Overt Freudianism in Film: The George W. Bush Years

Because we do not understand ourselves, our attempts to repair our lives are apt to make them increasingly worse.

The only experience we humans have in common is our desperate loneliness.

The most honest an artist is willing to be, the more artificial his/her art will become.

--themes observed in the 2008 film Synecdoche, New York


Insecure men with daddy issues, who attempt to mask their insecurity by swaggering around and refusing to see life's inherent complexity, deserve our sympathy. That does not mean, however, that we have to elect them president.

--theme observed in the 2008 film W.


Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York and Oliver Stone's W. are both exercises in Freudian psychology; both, that is, attempt to understand human motives with reference to Freud's mapping of the psyche. Neither filmmaker is particularly coy about this fact; for example, Synecdoche is full of Freudian slips (which are referred to by that term at least once), and just about every review of W. remarked on its interpretation of George W. Bush as someone still dealing, in his 60s, with a deep Oedipus complex.

Both are pretty good movies, in my opinion. But here's a difference: Stone's movie is straightforward in a way that would seem implausible from a Freudian standpoint. As David Denby said in a review in The New Yorker, "Even if the real Bush is as simple as that (which I doubt), he’s still a lousy movie character—an inadequate protagonist in his own life story." The success of Kaufman's movie, on the other hand, depends on its more-than-a-little bewildering plotline: if, in other words, someone claims to understand Synecdoche, New York completely, either that person is lying or else the movie failed (for him or her).

The first third or so of Synecdoche is fairly unadorned realism, a portrait of a family that looks like many families, and that (like many families) is in the midst of a crisis composed of many small problems with the potential to become large ones. The middle third is less realistic, and "reads" like a Coen brothers movie, with increasingly quirky characters and lapses from the plausible that seem to serve a realist end (such as the house one character contemplates buying despite its being on fire--homage to Barton Fink?--which seems a metaphor for her forced optimism despite a sense of impending doom). The last third of the movie, however, is full-out David Lynch territory, in which the lines between the real and the surreal (conscious and unconscious) are so blurry that they can't really be sorted out; the only option is to watch the interesting, blurry patterns. At some point, Synecdoche, New York becomes an account of its protagonist's dream, but it's not easy to say at exactly what point this occurs.

The protagonist of W., on the other hand, like that of Synecdoche, New York, doesn't really understand what is happening to or around him, or why, and (like his counterpart in Synecdoche) makes a mess of things in trying to wrestle his life into a plot he can make sense of. But his issues, as Stone interprets them, are half an inch below the surface. I enjoyed the movie, and I have a feeling it will help future viewers make some sense out of this moment in history, but it's less persuasive (and also less interesting) as a psychological portrait.

So it may be that Synecdoche, New York will end up being the more definitive account of the cultural moment known as the George W. Bush years. In fact, I couldn't help wondering what kind of movie would result from Stone and Kaufman collaborating somehow to blend the two, incorporating Stone's research and insistence on speaking plainly with Kaufman's disturbing analytical weirdness. What if, instead of a play-by-play enactment of what journalists and historians have concluded really happened behind the scenes, Stone and Kaufman concocted a version of the 43rd president who (like Synecdoche's Caden Cotard) hires actors to play himself and his cabinet members, each day acting out their most recent experiences while W. directs? Would that have more aptly captured the weird mixture of manipulation and sycophancy that Cheney et al. directed at their boss? What if, instead of Caden's attempt to construct an exact replica of part of New York City inside a warehouse, Stone/Kaufman's W. character built a scale model of Baghdad on the White House lawn, then slowly and unintentionally wrecked it? That would at least offer the possibility that, as an artwork rather than an actual nation, it can be torn down and forgotten about once its maker moves on--which, I guess, would serve as wish fulfillment for the audience.

Election Day 2008

Everyone knew that Tuesday, Nov. 4 would be a memorable day in history. The unanswered question is how it will be remembered. Lots and lots of images--some will stick, some won't. Which ones will be iconic?

I'd nominate the tv feed of Jesse Jackson weeping at Grant Park in Chicago while waiting for President-elect Obama to give his acceptance speech. Cynics wondered, predictably, if Jackson's tears were of frustration rather than joy: after all, Jackson was the only other African American to come anywhere close to being nominated for president (not that he came all that close), and he notoriously (and profanely) criticized Obama last summer when he wrongly thought he was off-camera. But for most, I suspect, the image was a moving one, even if Jackson's attitude toward Obama is, in all probability, complex. The media's narrative tends to allow for little nuance in the relationships between black leaders--either Obama is the culmination of all that Jackson has worked for, or else Jackson and Obama are rivals.

On the other hand, I think few of the political cartoons in the days following the election will stick. Much has been made about humorists' supposed difficulties in finding a comedic edge when it comes to Barack Obama. (See here and here for interesting discussions.) Whatever the cause, the main problem seems to be a lack of originality. Lots of references to Obama's famous "fist-bump":



...and to Abraham Lincoln passing the mantle to Obama:



...and to Abraham Lincoln fist-bumping Obama:



...and to Martin Luther King, Jr. fist-bumping Obama:


A good part of these cartoon's drives is wishful thinking: the implied (or explicit, sometimes) claim that, now that an African American president has been elected, America's legacy of racism is over. George F. Will was upfront about this: "We are free at last from the inexpressible tedium of the preoccupation with skin pigmentation." Stephen Colbert was equally upfront (if less sincere), asking interviewee Charles Ogletree: "Is, then, racism over?"

Minimalist cartoons

Get Your War On by David Rees

Garfield Minus Garfield by Dan Walsh


Two very different cartoons that share a strategy: Both take images from trite sources (word-processor-style clip art and a longstanding comic strip, respectively) and reveal their inherent, apparently unintentional funniness* by stripping them to their bare essences. GYWO asks what the mute office drones in the clip art would be talking about, and concludes that if we could hear them we'd hear the sort of detached, cool, semi-ironic, and deeply profane kind of talk that we might encounter at work, only wittier and more political. Garfield Minus Garfield asks, even more simply, how the character Jon's words and actions would look if there wasn't an anthropomorphized cat sitting there.

The blog Wonkette called GYWO "the only example of a funny comic strip getting funnier when animated," and I have to agree. The clip art office-drones and their invisible desks look better than ever in animation. Follow this link to see it:

http://www.236.com/video/2008/get_your_war_on_new_world_orde_10121.php



*A Mark Twain coinage. Those who, like me, prefer Garfield Minus Garfield to Garfield would probably agree with this statement: The latent humor in Garfield (on which GMC relies) is superior to the manifest humor of same. It's as if Garfield's raison d'etre were to make GMG possible.

Course poster

Thanks to the graphic-design support of Mr. Chad Simmons, there is now a poster advertising HUM 107: Introduction to Cultural Studies:



Not bad, eh?

GEICO Cavemen

GEICO, the insurance company, didn't have to talk about racial discrimination at all, yet its ad agency uses oblique references to racism in order to sell a product. I'm talking about the famous "Cavemen" commercials.



Everyone knows about these ads, which is obviously one reason GEICO runs them. In case you have been in a cave for the last few years, though, the conceit here is that a group of modern-day cavemen are offended by GEICO's new slogan, "So easy a caveman can do it."

The ads are clearly based on discourses of racism: the "cavemen" in the ads-within-the-ads stereotype the "actual" cavemen in the commercials roughly in the same way that advertisements like those featured at the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia used to stereotype African Americans. Why GEICO continues to run the ads is easy: they're popular, and therefore effective at getting the company's name out there. (After all, tens of thousands of viewers are looking up GEICO ads on youtube.)

The really interesting question is why they are so effective. Why would references to racial discrimination move products?

Some, like a blogger describing herself as The Angry Black Woman, regard the ads' cavemen as "thinly veiled pastiches of black people," and sees them as potentially racist (although she says she "honestly can't tell" in the end if they are racist or a satire of racism). On the other hand, this discussion forum associated with the Sean Hannity show discusses whether the GEICO commericals are implicitly advocating gay rights. Although the posters disagree on that point, they generally seem to agree that being pro-gay-rights would not be a good thing.

What is up here?

First, as my brother astutely pointed out, a modern-era advertiser has finally found a way to use racism to sell things. Racism remains a force in our society, and any force--from an advertiser's point of view--is potentially a force that can be used to sell things. The only question is how to do it.

Solution: be all things to all people. The GEICO cavemen ads, as The Angry Black Woman persuasively points out, can be read as simply racist, satirizing black people who complain about racism as a bunch of whiners who can't face the truth about their own behavior. (I haven't seen it, but apparently the short-lived "Cavemen" TV show based on the commercials is pretty direct in satirizing anti-discrimination voices: see the account here, especially the description of the character "Nick.")

On the other hand, as the Hannity forum posters discussed, the GEICO ads can also seem anti-racist, a satire of racism, because the cavemen's complaints seem just, and the stereotypers (the GEICO spokesman on the talk show, the therapist, etc.) are the real objects of the satire.

Either way, these advertisements are part of a long list of recent media that (arguably) get away with pretty overt racist humor while somehow managing to persuade viewers that they (the image-makers and the viewers) aren't really racist: South Park, Family Guy, Borat, Sarah Silverman's “The Great Schlep” video*, etc., etc. Those who protest are liable to be accused of being dense, missing the joke. I have to admit, the above list contains some of the funniest stuff around these days, and to dismiss it in simple terms as racist (while possibly true) unfortunately causes us to avert our eyes from some of the most interesting stuff the culture is currently producing.

The question, then, is this: Can we enjoy and rigorously scrutinize the humor? Or do we have to make that choice?


* (in which takes place this moment, dense with cultural information: the black actor finally gets a little too uncomfortable with Silverman's dubious commentary, says "No, no" and walks off the set--clearly, this was part of the script, but it's meant to look impromptu--and Silverman whispers that her comments are nonetheless "true in general")

Fear of a Black President

This topic (the last in my three-part series of golden oldies) is both timely and obsolete now that Barack Obama is maintaining a tidy lead in the presidential election with just over two weeks to go. When I wrote this paper, Obama was a state senator with no national name recognition, and if there was going to be an African American president anytime soon, most people assumed it would be a Republican, Colin Powell. (Also, the paper was written before the TV show 24, which initially featured the African American actor Dennis Haysbert as the president, or the Chris Rock movie Head of State, had debuted.)

In sum, I looked at the various representations of an African American president in the news media, film, and literature, and concluded that there have been two main strains:

1. the "liberal version," which focuses on the attainment of the presidency by an African American man (always a man, as far as I've seen), and scrupulously avoids talking about policy or any overty "racial" issues: once an African American assumes the office of the presidency, this myth assumes, the American history of racial conflict will immediately become a closed book.


2. the "Afrocentric version," which assumes that blackness is "an ideological rather than a purely visual or symbolic entity," and that the race of the president is a separate (although clearly related) issue from that of race relations in America.

Lots of examples to look at (again, remember that this is pre-Barack Obama, pre-24 and Head of State):

• Toni Morrison famously wrote, during the Clinton impeachment scandal of 1998, that Clinton was "our first black president." However seriously she meant her remarks to be taken, Morrison clearly saw blackness as something other than a matter of skin color--as a cultural rather than a biological phenomenon. In the animosity Clinton faced from the right, she saw a glimpse of what African Americans in positions of power consistently face in our culture; thus, her view can roughly be categorized as part of the "Afrocentric" perspective.


• The 1972 novel Mumbo Jumbo by Ishmael Reed touches on the rumor that President Warren Harding had black ancestry. Wrote Reed, "When Republicans approached Harding with these rumors and asked him to deny them he said, 'How should I know. One of my ancestors might have jumped the fence.' What kind of answer was that?" Clearly, Reed was not charmed by Harding's unwillingness to acknowledge (or, for that matter, even to bother to repudiate) a possible black heritage.
• The 1964 novel The Man by Irving Wallace tells the story of Douglass Dillman, a black senator who (through a series of coincidences) ends up as president. Although Wallace is taking a stand against racism, he also betrays his implicitly racist attitude in a couple of key passages. His character, President Dillman, thinks to himself, "an original piece of paper is white, but the carbon is black, and often the carbon copy, no matter how weak, is almost as useful." Almost as useful? A racist Secret Service officer resents Dillman's ascension to office; however, (anticipating the motif of the "noble racist" later seen in Matt Dillon's character in Crash) he nobly risks his life to save Dillman's and is rewarded by a promotion that allows him to move into a segregated neighborhood. (I'd feel better if I felt that Wallace was conscious of the irony here, but I'm not convinced he was.)
  

  Inevitably, Dillman is impeached (one of the points I suspect Morrison was trying to make was that the first African American president will surely, like Clinton, be impeached--we'll see). He is charged on four counts, but he knows very well that the real reason he's being impeached, what he thinks of as the "fifth article," is being black. Eventually, he's acquitted and his lawyer informs him that he was acquited of "all five" charges--that is, he's acquitted of being black!

• Although I have not seen it, I read a very interesting article about the film version of The Man (starting James Earl Jones), written by Samuel B. Garren and published in CLA Journal. It explains that the original screenwriter, an African American novelist named William Attaway, attempted to push the story in the direction of a more distinctly anti-racist message (for example, showing that racism was present throughout the nation, not exclusively in the Deep South, and--in contrast to the novel--including scenes in which African Americans speak out against racism without being regarded as whiners or schemers). Garren, who read the various rejected drafts of the screenplay by Attaway, shows that he was flouted at every turn by Wallace and the film's producers. (The film was eventually made using a screenplay by Rod Serling.)
  
• Then there's Deep Impact, the 1998 movie in which Morgan Freeman plays a president who must contend with an asteroid that threatens to destroy the world. The movie follows the "liberal" model of African-American-president mythology. The producers cast a black actor to play the president, true, but only in the absence of the slightest whiff of political topicality in the movie. We're all anti-life-destroying-astroids, and so it must have seemed safe to cast the president as a black man (knowing, presumably, that this was unusual, and maybe even benefitting from the appeal of newness). Movies about actual issues upon which Americans can disagree, in contrast, cast white actors as the president.

I'd be interested in how people think recent developments alter the thinking outline above. Clearly, Obama's candidacy has (to the minimal extent it has touched directly on race at all) traded exclusively in the "liberal" version of the myth in its rhetorical and symbolic gestures. On the other hand, assuming Obama is elected (as polls suggest he will), it will be interesting to see how his racial identity--Obama is, of course, the son of a black man and a white woman--influences the discourses that surround him.

Talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic: The first black president is neither black nor a president. Discuss.

Citizen Kane and Race

Part Two of my tour down memory lane (i.e. old conference papers in cultural studies areas).

"Citizen Kane and Race" is something I'd like to revisit, and possibly publish, someday, as I really like the ideas in it and I haven't seen anyone else pursue similar ones (which is not to say that someone hasn't, beyond my knowledge, of course).

In this paper, which I wrote and delivered at a conference in 2002, I read Citizen Kane as "part of a body of work by writer/director Welles that is often preoccupied with racial difference and injustice." I have been fascinated by Citizen Kane for some time, and by the ability of 25-year-old Orson Welles to pull it off, but I didn't initially realize he had at that time just attempted two works that wrestle with an "Africanist presence" (Toni Morrison's term) in art: the notorious all-black staging of Macbeth on Broadway (sometimes called the "Voodoo Macbeth"--Simon Callow gives the best account I know of, in his biography of Welles), which was widely regarded as successful, and an attempted filming of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, which he didn't pull off. When he made Citizen Kane, did Welles still have racial issues on his mind?

Something told me that he did, and I wanted to explore what that "something" was.

First of all, there are several small but conspicuous visual images of non-white people scattered throughout Citizen Kane. For example, in the "News on the March" newsreel near the beginning of the film, we see the aged Kane being pushed by an African American man, presumably a servant, on a wheelchair. (The footage is taken through a fence; we are apparently meant to think of it as illicitly obtained, as Kane was described as a recluse in his last days.)

Later, during Kane's years of triumph, we have the famous scene with the dancing girls and the performance of the song written in Kane's honor ("You buy a bag of peanuts in this town, you get a song written about you!"). Midway through, we get an extreme close-up of an African American man's face. He is wearing a strange sort of tall, feathery headgear, and only the closest of observers will figure out that the man is a member of the marching band that accompanies the dancing girls. (Other band members are visible in the frame, but the image is so fleeting that only the face in the left foreground really registers; it's an image that imprints itself in your mind without anything in the narrative suggesting you should really think about it.)

Similarly, in the last third of the film (the period of Kane's decline), we have the scene in which Kane and his second wife, Susan, argue on the beach. The setup is grim: the black cars taking the Kanes and their guests out onto the sand reminds us, without much subtlety, of a funeral. That night, as the Kanes argue, their words may or may not be drowned out by the musicians they have apparently hired for this elaborate "picnic." The singer sings, again rather ominously, "It can't be love, for there is no true love" (a version of which the White Stripes recorded a few years back in a tribute to Citizen Kane), and once again Welles uses an extreme close-up of an African American man's face.

I have watched Citizen Kane many, many times, and for a long time these images stood out to me, but I didn't have a way to account for my reaction to them. Why are they there? What do they mean? The easiest way to interpret them is to say that they simply don't mean much of anything; that they are just background elements in a context where (1) African Americans' public role was often that of a servant or a performer, (2) Welles was experimenting with the uses of foreground and background, and with striking transitions between scenes, and so there's no particular meaning to these seemingly racialized images--at most, they confirm what we already think we knew about Welles and his era.

I've never been convincined that this is the full story, and becoming aware of Welles's interest in African American life just before making Citizen Kane told me that I was on the right track. Other evidence I discussed in this paper includes: the character of Leland Bernstein, who is played broadly according to stereotypes of Jewishness and who functions variously as a figure of fun and as the pseudo-profound executive who takes over the operations of Kane's company; the un-accounted-for accent (Hispanic?) of Kane's butler, Raymond; and the much-remarked-upon use of black and white throughout the film (which has not, to my knowledge, been connected to the film's commentary on race).

This is getting to be too long, so I'll end with a brief quote from the paper, just to give a taste of where I'm heading here:

Generally speaking, the black hues in this film are introduced to suggest moments of depth, whereas the film’s bright whites—which dominate frames much less frequently—are found at moments of stasis (as in the brightly lit old-folks home where Jed Leland has ended up) or else suggest something unknowable (as in the famous snow globe in Kane’s death scene at the start of the film, which seems to transform from a transparent glass ball to an opaque one at the moment of Kane’s death). Although the film’s colors, spoken of in this sense, may seem only tangentially related to race, Morrison points out that blackness has consistently been a locale for negotiation and change in literature, whereas whiteness is usually a trope for impenetrability. And this symbolism is important: for American whites, asserting impenetrability is a way of maintaining power.

Still, Welles does move beyond such abstract symbolism, and visually represents blackness and whiteness in a more distinctively racialized manner; that is, upon actual faces and bodies. The portrayal of Kane’s second wife, Susan Alexander Kane, is worth careful consideration. As Kane’s most important possession, Susan’s very light skin and blondness is featured prominently; although Welles tended to dislike close-ups and uses them selectively in this film, Susan’s face is zoomed in upon over and over again, emphasizing her extreme whiteness. In a very real sense, Susan’s whiteness is what Kane wishes to possess; this is suggested also by her association in is mind with his lost childhood, which has been presented to us in the whitest scene in the film, amid a field of Colorado snow.

On-track? Going too far? You be the judge--comment and tell me!

Kill Bill (and other past work)

By training, I am a specialist in American literature, not in cultural studies. My best scholarly work has been on African American literature, and when I have delved into less traditional sorts of works associated with cultural studies, it has usually had something to do with representations of race in American culture.

This blog is mostly going to reflect my ongoing observations of cultural (and particularly pop-cultural) specimens as they present themselves to me--not looking back, but looking around at what's happening right now. It's meant to be a blog, not a repository of previous scholarship. And, once the class begins in January, it will also reflect my students' ongoing observations and analyses of the surrounding culture.

To get things rolling today, however, I'm going to post a few highlights of my past work. These are based on conference papers I've delivered that either are not really publishable (due to being out of date, as in "Fear of a Black President," or because they pretty well tap out at conference-paper length) or that I don't think I'm going to get around to publishing. I'd rather put them here than just have them sit around on my hard drive.

That said, I realize that you probably don't have that much interest in reading summaries of my old conference papers. No hard feelings there. If you're interested, please read (and feel free to comment!), but if not, you have plenty of choices on the Web, like failblog, for your amusement.

For those who are still here, I'm going to touch base with three samples of previous work:

• "Kill Bill, Art, God, and Other Things That May or May Not Exist"
• "Citizen Kane and Race"
• "Fear of a Black President"

First, one of my favorite things I've ever done, "Kill Bill, Art, God, and Other Things That May or May Not Exist." I came up with this late one night (insomniac) as I was watching the DVD of Kill Bill, Part Two. I delivered the paper at the Rocky Mountain Modern Language Association conference a couple of years ago. Here's the abstract:

Abstract:
Kill Bill, Art, God, and Other Things That May or May Not Exist

Making Kill Bill, Parts 1 and 2, Quentin Tarantino has said, was an attempt to find out if there is any limitation to what he can accomplish in film, to see “if my talent has a ceiling.”[1] This paper explores the religious themes and motifs of Kill Bill, finding within its stylistic flourishes and frenetic references a meditation on human suffering and whether or not it can be overcome. With its exploration of sin, discipleship, death and rebirth, the film suggests that the only escape from the world’s endless cruelty and pain is a sort of studied transcendence which it codes as, at once, artistic and religious. And, if filmmaking is the religion suggested by Kill Bill, the only means of making sense of a chaotic and destructive world, then Tarantino (whose self-conscious artistic presence can be identified in every scene) is this world’s self-appointed God.

Of course, my aim is not to argue that Tarantino is a directing “God” or to resuscitate auteur theory, but to explore how Tarantino’s conspicuous gestures of auteurism, coupled with a religious motif running through both films, explain its employment of violence as spectacle. What commentary is implied by the highly aestheticized, ritualistic violence in the films? Rather than a traditional ethical response that might regard the violence as culturally harmful, or a detached critical assessment that finds its moral impact beside the point, I argue that Kill Bill is best interpreted as a commentary on—and enactment of—various philosophical positions concerning the nature of art and religious belief.

As Dave Eggers has written of Lorrie Moore, Tarantino plays “God to [his] characters’ Job, throwing at them every conceivable calamity or handicap. In exchange, they get the great lines.”[2] In the closing scenes of Part 2, Bill’s Nietzschean parable of Superman and Clark Kent—making the point that people are either killers or not, and that their actions are determined by this status—is resisted by The Bride, who implies a more traditional ethical world view when she articulates her disbelief that Bill can betray her. Ultimately, the film rather daringly suggests that neither ethical perspective is tenable in itself; instead, Kill Bill represents an argument that art and religion—modes of understanding that potentially contain various, contradictory philosophies—are our only possible sources of insight into an otherwise dismal, Hobbesian life.

In comparison to other violence-infused works, including Tarantino’s previous films, Kill Bill posits an ultimately orderly world, one that seems chaotic only because its underlying meaning is rarely revealed to us. (That violence is disproportionately enacted upon, and by, The Bride—who in the words of one character “must suffer to her last breath”—points toward a newly gendered response to a filmic tradition of “men … who can only find redemption through pain.”[3]) Rather than capricious, violence in Kill Bill suggests its practitioners’ adherence to a moral order that, at best, they vaguely understand, but which can be accessed—if at all—through an artistic effect that the film construes as something like a religious experience. Thus, in the film’s final moment, The Bride utters words of gratitude that seem equally appropriate to a performing artist acknowledging applause and a religious adherent at prayer: “Thank you, thank you.”

[1] Interview with David Ansen, Newsweek 13 Oct. 2004: 67.
[2] Rev. of Moore, Birds of America, Salon 2 Oct. 1998.
[3] Manohla Dargis, quoted in Kent L. Brinthall, “Tarantino’s Incarnational Theology: Reservoir Dogs, Crucifixions and Spectacular Violence,” in Crosscurrents 54 (2004): 66.

Handshake

After the second Obama-McCain debate, the TV cameras showed John McCain giving Barack Obama a pat on the pack; Obama then offered a handshake to John McCain. McCain deflected the offer by pointing Obama's attention to his (McCain's) wife, Cindy, whose hand Obama then shook. Here it is:



Viewing the debate coverage, I noticed it, briefly registered it as odd, but didn't think anything more of it. Maybe it means nothing (although it has provoked some debate). However, at least one writer managed to connect it to larger discourses and codes concerning masculinity, and the result is some nice cultural commentary. Here it is: http://www.theroot.com/id/48400.

Influences

I don't read very many blogs, but there are two that serve as sources of inspiration for this one. One of these, to which I was introduced only recently, is SemiObama, a blog devoted to the semiotic analysis of Barack Obama. That is, the bloggers analyze how Obama has been portrayed in (predominantly popular) culture, which is not the same thing as analyzing who Obama is, what he might do as president, or whether or not one ought to vote for him. In other words, it tries to understand what Barack Obama (as a signifier, an image) represents in the eyes of others, rather than what he, or the bloggers themselves, might claim he stands for (as a political agent or thinker).

Here is a link to SemiObama, where you'll find (in the quotation from Umberto Eco) an exceptional definition of semiotics:

http://semiobama.blogspot.com/

I think this blog offers an exceptional example of cultural studies analysis. As just one example, they play with the idea that this Time magazine cover image--

--evokes the "notoriously altered" 1994 Time cover with the recently arrested OJ Simpson. What an intriguing insight. Or rather, what an intriguing observation, which seems destined to provoke some good insights. Check out SemiObama for more on this and other images and discourses.

My favorite blog, though, is "The Comics Curmudgeon," appearing at

http://joshreads.com/,

which satirizes the newspaper comics. The wonderful thing about this blog is that its satirical edge is rooted in a particularly sharp form of analysis. The comics are a great example of a discourse that people have to learn how to read: they don't make a lot of sense unless you have internalized the particular logic (or, arguably, illogic) that allow them to function. Because they are confined to a particularly compressed space (a few square inches) and yet are read serially in increments spaced 24 hours apart, the comics rely on your knowing how to read them in order to do their work. For example, we have to know that one type of "balloon" represents speech and another, thought; and we have to know that motion is conveyed with certain types of lines--neither of which corresponds to our extra-textual reality. And we do internalize the logic--apparently fairly quickly, since very small children can usually "get" the comics. (I remember reading Doonesbury, a comic geared toward adults that comments on political issues, from a young age: I didn't usually get the jokes, but I did learn a lot about comic phrasing and the ways in which time can be conveyed visually in two dimensions.)

But I digress.

The Comics Curmudgeon is excellent at seeing the weird little things that comics use as shorthand and saying, in effect, "What the heck?!?" For example, here is an image from a comic strip that I have used in introductory literary theory courses:

They'll Do It Every Time, 9/26/06

And here is part of what The Comics Curmudgeon had to say about the image:

The main gripe in today’s TDIET is ludicrously pointless (contractors sometimes overextend themselves and take longer to finish things than you think they will oh no oh no whatever shall we do) but I’m intrigued by one of the comments from the peanut gallery at the right of the frame: “Those are the same two guys who built the pyramids.” What on earth is this supposed to mean? That they’re immortal and unimaginably old? That they’re sinister Egyptians? That the pyramids, like this Long Island in-law addition, were vast projects that took years to complete and were intended to house mummified corpses? (http://joshreads.com/?cat=58&paged=14)

In other words, the blogger (whose name is Josh Fruhlinger) gets the joke, but also wants to get underneath the joke, point out the weird stuff that we might not notice, that our brains just kind of skip over however ludicrous or odd it might be because we (generalizing freely here) tend to be sympathetic readers, would mostly rather just get the joke than stop and analyze the joke. But Fruhlinger is onto something, because he realizes that, in many cases, analyzing the joke is funnier than the joke itself was.

If that makes sense.

Introduction

Welcome to "The Practice Blog." This blog is being created for use in a humanities course titled Introduction to Cultural Studies, which I will be teaching starting in January 2009 at Spokane Falls Community College in Spokane, WA. For now, though, the purpose of the blog is to practice--to learn the ins and outs of blogging and figure out how the various tools work.

As an intellectual field, cultural studies has been defined in a variety of ways--there's not really a single, consensus definition. For the purposes of the SFCC class, however, and for the purposes of this blog, the following definition will do just fine: cultural studies is the use of tools drawn from traditional fields of inquiry such as art, philosophy, and literature to analyze any and all aspects of culture.

Cultural studies, then, builds on an insight associated with Raymond Williams, who argued that "culture," properly considered, should not be seen as only referring to "high" culture. In other words, a traditional view of "culture" might say that the term should be reserved only for the very best of what a society produces: the most exalted poetry, music, and art. Classical music would count, but not pop music. A painting by Matisse would count as culture, but an image created to advertise potato chiops certainly would not.

In contrast, students of cultural studies assume that anything that can be analyzed should be analyzed. The purpose of analysis, according to this way of thinking, is not to separate "high" and "low" culture, so that we can immerse ourself in the good (or tasteful) and avoid the bad (or tasteless). The purpose, instead, is to understand both, including trying to understand the logic by which one type of cultural product is considered good and another, bad.

Although it is not limited to popular culture, much scholary work in cultural studies has been devoted to the analysis of artifacts that more traditionally-minded critics would not touch: movies (including, or especially, popular movies), advertising, toys, etc. We are attempting to understand how our society defines itself, and we assume that understanding the products of our culture (emphatically including popular-culture artifacts) offers a useful window. Perhaps understanding its products is the same thing as understanding the culture.

It would be legitimate to object that, if the humanities turn their attention to popular culture, then "elite" culture (for lack of a better word)--certain types of poetry, music, and painting that aren't necessarily geared toward popular tastes--will be endangered. How can poetry survive without a critical apparatus devoted to it? That sort of question will probably be considered from time to time on this blog. However, in the end the best way to defend popular culture is by pointing to its results: if this field of inquiry produces intelligent, incisive analysis (regardless of the object of this analysis), then it is presumably worthwhile. I think there are lots of really good examples of exemplary scholarship in cultural studies, some of which also serve the purpose of refining our understanding of traditional "high-culture" art works; yet this blog's main purpose is not to catalogue those examples. Rather, it is to explore the potential of cultural studies by practicing precise, observant description and sustained, thoughtful analysis of all kinds of cultural artifacts.