Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Open Minds, Open Hearts: Paddington's London

from www.telegraph.co.uk
The last time I wrote a blog was the last time I saw a film at the cinema. That was Interstellar, which I saw with my step-daughter Sophie; this week I went to see Paddington with my other daughter, Isobel. There’s something about cinema-going that piques my interest in a different way to watching a dvd, though most of what I see at the cinema are children’s films. Perhaps it’s the ‘event’ mode of spectatorship, or the physical space of the cinema itself, or perhaps it’s because I don’t watch enough films at home; or perhaps because I see the films with members of my family. The cinema makes me think and respond in a different kind of way.

Of course, watching films at the cinema for me becomes re-inscribed into patterns of conceptual and intellectual work, the thinking about cultural production that makes up this blog and, ultimately, articles and books published in more traditional forms. In parallel fashion, Jonathan Beller’s brilliant book, The Cinematic Mode of Production (2006) analyses how spectatorship itself becomes subject to regimes of capitalist exploitation and domination, another means by which capital can extract value and labour from what has previously been experienced as ‘free’ time. Not that I lament my inability to ‘enjoy’ films without ‘thinking’ about them: I’m not sure I can do that about anything any more, and the gains make up for any ‘innocence’ lost. And I do enjoy them, have fun; I enjoyed Paddington, at the same time as it made me think.

I’ve never read a Paddington book, though for someone of my generation, the paper-like animation of the FilmFair series that began its run in 1975 is the definitive bear. (I remember Isobel, very small, wrinkling up her nose in imitation of the stop-motion Paddington eating a marmalade sandwich.) With Michael Hordern’s voice-over, there’s something comfortingly domestic about the 1970s animated Paddington. The exteriors (of Paddington station, of the Underground) seem less roomy than the inside of no.32, where the Browns live. It’s also very definitely English, inhabiting a cosy post-war world of ticket inspectors, irascible neighbours and grand department stores, where Paddington’s winning bear-ness allows him to escape unscathed from the chaos that he inevitably and accidentally causes. In some ways, it’s a stuffy, white, bourgeois world, inhabited by a very bourgeois Brown family, whose live-in housekeeper, Mrs Bird, provides a bit of lower-class bottom. (‘She knows everything,’ says daughter Judy Brown to Paddington in the second episode of the animated series.)

The film of Paddington is located in a very different kind of London. Sure, there are nods to indexical landmarks (the London Eye, the Natural History Museum), journeys encompassing black cabs and the new open-back Routemaster buses, but this is a London identified most overtly with Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove, and in particular with a multi-racial, multi-cultural sensibility most clearly presented in the calypso band that Paddington wanders past (in a running joke about diegetic and extra-diegetic sound) several times in the film, whose songs celebrate that all kinds of people, from all over the world, can call themselves Londoners. Paddington is then a London film, but of a particular kind: a utopia of accepted difference, a family where a bear from Darkest Peru can find himself at home, a post-imperial world-city in which the legacies of colonialism are negotiated, both positively and negatively.

Offsetting the calypso band, and Paddington’s trajectory from newly-arrived migrant, ignored by the bustling commuter crowds at Paddington, to Londoner, is the role played by Nicole Kidman. As Millicent, the amoral taxidermist working for the Natural History Museum, Kidman does a nice turn as a Cruella-style villain, blonde-bobbed and buttoned-up. Her pursuit of Paddington is motivated by a backstory in which her father, the geographer Montgomery Clyde, ‘discovered’ Paddington’s Uncle and Aunt living in Peru, and in effect taught them English (as well as a love of marmalade); upon returning to London, the Guild of Geographers refuses to accept Clyde’s evidence of talking bears with a ‘specimen’ (i.e. a dead bear). When Clyde refuses to reveal the whereabouts of the bears, he is expelled from the Guild and spends the rest of his life running a petting zoo. Millicent mis-reads this gesture as a failure to complete the ‘mission’, and her desire to kill and mount Paddington is a perverse desire to redeem her father in some way; what Millicent cannot see is the ethical weight of her father’s choice. In effect, through Millicent, the film of Paddington offers a critique of the implication of British science, and in particular scientific institutions such as the Natural History Museum, with Imperialism.  

Museums have long fascinated me. Back when I wrote about Literature and Science in a book, I read Pyenson and Sheets-Pyenson’s Servants of Nature about the development of scientific institutions in the 19th century, and how they acted as centripetal machines of knowledge-gathering, whereby the Imperial ‘margins’ (possessions) were the sites of ‘exploration’ and observation but where the collation, systematisation and organisation of that knowledge could only take place at the Imperial centre, London. Tony Bennett, in a brilliant article called ‘The Exhibitionary Complex’, also discussed (in Foucauldian terms) how the very spaces of museums themselves, in developing from ‘cabinets of curiosity’ (spectacular displays of exotic objects and fauna) to large halls ordered by means of taxonomy or chronology, also served as a disciplinary mechanism for the regulation of crowd behaviour. Crowds, Bennett argued, came to see the objects on display but also to watch the crowd itself, a kind of auto-spectatorship. By turning the crowd’s gaze back upon itself, the museum manages and regulates behaviour to move in orderly fashion: through signage, maps, queues. Museums are not neutral spaces.

Museums are time machines, of course, allowing us to ‘see’ time from the Paleolithic to the present in ordered displays. (It is no coincidence that H.G. Wells, in The Time Machine, has the Traveller visit the Palace of Green Porcelain in the far future, situated in South Kensington.) More recently, museums have a curious connection to masculinity and fatherhood. As I’ve just suggested, in Paddington, Millicent’s own damaged relationship with her father is the motive cause behind her pursuit of the young bear. In the Night at the Museum films (a third is now on release), Ben Stiller plays a divorced father whose relationship with his young son is made difficult by his own economic failure (particularly in comparison with his ex-wife’s new partner, a bond trader). The magical events in the American Museum of Natural History enable father and son to re-establish a close bond.

The same happens in Paddington. Mr Brown, seen by his son and daughter as ‘boring and annoying’, is the last to accept Paddington, and actively seeks to avoid having to deal with the bear (or, by implication, the failures in his relationships with his wife and children). Mr Brown works in risk management, an index of his own limitation as father and as ‘Londoner’: but rather than this being a version of the neglectful go-getting Father familiar from Peter Banning in Hook to Lord Business in The Lego Movie, Paddington rather nicely reveals that it is Mr Brown’s own fear for his family’s well-being that emotionally constrains him. It is not that Mr Brown is a bad father, having lost touch with his ‘inner child’; rather, it is the very condition of fatherhood itself which produces his deficiencies, the felt need to enact a version of masculinity which is safe, boring and at the same time both over-solicitous and emotionally neglectful. If the Brown family ‘need’ Paddington, then Mr Brown needs him most of all, in opening out the family to accident, to chaos, to life, once more. It is in the Natural History Museum, where the Browns go en famille to rescue the young bear from Millicent, that Mr Brown recovers a form of ‘heroic’ fatherhood, desirable to his wife and admirable to his children.

In such benighted times when Nigel Farage can be declared ‘The Times Briton of the Year’, Paddington offers a kind of utopian message in its timeless dream of a London open to all. (The time-frames of the Clyde expedition seem very odd. Paddington is clearly set in the present day, and Millicent is a woman in her 40s. Her father’s expedition to Peru seems to take place in the 1940s or 1950s, with caricature Guildsmen sporting Victorian-era whiskers; Millicent stands and watches her father’s debarring from the Guild at age 7 or 8. If at a push, this was 40 years ago (considering Kidman’s age and looks), then this makes Montgomery Clyde’s return to London the mid-1970s, rather than the 1940s. Either some decades have got lost, or Millicent looks very good at age 75 or so. Time machines indeed.) Paddington’s message is one of acceptance of the other, a celebration of multiplicity and a refusal that white, bourgeois Englishness is all there is to a city like London. Paddington is first and foremost a migrant, and Paddington a celebration of the positive effects of migration. (In a very small aside, the film suggests that Mr Gruber, the antiques-shop owner, arrived in London via the kindertransport trains.) Closed minds and closed hearts, locked doors and risk-averse souls, the film asserts, are no proper form of family or communal life. 

Monday, 17 November 2014

Christopher Nolan and the locked-room mystery: Interstellar

from pinster.ru
On Friday I managed to go to see Interstellar, at the cinema, a rarity for me these days. And it was a mighty long experience, so much so that I misjudged the starting time of the film and the amount of parking I needed and was haunted during the film by the promise of a ticket upon the return to the car. (I was lucky.) Quite appropriately, while I was watching the film I was also still in the past (why did I think the film started earlier?) and rehearsing the future (this film is going to cost me £50. But it might not…). This didn’t impair my enjoyment of the movie, though. Although I understand and agree with many of the criticisms of the film – though I have to say its liberties with science don’t bother me – I liked its scale, Matthew McConaughey (Coop) and Anne Hathaway (Brand) in the central roles, the use of the robots, and in particular the ‘realistic’ look of the spaceship interiors. Some of the effects sequences were quite exciting, such as the re-docking with the spinning Endurance or the ‘escape’ from the black hole (though not as exciting as Gravity).

The narrative does have major weaknesses. The visits to the two exo-planets seemed mechanically differentiated: we’ll kill a crew member on this one! Oh, here’s a villain on this one! (I was particularly irritated by Matt Damon’s character, who was obviously going to turn out to be wrong ‘un, and the plot didn’t disappoint.) The ending, where Coop flies off to ‘save’ Brand on the third exo-planet, using a local ship that surely would not have the fuel to get there, waved off by his 120-year-old daughter, was silly. But the core of the film is time, not outer space, and the really crucial space of the film is not the through-the-wormhole other galaxy to be explored, but Murph’s (Coop’s daughter’s) bedroom.

In some ways, Interstellar reminded me strongly of Inception (a far better sf film, I would say). Both films are emotionally located in the Father’s loss, of both wife and children, and a desire to restore or heal that trauma; both films return to an interior space which holds the key to the film’s enigma; both films attempt to subvert or complicate Hollywood continuity narrative through time-dilation motifs (caused by the subconscious ‘levels’ in Inception, and by proximity to the black hole and relativistic effects in Interstellar); and both feature Michael Caine as a benign old mage who effects the male protagonist’s re-entry into narrative time. In Inception, this is Cobb’s (Leonardo di Caprio) trajectory towards re-establishing a future with his children through completing the Fischer mission; in Interstellar, this is Coop’s escape from the entropic Earth suffering from slow-motion ecological catastrophe, and the stasis of being a farmer, looking down at the dirt instead of up to the stars.

Both films are locked-room mysteries, by which I mean that the solution to the narrative enigma – what is Fischer’s secret, held in the subconscious ‘safe’, in Inception; what is the solution to Professor Brand’s gravity equations in Interstellar – is contained within the finite set of interior narrative elements rather than coming from outside. For Fischer (Cillian Murphy) and his father (Pete Postlethwaite), for Cobb and his children, and for Coop and Murph (Mackenzie Foy/ Jessica Chastain) this is to do with the healing of emotional estrangement, a resolution of the parent/child relationship. The time-paradox ‘solution’ in Interstellar isn’t so much about the transmission of the binary code that will unlock Brand’s equation, but the fact that it is Coop who is able to do so. The ‘infinite’ rooms that Coop is translated into after entering the black hole are a figure for his emotional imprisonment, his need to return to that space and time to try to undo, or repair what has been done. Murph feels the same need to return to that room, and it is her realisation that it is her father who is the ‘ghost’ transmitting information from somewhere else that impels her towards the mathematical solution. In a sense, in Interstellar the physical trajectory of the narrative (Coop’s journey outward to the stars) is countermanded or superseded by the emotional trajectory of the return to the room. It is the latter that provides the key to the former. Although, as Ian Sales in his blog on Interstellarnotes, Brand’s rationale for going to the third exo-planet (where her lover has landed) – ‘love is the only thing which transcends time and space’ is ‘cringeworthy’ vapouring of the highest order – it does express the underlying emotional plot, and the impetus behind both Inception and Interstellar.

This is banal enough, I agree. But I am reminded of the moment in Vonnegut’s Timequake in which Kilgore Trout stands upon a beach with Vonnegut and others towards the end of the novel, and asks Vonnegut to pick out two stars from the sky. ‘Now then’, he says, ‘whatever heavenly bodies those two gints represent, it is certain that the Universe has become so rarefied that for light to go from one to the other would take thousands or millions of years. Ting-a-ling? But now I ask you to look precisely at one, and then precisely at the other.’ When Vonnegut confirms he has done so, Trout continues: ‘Even if you’d taken an hour [to look at them], something would have passed between where those two heavenly bodies used to be, at, conservatively speaking, a million times the speed of light.’ ‘What was it?’ Vonnegut asks. ‘Your awareness,’ replies Trout. ‘That new quality in the Universe, which exists only because there are human beings. Physicists must from now on, when pondering the Cosmos, factor in not only energy and matter and time, but something new and beautiful, which is human awareness.’ He then concludes: ‘I have thought of a better word than awareness. … Let us call it soul.’

Unashamedly humanist, Timequake inserts the cosmological into the realm of human consciousness and human emotion. True, by calling it ‘soul’, Vonnegut explicitly nods to metaphysics, to the spiritual, even. This is a gesture found throughout cosmological sf, of course, from Olaf Stapledon through 2001 to Interstellar. Where the human narrative of the film of 2001 ‘ends’ with another locked room, the strange out-of-time apartment where Bowman finds himself and where he is translated into the Star Child, there seems to be no ‘God’ in Interstellar: the time-loop structure places the human as the Other, the means by which human beings can, by their bootstraps, life themselves off the Earth and into the stars.

Interstellar and Inception ultimately return to find the solution to their narrative conundrums in the most tricky of locked spaces to open, the ‘heart’. Nolan, in these two films, reveals the humanism (if not outright sentimentality) at the core of his sf work. Rather than the solution to Interstellar’s locked room being an orang-utan and a chimney, it is instead a message from (human) parent to (abandoned/ neglected) child: I love you.

Wednesday, 5 November 2014

The Over-Investment Ethical Trap

It would be difficult to overstate just how angry and heart-sick I am as I write. I've long been guilty of over-investing in work, not just in critical activity and writing but in the satisfactions of teaching, of feeling that you're helping students to understand and investigate the world and our culture, and of doing your best for and by them; when I was Examinations Officer, for instance, or in advising PhD students, or simply chatting to students about things. This over-investment has had serious personal side-effects, but has acted as a kind of alibi for the time I've spent dealing with the river of thoughts that flows through my head, believing that by turning them outwards that they might mean something, not just to me. This blog is an example of that, I suppose.

It's not uncommon, I would think, among academics. The lines between home and work life, between everyday activity and critical activity, become blurred; to the extent that it is difficult to switch off, or to avoid feelings of guilt when you don't use that spare hour to read or write or be productive somehow. Work colonises your 'own' time, and it's fine to begin with because you want to do it, you want to explore, you want to know things, figure stuff out. And tell people about what you think or have learned.

But of course this gets turned against you. I've internalised the work imperative to an extent that I've over-invested, ethically, in what I do. That extends to my place of work too. I expect the university to behave in certain ways. I'm an idealist, I suppose. I've left institutions in the past because I could no longer put up with the way they were run, the decisions that were being made. I've been lucky to find other jobs. This is now catching up with me.

The union I belong to, the UCU, recently balloted its members on strike action over proposed changes (i.e. diminishment) of pension provision in the USS scheme, which covers most of the older universities. (The post-1992 universities, whose staff are on the Teachers Pension Scheme, as I once was, already pushed through these changes. Strike action by the UCU was not effective.) With a large turn-out, the members voted with a large mandate for strike action, which in this instance has taken the form of a boycott of assessment (marking coursework, but also things like PhD panels). This comes into force this week. As a response, my own university has considered 'partial performance' to constitute a total withdrawal of labour, and so have threatened to dock 100% of pay for those deemed to be on strike. The logical response for union members, faced with such a threat, I would say, is to withdraw their labour entirely. This is, I have just read in an email from the UCU, now the union's stated position, if such a threat is carried through.

This won't happen. There are mortgages to pay, families to keep. The UCU isn't the NUM in 1984. The union have found themselves caught in another trap: previous one-day strikes on pay have been ineffective, so they have gone straight to the most effective action short of a strike, a marking boycott; but this has provoked a response that will, in my opinion, cause the collapse of the action in short order. In the run-up to Christmas, even well-paid academics cannot afford to have their salaries stopped entirely for months.

My university, Lancaster, is one of several who have taken this particularly hard line. Others include 1964 universities such as UEA, York and Sussex. Lancaster, with a relatively new Vice Chancellor, has presumed to elevate itself to 'world class' status, wishing its staff to produce higher-quality research, to bid for ever-larger grant incomes (from shrinking pots). Yet it acts in a way far from the 'world class' research and teaching centre it presumes to be, in a brutal crushing of dissent, in a contemptuous disregard for its staff, in threatening behaviour that reflects the worst excesses of neo-liberal capitalism. This 'university', and others like it, have forfeited their ethical right to use that term.

In a couple of weeks, an afternoon event on 1964 is taking place on the Lancaster campus, which I've organised. 1964 was the year of the foundation of the institution, and the event was designed not only to reflect the cultural and political events of that year, but also the (utopian) impulses towards a more open access to education that informed the formation of the then 'new' universities. This week's events show that, for all the 50th 'Jubilee' celebrations, there has been a radical break between the informing principles of 1964 and the neo-liberal, austerity-state grimness of 2014. I'm also prey to over-investment in the 1960s, and have struggled to forge a means to revisit that decade's optimistic and progressive energies without falling into nostalgia. But in 1964, on American campuses, particularly Berkeley and its Free Speech movement, what the university was, how it operated, was already being contested. I have posted this before and make no apologies for doing so again:


Do I think that UCU members will have the political will to place their bodies on the levers and prevent the operation of the machine? No. But what this week exposes is that the ethical over-investment in the 'university', my place of work, is a delusion. The institution is a firm, and the staff are a bunch of employees, albeit ones who thought that they were, and their relation to work was, somehow different. It's time the motes fell from our eyes.


Thursday, 30 October 2014

Fata Morgana, or auto-criticism

I've always been a bit confused about writing, to be honest. I wanted to be a writer as a teenager and remember that one of the reasons I gave, when going to study English at university, was wanting to write myself. (That mightn't have been the best idea.) But I didn't really keep up the creative end of things, and writing became critical writing. All these years later, having gone through the process of finishing a couple of books at the beginning and end of this summer, I feel myself written out, and although I'm on study leave from teaching this term, I'm struggling to get it together. (Last one I had I wrote a lot.) I'm involved in a collaborative creative project that is going very well, and I wish I could devote more mental space to it. And yet here I am, writing, partly because I haven't posted up much recently, and partly because writing has become both a burden and a necessity. I feel my mind clotted with unwritten projects and ideas, and I always feel much better when I've written them; yet, because of the amount I've written in the last 12 months, I find it difficult to sit down and begin another article. I will, of course; deadlines encroach. (Or, rather, are missed with ongoing guilt, another ingredient in the writing recipe.)

Sometimes I wonder if it's simply a matter of input: I need to read more, watch more. Then I would have more to say. But we have a house full of books, and I don't have much time for tv. To try to write about something, last week I watched a couple of Werner Herzog documentaries. I've long been a fan of Werner, falling in love with the Kinski movies at the end of the 1990s when I was teaching European cinema (Aguirre: Wrath of God), but remember watching Fitzcarraldo lat at night on Channel 4 back in the 1980s. I love My Best Fiend (and the documentary that it draws from liberally for Fitzcarraldo, Burden of Dreams) and recently read Werner's published diary of the making of the film, which he wrote in microscopic text in a diary then couldn't return to for 30 years.

The films I watched were Fata Morgana, made in 1970, a documentary filmed in Africa that Herzog first conceptualised as a kind of science fiction film, and a kind of companion filmed after Operation Desert Storm in the early 1990s, with apocalyptic images of oil-well fires and ruined landscapes, called Lessons of Darkness, which is more overtly framed as a voyage to an 'alien planet' which is clearly Earth. (I was reminded of Godard's Alphaville (1964), shot in Paris, or the passage of transition between worlds in Tarkovsky's Solaris (1972), filmed on a Japanese expressway.) These, then, are films that gesture towards sf as a genre of estrangement, but where Fata Morgana is mythic, with the German film critics Lotte Eisner reading from the Popul Vuh creation myth on voice-over, Lessons of Darkness is political, a stark representation of the ruination of Iraq caused by war.

Fata Morgana begins with shots of jet airliners, trailing plumes of black exhaust gases, coming in to land at an airport. Shot after shot presents planes landing, a deliberately alienating opening which emphasises the principles of repetition that will determine much of the editing. There are slight variations: crows wander the landing aprons and fields, and occasionally the tweeting of birds can be heard above the roar of the jet engines. Here, though, the intrusion of human-made technology into natural environments, a recurrent Herzog motif, is foregrounded. The planes, through shooting with long lenses straight down the runway, almost seem to descend vertically, falling to Earth but not seeming to approach, like alien craft. These are, of course, he planes that Herzog and his small crew would have used to travel to Africa: as ever, Herzog's own film, his own camera, is implicated in the horror of intrusion. Then music begins, there is a cut to desert and heat haze, and Eisner begins to narrate the Popul Vuh creation myth.

Fata Morgana, like Lessons of Darkness, is chapterised, again foregrounding its own textuality. The film begins with 'Creation', continues with 'Paradise', and concludes with 'The Golden Age'. There are strong similarities between the parts, but tonal differences largely produced though variation in soundtrack: Eisner's narration only takes place in part 1, while Herzog himself narrates in part 2 and there are interviews with a a German scientist (about lizards) and, untranslated on screen, with an African man wearing a military jacket, accompanied by a woman with a large radio carried around the neck. On the soundtrack, there is a shift to country-rock and, bizarrely, tracks by Leonard Cohen. Part 3 features a cabaret duo on a rudimentary stage, a younger man playing drums and singing (his voice amplified so badly that it is impossible to make out the words, and barely the tune) and an older woman at an upright piano. The structure of the film moves from the natural to the human in scale and focus; long tracking shots of the desert, with abandoned automobiles and tractor plant, a crashed plane. chain-links fences and desert shanty towns, desiccated carcasses of cows, give way to the human inhabitants, to children in groups watching the camera, to a boy with a large-eared cat (or dog?) held by the neck for an uncomfortably long time. 

This is, it seems, human life at the bare edge of existence, African people living among the abandoned detritus of Western technology, a technology also signified by the camera equipment trained at the landscape and people. The crew of the production also become visible later in the film, another way in which Herzog stitches his own operations into a history of colonialism; but the images bespeak abandonment and the failure of colonial dreams. As in the jungles of Aguirre or Fitzcorraldo, this is something irrecuperable about this 'landscape without deeper meaning', a space of such scale and endurance that human endeavour, particularly Western colonial endeavour, seems puny and temporary. A repeated shot of a Land Rover circling aimlessly in long shot, swimming out of the heat haze, signifies the impotence of human activity in relation to geological time and the space of the desert.

By the time of Lessons of Darkness, however, the desert is itself ruined by the disrupted extraction of material resources (i.e. oil) from under it. What appear to be lakes, reflecting the blue of the sky, are in fact pools of oil, 'treacherous' in appearance and ruinous to the ecology of the desert. The film has 13 parts, with titles in German though with a voice-over (by Herzog himself) in English, and begins with long, slow aerial shots over a desert city at dawn or dusk (perhaps Kuwait City). Part II, 'Der Krieg', shows night-vision footage of an air-raid: Herzog intones 'The war lasted only a few hours. Afterwards, everything was different.' Lessons of Darkness uses helicopter shots rather than tracking shots taken from a car or truck, and the smooth motion, steadicam-like, is alienating and eerie, emphasising the science-fictional scenario of the report from a 'planet in our solar system...' These shots are dominated by the pillars of fire that erupt from broken oil wells, sending vast plumes of black smoke into an apocalyptic sky. 

Signs of war, such as the concrete hangars penetrated by 'bunker-busting' ordinance, destroyed radio dishes and arrays, and most affectingly interior shots of a room which, as the scene develops, is revealed to be a torture chamber (a metal chair is wired up to a wall socket), turn the film away from an estranged 'report' into one of witness. The film shows interviews with two women, one in part IV, one in part VI; the first, who saw her sones taken and abused and then executed, is so traumatized that, though she wishes to communicate her experience, can only speak in rudimentary sounds which attest to the total disruption of language; and another, holding her young son on her hip, tells us that after soldiers dragged him from his bed and stood on his head, told her 'Mama, I don't ever want to learn how to talk', and refused to speak thereafter. Language, the accession into adulthood, is inextricably linked to trauma and horror.

Iraq becomes a hell. Sections VIII to XI concentrate on American firefighters and oilmen putting out fires, and then fixing the broken and gushing well-heads so that the oil no longer sprays across the the land and themselves (and thereby, of course, returning it to economic use). In section XII, after putting the fire out with explosive, the film shows footage of a worker tossing a Molotov cocktail into the black geyser, re-igniting it presumably to burn it away rather than despoil the land further); Herzog's voice-over calls this a form of madness, where the oilmen bring about the nightmarish conditions of oil-fires that they then have to put out in a cycle of terrifying work and conflagration. As the film ends, night falls, towers of flame barring the sky.

Lessons of Darkness does not offer the hope for endurance, either of nature or of the humans who exist in harsh desert environments, that underpins Fata Morgana. Its science fiction scenarios are apocalyptic, about endings rather than beginnings, the devastation wrought by human war irremovably traced across the landscape and the human psyche alike. The burnt-corked firemen, seemingly the agents of change or renewal, re-start the very blazes they put out. Herzog's diagnosis is bleak indeed: here the cycle is not natural (although the film approximates a diurnal cycle) but but produced by the machinery of war, the infernal technologies of the West, of which the cinema camera (and the night-vision scope) is a part.

Herzog, like Godard, does not spare himself or cinema itself in his own projects; he acknowledges that cinema is part of a technological apparatus of vision that is bound up with war and despoilation and horror (the kind of of argument that Paul Virilio makes in War and Cinema, or that Godard suggests in his Histoires du Cinema). And here I find that I am led back to the matter of the article I need to write, on cinema and spectacle and work, for which this blog stands in lieu, but the writing of which may help me to recover the practical means by which to produce it. Like Herzog, I'm caught in a cycle, the means of critique also being the means of oppression. Circles of thought and work, then, which may not be escaped, but which, through writing, may be turned to something else, hopefully of use.


Wednesday, 1 October 2014

First of the Tenth: a manifesto for a new academic practice

I will get back to science fiction soon, but I had to get this down, in the light of recent experiences.

A Manifesto: a utopian (re)vision of academic practice

First, ALIENATION now commands academia: alienation of teachers from researchers, faculty from management, academics from the products of their labour, and increasingly, students (as consumers) from education. The first principle of A NEW ACADEMIC PRACTICE must be to challenge alienation through new working practices, through non-hierarchical teaching environments, and through a revision of the investigation, writing and dissemination of research.

Second, the role of the academic in contemporary society, and in particular the relation of the individual to the institution, requires systematic re-evaluation and analysis. This analysis must encompass the conditions of labour under which academics now work, and the relation between that work and the research and teaching they produce. Academics now work to produce research outputs which enter into a system of evaluation and monetization (Research Excellence Framework, REF), where a competitive judgement between institutions and between individuals loosens collective bonds. Far from being an oasis of unalienated labour, academic research is now thoroughly commodified, yet the researcher receives nothing of the surplus value of her work: little payment is received for academic publishing, which may include years of work; editing duties (particularly for academic journals) is performed pro bono and the paywall-protected access to that work is monetized to enrich publishing houses; and the system of external grant application, a disciplinary system in which the chances of success are less than 20% but of which participation (and perhaps success) will increasingly be tied to promotion, often results in no remuneration for individuals and little for their departments.

Third, the academic must strive for OPEN DISSEMINATION and discussion of all ideas. This cannot be instrumentalized and monetized as ‘Impact’ or other forms of measurable and thereby auditable activity, but must actively promote the common good. The systems of ‘open access’ currently implemented (involving internal competition for funding to pay for the placing of articles in ‘gold access’ journals) again displace the financial imperatives and profits onto an atomized and competitive research marketplace. Instead of open access, we must demand OPEN DISSEMINATION, which will necessitate the destruction of ‘ranking’ systems of evaluation for REF that explicitly hierarchize journals in terms of status. New modes of publication and dissemination, digital and print, must be explored as a matter of urgency.

Fourth, the academic must actively and collaboratively resist the shift of the expected role of the academic from researcher and teacher to external income generator. The academic must also resist the economic exploitation of the postgraduate community, in terms of teaching and research, which currently underpins conditions of postgraduate study.

Fifth, higher education must be considered in terms of the COMMON GOOD, not in terms of individual training for business or careers, but in terms of social benefit in the widest sense. Therefore, it should be free to ALL students who wish to attend university and who demonstrate the ability and determination to do so. The academic community must forge bonds of SOLIDARITY with the broader social fabric. Differential access, in terms of class, ethnicity, age, disability, or other criteria must be directly challenged.

Sixth, the current funding model for universities, which has encouraged both rapid privatisation and marketisation of teaching, research and support services, the transfer of the cost of education from society to the individual, and the imposition of a disciplinary managerialism, must be dismantled.

Seventh, the academic must strive for INTELLECTUAL ACTIVISM, for engagement with the material conditions of everyday life. This can take many forms. The role of the ‘public intellectual’, derided and evacuated in contemporary public discourse, must be re-discovered. The current professoriat, far from blameless in the acquiescence of marketization, must recover a role in this re-orientation. The PUBLIC role and operation of universities must be re-asserted as the academic recovers the PUBLIC role of open dissemination of ideas and challenge to received and official narratives of the economic, social and cultural fabric of contemporary life.

Eighth, academics must consider their work in the light of OPEN DISSEMINATION. In this regard, they must consider published works (articles, books, digital works) as acts of communication between PRODUCERS OF IDEAS and the PUBLIC. They must consider themselves to be WRITERS, to be self-conscious and to develop A PRACTICE OF CRITICAL WRITING that encourages engagement and enjoyment in the reader. While technical language is a necessity to any advanced discipline, a disavowal of the pleasures of reading and writing leads to poor communication and inhibits dissemination. Rather than this being a plea for ‘plain language’, academics should develop their skills of writing to encompass strategies and techniques from fiction and ‘creative non-fiction’.

Ninth, the purpose of academia, and its relation to teaching, is to encourage and instil critical thought and intellectual activism. Students should share in the practices of critical thought, writing and communication. Collaboration and the breaking of hierarchical boundaries through innovative and participatory teaching methods are crucial.

Tenth, in a society in which dissent is discouraged and the Fourth Estate (the press) has largely abandoned its critical and political role, the university and the academic must seize the opportunity to challenge, rather than actively participate in, the economic and social policies which will result in the destruction of the values and ethics that should underpin these institutions. We must ask ‘what is a university for?’, as well as ‘what is an academic?’ The debate must become explicit.

Friday, 5 September 2014

Method and anti-method

I've been thinking a lot about what I do, why I do it and how I go about it. I'm middle-aged now, I suppose (more than half-way through my life, I would guess; 'middle age' is really the third quarter of your life-span, past what Dante calls 'the middle of the journey of our life' when he finds himself 'within a dark wood where the straight way was lost' in Canto I of the Inferno, though I deeply sympathise with that feeling), a time when the unthought elements of life and purpose come to the surface and ask for explanation. These are troubled times for the life of the institutions I've existed within for the majority of my adult life, as I indicated in yesterday's blog post, and for someone of my sensibilities, they are personally troubling too, for I am not in sympathy with the current marketisation of higher education, and feel that its purpose (and thereby my own) has become eroded. Of course, I do what I can, particularly as a teacher and administrator, to give as good and fulfilling an experience to my students as possible while they study at my university, in my department, but the tide runs against me, against us.

Reading Raymond Williams' Border Country has drawn me back to his critical work, and the connection between the community he grew up in in South Wales, and its emphasis on learning and its valuing of literature and culture, and his Socialism, the need for collectivity. We have most of his books in the house. (Although books can be a fearful clutter, it's actually lovely to root on the shelves and find The Country and the City waiting for you, or as I just did, pluck down the John D. Sinclair translation of the Inferno to get the quotation right. Sometimes I wonder just why we have all these books, and it seems a burden; but right now, I'm really glad to see them there, to feel that we have a small library), a resource of thought, or in Williams' words, a resource of hope.

As in Scotland, there is still a residuum of the respect for education and literature that was crucial not just to traditional forms of Welsh cultural and social life (the eisteddfod and so on) but also to the Trade Unionism and Socialism in Welsh communities that were vitally important to the growth of the Labour Party and, it must be said, to socially progressive developments in British society in the 20th century, things which neo-liberalism is successfully rolling back. (Aneurin Bevan, son of Tredegar and Ebbw Vale MP, was of course the Minister of Health who successfully introduced the NHS.) I’ve lived in North Wales for 14 years now, in a beautiful valley that feels like home, in some ways, and though I’m not Welsh, my daughter was born in the country and speaks a bit of Cymraeg at school, and I feel deeply attracted to the history and traditions and literature of Wales. (The wonderful (and wonderfully grumpy) R.S. Thomas, my favourite poet, was a curate in a parish in Chirk for 4 years, just a couple of miles away.) But I am English; in fact, London and Essex blood runs in my veins, back some 200 years. And that is a difficult freight to bear, because I dislike what Englishness has come to stand for, I despise Toryism, and I hate know-nothing individualistic consumerism that would cast the social collective and ‘culture’ into the dustbin.

Not that I’m some Thomas Carlyle type, or Arnoldian nostalgic, wishing that all could partake of ‘the best which has been thought and said’ (though this should be available to all), something that would seal social bonds; no, like the Socialists of the coalfields, I believe in books, in learning, as a means by which to combat ideology, to see more clearly, and that is partly what I hope to do when I teach. It’s not about getting students to know things; it’s about equipping them with a method with which to read, to read and counter the ideological frameworks we all live within.

But my own method, you see, is not particularly methodical. I’m not someone who likes to pore through archives. I have trained myself to keep notes, to be systematic, just as I have trained myself to put my wallet and keys and watch and phone in the same place every night, because I know I would forget them the next morning otherwise. That kind of structure is helpful to me (and I get exasperated with family members when we have to hunt out stuff, partly because I see myself in that very behaviour and know that very little separates me from it). When it comes to work, to writing, to my ‘career’, I stand condemned by Captain Willard’s judgment of Kurtz: ‘I don’t see any method, at all, sir’. Academic careers are made by ploughing the same furrow, producing books and articles on the same field or subject, knowing the people in your field and getting on with them, reviewing and being reviewed, citing and being cited. Until the last one, all of my books have been on different subjects: literature and science, masculinity, Iain Sinclair, literature and film, science fiction. (The next one returns to sf.) Articles and chapters tend to follow these clusters. I’m spread out, I follow my interests, I jump from thing to thing, article to article, project to project.

My method, or rather my anti-method, is to yoke disparate things together, using this jumping around to see patterns, correspondences. A colleague and friend, Liz Oakley-Brown, has characterised some of my blog posts here, such as the one about Jason Bourne and Bilbo Baggins, as ‘nifty’ (thanks, Liz!) in this diverse comparison, this unusual combinatory move. Of course it’s entirely contingent, depending what I’ve watched or read in coincidental proximity. Some of my critical-creative work relies precisely on that approach. Sometimes I’ve tried to theorise it as ‘remix’; sometimes as ‘collage’; but really, it’s accident, or ‘inspiration’, or something-or-other.

Why do I work this way? Why jump from thing to thing, project to project? Probably it’s because I have a bit of a magpie mind; perhaps it’s because I get bored; but also, I think, it’s because I’m not the product of a methodical form of training or schooling. I went to an ordinary comprehensive schooling Essex in the early 1980s, where progressive ideals were beginning to be eroded, and where my immersion in football (every lunch and breaktime) offset the awkward fact that I was a ‘boffin’. My family have been firmly working-class: drivers, factory workers, labourers, oyster dredgers. I’m still the only member of my family to go to university (though my niece might well go in a few years). But my grandfather, Stanley Staples, was a kind of autodidact, loved finding things out, was fascinated by the longest train station name in Britain, Llanfair­pwllgwyn­gyllgo­gery­chwyrn­drobwll­llanty­silio­gogo­goch, or Llanfair PG as we know it now when we drive past it on the way to the beach on Angelsey, and struggled mightily to say it out loud.

And so I wonder whether that’s my anti-method, the magpie yo-yoing of the autodidact, the collector of curious correspondences. I’ve never been schooled in method, never inherited one, so like my Granddad, I made one up. Sometimes this leads me into difficulties, particularly when I come against people who have been trained more methodically, and have all that at their fingers, who would not need to pull down the Inferno from off the shelf because they already have the quotation memorised. And, I guess, it might leave my work feeling as though it makes surprising and illuminating connections, but it doesn’t really follow this through, or doesn’t want to: it would like to shoot off in another direction, make another leap, another correspondence. It probably makes me a good, entertaining and effective teacher: the seminar room becomes a laboratory where we can put A and X together and, boom!

Can anti-method become method (of sorts)? Can you teach others to see those connections? In some ways you can, and my wonderful experience of teaching classes on American literature, on film, on screen adaptations, on science fiction, has been filled with moments where boom! the students put A and X together and there we have something surprising, stimulating, exciting happening, and this demonstrates to me that it can. In the current marketization of higher education, this kind of anti-method is difficult to incorporate into learning outcomes, into ‘skills’, into vocationality, into the hearts and minds of ‘consumers’ who worry (quite rightly) how they will pay off the 27 grand’s worth of debt. I’ve recently tried to do so in a new first-year course (taught by others) that comes onstream in a few weeks, and I dearly hope it works. Is this poetics? Is this critical/creative practice? I don’t know. But I’m glad to have tried.
  

Thursday, 4 September 2014

Feels like down to me

I don't know whether you've read Marina Warner's London Review of Books blog on why she quit the University of Essex (happily, she's now at Birkbeck, so no need for tea and sympathy), but in it she contrasts the aspirations and hopes of the expansion of higher education in the mid-60s, embodied in the Brutalist architecture of the Wivenhoe campus, with the neo-liberal managerialism of the current regime. My own university, Lancaster, is one of the same generation of UK universities, founded in 1964. It is therefore 50 years since the institution opened its doors, and 'Jubilee' celebrations have been held throughout the year. Not much of the old fabric of the Lancaster campus remains, as in the 8 years I have been there, several new buildings have gone up and a fair few torn down. The picture is from old accommodation stock, now mothballed, that my friend and colleague Lindsey explored a few months ago. There are still some old areas of departments that retain the dusty flavour of the old university: the Physics department, for instance. But most other places are 'renewed', hygienic, corporate, soulless. Working there is no different from working at one of Ballard's science parks.

This means, of course, that we are subject to the same kinds of 'renewal', the same kinds of corporatisation, that afflicts the space of the campus. Imogen Tyler, who wrote Revolting Subjects, tweeted today from a conference in Brighton, in which a presenter described academics as the ideal neo-liberal subjects, 'practicing freedom to manage "selves"'. This idea has haunted me for quite a while. It came to mind when I read Simon Reynolds' Retromania, and his blogs on Ghost Box and 'nostalgia for the future'; and with Chris Witter (a former PhD student of mine, now friend and co-conspirator) have planned a '1964 day' in November this year, on the Lancaster campus, to try to revisit that spirit informing the new universities of the 1960s, one that embraced dissent and openness of thought rather than 'entrepreneurialism' (i.e. drawing down large research grants) or audit-friendly research 'outcomes'. In the Lancaster University student paper, SCAN, Toby Atkinson pondered a similar question recently: 'Whatever happened to Higher Education?'

I'd like to recapture the spirit of Mario Savio, whose speech at Berkeley on 2 December 1964 is a constant inspiration to me. This may be a forlorn task. Savio's right: if the management of the university are now a board of directors, then the faculty (the teaching staff) are employees, making products for the marketplace. Higher education is now a marketplace itself, of course, and our students are now, in the words of the University, 'consumers'. The situation we find ourselves in now is even more eroded than the one in Berkeley in '64.

This week I read Raymond Williams' Border Country, about a Welsh university lecturer, working in London, who returns to the village where he grew up when his father falls ill, a village that he has long felt alienated from and has, in some senses, disavowed. As someone whose own life anagrammatises this story, I too feel the alienation, loss, the not-at-homeness that is the prevalent contemporary condition, acutely. The novel was published in the early 1960s, and inhabits, in some ways, a longing for community, for the collective bonds that may constrict but which also support and give meaning. The communities Williams writes of, particularly the mining communities of South Wales, were subject to the same marketisation and erosion as now overtakes the university sector, but some thirty years ago. (This is, of course, the year of the 30th anniversary of the miner's strike.) Williams' nostalgia is a complex one, of course; there is no real return, though there may be renewal. And that is what my own 'nostalgia for the future' is, in my mid-40s, a longing for a different kind of world.


Saturday, 17 May 2014

I've Got a Feeling

It’s a strange thing to admit, but literature rarely moves me to tears. For me, reading is, and I think always has been, a pleasure of the head: imaginative or intellectual stimulation rather than emotional. (This is perhaps why I have ended up an academic in an English literature department who writes and teaches on science fiction.) That’s not to say that I don’t react emotionally to culture, but I am most moved by other things; namely, movies and music. I regularly cry in the cinema, at the most emotionally manipulative things, in spite of myself; rarely does a children’s animated film go by without me piping my eye, and I’m not even talking about the genius at work in the opening sequence of Up. In the cinema, I’m a softy.

Certain songs almost always trigger tears. ‘Spare Parts’ and ‘Cautious Man’ from Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love, for instance (the hair stands up at the back of my neck too). And recently, although I don’t cry, some of the late work of The Beatles works emotionally in a powerful way for me. In particular, it’s the songs of Paul McCartney that do this.

In a sense, it’s one of those wild goose chases that occasionally engulf me that has been at work, in part precipitated by Ian Macdonald’s brilliant Revolution in the Head, which I have read compulsively, over and over again, since Christmas. I’ve always been a Revolver man; I remember buying the album at the Woolworth’s in Southend in the company of my good friend Simon when I was about 16 or 17. The first album I ever owned (a present) was A Collection of Beatles Oldies…But Goldies, which still has my childish scrawl upon the back cover declaring me its (new) owner. (Curiously, listening to tracks from that album always brings to mind images from Ryan’s Daughter, which must have been playing on the tv once while I sat listening to the album on headphones in the sitting room.) But Revolution in the Head sent me to those later albums I’d never had much contact with; the White Album, Abbey Road, and Let It Be (which I bought in the …Naked version), along with Sgt Pepper, which I’d borrowed from the local library as a teenager and liked, but couldn’t remember in detail.

I’m still getting my head around the White album. It’s sprawling, of course, if not incoherent; from Macdonald’s book, it seems as though that was the point at which the group worked most separately, and you can tell. What really strikes me, though, is the incredible range of styles, a lot of which is flat out pastiche (‘Back in the USSR’, ‘Rocky Racoon’), and some is a clear attempt to turn to a late-60s heavy electric blues-rock ('YerBlues’). Lennon is particularly keen on this latter style; McCartney the former. But then there’s ‘Helter Skelter’. How do you place this next to ‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da’, which apparently drove McCartney’s band-mates mad when he drilled them over and over to the perfect the song?

I have to admit that Lennon, after Sgt Pepper, wearies me a bit. For all his sarcasm, I see him as a sentimentalist of the ego in his Yoko-buttressed insistence that all art must be personal (and thereby dismissing McCartney songs like ‘Eleanor Rigby’ as ‘boring songs about boring people’). Lennon is both cynic and idealist (two sides of the same coin), but while keenly attuned to the bullshit of others, found it difficult to diagnose his own. Macdonald has it right when he says that Lennon was particularly dismissive of intellectuals because their pretensions mirrored his. It’s a bit of a glib binary, but where Lennon is a cynical idealist, I see McCartney as a Romantic. I don’t just mean a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, which I think is central to his songs, but also in a powerful emotional (rather than political) sympathy with the lives of other people. It’s McCartney, after all, who writes ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and ‘She’s Leaving Home’.

Although you only have to do a bit of reading to know that it was McCartney, not Lennon, who was involved in the London avant-garde scene in the mid- to late-60s (Lennon was tripping in uneasy domesticity with wife Cynthia in Weybridge); and it was McCartney who was really enthusiastic about musique concrete and tape loops and William Burroughs and so on; but McCartney, for all his intellectual curiosity, isn’t an artist of the head, which is why he was so enthusiastic about marijuana. For McCartney, it’s all about feel. (It’s no surprise that McCartney hightailed it off to Scotland to live on a farm, for all one might be suspicious of Macca as l’homme naturel.) It seems to me that McCartney’s work is fundamentally unthought, though his genius is not that of Shafer’s Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, taking ‘dictation’ from God. The direction of McCartney’s work is always towards feeling.

By unthought, I mean that it doesn’t involve agonising, about meaning or shape or genre; though he liked the product of tape loops and cut-ups, his aesthetic is all about flow. Lennon, by contrast, was well known for his practice of writing bits of songs and sticking them together. That’s how you get the effect of ‘I Want You (She’s So Heavy)’, which is literally two different parts put together in rotation, or ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’, a mini-suite of elements composed of different time signatures, different forms and styles. (Curiously enough, Abbey Road’s Long Melody, an idea usually credited to McCartney, is a macrocosmic analogue of Lennon’s method.) I suspect that for most of McCartney’s songs, the melody just appears in his head. This is certainly true of ‘Hey Jude’, which McCartney ‘wrote’ while driving to see Lennon in Weybridge.

This is why matters of taste, and in particular failures of taste, the accusation always levelled at McCartney, are besides the point when looking at his work. I suspect that McCartney just thinks his songs up and does them, whether it’s ‘Helter Skelter’ or ‘Ob-la-di’ or ‘The Frog Chorus’ (or ‘Mull of Kintyre’ and the skirl of bagpipes). It is simply a matter of what he thinks the song should sound like, be it cod-ska (‘Ob-la-di’), Chuck Berry/ The Beach Boys (‘Back in the USSR’) or 50s doo-wop (‘Oh! Darling’). McCartney was steeped in show-tunes as well as r&b and rock’n’roll, and you can tell: his work fuses Tin Pan Alley, pop and rock, but these threads can be more dominant than others in certain songs. ‘Got to Get You Into My Life’ is brilliant, blaring r&b; ‘When I’m 64’ like a show-tune standard; ‘Paperback Writer’ is classic ’66 freakbeat, fuzz guitar and all.

For all Lennon’s declamatory rhetoric about love, I don’t find much in his songs. There’s yearning and loss in ‘Julia’ and a kind of spindly otherworldliness in ‘Across the Universe’; there’s desire, even obsession in ‘I Want You’; there’s cynicism and anger (and misogyny) everywhere. But it’s in McCartney’s songs that I find depth of emotion, and in particular some songs which, I feel, are about Lennon, and the break-up of the band, which work in terms of their melodies and words to manifest a powerful sense of regret, and pain, and love (in part, for his ‘mate’).

In ‘Two of Us’, from Let It Be, McCartney sings to a friend, celebrating their time together, but it’s filled with wistfulness (accentuated by the arrangement, with strummed 12-string guitars and a simple beat); it’s sometimes thought to be a song to Linda, but the lines ‘You and I have memories/ Longer than the road that stretches out ahead’ suggest a much longer-standing relationship. The song is filled with images of travel – ‘Sunday driving’, ‘the road’ – but the sense is that the friends are ‘getting nowhere’, making no progress, ‘chasing paper’. (This is a line that has produced some comment to do with McCartney’s legal dispute with Apple and the rest of the Beatles. ‘Paper’ could also mean money, as in Lennon’s line in ‘Mean Mr Mustard’: ‘shaves in the dark trying to save paper’, which would connect very interestingly with ‘You Never Give Me YourMoney’, of more anon. ‘Chasing paper’ would then mean chasing money, losing sight of friendship through the pursuit of the material and worldly.) The chorus declares ‘We’re on our way home’, but it’s a home they can no longer find. There’s a longing for this sense of arrival, to restore what has been lost, but it’s lost for good.

The same images recur in ‘The Long and Winding Road’, which Ian Macdonald reads as McCartney’s farewell not only to the Beatles, but to the dreams of the 60s in their entirety. Here, the road leads ‘to your door’, but the door isn’t opened. ‘Don’t leave me standing here’, McCartney sings; ‘you’ll never now the many ways I’ve tried’. The stories of George and Ringo’s anger with McCartney’s seemingly patronising attitude towards them are legion, and Lennon’s exasperation with his writing partner is evident; but ‘The Long and Winding Road’ seems like a mea culpa (‘I’ve tried’) and also a plea: please open the door.

The third of the songs in this thread is from the Long Melody of Abbey Road, in my mind a masterpiece of sequencing; but also, in the last three songs, excluding ‘Her Majesty’ (all McCartney), there is a moving leave-taking. In ‘Golden Slumbers’, McCartney begins: ‘Once there was a way to get back homewards/ Once there was a way to get back home’, echoing ‘Two of Us’; homecoming, returning to the excitement and happiness of the early 60s, isn’t possible. The road has been too long, the alienation too profound. Then McCartney ‘sings a lullaby’: ‘Golden Slumbers fill your eyes’. I can’t help but read this against two Lennon songs, ‘I’m Only Sleeping’ (from Revolver) and ‘I’m So Tired’ (from the White album). It’s a call for peace, for calm, even for release from the striving of life: to let it go, to let be.

Golden Slumbers’ segues into ‘Carry that Weight’, a song I find myself humming all the time. Again, I think Macdonald’s right: McCartney might well have sung ‘boys, you’ve got to carry that weight’, about all of them, and what they would have to put up with as (former) Beatles. In a brilliant touch, ‘Carry That Weight’ turns to a reprise of ‘You Never Give Me Your Money’, where McCartney sings ‘I break down’, almost a confession and a self-indictment. There’s no finger-pointing here, just a sense that things are at an end. And then they do end, with the coruscating soloing of ‘The End’, and the lines ‘And in the end, the love you take/ Is equal to the love you make’, which is hippyish stuff but also, again, a kind of plea: please let there be an end to bitterness, to rancour. Let love and peace reign, in hearts as well as heads.

You Never Give Me your Money’ is an astonishing song in itself. Like ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’, it’s a mini-suite, built of extraordinary parts: the opening piano chords, Harrison’s guitar, McCartney’s expressive singing; the bouncing bar-room ensemble section (‘out of college, money spent’); the arpeggiated breakdown (‘oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go’) which becomes a lovely chiming Harrison break; then a return to a rock dynamic (‘soon we’ll be away from here, step on the gas’); and then a final arpeggiated guitar riff and fade (‘all good children go to heaven’). It’s virtuoso stuff all round, from the shifts in dynamic, tone and melody, to the fabulous playing and production, to the sequencing of the different sections of the song. ‘Money’ here is a metaphor, no matter what McCartney says about the song being about Allen Klein; it’s about not giving of your best, your truest and deepest emotion, to a friend or lover. (In terms of the Beatles as song-writers, by the time of Abbey Road it’s most likely that both Lennon and Harrison were keeping back their best songs for pending solo efforts, though the last Beatles album has two of Harrison’s best-loved songs.) The singer isn’t spared; both are passing ‘funny paper’, counterfeit coin.

All the songs I’ve mentioned move me. They don’t bring me to tears, but they do produce a kind of wistfulness, a deep sympathy, a feeling. These are songs of pain and loss and sadness, but also of a coming to terms. They’re brave, in a way, in exposing the rawness of emotion of that period, not just in what is being sung, but in how the music is able to transmit that feeling.

Abbey Road is a brilliant album (despite ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’, a sure-fire example of McCartney’s facility with music leading to produce something that is pretty tasteless.) I return to the ‘Long Melody’ obsessively, and love the Lennon songs too (especially ‘Polythene Pam’, which has a humour and energy many Lennon songs of the period lack, to my ears). But the most resonant album of the period is Let It Be …Naked, strangely, in all its bodged glory. To me, it sounds like the most Stones-like of all the Beatles albums, not least because of the presence of Billy Preston on keys. It’s not just that; the music is rootsy, vibey. In a sense, this isn’t surprising, because the ‘Get Back’ sessions (which were turned into Let It Be) approximated the Stones’ way of working: endless rehearsing, on and on and on until they selected a take through some means or other (boredom or exhaustion or ‘feel’).

I love the Stones’ music, more perhaps than the Beatles’. Jagger/Richards, Lennon/McCartney. Sometimes I try to think about who matches up with who, and on first take, you’d say Lennon and Richards, the hell-raising bad boys, against Jagger and McCartney, lighter-weight, more showbiz-aware operators. But actually I think it’s the other way round. Jagger and Lennon are the faux-intellectuals, the seekers. McCartney and Richards are all about flow, and about the music itself. I take Keith’s use of heroin as to do with work rather than decadence: he could go on for 30 hours before crashing. When you watch Sympathy for the Devil/ One Plus One, Godard’s film, you can see Keith keeping the band going when Charlie fluffs a drum part, waving his arm to say ‘keep on’; it’s key to the Stones’ working methods. And this was McCartney’s method to keep the Beatles together, to keep working, to do the ‘Magical Mystery Tour’, to try the back-to-basics no-overdubs ‘Get Back’ sessions, to push and push and push. Without him, in the stead of Brian Epstein (who became peripheral once they stopped touring in ’66), the band might well have split after Sgt Pepper; in the end, his solution, to keep the boys working, ended up compounding the tension and assuring the split.

This is typical McCartney; he doesn’t step back and think about it, he pushes on with what feels right, even though it ends up backfiring. And I admire this, in the end. He pushes on. He keeps working. He thinks of what he does as entertainment, as pop, not art. He writes ‘Mull of Kintyre’ and ‘The Frog Chorus’ (but also, recently, the Fireman albums, experimental looping psyche-electronica). He sells millions of records with Wings. In the end, McCartney’s endless facility and imaginative fertility is his downfall, his worst enemy, because he just gets on and does it. But that’s all right. And he does it because it’s important; and he cared, even though sometimes he cared too much.

Friday, 25 April 2014

A certain melancholy

Over the past few days I’ve watched the first two films of two trilogies: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and The Desolation of Smaug, and The Bourne Identity and The Bourne Supremacy. None of them I found particularly happy experiences, which is especially problematic with regard to The Hobbit (an adaptation of a children's adventure story, after all), which I found very gloomy, much more so than The Lord of the Rings trilogy. The Hobbit begins with an invasion, of Bilbo’s house; and yes, he’s a fussy, nerdy creature, but he becomes the unwitting victim of Gandalf’s social engineering: ‘if you return, you will not be the same’.  Both Bilbo and Jason Bourne are made into problematic heroes by authority figures whose motives are opaque, if not outright dubious. Each is sent on a ‘mission’ that may prove fatal; each loses their sense of themselves along the way. Each must adopt a ‘warrior’ masculinity, and in both films the personal body-count is pretty high. The saving grace is that, for both films, Bilbo and Bourne must come to question not ‘who am I?’, but ‘what have I become?’ The personal trajectory is, hopefully, also an ethical one.

In The Bourne Supremacy, the images that stay with me most powerfully are not the action scenes or car chases, but the shots of Bourne peering mournfully out of train and car windows, looking out upon the autobahn or grey suburban sprawl or the light industrial and mercantile infrastructures that tend to accumulate alongside train routes. These are, of course, physical analogues of Bourne’s own dislocation. One of the interesting generic revisions that both films make is to invert the jet-setting, hyper-mobile modes of the contemporary thriller. For Bourne, such mobility is not a kind of tourism, but instead a permanent state of dislocation or exile. Bourne travels externally, but is lost inside, in melancholy and grief.

The underpinning narrative topos of the Bourne films, of course, is psychological damage or trauma. Both Bourne and Bilbo often enter into dislocated states of mind – fragments of memory for Bourne, the haunted state of invisibility for Bilbo – but these should reveal to the protagonists themselves just how damaged they have been. Some shots in Supremacy, and the use of music to emotionally cue the scene, suggest this: a man aware of how much he is not there. In The Desolation of Smaug, Bilbo seems to begin to understand the power of the ring he has found, how it has worked upon Gollum to make him into the creature in the cave, and how Gollum represents a possible future for Bilbo himself. The flashes of Sauron’s eye that begin to accompany Bilbo’s wearing of the ring are flashes both forward and back, to the events of The Lord of the Rings that cast a very long shadow over The Hobbit.

This perhaps accounts for its melancholia. There isn’t much real fun in either Hobbit film. Much of The Hobbit, as filmed by Peter Jackson, is anticipatory, signalling the beginnings of the return of ‘evil’ to Middle Earth: the hallucinatory pall that covers Mirkwood, for instance, or the presence of Orcs, or even Saruman’s lack of sympathy for Gandalf’s suspicions. This isn't really children's cinema; in fact, I found The Lord of the Rings to be lighter of heart (perhaps because evil is defeated at the end? Is this what also afflict the Star Wars prequel trilogy?) Gandalf, in The Hobbit films, becomes a kind of Cold Warrior, alert to the incursions of malign forces of which neither ‘men’ nor elves truly understand the significance. Gandalf seems to stand accused of paranoia for his fixation on Smaug (a Middle Earth WMD); his imprecation to Thorin Oakenshield to retake his Kingdom under the Mountain could be read as a rather rogue incitement to adventurism. The film, of course, and in particular The Lord of the Rings, proves Gandalf to be right.

This revision of Cold War tropes was also central to the most recent Bond film, Skyfall, but I was interested to note that in the Bourne films, and particularly Supremacy, the Cold War apparatus of secrets and espionage (and consequent ethical centrality of personal and political betrayal) is displaced by a globalised geopolitics of money and oil, despite the Berlin setting. Bourne is not betrayed, as such; the point is that his training, or programming, as a killing machine cannot completely override his ethical misgivings about assassination, one that results in his ‘death’ in The Bourne Identity when he cannot kill his intended target when Bourne comes across him with his daughter.  Bourne, an instrument in a corrupt ‘spy game’, malfunctions. The films’ thrilling action sequences show, of course, that much of the physical programming remains all too efficiently in place.

By the end of Supremacy, it is somewhat moot in terms of how much Bourne still really understands about what ‘Treadstone’ was all about; I hope I will find out myself when I watch The Bourne Ultimatum shortly. Here, though, at the end of the second film in the trilogy, there is little sense of the alienation from the ‘mission’ that Bilbo evinces when, gazing after Smaug at the end of The Desolation, who is about to descend upon Laketown, he says: ‘what have we done?’ Bourne seems to feel nothing for the multiple dead he leaves behind him, nor for those (like the technical operator Nicky Parsons) he terrorises en route. Bourne’s own melancholia, his alienation and loss of identity, operates as an ethical bubble, a way of not seeing the destruction he causes about him. Smaug boasts that ‘I am death’; Bourne does not even understand this about himself. This is perhaps the heart of the melancholia in The Bourne Identity and The Bourne Supremacy: a void that is the subject, Jason Bourne himself.

Monday, 7 April 2014

The Critic as hack(er)

A couple of things last week made me wonder. The first was when I was invited to contribute an article to a journal. My first thought, as usual, was ‘Great! Yes, of course!’ But then I came up dry. I couldn’t think of a single thing that I wanted to write about.

The second was that I had a few ‘free’ days at the end of last week. It’s Easter vacation, but my daughter Isobel is still at school, and Deniz took my step-daughter down to Oxford. So three clear days for – what? I have a couple of pressing projects (a monograph to finish, corrections and revisions to another book), and this seemed like time I could use. But – no. I read a bit, thought a bit. Let my brain tick over without forcing it. And the days went by.

And I realised that I hadn’t posted on here for a couple of months. Traffic is still steady (thanks), but nothing had come to mind, nothing urgent that I wanted to write about. So I wondered: have I written myself out?

I asked myself this last night. I wanted to write for a long time, and in a sense becoming a university lecturer is the fulfilment of my wishes. I teach (which I love doing), and apart from that admin stuff, I read and I watch films and I write. But writing is now work, and sometimes it feels like hack work. I’m not particularly disciplined as a writer: I don’t have set times and patterns. Perhaps I should. But I realised that the reason why I’ve resisted doing so is that I’ve tried to cling to the idea that writing isn’t work, it’s something to do with inspiration or the critical moment when you see the pattern emerging, that this is connected to this and maybe means this. (It’s a version of the conspiracy narratives I enjoyed as a teenager. Everything connects.) 

That’s how I think of myself as a critic, I suppose: a recogniser of pattern. As I’ve written before about Amadeus, I’m no genius, no paradigm-shifter. I work, tinker with stuff, come up with interesting stuff (I hope), often on popular culture and its guises, because that’s where certain diagnoses can be found. Hardly any of my work can be said to be written on ‘high’ literature (except maybe the Sinclair work, and he’s a hybrid writer), though I have a distinct bias towards the experimental. In fact, experimental work in a popular idiom is precisely where my interests lay. When it comes to science fiction, I love the New Wave; and though I’ve read plenty of commercial hack-work, work written for payment by-the-word, and can appreciate it for what it is, the idea of writing like that, writing hack work, is kind-of where I find myself. Because that’s part of the deal of being a contemporary academic.

And I do too much, I know it. I say ‘yes’ too much. I’ve always had ideas and like to get them on paper (out of my head). I probably do ‘need to write’ in some ways, even though that might be detrimental (perhaps to quality). But is needing to write work, or is it to do with something else? Compulsion, inspiration?

In an essay titled ‘The Essay As Hack’, Ander Monson writes about the lyric essay as a form that ‘can potentially incorporate anything, draw from anything, in search of the range of human thought it attempts to match’. I like this thought, and try to correspond to that in my blog posts. (The strictures of the academic essay often mitigate against that fluidity.) If the essay is a hack, then the essayist is a hacker: a figure to conjure with in the post-cyberpunk, digital age, and used by critics like Andrew Ross or Mark Dery (as well as Monson) to indicate a cultural politics and practice as much as a writerly technique.

But I’m no hacker either. Or, if I am, it’s another kind of metaphor. Not for me the glamour accruing to the infiltrator of digital data systems, Gibson’s console cowboys, the liberators and disseminators of hidden information. Rather, I’m the hacker of the golf course, slicing and hooking his way along and across the fairways, swish and snick, losing the odd ball in the rough, but eventually (never mind the score) getting there, getting that damned white ball into the cup, and along the way there might be the occasional flash, the shot that flies true and lands just where you want it to.

I’ve no cultural (or social) affinity for golf, though I used to regularly watch it on tv as a lad and even tried it a few times, but I always liked Severiano Ballesteros, and now I know why. Seve was the sublime hacker, who would whang a drive into a car park and then strike the most outrageous, perfectly shaped recovery shot just a foot from the cup (and then might miss the putt). A fallible genius, an angelic hacker, but also a golfer who, despite fading powers and incapacitating back injuries, carried on.

So I will carry on. I will carry on hacking, hacking away at stuff, working, writing. It’s my job, after all.

Monday, 10 February 2014

Anarchy (and science fiction) in the UK



I met Ken Macleod fleetingly at a science fiction conference over a dozen years ago now, and he seemed a very approachable and friendly fellow. This week I read the first in his Fall Revolution series, The Star Fraction (1995), though it’s been sitting on my shelf for while. Immediately prior to this, I had read Lauren Beukes’ Moxyland (2010) for the science fiction reading group that some students are running in the department; and I also scooted through Michael Moorcock’s Modem Times 2.0 (2010), a short Jerry Cornelius text published in PM’s ‘Outspoken Authors’ series. While I though Moxyland so-so, a variant on cyberpunk tropes, I really engaged with The Star Fraction, which was no less post-cyberpunk (its central narrative concerning the coming-to-consciousness of an AI, and the end a When-It-Changed kind of moment, straight outta Neuromancer). Macleod imagines a fractured Britain, with a Hanoverian Kingdom, an archipelago of mini-states dotted across the isles (including the Christian Beulah City, occupying parts of North London, and Norlonto, the ‘free’ space around Alexandra Palace that is home to a non-governmental space program), and the remnant of the overthrown Republic existing as both an exiled government-in-waiting and private military force. Macleod’s future Britain is both Balkanised and militarised.

Norlonto is, though, a kind of anarchy. That is, it has no central government; law is enforced through contractual agreements between groups and individuals; social welfare is organised through collectives and mutual aid; and freedom of speech, individual liberty and a free market are crucial to how Norlonto operates. It is, in fact, a variant of anarchism closer to anarcho-capitalism than a classical model of anarchy; and the militarization of its fabric, its competing ‘terrorist’ groups and security outfits, marks Norlonto as a problematic ‘utopia’. If this is a social space in some senses ‘more free’ than one with an oppressive state apparatus, it is also one riven with factionalism, violence and insecurity. The London of The Star Fraction is no News from Nowhere.

What I really liked about The Star Fraction was the concreteness of the imagined future, and its embeddedness in a history of the politics of resistance or opposition. Many of the fighters and space workers are communists or anarchists dressed in boots and jeans and leather jackets, their debates held in pubs over beer and cigarettes, their ideas informed by political tracts picked up from second-hand book stalls. The picture of Norlonto that Macleod paints for us seems derived directly from experience, from the politics and (counter-)culture of the late 1970s, the era of the end of the postwar British settlement and the arrival of Thatcher and monetarism: the era of punk.

Macleod’s punk sensibility is markedly different from a cyberpunk one, even though the narrative debt to a Gibsonian cyberpunk seems fairly clear. Rather than a romanticised hacker at the core of the narrative, with escape or transcendence of the system the aim (the Street a place to hide, to plan, but not to live), Macleod’s protagonist Moh Kohn is a communist, a mercenary, and the son of two Left activists murdered during the imposed restoration of the Hanoverian regime. The Star Fraction encodes the postwar history of the British Left and its several defeats, but is ultimately hopeful, if not strictly utopian. 

I’ve become interested in the theory and politics of anarchy, partly as an attempt to fit my own views into the political spectrum more sensibly. (I’m probably of the libertarian Left, a socialist with anarchist tendencies.) Reading Macleod, therefore, hit a chord. Over Christmas I had raced through Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, a counterpart to Nineteen Eighty-Four where, instead of that supremely dystopian figure of the future – imagine ‘a boot stamping upon a human face forever’ – there is the representation of fellowship, of community, of collectivity, apparent in the early days of the war in Barcelona, or the comradeship Orwell finds among the militiamen of the POUM. Orwell does not seem to believe in the possibility of a hopeful future – Homage, like Nineteen Eighty-Four and Animal Farm, is a text filled with the bitterness of the defeat of the hopes and aspirations of the Left – but in human feeling, in comradeship, there is something to counter the machinery of violence and oppression. 

The Alan Moore/ David Lloyd comic/ graphic novel V for Vendetta is deeply indebted to Orwell’s imagined future Britain, a police state of grey austerity, but its dystopian protagonist is a ‘terrorist’, whose adherence to a politics of anarchy is also deeply implicated in the violence of the totalitarian state: V counters this by blowing up Parliament and the Old Bailey, assassinating (or murdering) scores of people, suborning the super-computer Fate, and eventually entering Valhalla as his funerary train explodes beneath Downing Street. (With too much blood on his/her hands, V cannot live on into the new political dispensation, whatever that may be.) His/her ‘precious anarchy’ forms the political backbone of the narrative. When Evey Hammond, a young girl rescued from rape and death by secret policemen by V, and then ‘trained’ (in a variety of ways) to be V’s successor, asks: ‘All this uproar and riot, V... is this anarchy?’ (Book 3, chapter 2: ‘Verwirrung’, p.195), V replies: ‘No, this is only the land of take-what-you-want. Anarchy means ‘without leaders’, not ‘without order’. With anarchy comes an age of ordnung, of true order, which is to say voluntary order. The age of ordnung will begin when the mad and incoherent cycle of verwirrung that these bulletins reveal has run its course. This is chaos.’

The same might be said of The Star Fraction: from an oppressive order to verwirrung, the narrative ends in suspension, before the creation of either ordnung or (as is suggested) the potential for a different kind of totalization under the socialist Republic. Anarchy seems a way, for dystopian texts, to square the circle between a politics of the Left and the dystopian form’s implicit valuation of the individual against the state.
In Grant Morrison’s comic book The Invisibles, the connection between the politics of counter-cultural resistance, in particular an ‘anarchic’ libertarianism, and science fiction becomes even more explicit. The Invisibles narrates the battle between the heroic group of the title (led by the self-declared anarchist ‘King Mob’, not only a slogan daubed on the walls during the Gordon Riots in 1780, but the name of a revolutionary group active in London in the 1970s) and the ‘Conspiracy’, whose activities and organisation reflect the kind of tentacular secret group from paranoid conspiracy texts of the 1970s, and in particular the tone of Robert Anton Wilson’s Illuminatus! Trilogy. The first collection of the book is called Say You Want a Revolution, a reference, of course, to The Beatles ‘Revolution’; the third is called Entropy in the UK. This title connects up the dominant trope of New Wave science fiction – entropy, a metaphor for social and cultural disintegration – with the title of the Sex Pistols’ first single. This connection between the 60s counter-culture and Punk is at the centre of Greil Marcus’s Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the Twentieth Century, which takes the Sex Pistols as a late manifestation of a political and artistic revolt, which is traced back through the Situationists (an overt influence on Malcolm McLaren) to Dada.

Entropy in the UK begins with King Mob captured by his enemies and being tortured. To combat this, King Mob uses his cover as a writer to spin a psychic defence made up of SF narratives and psychedelia, which are materialised in the character of ‘Gideon Stargrave’. Stargrave is King Mob’s alter-ego, a 60s fashionista-cum-spy who, at times, looks like Noel Gallagher in a Sgt Pepper jacket. The real model for Stargrave, indicated by the references to an incestuous relationship with his sister and the arch dialogue, is Michael Moorcock’s Jerry Cornelius. (Although Stargrave is a playful homage, I don’t think Moorcock was very impressed.) Cornelius, the ‘rock and roll Messiah’, the ‘English Assassin’, was Moorcock’s own attempt to deal with key concerns in the post-war period: violence, post-colonial struggles, sex and rock music, fraying of the social fabric, the condition of London. Starting off as a kind of 60s super-spy variant, Cornelius became the vehicle for several New Worlds writers to play with the ‘nature of the catastrophe’, before Moorcock ‘took him back’ (in the words of John Clute) in the quartet of novels published between 1969 and 1977, where the fragmented, non-linear form was pushed in a much more melancholic direction.
 
In an interview published in Modem Times 2.0, Moorcock rationalises this by answering: ‘I modified the Cornelius books as I went along because too many you men were poncing about thinking it was cool to pose around being ‘amoral’. Like many writers attracted to SF, I’m intensely moralistic’ (p.111). In the same answer – to a question which asks why Moorcock describes himself as an anarchist rather than a Marxist – he states: ‘it’s a philosophical/ moral position from which I can easily make quick decisions of pretty much every kind. My anarchism informs my pro-feminism, for instance. I happen to believe as a writer that words are action and that we have to be able to stand by our actions and accept any consequences of our actions’ (p.111).

Moorcock’s anarchism is partly manifested in the ongoing flux between order and disorder in his novels, and in a sense, anarchism provides a kind of vital balance between the two: not the ‘order’ of tyranny, bureaucracy or even Utopia (nor even the order of the ‘heat death of the universe’), but the human order of collectivity, change, desire and everyday life. It’s clear that Moorcock locates this ‘anarchic’ order in the streets of Notting Hill/ Ladbroke Grove before London’s colonization by Capital and ‘the suburban’; in Modem Times 2.0 the narrative is bookended by two almost-sentimental sections located there in Christmas 1962. If there is nostalgia, though, it’s really for the period that follows and flows from this: Moorcock says, in ‘My Londons’, ‘through that era we called “the 60s” – which really ran from about 1963 with the Beatles first No.1 single to around 1978 with Stiff’s second tour – we continued to experiment in almost every field and genre’ (p.85). In Mother London (1988), Moorcock locates this in the chapter called ‘Variable Currents’ in 1970, and in particular at a fair (or appropriately, carnival) in which the characters ‘would all gladly live this instant forever’ (p.371). This chapter is the high tide of the 1960s, a happy whirl (embodied in the merry-go-round) which has yet to fling itself to pieces. The anarchic centre still holds.

Moorcock, Moore, Morrison, Macleod: all of these writers construct fictions with more-or-less explicit negotiation with the theory and practice of Anarchy, and also with the cultural politics of the period between 1963/4 and the end of the 1970s, the end of the post-war British settlement, the beginning of the neo-liberal project. What I haven’t stressed enough is the playfulness with which each deals with this history; although absolutely serious, none of these texts is solemn. I find the Cornelius books in particular very funny. It is in that spirit, of hope and of laughter, that these books illuminate their representations of anarchy.

References
Macleod, Ken, The Star Fraction (1995) (London: Orbit, 2004)
Moore, Alan, and David Lloyd, V for Vendetta (New York: DC, 1990)
Moorcock, Michael, Modem Times 2.0 (Oakland CA: PM Press, 2011)
Moorcock, Michael, Mother London (1988) (London: Scribner, 2000)
Morrison, Grant, et al, The Invisibles: Entropy in the UK (New York: DC/Vertigo, 2001)


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