A friend of mine recently posted on Facebook that she was excited about an upcoming movie, just to find out that it was by the director of one of the Twilight films. The ensuing discussion pointed out that some directors are uneven (specifically Joel Schumacher, who is still disliked for his Batman films, but praised for The Lost Boys), and that Hollywood cannot (or, perhaps, does not) do anything original. While these are a good point, I think there are other, equally valid directions to consider.
First, there’s simple economics. When Hollywood does try something original, especially in a genre film, it's often ignored or panned. Think of it this way: if Twilight is an original spin on vampires and audiences complain, why should filmmakers try for originality with the next vampire film? Why not return to the tried and true to get butts in seats? [Aside: I have never read Twilight, but I don't like what I've heard. However, that's another post altogether.] Conversely, there are folks who are devotees of vampires, and they stayed away from Twilight for a host of reasons, many because they feel vampires should be frightening, not romantic.
From another angle, there's genre theory. That is, people expect certain stock situations and characters in their genre entertainment, and they enjoy seeing the modifications from that form. When the modifications work, it's a hit; when they fail, it's seen as "just another genre film" (and probably not a good one, since it’s gone too far from expectations. Think about a long-running series: is James Bond original? Friday the 13th? Star Trek? Not really. But damn, I'd say the latest Star Trek was a successful film not because it was original, but because it played with audience expectations -- of the series, of the characters, and of the genre.
Now, will "Red Riding Hood" be good? Can't say. Haven't seen a trailer for it. But I don't think it's fair to cry for originality and then decry any film for not being true to genre expectations.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Philosophy of Teaching
A position has opened up at the college where I work, and I've applied for it. Part of the application is a philosophy of teaching (or teaching statement). I've written 4 or 5 over the last decade, as I've had to submit a philosophy every time I apply for a job, but I've lost every one I have written. Here's my latest — hopefully I can hold on to this one! I'd love to hear feedback from you, my readers; I'm certain to revise this as I either apply for other positions or as I move through the ranks where I am.
Teaching Statement
I teach because I enjoy expanding students’ minds by introducing them to new ways of thinking. I also see teaching English as a means to improve quality of life. Those students who can read not only the content, but the implications of a piece of literature, those who can express their ideas clearly and effectively, are more capable of using those skills in a variety of ways. English is the best discipline to teach the skills of communication and critical thinking, though it’s a double-edged sword: people who think critically about things are more likely to be frustrated by the status quo, though they are also more likely to try to improve it. Teaching for an English program, especially composition, allows me to focus on helping students identify problems and read critically, then offer solutions. It is this opportunity to inspire students with my passion for literature and the humanities in general that I value most in teaching.
As a discipline, English offers me a challenge that I greatly enjoy. I like the variety of students that come through composition, often the only course required of all students. I have studied the Middle Ages because it combined my interests in a variety of areas, especially literature, history, and philosophy; I gravitated to literature because it seemed the most flexible in terms of making arguments. English critics read a text and find some point to make, connecting the text to modern readers’ lives. Composition adds another dimension of complexity, as the students are not unified in any quantifiable way; composition classes are often chosen based on time and location, rather than instructor or content. This allows for incredibly diverse groups, making the teaching experience more challenging and rewarding.
Despite that challenge of diversity, I find a number of ways to reach my students. Responding to some poor experiences of my own, I understand the importance of structure and preparedness. I offer a carefully crafted syllabus in the first class, and the course information sheet outlines my policies. The semester proceeds according to the syllabus, to allow the students a chance to anticipate and prepare for class. I, too, am prepared for each class, having read the assignments and prepared whatever homework I ask my students to; that is, I do everything I ask of my students. One of my greatest learning experiences as a teacher happened in my first year teaching. I did not prepare the reading I had assigned, instead relying on prior knowledge of the tale. My students asked me insightful questions for which I was utterly unprepared, and I left the classroom full of shame. I resolved to never let that happen again. My primary goal in a class is to be a coordinator. I generally open with a brief lecture, asking my students to outline the main points of the days’ topic or reading, and then filling out their list with whatever other pertinent information I wish to include. I then ask my students to respond, opening the floor for discussion, though I always have a few discussion questions of my own, should the students not be sure where to take the discussion. I rely on my students’ input for direction, to allow them to get what they need from the class. In such a way, I find my students to be more engaged and interested in my courses, since they feel they have some real sense of ownership. The students have a clear voice in the classroom, and in connecting the content with their own lives and interests, they are more likely to retain the deeper lessons regarding expression that are, in my opinion, at the core of an English degree.
One concrete method I’ve used in my entire teaching career is to prepare written assignments with a scenario that grounds the assignment in real life. In a course on comic books, I asked my students to defend the use of a comic book in their discipline; I had one student write a great paper on using the Flash, whose main power is super speed, to discuss issues in a physics class. I also try to engage my students’ interests, especially in composition, by challenging them to connect their majors to the class, especially as material for their research papers. After reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I have had students write papers on absentee parents, social pressures to fit in, and one enterprising political science student who compared Yugoslavia to the creature, both beings made of disparate parts and bound for a tragic end. I like to make literature live by challenging my students not to interpret its meaning in some general, grandiose way, but in a way that holds meaning for them.
As a student, I always did best when I knew my professors; this is often not feasible in a large lecture-style science class, but was often fostered in smaller, discussion-based literature and philosophy courses. Accordingly, I make an effort to learn all of my students’ names as soon as possible, and I am very generous with my time. Some of my most exciting moments have been when my students speak to me long after the course has ended, and they let me know how much they enjoyed my class or how much they learned in my classroom. I don’t expect my students to retain everything I offer to them in a semester, but I do hope that the content of my classes will inspire my students to approach life and learning in a new way. I firmly believe studying English is about processes, not facts. I don’t think anyone has been enriched by knowing that Geoffrey Chaucer died around the year 1400. However, I do know many people who have been surprised and amused by many of his tales, such as the group of senior citizens who agreed with the statement that women desire sovereignty, as Chaucer’s Wife of Bath discusses in her tale. Teaching English classes, be they centered on some specific theme or the often-dreaded composition, allows me the opportunity to not only challenge my students to think more broadly, but also to interrogate their own assumptions about what matters, and how to present their ideas. That is what I try to teach in my classroom: processes to better read and relay information.
Teaching Statement
I teach because I enjoy expanding students’ minds by introducing them to new ways of thinking. I also see teaching English as a means to improve quality of life. Those students who can read not only the content, but the implications of a piece of literature, those who can express their ideas clearly and effectively, are more capable of using those skills in a variety of ways. English is the best discipline to teach the skills of communication and critical thinking, though it’s a double-edged sword: people who think critically about things are more likely to be frustrated by the status quo, though they are also more likely to try to improve it. Teaching for an English program, especially composition, allows me to focus on helping students identify problems and read critically, then offer solutions. It is this opportunity to inspire students with my passion for literature and the humanities in general that I value most in teaching.
As a discipline, English offers me a challenge that I greatly enjoy. I like the variety of students that come through composition, often the only course required of all students. I have studied the Middle Ages because it combined my interests in a variety of areas, especially literature, history, and philosophy; I gravitated to literature because it seemed the most flexible in terms of making arguments. English critics read a text and find some point to make, connecting the text to modern readers’ lives. Composition adds another dimension of complexity, as the students are not unified in any quantifiable way; composition classes are often chosen based on time and location, rather than instructor or content. This allows for incredibly diverse groups, making the teaching experience more challenging and rewarding.
Despite that challenge of diversity, I find a number of ways to reach my students. Responding to some poor experiences of my own, I understand the importance of structure and preparedness. I offer a carefully crafted syllabus in the first class, and the course information sheet outlines my policies. The semester proceeds according to the syllabus, to allow the students a chance to anticipate and prepare for class. I, too, am prepared for each class, having read the assignments and prepared whatever homework I ask my students to; that is, I do everything I ask of my students. One of my greatest learning experiences as a teacher happened in my first year teaching. I did not prepare the reading I had assigned, instead relying on prior knowledge of the tale. My students asked me insightful questions for which I was utterly unprepared, and I left the classroom full of shame. I resolved to never let that happen again. My primary goal in a class is to be a coordinator. I generally open with a brief lecture, asking my students to outline the main points of the days’ topic or reading, and then filling out their list with whatever other pertinent information I wish to include. I then ask my students to respond, opening the floor for discussion, though I always have a few discussion questions of my own, should the students not be sure where to take the discussion. I rely on my students’ input for direction, to allow them to get what they need from the class. In such a way, I find my students to be more engaged and interested in my courses, since they feel they have some real sense of ownership. The students have a clear voice in the classroom, and in connecting the content with their own lives and interests, they are more likely to retain the deeper lessons regarding expression that are, in my opinion, at the core of an English degree.
One concrete method I’ve used in my entire teaching career is to prepare written assignments with a scenario that grounds the assignment in real life. In a course on comic books, I asked my students to defend the use of a comic book in their discipline; I had one student write a great paper on using the Flash, whose main power is super speed, to discuss issues in a physics class. I also try to engage my students’ interests, especially in composition, by challenging them to connect their majors to the class, especially as material for their research papers. After reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I have had students write papers on absentee parents, social pressures to fit in, and one enterprising political science student who compared Yugoslavia to the creature, both beings made of disparate parts and bound for a tragic end. I like to make literature live by challenging my students not to interpret its meaning in some general, grandiose way, but in a way that holds meaning for them.
As a student, I always did best when I knew my professors; this is often not feasible in a large lecture-style science class, but was often fostered in smaller, discussion-based literature and philosophy courses. Accordingly, I make an effort to learn all of my students’ names as soon as possible, and I am very generous with my time. Some of my most exciting moments have been when my students speak to me long after the course has ended, and they let me know how much they enjoyed my class or how much they learned in my classroom. I don’t expect my students to retain everything I offer to them in a semester, but I do hope that the content of my classes will inspire my students to approach life and learning in a new way. I firmly believe studying English is about processes, not facts. I don’t think anyone has been enriched by knowing that Geoffrey Chaucer died around the year 1400. However, I do know many people who have been surprised and amused by many of his tales, such as the group of senior citizens who agreed with the statement that women desire sovereignty, as Chaucer’s Wife of Bath discusses in her tale. Teaching English classes, be they centered on some specific theme or the often-dreaded composition, allows me the opportunity to not only challenge my students to think more broadly, but also to interrogate their own assumptions about what matters, and how to present their ideas. That is what I try to teach in my classroom: processes to better read and relay information.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Teaching Troubles
I know why some instructors have really strict standards for submitting work. I’m not persuaded to join their ranks, but I really get it.
At the end of the term, two of my students came up to me and asked for extensions on the final paper. The first to ask essentially said “I had two other projects, and just didn’t have time to put into yours what I should have.” The second rode the coattails of the first, nodding and offering little of her own situation. Noting that both were generally good students, and should pass the class (given the quality of their work), I offered them a deal. They had until our next class meeting would have been to email me their completed work. They both accepted the deal. Student 1 just left (after thanking me), and Student 2 handed in her draft “Just in case” along with a SASE for me to return the work to her with some comments and a grade.
Fast forward a few days. The semester ended on a high note, and I did, indeed, receive a full draft from Student 2. (Student 1 submitted nothing. At all.) I responded, acknowledging I’d gotten the draft, and that I’d print off a copy to grade and return to her.
Move forward a couple more days. In a frenzy of grading, I found the partial draft and graded it with a heavy heart. “But wait,” you may say, “You got her complete draft!”
Received, yes. Graded, no.
I don’t know if I never printed it, if the printed copy never got to the table for grading, or what happened. All I know is that she did pass, despite a poor showing on the final paper, and I moved forward, enjoying Christmas with the knowledge that my grades were done, and I’d only have to tell the grouchy students why they failed... and that not until the spring term begins.
Until today. When I checked my email today, I had two letters about this. First arrived some email from Student 2 pointing out that she got the paper back, but I graded the wrong draft, and an hour later came some email from our fabulous department secretary saying that Student 2 and her mother had called the department. Seems to me that they’re circling the wagons for a fight... when the error was entirely mine, something to which I admitted in responding to both Student 2 and Fabulous Secretary. I'll grade the full draft tomorrow, and work out a grade change on Monday.
Now – having admitted it’s my fault, I can see why other instructors accept no late work, especially at the end of the semester. I really do. But Student 2 really made an effort, and she showed great improvement and engagement with writing, and I couldn’t just ignore that. On the other hand, it’s making my life more difficult now, and I really don’t need the distraction. Would I do something differently, given the opportunity? Yes – I’d still offer the extension, but I’d be more careful to grade the right thing.
I’m sure there’s something here about my being a good, caring instructor, but right now, I just want to watch a horribly violent, scary movie so I can root for the monster disemboweling people. Anyone have anything to raise my spirits?
bleh.
At the end of the term, two of my students came up to me and asked for extensions on the final paper. The first to ask essentially said “I had two other projects, and just didn’t have time to put into yours what I should have.” The second rode the coattails of the first, nodding and offering little of her own situation. Noting that both were generally good students, and should pass the class (given the quality of their work), I offered them a deal. They had until our next class meeting would have been to email me their completed work. They both accepted the deal. Student 1 just left (after thanking me), and Student 2 handed in her draft “Just in case” along with a SASE for me to return the work to her with some comments and a grade.
Fast forward a few days. The semester ended on a high note, and I did, indeed, receive a full draft from Student 2. (Student 1 submitted nothing. At all.) I responded, acknowledging I’d gotten the draft, and that I’d print off a copy to grade and return to her.
Move forward a couple more days. In a frenzy of grading, I found the partial draft and graded it with a heavy heart. “But wait,” you may say, “You got her complete draft!”
Received, yes. Graded, no.
I don’t know if I never printed it, if the printed copy never got to the table for grading, or what happened. All I know is that she did pass, despite a poor showing on the final paper, and I moved forward, enjoying Christmas with the knowledge that my grades were done, and I’d only have to tell the grouchy students why they failed... and that not until the spring term begins.
Until today. When I checked my email today, I had two letters about this. First arrived some email from Student 2 pointing out that she got the paper back, but I graded the wrong draft, and an hour later came some email from our fabulous department secretary saying that Student 2 and her mother had called the department. Seems to me that they’re circling the wagons for a fight... when the error was entirely mine, something to which I admitted in responding to both Student 2 and Fabulous Secretary. I'll grade the full draft tomorrow, and work out a grade change on Monday.
Now – having admitted it’s my fault, I can see why other instructors accept no late work, especially at the end of the semester. I really do. But Student 2 really made an effort, and she showed great improvement and engagement with writing, and I couldn’t just ignore that. On the other hand, it’s making my life more difficult now, and I really don’t need the distraction. Would I do something differently, given the opportunity? Yes – I’d still offer the extension, but I’d be more careful to grade the right thing.
I’m sure there’s something here about my being a good, caring instructor, but right now, I just want to watch a horribly violent, scary movie so I can root for the monster disemboweling people. Anyone have anything to raise my spirits?
bleh.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
“Why would anyone do that?”
I happened to see a student I’d lost sometime this semester after my last class, and as we were chatting, she asked why I’m a medievalist. My glib answer is always “Because it’s hard.” More honestly, it’s because medievalists are expected to know a lot, and we get to dabble in history, philosophy, language, literature, religion, art, and so on, regardless of our specialty; those focusing on literature, it seems, have more opportunity to go into these other fields, and that's one of the (many) reasons I've chosen it. I also noted that, as an English scholar, I get to work with poems like this one. When I pointed out the poem’s double entendre, she asked, quite earnestly, “Why would anyone do that?” This got me thinking. I’m always amused by the poem – it’s a bawdy side of the Middle Ages that often gets hidden behind the shining armor, chivalric aspirations, and religious dogma that represents the period in pop culture. Even the naysayers, those who see the period as a nasty, brutish, dirty place overlook gems like this because there can be no light in the Dark Ages, the middle between the greatness of Rome and its return via the Humanists or the breaking of Roman Catholic power by the Protestants. This poem is, for me, humor, it’s subtlety, it’s allegory (if you want to be grotesque). Eve Salisbury’s reading* is one that calls attention to the “continuing anxieties of husbands over issues of women's domestic power and the consequences of henpecking that ... suggest that concern over masculinity and reputation for prowess among men remains an issue as firmly entrenched as marriage itself” (p. 23). She later notes “the lyric parodies love songs usually directed toward a lady” (pp. 271–72), but leaves the reading at that. Another editor, Thomas G. Duncan, collects it in a section of “Miscellaneous Lyrics,” but refuses to engage it any further than to note a resonance with Chaucer’s description of Chauntecleer in his Nun’s Priest’s Tale and to obliquely recognize “the sexual innuendo,” which is compared to a nursery rhyme, perhaps to diffuse its power.** But the question remains: why would anyone do that? Why would anyone write such a poem? I think my current answer is simply this: manuscripts were precious things, and the texts contained therein were likely read and re-read, studied and reviewed in free time. Although this poem might seem fairly obvious today, and no doubt the innuendo was obvious then, it still takes a little thought to get beyond the obvious, surface meaning (describing the rooster), and the aptness of the description’s alternate meaning is sure to delight the teenager in all of its readers, while the more cerebral reader might appreciate the challenge of reading some more ennobling meaning into it. Regardless, it’s a short poem that appears in a single manuscript,*** and would likely be encountered as a brief diversion between more intellectual pieces. While we can only theorize on its original purpose, it's a fun little poem, and that's worth something in itself.
*Eve Salisbury, ed., The Trials and Joys of Marriage (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002).
**Duncan, ed., Medieval English Lyrics, 1200–1400 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1995), where the poem appears on pp. 168–69 and the notes on pp. 245–46. The nursery rhyme to which Duncan refers is “Goosey, Goosey, Gander.”
***The manuscript is London, British Library, MS Sloane 2593, fol. 10v. “Cock” is preceded by “I syng a of a myden,” and is followed by “Omnes gentes plaudite” on the page.
*Eve Salisbury, ed., The Trials and Joys of Marriage (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002).
**Duncan, ed., Medieval English Lyrics, 1200–1400 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1995), where the poem appears on pp. 168–69 and the notes on pp. 245–46. The nursery rhyme to which Duncan refers is “Goosey, Goosey, Gander.”
***The manuscript is London, British Library, MS Sloane 2593, fol. 10v. “Cock” is preceded by “I syng a of a myden,” and is followed by “Omnes gentes plaudite” on the page.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Too Damn Many
[Welcome back! Sorry for the extended silence — I’ve been catching up on some long-delayed work, after a summer filled with travel. I have a few topics to write about, but let’s get started with a post on vampires.]
Reflecting on horror and monsters over Halloween, I was struck by the glut of vampires we have today. And it seems that my greatest complaint is that there are just too many vampires. It seems to me that most monsters are best as single, threatening entities; while zombies work best as a horde and werewolves might run in a pack, ghosts and vampires, mummies and golems, the hydra and the Frankenstein creature work best as individuals. So the idea that there’s a subculture of vampires, one existing just outside of our own, strikes me as... well, awkward and unnecessary. The great works of horror literature avoid that. Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend works because there are ONLY vampires, but they really don’t have a society. The uniqueness argument I put forth here is turned around –— it is not the monster, but the human protagonist who is alone. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, despite its length, has five vampires total: Dracula himself, three unnamed “brides” in Transylvania (who never leave the castle), and poor Lucy, who’s dispatched fairly quickly. This paucity highlights the threat Dracula himself poses. But now we have “good” vampires fighting against their crueler, animalistic fellows — and often some hierarchy in place to govern them all. Seriously? I’m not sure if I should blame Anne Rice (Interview with the Vampire and its sequels) for this subculture, or what. But it’s really getting out of hand. Let me have rogue monsters, unique beings who are horrifying because they break the (taxonomic) rules, not because they are in a category unrecognized by humans (or, perhaps, “prey” would be a better description...).
This is not to say all recent vampire fiction is bad — I really do enjoy True Blood (though I’ve not yet read any of the original Charlene Harris novels), even if I’ve been avoiding the Twilight saga as much as possible. (Though my curiosity was piqued, it was also fairly well satisfied by “watching” Twilight. And I’ve had a number of trusted friends warn me not to read the books.) But neither True Blood nor Twilight are really horror stories — they’re romances with supernatural elements.
Noël Carroll has written extensively on how horror works; that is, how rational people can be honestly scared by a fiction. Rather than detailing his arguments here, the bottom line is that the monster threatens our cognitive categories (vampires are neither alive nor dead), and they present some actual, physical threat. Having a whole society of monsters forces recognition of a new category, and with that recognition comes acceptance. And if the monster is accepted into our world, it is no longer cognitively threatening; the troll in "The Three Billy Goats Gruff" is just part of their world. And it’s not frightening for its troll-ness, but its threat to eat the goats. Lt. Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation is an alien, and a fairly frightening one at that, but he’s a welcome member of the crew, and his potential monstrosity is dissipated by his having a place in the categories the story has established.
The problem with these subcultures, for me, is that they dissipate the threat of the unique monster. I’m also not enough of a conspiracy theorist to accept the premise of a subculture existing just beyond our own, and that makes it hard for me to enjoy these works. I’m not willing to accept that idea. Although I thoroughly enjoyed the Harry Potter series, I often wonder how the two worlds (magic and mundane) can be kept so utterly separate. J. K. Rowling has hinted that there’s a branch of the Ministry of Magic that simply charms Muggles and spins the news with false reports (think MIB using magic, rather than alien technology), but it’s always been a little problem for me. It’s never really in the forefront, the way that True Blood highlights the outing of vampires. Rowling’s wizards exist in a different world; Twilight’s vampires and shape-changers are solely in ours, though normal people are oblivious to their ancient hierarchies and long-standing hostilities. And there are too many supernatural beings for me to suspend my disbelief on that count.
Reflecting on horror and monsters over Halloween, I was struck by the glut of vampires we have today. And it seems that my greatest complaint is that there are just too many vampires. It seems to me that most monsters are best as single, threatening entities; while zombies work best as a horde and werewolves might run in a pack, ghosts and vampires, mummies and golems, the hydra and the Frankenstein creature work best as individuals. So the idea that there’s a subculture of vampires, one existing just outside of our own, strikes me as... well, awkward and unnecessary. The great works of horror literature avoid that. Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend works because there are ONLY vampires, but they really don’t have a society. The uniqueness argument I put forth here is turned around –— it is not the monster, but the human protagonist who is alone. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, despite its length, has five vampires total: Dracula himself, three unnamed “brides” in Transylvania (who never leave the castle), and poor Lucy, who’s dispatched fairly quickly. This paucity highlights the threat Dracula himself poses. But now we have “good” vampires fighting against their crueler, animalistic fellows — and often some hierarchy in place to govern them all. Seriously? I’m not sure if I should blame Anne Rice (Interview with the Vampire and its sequels) for this subculture, or what. But it’s really getting out of hand. Let me have rogue monsters, unique beings who are horrifying because they break the (taxonomic) rules, not because they are in a category unrecognized by humans (or, perhaps, “prey” would be a better description...).
This is not to say all recent vampire fiction is bad — I really do enjoy True Blood (though I’ve not yet read any of the original Charlene Harris novels), even if I’ve been avoiding the Twilight saga as much as possible. (Though my curiosity was piqued, it was also fairly well satisfied by “watching” Twilight. And I’ve had a number of trusted friends warn me not to read the books.) But neither True Blood nor Twilight are really horror stories — they’re romances with supernatural elements.
Noël Carroll has written extensively on how horror works; that is, how rational people can be honestly scared by a fiction. Rather than detailing his arguments here, the bottom line is that the monster threatens our cognitive categories (vampires are neither alive nor dead), and they present some actual, physical threat. Having a whole society of monsters forces recognition of a new category, and with that recognition comes acceptance. And if the monster is accepted into our world, it is no longer cognitively threatening; the troll in "The Three Billy Goats Gruff" is just part of their world. And it’s not frightening for its troll-ness, but its threat to eat the goats. Lt. Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation is an alien, and a fairly frightening one at that, but he’s a welcome member of the crew, and his potential monstrosity is dissipated by his having a place in the categories the story has established.
The problem with these subcultures, for me, is that they dissipate the threat of the unique monster. I’m also not enough of a conspiracy theorist to accept the premise of a subculture existing just beyond our own, and that makes it hard for me to enjoy these works. I’m not willing to accept that idea. Although I thoroughly enjoyed the Harry Potter series, I often wonder how the two worlds (magic and mundane) can be kept so utterly separate. J. K. Rowling has hinted that there’s a branch of the Ministry of Magic that simply charms Muggles and spins the news with false reports (think MIB using magic, rather than alien technology), but it’s always been a little problem for me. It’s never really in the forefront, the way that True Blood highlights the outing of vampires. Rowling’s wizards exist in a different world; Twilight’s vampires and shape-changers are solely in ours, though normal people are oblivious to their ancient hierarchies and long-standing hostilities. And there are too many supernatural beings for me to suspend my disbelief on that count.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Why not superheroes?
I read comics. I have for over 25 years — or much longer, if I count reading my dad’s comics. But I’ve been buying my own since ’85 or so... with a hiatus during high school and college (undergrad), as there weren’t any comic stores nearby. A few years ago, I thought I’d like to teach a course on comics, so I really got going then, expanding my own collection (which came here from my parents’ place once we bought a house) and paying attention to criticism, trying to expand my knowledge from personal anecdote to proper scholarship.
It struck me, though, that there seems to be two tiers of scholarship about comics. There’s one level of comics that’s really serious: scholars talk about Eisner’s Contract with God, Spiegelman’s Maus, Pekar’s American Splendour, Satrapi’s Persepolis, etc. Heavy, generally independent, “literary” comics. Then there’s a second level, almost second-rate, where superheroes are discussed. And that’s not terribly often. I’m not entirely sure why superheroes are dismissed so blithely, but I’m going to float some ideas. Let me know what you think in the comments.
It seems to me that superheroes get little good press with scholars, it seems. There really don’t seem to be many people writing about them. Two of the most respected creators in comics writing, Alan Moore and Frank Miller, are best-known outside of comics fans for their works responding to superheroes and their mythology.* Scholars who want to talk about superheroes generally discuss the work of these two, or they take a more historical approach and discuss the rise and periodization of comics, focusing on the major figures of comics (Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, the X-Men, etc.). Some will combine the two, for instance, talking about Dennis O'Neil's 1970's Green Lantern/Green Arrow comics, and the social issues addressed therein. Any deviation from some of these well-known, well-established, and well-loved figures prompts some sort of defensive or apologist stance from the author, as though there’s some agreement that other comics are unworthy of scholarly attention. Fans often take an apologist stance, too, when they present papers featuring superheroes.
This is the wrong attitude, I say. Sure, it’s a reflection of literary studies to want to discuss the whole story, from beginning to end, talking about character development and the intricacies of plot in some implicit (and sometimes explicit) worship of the genius of the author. And this just doesn’t work with comics. I don’t think anyone’s going to give Stan Lee (Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, the X-Men) an award for his prose. And, let’s face it, it’s tough to talk about character development when a character has no definite end, and origins can be tampered with. There are no conclusions to the stories, either: Superman and Batman have been in continuous publication for over 70 years, and many of Marvel’s big names have been around nearly 50; during that time, they all have appeared in multiple comics, either as a headliner or as a guest-star. And those comics have had multiple authors during their decades-long runs, and different stories sometimes bring the characters to different places in the same month... it can be a headache keeping track of one popular character. Add to that the current glut of cross-title “event stories,” for which the reader is expected to be familiar with every major character from decades of monthly publications, the characters’ relationships to the reader’s favorite, the villains and supporting cast of the focus titles, and you can see that traditional scholarship, which is putatively focused on the finite productions of literary masters, simply cannot be applied to reading comics. Literary studies are almost always focused on single works or collections by a single author. Those few that do deal with larger areas (e.g., Arthurian studies) necessarily limit themselves, usually to a certain subset (e.g., Victorian Arthuriana; Sir Gawain; French tales). Comics are much more of a hydra — never-ending tales about immortal characters.
So what can be done? Do we need a new approach to comics scholarship? Is it possible to discuss individual stories in an ongoing series? Has the concept of a shared universe made things too difficult for scholars? Can comics scholars write for themselves? That is, can we expect people to be familiar with the stories, or do we need to recap and carefully discuss the characters and events before we can address any specific critical issues that have drawn our attention? I don’t know. I do think a new way of talking about the big names is not a bad idea. But there really aren’t any good models of which I am aware. And scholars certainly don’t seem to be generating a lot of new material on comics. Or if we are, it’s too disparate (and, perhaps, too desperate) to command a lot of attention and generate a specific direction for comic book studies.
Perhaps what we need is a new focus. We should look at different materials, we should look at different comics, not just focus on the aforementioned indies and major titles. The big names (Batman, Superman, Spider-man, etc.) are stable – they’re not the titles with the really fun stuff going on, and they really haven’t been since their first decade or so. I don’t want to suggest there’s no new story, but let’s face it – changes for these characters are either glacially slow (how long was Spider-Man in high school? In college?) or they’re overturned within a few years (consider the deaths of Superman, Captain America, and Robin – all have been undone). it’s easy to be dismissive of change, because those changes will be written out of continuity, or they’ll be undone through some deus ex machina plot to return the character to a more nostalgic presentation.
On the other hand, there are many second-tier figures, shorter-lived comics, that are worth checking out. In the 1970s, the (extremely) restrictive Comics Code was weakened, and the comics companies allowed a lot of play for their creators.** Some characters were created primarily for legal reasons (e.g.., Spider-Woman and She-Hulk were created to simultaneously create and protect the franchise), but some titles have really strange things happening in them.*** They’re not the big name titles, they’re not the summer blockbusters that get people to read comics in the first place. They’re the second- tier (or third-tier) magazines that the publishers can let slide. They’re the titles that can be weird because they don’t have to be marketable to a broad audience who won’t get the in-jokes, or who won’t appreciate the bizarre things that are happening and can only happen in this medium.
I would challenge scholars to start looking at these figures, at these characters, who can play a great deal, who can show development because their characters are not enshrined as the main draws in the publisher’s universe. Readers know what to expect from Superman, from Batman, from Spider-Man, from the Fantastic Four, and any deviance from those expectations has to be short-lived or the readership will disappear. But characters like Howard the Duck, Swamp Thing, She-Hulk, Moon Knight, and teams like the Defenders have a lot more freedom: since they’re not as popular, they’re not as widespread, and their fans are comics fans, willing to allow their creators more room to explore the possibilities of the medium. They’re not locked into characterizations, and this allows them the ability to be more experimental and, therefore, more exciting to scholars. Now scholars just have to find these treasures and start discussing them.
Just some thoughts — please do let me know if you agree, disagree, or simply want to weigh in! There’s lots more to say, but I need to stop somewhere, and this is it...
* For those who don’t follow comics, Moore’s Watchmen and Miller’s Dark Knight Returns are still very well-regarded, as is Miller’s run on Daredevil. Interestingly, both have used their fame to launch non-superhero projects.
** You can read the original code at this website; Amy Kiste Nyberg also wrote a very readable history of the code (Seal of Approval: The History of the Comics Code [Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1998]), well worth checking out for more, including the full text of all three versions of the code.
***Admittedly, this reflects the creative team – how far were the authors and artists willing to go, and how far did their editors let them go. But considering the lassiez-faire attitude coupled with the huge workloads the editors carried, there was a lot more experimentation than would be expected.
It struck me, though, that there seems to be two tiers of scholarship about comics. There’s one level of comics that’s really serious: scholars talk about Eisner’s Contract with God, Spiegelman’s Maus, Pekar’s American Splendour, Satrapi’s Persepolis, etc. Heavy, generally independent, “literary” comics. Then there’s a second level, almost second-rate, where superheroes are discussed. And that’s not terribly often. I’m not entirely sure why superheroes are dismissed so blithely, but I’m going to float some ideas. Let me know what you think in the comments.
It seems to me that superheroes get little good press with scholars, it seems. There really don’t seem to be many people writing about them. Two of the most respected creators in comics writing, Alan Moore and Frank Miller, are best-known outside of comics fans for their works responding to superheroes and their mythology.* Scholars who want to talk about superheroes generally discuss the work of these two, or they take a more historical approach and discuss the rise and periodization of comics, focusing on the major figures of comics (Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, the X-Men, etc.). Some will combine the two, for instance, talking about Dennis O'Neil's 1970's Green Lantern/Green Arrow comics, and the social issues addressed therein. Any deviation from some of these well-known, well-established, and well-loved figures prompts some sort of defensive or apologist stance from the author, as though there’s some agreement that other comics are unworthy of scholarly attention. Fans often take an apologist stance, too, when they present papers featuring superheroes.
This is the wrong attitude, I say. Sure, it’s a reflection of literary studies to want to discuss the whole story, from beginning to end, talking about character development and the intricacies of plot in some implicit (and sometimes explicit) worship of the genius of the author. And this just doesn’t work with comics. I don’t think anyone’s going to give Stan Lee (Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, the X-Men) an award for his prose. And, let’s face it, it’s tough to talk about character development when a character has no definite end, and origins can be tampered with. There are no conclusions to the stories, either: Superman and Batman have been in continuous publication for over 70 years, and many of Marvel’s big names have been around nearly 50; during that time, they all have appeared in multiple comics, either as a headliner or as a guest-star. And those comics have had multiple authors during their decades-long runs, and different stories sometimes bring the characters to different places in the same month... it can be a headache keeping track of one popular character. Add to that the current glut of cross-title “event stories,” for which the reader is expected to be familiar with every major character from decades of monthly publications, the characters’ relationships to the reader’s favorite, the villains and supporting cast of the focus titles, and you can see that traditional scholarship, which is putatively focused on the finite productions of literary masters, simply cannot be applied to reading comics. Literary studies are almost always focused on single works or collections by a single author. Those few that do deal with larger areas (e.g., Arthurian studies) necessarily limit themselves, usually to a certain subset (e.g., Victorian Arthuriana; Sir Gawain; French tales). Comics are much more of a hydra — never-ending tales about immortal characters.
So what can be done? Do we need a new approach to comics scholarship? Is it possible to discuss individual stories in an ongoing series? Has the concept of a shared universe made things too difficult for scholars? Can comics scholars write for themselves? That is, can we expect people to be familiar with the stories, or do we need to recap and carefully discuss the characters and events before we can address any specific critical issues that have drawn our attention? I don’t know. I do think a new way of talking about the big names is not a bad idea. But there really aren’t any good models of which I am aware. And scholars certainly don’t seem to be generating a lot of new material on comics. Or if we are, it’s too disparate (and, perhaps, too desperate) to command a lot of attention and generate a specific direction for comic book studies.
Perhaps what we need is a new focus. We should look at different materials, we should look at different comics, not just focus on the aforementioned indies and major titles. The big names (Batman, Superman, Spider-man, etc.) are stable – they’re not the titles with the really fun stuff going on, and they really haven’t been since their first decade or so. I don’t want to suggest there’s no new story, but let’s face it – changes for these characters are either glacially slow (how long was Spider-Man in high school? In college?) or they’re overturned within a few years (consider the deaths of Superman, Captain America, and Robin – all have been undone). it’s easy to be dismissive of change, because those changes will be written out of continuity, or they’ll be undone through some deus ex machina plot to return the character to a more nostalgic presentation.
On the other hand, there are many second-tier figures, shorter-lived comics, that are worth checking out. In the 1970s, the (extremely) restrictive Comics Code was weakened, and the comics companies allowed a lot of play for their creators.** Some characters were created primarily for legal reasons (e.g.., Spider-Woman and She-Hulk were created to simultaneously create and protect the franchise), but some titles have really strange things happening in them.*** They’re not the big name titles, they’re not the summer blockbusters that get people to read comics in the first place. They’re the second- tier (or third-tier) magazines that the publishers can let slide. They’re the titles that can be weird because they don’t have to be marketable to a broad audience who won’t get the in-jokes, or who won’t appreciate the bizarre things that are happening and can only happen in this medium.
I would challenge scholars to start looking at these figures, at these characters, who can play a great deal, who can show development because their characters are not enshrined as the main draws in the publisher’s universe. Readers know what to expect from Superman, from Batman, from Spider-Man, from the Fantastic Four, and any deviance from those expectations has to be short-lived or the readership will disappear. But characters like Howard the Duck, Swamp Thing, She-Hulk, Moon Knight, and teams like the Defenders have a lot more freedom: since they’re not as popular, they’re not as widespread, and their fans are comics fans, willing to allow their creators more room to explore the possibilities of the medium. They’re not locked into characterizations, and this allows them the ability to be more experimental and, therefore, more exciting to scholars. Now scholars just have to find these treasures and start discussing them.
Just some thoughts — please do let me know if you agree, disagree, or simply want to weigh in! There’s lots more to say, but I need to stop somewhere, and this is it...
* For those who don’t follow comics, Moore’s Watchmen and Miller’s Dark Knight Returns are still very well-regarded, as is Miller’s run on Daredevil. Interestingly, both have used their fame to launch non-superhero projects.
** You can read the original code at this website; Amy Kiste Nyberg also wrote a very readable history of the code (Seal of Approval: The History of the Comics Code [Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1998]), well worth checking out for more, including the full text of all three versions of the code.
***Admittedly, this reflects the creative team – how far were the authors and artists willing to go, and how far did their editors let them go. But considering the lassiez-faire attitude coupled with the huge workloads the editors carried, there was a lot more experimentation than would be expected.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Super-size My Language!
I’ve noticed a tendency to be verbose of late, and it’s actually a fairly disturbing trend. Its most recent form, at least the one that’s been on my radar most of late, is the propensity to improperly modify words in an effort to sound more intense. For example, I recently heard “extremely critical” and often hear “more unique” (or “most unique”).* And just today I heard someone on NPR say “very ubiquitous.” Now, when I hear things like this, all I can think of is The Princess Bride: “I do not think it means what you think it means.” (Except, unlike Inigo, I know the word’s being used incorrectly. Or, at least, modified unnecessarily.) I really think a lot of people need to look up what words mean, so they can use them properly.
Another, related linguistic gripe I have is the often unnecessary repetition because people don’t know what acronyms mean: PIN number, please RSVP, ATM machine, etc. It really should stop. Take a moment to expand them: "personal identification number number," "please respond if you please" (ok, so that one takes a little translation, too...). Then again, it can be a source of endless amusement. Think about it — when people ask “Where is the ATM machine?” they’re really looking for a machine that dispenses ATMs.
Now, this is not in student papers — it’s mostly in conversation, either in the media (TV, radio) or in person, usually conversations I overhear, rather than ones I participate in. I have read many papers where the students should have their thesaurus taken away, and where they are verbose for the sake of meeting a page requirement. I know many of the reasons for this effort, even if I try to urge honesty in their paper’s voice — writing much like they talk, or at least with a similar vocabulary. But that’s a topic for another post.
Of course, I am familiar with the argument that this is just a facet of the evolution of our language, and that I should just relax and accept it. But you know what? I see it as a devolution of the ability of people to understand their own language. And when we no longer understand the words we share, when we can no longer agree on meaning, that’s a problem, because the language itself is then an impediment to communication, not a tool to facilitate it. Now, we’re far from the end of the utility of English, and I don’t want to sound like Chicken Little. The sky is not falling, and we have a long way to go before we’re not communicating through a shared language. But if “unique” no longer means “one of a kind,” when the unique item no longer has status as a distinctly singular object, then we need a new word to replace “unique.” So... what is it? I’ve heard nothing. Just that “this” is more unique than “that” — which is, according to my dictionary, impossible.
If you don’t know what these ”big words” and acronyms mean, stop using them — to those who do know them, you sound like an idiot. And those that don’t are not worth amazing with such simple (and misguided) linguistic feats.
* I would like to point out that while one cannot logically increase something’s uniqueness, it can be decreased: an object can be “almost unique,” but not “more unique.” I have no problem with that.
Another, related linguistic gripe I have is the often unnecessary repetition because people don’t know what acronyms mean: PIN number, please RSVP, ATM machine, etc. It really should stop. Take a moment to expand them: "personal identification number number," "please respond if you please" (ok, so that one takes a little translation, too...). Then again, it can be a source of endless amusement. Think about it — when people ask “Where is the ATM machine?” they’re really looking for a machine that dispenses ATMs.
Now, this is not in student papers — it’s mostly in conversation, either in the media (TV, radio) or in person, usually conversations I overhear, rather than ones I participate in. I have read many papers where the students should have their thesaurus taken away, and where they are verbose for the sake of meeting a page requirement. I know many of the reasons for this effort, even if I try to urge honesty in their paper’s voice — writing much like they talk, or at least with a similar vocabulary. But that’s a topic for another post.
Of course, I am familiar with the argument that this is just a facet of the evolution of our language, and that I should just relax and accept it. But you know what? I see it as a devolution of the ability of people to understand their own language. And when we no longer understand the words we share, when we can no longer agree on meaning, that’s a problem, because the language itself is then an impediment to communication, not a tool to facilitate it. Now, we’re far from the end of the utility of English, and I don’t want to sound like Chicken Little. The sky is not falling, and we have a long way to go before we’re not communicating through a shared language. But if “unique” no longer means “one of a kind,” when the unique item no longer has status as a distinctly singular object, then we need a new word to replace “unique.” So... what is it? I’ve heard nothing. Just that “this” is more unique than “that” — which is, according to my dictionary, impossible.
If you don’t know what these ”big words” and acronyms mean, stop using them — to those who do know them, you sound like an idiot. And those that don’t are not worth amazing with such simple (and misguided) linguistic feats.
* I would like to point out that while one cannot logically increase something’s uniqueness, it can be decreased: an object can be “almost unique,” but not “more unique.” I have no problem with that.
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