This is obvious, but, I love Mad Men.

Obligatory re-blog (...oBLOGatory re-blog?) of a great analysis of Mad Men Season 3 Episode 6 (...the foot one...you know what I mean...if not, don't read. SPOILERS.)

Have Mercy!: A Semiotic Reading of the Opening Credits of "Full House"

I took my first trip to San Francisco last weekend, where this picture was taken. I was reminded of a paper I wrote a couple years ago on the opening credits of "Full House":

“Whatever happened to predictability?
The milkman, the paperboy, and evening TV?
You miss your old familiar friends
waiting just around the bend…”

These lyrics are how we not only recognize, but also look back on one of, if not the definitive family sitcom of the 1990s, “Full House.” Over its eight-season run (1987-1994), the show became known for promoting conventional family themes and values, despite its unconventional setting: a household with no mother and not one, but three patriarchs. It debunks and upholds traditions – both of the American family and the American sitcom – at the same time, and while adhering to a sense of homogeneity, it puts its own spin on things, which is what makes it stand out from other sitcoms. As evident in the opening credits, each member of the Tanner family is unique, with strongly varying traits and interests, and how these traits and interests play against each other is what adds flavor – and comedy – to the show’s happenings and conflicts. According to Brett Mills, “television situation comedy depends on a set of characters who live and work together, who are strongly differentiated in terms of ‘personality.’ Plots derive from absurd predicaments and good-natured power struggles that result from sharing quarters." "Full House" presents common relatable family themes and issues, and thus unites a large audience across the nation who speak the same semiotic language and uphold the same values as highlighted in the show – most notably family and Americana. At the same time, however, the show’s ability to suspend any disbelief – as well as its unconventional structure featuring three patriarchs – creates a new reality for the viewer. The sitcom’s episodic formula revolves around the three bachelors attempting to raise the three precocious little girls, who often get the best of them. The girls break the rules but admit their mistakes and learn their lesson by the end of the episode, often hugging one of their father figures with touching music playing in the background.

The Season Four (1990-1991) edition of the sitcom’s unforgettable opening credits begins with the theme song’s nostalgic and heartwarming lyrics sung over a shot of Michelle Tanner, played by the very young Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, sitting in between her two “uncles” in a moving red convertible. It is sunny and beautiful out. As the camera zooms out, we see the whole Tanner clan – Danny, DJ, Stephanie, Michelle, Jesse, and Joey; Danny is at the wheel. Dissolve to an aerial shot of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, a classic piece of American iconography. CUT TO: die-hard Elvis fan Uncle Jesse (John Stamos) sitting on a bench under a tree, playing his acoustic guitar, all smiles. CUT TO: neat freak Danny (Bob Saget), standing proudly next to his red convertible, wiping a smudge off of the windshield. CUT TO: comedian Joey Gladstone (Dave Coulier), sitting on a railing by the water, boats visible in the background. He is talking, joking, gesturing, and takes off his sunglasses. CUT TO: oldest sister DJ (Candace Cameron), adjusting her own school picture on the mantle with pride and – of course – a smile. CUT TO: middle child Stephanie (Jodie Sweetin) throwing a Frisbee for her dog Comet, smiling at the camera. CUT TO: adorable little Michelle, jumping on her bed, pigtails bouncing up and down. CUT TO: Rebecca Donaldson (Lori Loughlin), the only older woman figure on the show, smelling flowers just as beautiful as she is, running her fingers through her hair. Then of course we cut to the three patriarchs, sitting on a railing by the dock where we saw Joey before, when Danny looks at his watch, realizes what time it is, and the three of them are off…to the picnic they’ve prepared on the lawn in front of San Francisco’s famous row of Victorian houses, the Painted Ladies (contrary to popular belief, the Tanners don’t actually live in one of these houses).

Much of the meaning we can derive from the credit sequence is in how it compares to other classic sitcom credit sequences. “Full House” is unique (or was at the time) in that the opening sequence did not feature scenes from actual episodes; each main character/cast member is introduced separately, performing an action that is indicative of one or more character traits, until they “notice” the camera and flash a winning smile. These trait-displaying actions emphasize the personality differentiations of the show’s principle characters, yet the opening and closing shots show the whole family together, whether it be riding in the car or working together to set up a picnic that they can all enjoy. The syntagm, or sequencing of signs, in the credits allows us to see the whole family, then breaks it down into its individual parts, and when we see them all together again, we have a better understanding of the family as a whole. In addition to the window into the characters and their collective relationship that the opening credits provide, many of the objects we see – the classic red convertible, the acoustic guitar (alluding to Jesse’s obsession with Elvis Presley), the trolley seen in some versions of the opening sequence – are pieces of classic American iconography. These icons juxtaposed with the character individuality and family unity that are also displayed in the sequence are indicative of what the show is all about. It is a classic modern American family sitcom with an opening sequence that, years in the future, will remind people of the 1990s American family – conventional in values but increasingly unconventional in structure. We are drawn to the Tanner family because they are so relatable and yet so different from other sitcom families.

Brett Mills states that today’s sitcom fathers reflect the diversity that characterizes a society at large. “Full House” presents us with three very different father figures who each have their own way of dealing with the girls. Joey, the comedian and Danny’s best friend, uses humor, voices, and characters to teach the girls. Jesse, the rebel rock ‘n roller and brother of the girls’ deceased mother, often lets the girls get away with things, but his growing experience with them benefits him once he has children of his own. Danny, the cleaning-obsessed talk show host – and the girls’ real father – adheres most closely to the sitcom dad archetype; he is the most protective and strictest of the three, but according to him, “I don’t yell, I guide!” The Season Four credits are significant in that they are the first of the series’ run to feature Rebecca Donaldson – Danny’s cohost on “Wake Up San Francisco”, Jesse’s wife, and the show’s only adult female/mother figure – as a principle character. It is not until halfway through the series that they introduce a mother figure; as the family evolves, so does the show’s opening sequence.

“Full House” takes place in San Francisco but was filmed in Los Angeles; therefore the opening sequence has to do a good job of making its audience believe that the Tanners are in San Francisco even though it is far from the truth. Ellen Seiter states that indexical signs rely on the co-presence of a signifier and its signified. Television tends to place an enormous stress on the connection between an image and its location as it exists in real time and space. All interiors of the opening sequence were shot on set in LA, but most exteriors – the ones that feature identifiable places around San Francisco – had to be shot on location. We can’t tell this from the opening credits – partially due to our suspension of disbelief – and we accept that the Tanners are in San Francisco. This is exactly what people mean when they say that the camera never lies; Umberto Eco states, “Semiotics is in principle the discipline studying everything which can be used in order to lie. If something cannot be used to tell a lie, conversely it cannot be used to tell the truth: it cannot in fact be used to tell at all."

The reason we don’t notice any of this is because of the cognitive compression effect, which is the result of the TV medium presenting in compacted form for time-constrained transmission. Consequently, we barely have time to process topics/implications/meanings contained in the message. The meaning is thus suspended, which is why TV is so easy to watch until we read into it on a theoretical level. On the surface, the Tanner family seems too cheesy to be real, with all of their catchphrases (“Have mercy!”, “How rude!”, “You got it, dude!), their wacky mishaps, and their touching moments enhanced by a sappy soundtrack. But they represent the most defining qualities of the modern American family – both the good and the bad – and they serve the same function: “a stabilizing force, changing slowly if at all, resisting pressures for change outside itself” (Hodge & Kress). We can look to “Full House” as a model for the modern American family – unconventional, yet upholding traditional values – as well as the modern American sitcom. Those of us who have grown up watching this show will look at it with nostalgia and reassurance that…

“Everywhere you look, there’s a heart; a hand to hold onto
everywhere you look, there’s the face of somebody who needs you
when you’re lost out there and you’re all alone
a light is waiting to carry you home…”

WORKS CITED:
Danesi, Marcel. Understanding Media Semiotics. London: Arnold, 2002.
Hodge, Robert, and Gunther Kress. Social Semiotics. Ithaca, New York: Cornell
University Press, 1988.
Mills, Brett. Television Sitcom. London: British Film Institute Publishing, 2005.
Seiter, Ellen. "Semiotics, Structuralism, and Television." Channels of Discourse,
Reassembled. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1992.

Gay Vampires?!: Queer Subtext in the Horror Genre

Although it may come as a surprise, a prominent area of focus in queer media studies lies in the horror genre, which is normally pretty heterosexist.....but what defines this genre is that it plays into our fears. The queer community experiences great fear in coming out of the closet and is very familiar with horrors such as AIDS and hate crimes. Like the monsters in horror texts, the queer community is often perceived as destructive to the moral fabric of society. They are often rejected for being who they are and prevented from living a "normal" life. Yet like the protagonists in horror texts, they also fight to overcome an oppressive and destructive evil.

In the 1980s, a decade that was dominated in America by the conservative religious right, horror texts - as well as homosexuality - were considered evil. Filmmakers (especially gay ones) decided to play with this and invert the conventions of traditional horror films. In many examples of queer horror, the villains (especially werewolves and vampires) are not necessarily evil, just misunderstood. These films skillfully and subtly address the cultural anxieties surrounding the gay community.

In A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2: Freddy's Revenge, Freddy Krueger possesses Jesse, a teenage boy, in his dreams to continue his murdering in the real world. Critics and viewers alike have noticed a highly evident subtext of Jesse's repressed homosexuality in the film. He is afraid that "something is trying to get inside my body."

Vampires serve as common media representations of the queer community, and for the most part, they embrace this. It depicts them as an elite group that doesn't follow the usual constraints of society. It is also fairly easy to see the connection between bloodsucking and the AIDS virus, which, in the 80s, was largely believed to be a gay disease. Some prominent examples of queer texts concerning vampires include The Lost Boys (1987), directed by Joel Schumacher, who is openly gay. This film deals with a battle between vampires and a group who call themselves "fighters for justice, truth, and the American way." The vampires seduce a teenager into joining them by having him drink blood. In Interview with the Vampire (1994), Tom Cruise seduces Brad Pitt into becoming a vampire (or a member of the queer community), and the two of them essentially become a gay couple raising their "daughter" (a little girl who they vampire-ize), Kirsten Dunst.

The 2001 horror film Jeepers Creepers and its 2003 sequel were directed by Victor Salva, an openly gay man and convicted child molester who confessed to 5 felony counts of sexual relations with a 12-year-old boy in the late 1980s. Unquestionably, themes of homosexuality and pedophilia do come to the surface in Salva's films. The Creepers franchise is a rare horror specimen in that the victims of the villain (the Creeper) are not virginal young girls, but rather young men (in the sequel, a busload of shirtless jocks). In the first film, the Creeper's victim is the boyish Darry, a supposed "closet case." The monster is completely uninterested in Darry's sister, but he rams his shaft-like truck into the trunk of Darry's car. Here is a good review/queer reading of Jeepers Creepers.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer has a large gay following and is probably the best example of queer horror on television. It features stylish and powerful female characters as well as queer characters, and it makes outsiders cool. Charmed also featured queer themes and characters, as well as lesbian undertones.

Other examples:

- The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a parody of sci-fi and horror movies, whose Dr. Frank N Furter is a "sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania" who creates a blonde, tan man (just like Frankenstein) named Rocky Horror for his own pleasure

- Michael Jackson's Thriller video, in which MJ warns his date that he's "not like other guys" right before he turns into a werewolf

What is it with the connection between horror/the supernatural and sexuality? For more on this topic, click here.

"Sleeper": Allen pays homage to greats of silent film

One of my favorite Woody Allen films is “Sleeper”(1973). Allen is more or less known for his talkier films, which are characterized by intellecual, witty dialogue and satire on modern American culture. However, in “Sleeper,” one of his earlier films, Allen displays a strength for slapstick and physical comedy and pays homage to the silent films of Chaplin, Keaton, and Harold Lloyd. The writing is brilliant, the pacing is fantastic, and the physical comedy is whimsical and spot-on. Allen proves that he has just as much of a gift for physical comedy as he does for verbal comedy (especially in his portrayal of a robot), and he makes very good use of props and sight gags.

Allen has always displayed a love for the Golden Age of Cinema throughout his long career. The opening titles and scores for most of his films serve as homages to silent film. Many of the hilarious, wacky chase sequences in “Sleeper” are underlined by ragtime music. Here's a snippet of an article from Film West, Ireland's Film Quarterly, about the music of Woody Allen's films.

Allen puts a twist on his tribute to silent films like Chaplin's "Modern Times" by setting "Sleeper" 300 years in the future. Although his vision of the future is slightly over-the-top for the sake of comedy, this vision also serves as commentary on the direction he thinks American society is headed. The film was originally about how people in the future are forbidden to talk, which would have provided a perfect premise for a modern silent film. However, Allen has such a talent for witty dialogue that he found writing it hard to resist. Thus, the story turned into that of a man who was cryogenically frozen in 1973 and is awoken two hundred years later. (Sound familiar? "Austin Powers" ripped off of this movie completely.)

In 2173, America is under the control of a fascist regime, people get high by rubbing a metal orb, and sex doesn’t exist anymore but couples have a machine called the “orgazmatron.” Allen even had a meeting with Isaac Asimov to confirm scienfitic feasibility of some of his screenplay ideas, and the influence of the original concept is still present in the physical comedy of the film. "Sleeper" falls into the sci-fi comedy subgenre, of which other examples include "Spaceballs" and "Men In Black" (Here's a list of the highest grossing sci-fi comedies).

Funny Ladies

I thought I’d take a look at some prominent comediennes and comedic actresses of the 1970s, because there are quite a few, and they are all unbelievably talented. The 1970s were a time that saw lots more comedic roles for women – however, there was still progress to be made concerning women in comedy. Like Katharine Hepburn in “Bringing Up Baby” and Marilyn Monroe in “Some Like it Hot,” Diane Keaton is funny in “Sleeper” because she’s ditzy, a little bit crazy, and not very bright. The brilliant Madeline Kahn also played stereotypical female roles in the comedies of Mel Brooks, and although she had more screen time than any other women in these films, she was only onscreen for less than a handful of scenes. Also, not too surprisingly to me, a Google search of "women in comedy 1970s" proved to be far less than fruitful. However, these talented women paved the way for more three-dimensional, complex female comedic roles in the decades to come.

The 1960s TV variety show “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In” introduced who would become two of the most talented female comics of the ‘70s: Lily Tomlin and Goldie Hawn. When Hawn won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her role in the 1969 farce “Cactus Flower,” Time Magazine called her “a natural reactress; her timing is so canny that even her tears run amusingly.” Hawn later made a memorable appearance alongside Warren Beatty and Julie Christie in the 1975 Hal Ashby satire “Shampoo.” Tomlin had memorable roles in the farce "Nine to Five" (1980), "All of Me" with Steve Martin (1984), and two more recent David O. Russell films - "Flirting With Disaster" and "I Heart Huckabees." Watch Russell and Tomlin at each other's throats on set here.

Some other notable 1970s comediennes who came from television were Carol Burnett and Gilda Radner. Lucille Ball was Carol Burnett’s mentor. “The Carol Burnett Show,” a variety program featuring Burnett in countless hilarious and memorable roles, ran from 1967-78 and was a huge hit. Burnett later appeared as the mean Miss Hannigan in the film version of the musical "Annie" (1982). Gilda Radner, one of the original female cast members of “Saturday Night Live,” gave us Roseanna Roseannadanna and Baba Wawa. She met husband Gene Wilder on the set of the 1982 romantic comedy “Hanky Panky,” directed by Sidney Poitier. Another of the many talented female comedic actresses who worked with Gene Wilder was Teri Garr, who appeared in Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein” (1974), “Oh, God!” (1977), and “Tootsie” (1982), for which she was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress.

Luckily, we are once again experiencing a period ripe with successful women in comedy – Tina Fey (if you don’t watch “30 Rock,” you should – it’s one of the funniest, smartest shows on television right now), Amy Poehler, Sarah Silverman, Kristen Wigg, Amy Sedaris, and Leslie Mann, to name a few - in both television and film. These women have been hailed for being not just funny, but smart and sexy as well. In Vanity Fair magazine in January 2007, Christopher Hitchens wrote an article called "Why Women Aren't Funny." Obviously, the article caused quite a backlash, and Vanity Fair published a response article by Alessandra Stanley entitled "Who Says Women Aren't Funny?" The cover featured Silverman, Fey, and Poehler copping a feel. However, I agree that the argument of the second article was weak, basically saying "There are a lot of funny women! But in order to be accepted as funny, they have to be hot too." Male comedians don't have to be sexy, but women do, otherwise they are classified by people like Christopher Hitchens as butch, dykes, and Jews. Here is Hitchens' rebuttal to the response to his article: Why Women Still Aren't Funny.

Unfortunately, despite all of these female talents, sexism is still ripe in the comedy genre. Judd Apatow's "Knocked Up" (2007) was hailed for giving comedic actresses, like the very funny Leslie Mann, a chance to shine in larger roles in comedies that weren't considered "chick flicks," but there was still a large response - including that from the star, Katherine Heigl - saying that these roles were sexist. Women in comedy have come a long way since the '50s with the help of many talents, especially those in the '70s, but how long will it be before women can be widely accepted as funny people, not just as funny women?

Lost: Twin Peaks of our decade?

WARNING: SPOILERS!

ABC’s hit series Lost has become a highly fascinating cultural phenomenon over the last four years. Currently in its fifth season, this show has taken viewers on a spectacular supernatural thrill ride, constantly raising questions, the very first of which was asked by Charlie Pace at the end of the Pilot episode: Where are we? This is not merely a story about plane crash survivors on a remote island, as it seems at first glance. This mysterious island is disconnected from the rest of the world, supposedly undetectable, and inhabited by strange natives and supernatural elements. During its first season, many critics referred to the evident influence and similarities between Lost and Mark Frost & David Lynch’s series Twin Peaks (1990-91). Both of these multi-genred, postmodern serial dramas keep viewers on the edge of their seats, causing them to realize that not everything is as it appears. Both programs depict strange utopias that we, the viewers, can’t really get our bearings of. They both feature a large number of characters, all of whom are brought together by a tragedy. The one thing that connects the characters of Twin Peaks is the murder of Laura Palmer, and the thing that connects Lost’s characters is the crash of Oceanic Flight 815. The survivors (along with viewers) struggle to learn the secrets of the island, just as the residents of Twin Peaks (also along with viewers) became immersed in a desire to find out who killed Laura Palmer.

However, Twin Peaks jumped the shark too soon, after only two seasons, and many were afraid that Lost would do the same. For series like these with elaborate mythologies, staying on the air successfully is a challenge. Peaks co-creator Mark Frost said, "The trick of these series is you've got to keep all of these balls in the air, resolving some stories while revealing others. Our problem was we really just had one truly compelling storyline." Once Laura Palmer's killer was revealed partway through the second season, all that was left was the show’s campy self-awareness, which turned out not to be enough to carry a show alone. What has kept Lost going, apart from its elaborate and complicated mythology, is its compelling characters, which are far more relatable than those in Twin Peaks. Lost, like Peaks, is about the desire for answers and the search for human connection in the disconnect of the postmodern world – in Peaks, specifically post-Cold war, and in Lost, post-9/11.

Yet beneath the Douglas Firs and beyond the edge of the jungle lurks a supernatural evil. BOB, Laura Palmer’s tormentor and killer, is a supernatural entity who represents the dark side of our Freudian unconscious, which is capable of possessing us and controlling our behavior – in this case, Laura’s father Leland and eventually Agent Dale Cooper himself. Lost fans likewise have many speculations about the smoke monster, a similar supernatural entity which is believed to serve as a sort of security system for the island, guarding its secrets. We still don’t know exactly what it is, but it sounds like a credit card receipt machine, and whenever a character comes too close to learning the secrets of the island or achieving some sort of personal redemption, the monster kills them off. Many also believe that the monster has the ability to transform itself into physical representations of various demons the island inhabitants grapple with. Some speculate it is a symbol of judgment. Regardless, both of these supernatural evils represent a manifestation of not only our internal fears, but our cultural fears as well – in an earlier form, communism, and in a more contemporary form, terrorism.

The man of science & reason and the spiritual man of faith are archetypal characters that often appear in supernatural fiction, and Peaks and Lost certainly don’t overlook them. Peaks’ Agent Dale Cooper is intuitive and spiritual, unconventionally allowing his investigation to be guided by dreams, visions, and practices of Eastern religion to help him solve the murder. (“Break the code, solve the crime.”) He falls in love with the strange utopia of Twin Peaks and wants to stay there once he has finished his investigation. Likewise, Lost’s John Locke (named for the real John Locke, a philosopher who was interested in the relationship between civilization and nature), who was paralyzed, could miraculously walk again once he crashed on the island. Thus, he feels a deep spiritual connection to the place and feels as though it was his destiny to come there. He does not want to be rescued; he wants to stay and learn about the island’s secrets, and on his quest for these answers, he too allows himself to be guided by dreams, visions, intuition, and supernatural forces. He is the “man of faith” to Dr. Jack Shepard’s “man of science & reason.”

A principal theme that Peaks and Lost seem to harp on is the fine line between good and evil – you never know who to trust or whose side to be on. The first time we ever hear the word “others” uttered in Lost, Jin is not referring to “The Others” we come to know and hate in the second season; he is referring to those who turn out to be passengers from the tail section of the plane. Once again, things are not as they seem. Later, as we learn more about the real “Others,” we realize that they are not the DHARMA Initiative as initially thought, and in Season 4, we learned that the new arrivals to the island from the freighter were potentially even more dangerous than The Others themselves. To the people from the freighter, the castaways are what the Others once were to the castaways when they first arrived. Lost does a great job of constantly making the viewer reevaluate the social structure of the island, each time twisting the “Us vs. Them” dichotomy even further; a clear social commentary on the American attitude towards terrorism. Likewise, in Twin Peaks, everyone was suspect of evil doings (read: communism); everyone led a double life. On the island, almost everyone has a valid point of view; it’s hard to say who’s right and who’s wrong, and it is entirely subjective. The writers pose a question to the audience: If you were in this situation, who would you choose to follow if you wished to survive? Jack or Locke? The absence of a right or wrong answer in the text itself makes for a rhetorical and interactive viewing experience.

The postmodern, supernatural themes and mythologies of Twin Peaks and Lost “frustrate the demand for simple and unequivocal answers." The writers keep you hooked by raising questions, but as the public learned with Twin Peaks, if you don’t answer them or promise to answer them eventually, you will alienate your audience. Lost has done a good job of raising questions and later providing answers to those questions, thus raising new ones. “Audiences compulsively desire, even demand, answers. But reveal too much, too soon, and they might just bolt, as Twin Peaks discovered in the early 1990s." Because it hopes to cater to a more commercial audience, Lost can sometimes be just as obvious as it is mysterious, but it balances the two well enough that it avoids going into overly ambiguous territory like Lynch did.

Since Twin Peaks, we have seen other similar serial dramas like The X-Files and Lost bring along similar cultural phenomenons. These shows unite an audience with a common interest, feeding them information to process. It’s an interactive, postmodern experience that comes equipped with supplementary texts for further research, like the published diary of Laura Palmer and The Twin Peaks Tapes of Agent Dale Cooper. Lost has alternate reality games (The Lost Experience and Find 815) that serve as interactive cross-media narratives that tie in with the show and provide further clues to its mythology. The most prolific form of reception to these programs and their interactive postmodern supplements are the theories that fans formulate about what they think is really going on. “Each case made against a possible suspect represented a different formulation of Twin Peaks' moral economy, a different emplotment of its events, that necessarily changed the meaning of the whole." Different theories are grounded in different assumptions about the themes of the show.

So if they’re so similar, what makes Lost more likely to last than Twin Peaks? Showrunner Carlton Cuse has said that Peaks serves as a cautionary tale to him. “The mythology sort of overwhelmed everything else, principally the construction of believable, plausible characters. It's constantly a presence in my mind about something we can't get sucked into doing on this show." Twin Peaks co-creator Mark Frost has said, "An audience will put up with being toyed with for only so long, but if the audience responds to the characters, the rest will take care of itself." Lost has certainly done its job so far of making its characters just as strong as its mythology.

But perhaps the main reason that a show like Lost can survive now is the proliferation of new media outlets for discussion made possible by the internet, which was only in its beginning stages when Peaks was on the air. Our culture is now saturated with blogs, online forums and networks, message boards, Wikipedia (even Lostpedia), and supplementary texts like The Lost Experience and Find 815; these provide a perfect outlet for fans to discuss their theories about Lost. The writers use this to their advantage, paying close attention to the response they receive, and then writing specifically for their audience. As long as they know what the audience wants (answers!) and keep Twin Peaks in mind as a cautionary tale, we as an audience can have faith that showrunners Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof will draw out the show to a more rewarding conclusion than “How’s Annie?”. They’ve done well so far in Season 5, giving us answers while simultaneously raising new questions, keeping us both satisfied and hungry for more.

Idiot Box?

"I believe television is going to be the test of the modern world, and that in this new opportunity to see beyond the range of our vision, we shall discover a new and unbearable disturbance of the modern peace, or a saving radiance in the sky. We shall stand or fall by television - of that I am quite sure."
- E.B. White

How We Watch Stuff

The New York Times Magazine just put out The Screens Issue, which focuses on "How We Watch Stuff" and our new reality:

"When you watch moving pictures these days, a theater is the last place you are likely to be. Cable, YouTube, DVDs, DVR, news briefs in the elevator and cartoons on your cellphone — through a variety of media, we now consume fragmented narratives on multiple screens. From a 16-second panda-sneeze video to 60 straight hours of 'The Wire,' this is the way we watch now."

We live in a post-television world where we're constantly looking at screens - TVs, computers, cell phones, digital billboards, you name it - they're everywhere. The NYTM explores this world, speculating on things like whether or not we will see the death of cinema as we get deeper and deeper into the digital age.

There are a few really interesting articles (and a brief interview with David Lynch), my favorite of which is The Sitcom Digresses. If you're as into this stuff as I am, you can check out the rest of 'em here.

Every Prophet in his House: Avatars and the Monomyth in HBO's "Carnivale"

“Perhaps some of us have to go through dark and devious ways
before we can find the river of peace to the soul’s destination.”
– Joseph Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, 1949


In our early lives, we are exposed to many different tales and myths about the nature of mankind. These myths vary depending on the cultures and religions we identify ourselves with; they proliferate throughout culture over time and through a variety of media – literature, film, television. The mythology of a television drama is what makes it worth watching. It puts the content of the show in the context of the real world and makes it relevant to society and humanity at large. A primary theoretical and spiritual component of the mythology of the HBO show Carnivale (2003-2005) is the concept of avatars, which is illustrated through allegory of classical mythology and Joseph Campbell’s heroic journey.

In Hindu philosophy, avatars are creatures of light and darkness. They are human-like beings with supernatural powers (such as healing, telekinesis, and telepathy) who are considered incarnations of a higher being on Earth, embodying either good or evil. Many believe that avatars serve as prophets and thus explain certain events in the history of mankind such as the Dark Ages and the Enlightenment. The characters of Ben Hawkins (the Creature of Light) and Justin Crowe (the Creature of Darkness) serve as avatars in the world of Carnivale.

In Sanskrit, the word avatara literally means “descent,” as in, a descent into lower realms of existence for special purposes. In the Vaishnava tradition of Hinduism, Vishnu is seen as the supreme God of the Hindus. Buddha is believed to be the 24th of 25 avatars of Vishnu; the 25th being yet to come. Despite its roots in Hinduism, the concept of avatars is prevalent throughout many different varieties of religion and mythology, and the term is used to describe influential teachers and incarnations of divine beings from Buddha to Jesus Christ, Abraham, and Muhammad.

There exists a belief that all beings are brought forth from the divine creative essence, but avatars are “living princes” – incarnations of the highest essence, identified with the superhuman being. These ideas have had a great influence upon Western occultism and its revivals. In particular, the New Age movement supported a belief in a celestial hierarchy of “ascended masters,” spiritually enlightened beings who were once ordinary humans but have undergone a spiritual transformation.

Supernatural and occult-based texts tend to make good, thoroughly researched use of religious and mythological concepts, and Carnivale is no exception. The story arc of Carnivale is structured around a timeless theme of Good vs. Evil, which is supported by a complex allegorical mythology (hinted at beautifully in the opening credits). At the beginning of the pilot episode, Samson (the carnival’s manager) establishes these themes:

"Before the Beginning, after the great war between Heaven and Hell, God created the Earth and gave dominion over it to the crafty ape he called Man. And to each generation was born a Creature of Light and a Creature of Darkness... and great armies clashed by night in the ancient war between good and evil. There was magic then. Nobility. And unimaginable cruelty. And so it was until the day that a false sun exploded over Trinity, and man forever traded away wonder for reason."
– Samson, “Milfay” (Pilot)

The Creatures of Light and Darkness born to each generation are our Avatars – Ben Hawkins and Justin Crowe, respectively. Show creator Daniel Knauf chose to set Carnivale in the 1930s, an era which he saw as “the last great age of magic” (which was, in fact, the tagline of the first season) – between two great world wars, before the atomic bomb destroyed the magic and ushered in the Age of Reason. Knauf highlights this concept by pointing to signs of the end times in the Depression era: drought in the Dust Bowl, poverty, famine, the rise of Hitler, introduction of nuclear warfare – all seemingly signaling the coming of the Anti-Christ. Our avatars are the ones preparing for the final battle.

Joseph Campbell, an American writer and professor whose work in comparative mythology and religion remains the basis for much modern storytelling, explored the concept of the avatar in his classic work, The Hero With a Thousand Faces. He discusses how Krishna was recognizable as an incarnation of God. Knauf and the writers of Carnivale were clearly influenced by Campbell’s work. Our Avataric Creature of Light, Ben Hawkins, is also recognizable as an incarnation of a divine being.  When the carnival enters the town of Tipton, Oklahoma, the townspeople recognize Ben as the man who healed a crippled girl, and they treat him as though he is Jesus. Samson, the carnival manager, periodically uses Ben’s gifts for the advantage of his business henceforth. According to Campbell, a hero is a personage of exceptional gifts who is frequently honored by his society, but just as frequently unrecognized or disdained. Though many people treat Ben like a God and do indeed see him as a hero, just as many see him as a freak no different from the rest of the carnival.

So what exactly does it mean to be an avatar in the world of Carnivale? The last names of our avatars – Hawkins and Crowe – are references to the Hawk and the Crow, winged symbolic creatures of light & dark. (Other references to the duality of avatars – light/dark, God/Devil – are evident in the show’s production design; for example, the carnival’s logo – a juxtaposition of sun and moon.) Crowe and Hawkins are connected through their avataric status, yet they are initially unaware of it. They can sense the existence of their moral opponent but are unable to identify each other outside of close physical proximity. As we can deduce from the show, an avatar has free will to overcome his destiny. There are times when Ben and Justin deliberately choose not to use their spiritual powers in certain circumstances, acting contrary to their nature when they feel it is what’s best for them or for others.

Hawkins and Crowe share an ability to envision the past, the present, and the future both literally and symbolically through their dreams. It is through their shared dreams and visions that the two of them are forced to face their personal struggles, which are strikingly similar to one another, indicative of their spiritual connection. Ben and Justin are both trying to make sense of their past, which may explain why they are what they are. Once our avatars learn how to use their connection, they will be able to transcend their personal struggles and prepare to fight the great final battle for mankind.

Crowe and Hawkins are both provoked to find out more about their dreams; yet before they can, they must accept their gift. Justin does so rather quickly; he is very aware of his dark supernatural abilities and is motivated to use them. In Episode 1:8, “Lonnigan, Texas,” Crowe has been placed in a mental institution after an attempted suicide. He tells the doctor, “I am the left hand of God – I am no longer his servant, and I never was – I am his will made flesh.” He plays mind games with people who place their trust in him because he is a preacher. Crowe serves as a possible allegory for Hitler (considering the time period) or an Anti-Christ figure, suggesting that these, too, can be considered Avataric Creatures of Darkness.

Ben Hawkins is not as easily accepting of his gift as Justin is. He has something to overcome. In the pilot, “Milfay” (1:1), we learn that Ben has escaped from the chain gang and his mother has just died. As he joins the carnival on their journey, he struggles to make sense of his identity, his gift, and his past – all of which assail him in his dreams. “The hero is the man or woman who has been able to battle past his personal and local historical limitations to the generally valid, normally human forms.” (Campbell 19-20) 

A path is laid out quite clearly for Ben in the beginning of the series to follow Joseph Campbell’s monomyth – more commonly known as “the heroic journey” – which Campbell discusses in The Hero With a Thousand Faces. Campbell maintains that all mythology is essentially the same, and it all points to the same timeless vision. We can trace this monomyth back through time and across cultures to stories like the Odyssey, the story of Siddhartha Gautama, the story of Christ. “It will always be the one, shape-shifting yet marvelously constant story that we find, together with a challengingly persistent suggestion of more remaining to be experienced than will ever be known or told” (Campbell 3).  Campbell discusses the heroic journey as three separate rites of passage – separation, initiation, and return.  At the end of the pilot, Ben experiences the first step in the monomyth: the call to adventure.  For almost the entirety of Season One, Ben Hawkins refuses his call. He is a humble young man who is unwilling to carry the burden of a healer and an avatar on his shoulders. A hero is the world’s symbolic carrier of the destiny of Everyman (Campbell 36).

Many viewers complained that the show’s first season merely served as a prologue to the real story and that Ben’s refusal of the call prevented anything from really happening. However, by the beginning of Season Two, Ben finally chooses to accept and explore his healing powers.  He is driven to learn more about where they came from and to learn more about his moral opponent, Justin Crowe. The second season thus follows Campbell’s monomyth more closely.  After our hero crosses the first threshold, he can then move onto the next phase of his journey.  Unfortunately, Ben Hawkins never makes it this far. Carnivale was cancelled after two of its six planned seasons and thus was unable to flesh out the full epic of Ben Hawkins and Justin Crowe. It is both difficult and frustrating to imagine what could have happened to these characters had they been given more of a chance. But Campbell gives us a clue:

“A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region
of supernatural wonder; fabulous forces are there encountered and a
decisive victory is won; the hero comes back from this mysterious
adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.”
(Campbell 30)

Reflections on childhood, and What is art?

My dad has this theory that four is the best possible age to be. You're old enough to make your own decisions, but you don't have any real responsibilities yet. You say, “Mom, I'll have a PB & J and some juice. I'm gonna watch some cartoons, and then I think I'll take a nap." Mom brings you the sandwich and the juice while you kick back. Then you’re lured into kindergarten with all the stuff you did in preschool: macaroni art, naptime, etc. All the toys are still there. My younger sister walked into the first day of first grade, and her jaw dropped. “Where are the toys.....? You mean we have to do work ALL DAY?" Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, as they say. For a lot of us, college (COLLEGE!) is like being four again; Mom and Dad aren't around anymore, but (for some of us) they're still footing the bill while we figure out what we want to do with our lives. But soon enough, the toys will be gone again – and that thought is a scary one.

My dad is a TV producer with 6 Emmys under his belt. I am currently in the sometimes-grueling process of trying to follow in his footsteps. I consider myself lucky to have a dad in "the industry" (which will henceforth be referred to as such in quotation marks) who can help me get on my feet and whatnot (“It’s all about who you know,” they keep telling us), but I promise I’ll never be that girl whose daddy got her the job. Ever since I was a child, for better or worse and whether I was aware of it or not, I’ve been studying and criticizing TV and film. Whenever we’d sit down and watch something as a family, we used to whine about how Dad would never shut up and ruined everything we watched. I’ve become that person. I know I’m coming into “the industry” at a scary but exciting time. There are limitless opportunities with these expanding and evolving technologies. But with the refinement of this technology comes the refinement of its content. I want to make sure that what we’re watching is as good as the technology we watch it on, if not better.

My parents met when they were lowly NBC pages. On November 26, 1987, John Palmer announced my birth on the Today Show. Two years later, I learned how to read, primarily with the help of a show called “Sesame Street." My parents took me to a Christmas party at our neighbors' house where my father chatted with a man who prided himself on not owning a TV so that his kids wouldn’t be “brainwashed” by it. My father then mentioned that he worked in TV. Minutes later, this man saw me reading to the other kids at the party. "Where did she learn to read so young?" he asked. "TV," my dad replied.

“Why do I want to do this again?” I find myself wondering every now and then. Whether or not our society accepts it, television and film have evolved into modern forms of literature and Western art. Our (and I use “our” in the most relaxed sense) attention spans are too short for books. We learn about philosophers like John Locke not from reading about them, but from watching “Lost.” I don’t consider the TV an “idiot box” – I learn a lot from watching “all that crap,” and I really do watch all of it. Sue me. I love picking up on references to Hamlet and Hitler in “The Lion King.” This is what gets me off.

In a society that has become so postmodern (I fucking hate that term, but what else is there to use?), television and film have become intermediaries between pop culture and history, classic literature, religion, and mythology. We're well-read enough to notice these references. Hell, we even notice references to other movies. People complain about this; that we’re getting all our information secondhand – but it’s what makes our generation so unique, and for better or worse, that’s how it is. It all fascinates me, which is why I want to study it further. I am a devoted fan of “30 Rock,” which hits the nail on the head when it comes to what I’m really trying to say here:

"More than jazz, or musical theater, or morbid obesity, television is the true American art form. Think of all the shared experiences television has provided us......from the moon landing.....to the Golden Girls finale.....to Walter Cronkite denouncing Vietnam.....to Oprah pulling that trashbag of fat out in a wagon.....from the glory and the pageantry of the Summer Olympics, to the less fun Winter Olympics. So please, don't tell me I don't have a dream, sir. I am living my dream."

LA.

Day One: Ugh.
Day Two: Eh.
Day Three: I guess it's not so bad.
Day Four: I think I like it here? I think?

What's on my mind grapes?

I don't know yet, but some juice needs to be squeezed out of them.

Here we go.