filmed and released in 1931, this silent film provides a more realistic perspective on the tale. The movie opens with the introduction of three new statue figures, collectively named Peace and Prosperity, by the mayor. As the figures are uncovered, a tramp in a raggedy suit is seen sleeping on Prosperity’s lap. Interestingly enough, the tramp is comfortable and at home; he could have been mistaken for part of the statue if it was not for the stark contrast of his black suit on camera. Awoken from his slumber, the dazed tramp attempts to escape. As he clambers off, he gets impaled by the sword of a statue. Releasing himself, he apologetically tips his hat to the three statues, and even shows respect by rubbing his nose against one statue’s finger as if thanking it for providing a home for him. Finally, he speaks with the statue who gives him the route to freedom. Immediately as he walks into the street, his eyes turn to a nude female sculpture in a glass window. He proceeds to stare at the statue for a great length of time, fantasizing until he is interrupted by a worker in the street. In the end, after a long journey, he finds true love (City Lights). Much like the tale of Pygmalion, City Lights uses love as the foundation of its story. In the beginning of the movie, the tramp cannot find peace nor can he prosper in his current state. Thus the opening scene foreshadows the plot of the story: the tramp’s search for happiness. Although the statues did not come to life before our eyes, it seems there are subtle similarities between this story and that of the original Pygmalion. Indeed, the tramp may be viewed as a part of the original statue, who, because of love, gained his freedom to find his own peace and prosperity. The tramp’s gestures in the opening – tipping his hat, speaking with the hand – all point to a level of interaction that only he has with the statues. Furthermore, the tramp also finds attraction in a female statue. Just like the story of Pygmalion, he becomes entrapped by the beauty of the figure. Chaplin brilliantly uses the story of Pygmalion as a tool to foreshadow the story of the tramp. The woman he falls in love with is the true living female statue. His desires for a woman led him from a journey of fantasy to reality. Both he and the woman’s “incarnation” were for love. In other words, Chaplin uses the Pygmalion metaphor to highlight this search for love in a more realistic way. Even with an extremely unique adaptation of Ovid’s tale, love was the crux of Chaplin’s story. The 1940 Disney animation adaptation of Pinocchio, a novel by Carlo Collodi, provides an interesting variation of the Pygmalion concept. Many differences separate these two stories, most noticeably, the difference between life and true life. The first animation scene of the movie illustrates the original Pygmalion concept of bringing life into the inanimate; this life, however, has limitations. Geppetto, a skilled carpenter, builds a boy puppet, Pinocchio, out of wood. Lonely and without son, Geppetto wishes upon a star, saying “star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I make tonight… I wished that my little Pinocchio might be a real boy… just think… a real boy” (Pinocchio). A fairy grants Geppetto’s wish, turning Pinocchio into a live puppet. Although Pinocchio now has life, to become a real boy, he must follow his conscience. The film explores the idea that the heart is more important than physical likeness to a human. The second animation scene thus becomes crucial to the story because it depicts Pinocchio’s final transformation into a real living soul – a soul with love, conscience, and compassion. Even so, everything about these two stories is dissimilar; upon closer analysis, however, several key ideas point to a connection based on love. Unlike ivory, wood is flammable and easy to be broken. Disney depicts these vulnerable properties of wood throughout the movie. In the opening scene, Pinocchio sets himself on fire. Furthermore, Stromboli, an evil puppet master, threatens to chop Pinocchio into firewood if he disobeyed. Much like Ovid’s tale, the property of the statue, or in this case puppet, reflects the condition of the creator. These reoccurring themes of vulnerability highlight Geppetto’s own fragile state as a father who desires love. In Disney’s adaptation, this love is a paternal love, forming a unique dynamic in the plotline. In the end, Pinocchio’s transformation into a real boy was possible through his love for his father. Pinocchio drags his father across strong waves and away from an angry whale to the shore, placing himself in danger for his father’s safety; all the while, the father begs Pinocchio to let him go, saying “save yourself, don’t mind me son” (Pinocchio). Pinocchio seemingly drowns but is brought back to life by the fairy’s promise (Pinocchio). This ending scene shows the true love between a father and his son and the true life that Pinocchio gained. Although even the type of love is different from that of the original, it is still this love, paternal or marital, that brings out life, true life, in the inanimate. Even today’s modern movies reflect this theme of love bringing the inanimate to life. Disney Pixar’s 1995 animation Toy Story, makes the original Pygmalion concept almost unrecognizable within the story. The opening scene provides the clearest connection to Ovid’s Pygmalion. As Newman’s You’ve Got a Friend in Me plays in the background soundtrack, Andy plays with his cowboy action figure Woody, swinging him from room to room. All the while, the figure is inanimate. Interestingly enough, the lifeless image of Woody becomes the central focus of the scene, as if he was to spring to life at that very moment. When left alone, all the toys within Andy’s room come to life. When compared to Ovid’s fable, Toy Story portrays every theme in a much different way. For instance, every toy, not just a single statue or puppet, comes to life in the film. Furthermore, the relationship between the toys and the owner is not a marital or parental relationship. As Andy hugs Woody, Newman sings, “none of them will love you the way I do… you’ve got a friend in me…” (Toy Story). All these indicators, even the soundtrack, point towards a story regarding the love of friendship. Both Woody and Buzz have Andy’s signature on their shoe. At the end, their love for Andy drives them to chase after him and fix their relationship with one another (Toy Story). Although Toy Story provides a complete spin on the story of Pygmalion, and although no statue, toy, or puppet transforms, love guides Woody and Buzz’s search for happiness. Their life originates from the love Andy once invested in them. Without this love, they would be but lifeless toys in a lifeless toy box. Without love, life is but an empty idea. Ovid’s Pygmalion tale and the various adaptations of his story point to the interconnected relationship between the concepts of love and life. As technology brings in new forms of entertainment, this story continues to progress forward, changing plots and characters. Most noticeably, the love illustrated in the original Pygmalion has transformed from a marital love to a paternal love and finally, to a love of companionship. Although no clear theory exists to explain this transformation, I posit that such alterations of the type of love stems from the audience each form of entertainment attempts to address. Earlier forms of literature, films, and animations drew in an adult audience; thus, marital love is emphasized. As film became less of a novel luxury, the audience of animations drifted towards children, focusing on a family-friendly story. Even then, however, whether paternal, marital, or a love of friendship, this love will continue to be the basis of life and its incarnation within the inanimate. Works Cited City Lights. Dir. Charlie Chaplin. Perf. Charlie Chaplin. United Artists Corp., 1931. Ovid. Metamorphoses Trans. Rolfe Humphries. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1961. 241-43. Pinocchio. Dir. Hamilton S. Luske and Ben Sharpsteen. Prod. Walt Disney. By Ted Sears, William Cottrell, Erdman Penner, and Aurelius Battaglia. Perf. Dickie Jones, Cliff Edwards, and Christian Rub. RKO Radio Pictures, 1940. Toy Story. Dir. John Lassetter. Perf. Tom Hanks and Tim Allen. Walt Disney, 1995. DVD. |
writersSamuel C Archives
September 2014
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