By Maggie Jaghatspanyan

In recent years, claims of cultural appropriation have reached a new high. In the academic sphere, “cultural appropriation” is described to be the taking of a disparaged group’s culture by a more dominant group without the slightest regard for the former group’s cultural significance. The significance of the discussion of cultural appropriation resides within the white community’s habitual appropriation of the Black community for their own benefit, claiming originality but never giving credit where credit is due. We see displays of cultural appropriation all around us—especially in our present day—with social media platforms, like Instagram, proving to be at the center of such displays. From “black-fishing” to the use of cultural braids, appropriation of one’s culture has multiplied and left its mark on the world. When a movie like Jordan Peele’s Get Out debuts in a society where cultural appropriation is running rampant, it need not come as a surprise that discussions around the subject would emerge. We see images and symbols of cultural appropriation in Get Out, which this paper will explore in the following pages.

It would be beneficial to this conversation to begin with a discussion of cultural appropriation, where we decide upon an accurate definition which will carry onward throughout the argument. In Imani Kai Johnson’s 2020 book Are You Entertained?: Black Popular Culture in the Twenty-First Century, she dedicates a chapter titled “Black Culture without Black People” in which she describes cultural appropriation of the Black community.

To appropriate speaks to both the fact of something being taken and to its being taken up in a certain kind of way: with the power to do so uncritically and unethically. Simply put, appropriation is colonialism at the scale of the dancing body or the sacred ritual object, its life and dynamism reduced to a thing for consumption or a costume for play. Though not exactly “theft”—and I am wary of thinking of culture through the lens of capitalist ownership—the presumption that one has the right to stake a claim to something and use it, buy and sell it, misrepresent it, and rewrite its history is colonial logic at work. (Johnson, Are You Entertained?)

Interesting to note here is the fact that Johnson does not want to liken appropriation with theft, rather she wishes to define appropriation as its own negative term. When you take something that doesn’t belong to you, that is theft. Since culture isn’t a physical entity, “theft” is not the appropriate word to use. “Appropriation” seems to suggest the taking and benefiting of aspects of a culture that does not belong to you while also changing and rewriting the history of such things. We see this sort of appropriation on social media today, with white creators sporting cultural braids from a community they do not belong to. Furthermore, we see people injecting fillers into their lips for fullness, when the Black community would be tantalized for their naturally full lips. In other words, it is appropriation precisely at the point in which the white community benefits from aspects of the Black community that the latter are ridiculed for.

Jordan Peele’s move Get Out is seen as an allegory about racial issues and suppression of Black consciousness that is still relevant in our society today. Through the white community’s appropriation of Black culture to gain power and the silencing of the Black community who fight against this power of turning Black minds into white bodies, the community is lowered into the sunken place: a mentality where consciousness is suppressed, where one is helplessly tethered and forced to watch others gain privilege by appropriating the culture of a historically oppressed group of individuals. As we see in Peele’s movie, the desire for the appropriation of one’s culture for the benefit of another group is hidden in plain sight. The Armitage family are a typical suburban white family who “would have voted for Obama a third time” if it were possible. The trope of hiding in plain sight is relevant when thinking about the concept of the sunken place because it adds to the feeling of helplessness. With the suppression of the black consciousness, the Black community cannot fight to move towards racial equality. Instead they must watch, voiceless from the sunken place, as the white community appropriates their culture and gains power and prosperity over aspects of Black culture that the Black community is oftentimes ridiculed for.

The topic of cultural appropriation resonates throughout the entire movie. In the beginning scenes, Chris is introduced to Rose Armitage’s eccentric family after a year of forming a relationship with each other. While giving Chris a tour of his house, Rose’s father shows Chris souvenirs he has brought back from his various travels, saying,

“It’s pretty eclectic. I’m a traveller, I can’t help it. I keep bringing souvenirs back. It’s such a privilege to be able to experience another person’s culture” (Peele, Get Out).

Rose’s father, and the patriarch of the Order of Coagula cult he has created, claims that experiencing “another person’s culture” is a “privilege”. Ironically—and indirectly in this early stage of the movie—Rose’s father is talking about the black community: a community of people who know all too well that basic privileges are hardly extended to them. However, already privileged white people appropriating a culture of historically oppressed Black people is a way for them to gain power. How can it be a privilege to experience another person’s culture when the culture is filled with oppression and suppression? The power and privilege come from people—like the Armitage family and their like-minded friends—who can get away with doing things that the Black community would otherwise be ridiculed for, even if it is part of their own culture. With this newly found power, the white community is able to suppress the Black consciousness and have them watch in silence and helplessness as white individuals are praised.
The white community appropriates Black culture to gain what they cannot anymore. Within the ending scenes of the movie, it is clear that through the tampering of black minds, the goal of the Order of the Coagula cult is to access these “natural gifts” and “physical advantages” that black individuals possess and have enjoyed throughout their lives.

You have been chosen because of the physical advantages you’ve enjoyed your entire lifetime. With your natural gifts and our determination, we can both be part of something greater. Something perfect. (Peele, Get Out)

The members of this cult select people of color who exhibit excellent physical performances in areas of the members’ interests in order to live through them the life they themselves cannot live anymore. For instance, Rose’s grandfather was a highly competitive and talented runner when he was younger. Once he became a little older and lost a very important competition, he swapped bodies with an able-bodied African American man—Rose’s previous love interest—who exhibited excellence in running. That way, Rose’s grandfather would be able to live through this African American man and use that man’s abilities and talents for their own personal gain. By appropriating Black culture, the white community has gained power they did not otherwise possess. By gaining this new power, they are shutting down Black voices from speaking about the issue of such cultural appropriation. They are pushing racial issues aside and making them seem less relevant and important than they actually are.

The theme of pushing racial issues aside radiates throughout the conversation that Rose and Chris have with each other. Chris says, “You said I was the first black guy you ever dated. So this is uncharted territory for them. You know, I don’t wanna get chased off the lawn with a shotgun.” Rose responds by saying, “First of all, my dad would’ve voted for Obama for the third time if he could’ve. Like, the love is so real” (Peele, Get Out). When confronted by Chris about her parents taking issue with the fact that he is the “first black guy you ever dated,” Rose suggests that her family is not racist and no issues would arise from their relationship. The initial reason why Rose brings up the fact that her father would have voted for Obama for a third term seems to be to ease Chris’s concerns. Upon further analysis, it is evident that what Rose said to Chris is symbolic of the white community silencing the Black community when the topic of race is brought up. The silencers, or the antagonists of the movie, aren’t Southerners or Nazis or people who fall into the “alt-right” group. Instead, they are ordinary middle-class people who are liberals and who would “vote for Obama for a third time” if they could. Because of this, we are given a sense of real-worldness. The Armitage family can be any American family. This gives the viewer the sense that anybody can be in place of Rose’s family and treat others the way Rose and her family treated Chris. The fact that these silencers are hidden in plain sight is important to note, because it makes the racism seem that much more normalized. The fact that a white suburban family are racist cult leaders speaks volumes about where we are as a society. The Black community is aware of such racism, even from the sunken place.

Another scene worth mentioning is the scene where Rose and Chris are driving up to see Rose’s parents for the weekend and they collide with a deer on the road, injuring it severely. When Rose tells her father about the collision, he sternly states,

Well, you know what I say? I say one down, a couple hundred thousand to go. No, I don’t mean to get on my high horse, but I’m telling you I don’t like the deer. I’m sick of it. They’re taking over. They’re like rats; they’re destroying the ecosystem. I see a dead deer on the side of the road, I think to myself ‘That’s a start’ (Peele, Get Out)

Evident through Chris’s flashbacks, the deer represents his deceased mother who died helplessly on the side of the road after being struck by a careless driver. With this information in mind, Rose’s father talking about the dead deer in that manner is symbolic of his support in the removal of the members of the black community. He partakes in this “removal” when he uses black bodies as a vessel for his white counterparts. There is a sense of Rose’s father masking racial issues that he is grappling with because he is indirectly talking about getting rid of Black people through directly talking about the deer. Textually, the style used to mask racial issues is noticeably different from the style used in the previous scenes, although both are significant in the recurrent theme of hiding relevancy in racial issues. The white community is trying to store black consciousness in mentality where they are silenced and cannot talk about racial issues. This mentality is the sunken place.

The sunken place is described to be a kind of alternate reality where you cannot move and you cannot speak; you view your life through the eyes of a bystander. Symbolically, the “sunken place” is a mentality that the Black community is forced into by the white community where their voices are silenced and their efforts for equality is halted to a stop. It is important to note that though lowered to the sunken place, the black community is fully aware of the racism that is directed towards them. They are “woke” to the unfair treatments they face. When in the sunken place, the human consciousness cannot be revived. It is completely disabled. The white community, especially evident throughout the middle scenes of Get Out, forcefully silence the voices of black people: people who are trying to extend rights and privileges to everybody within the society. However, it is clear that the white community, especially evident through the characters in the movie, has a very separatist mentality when it comes to rights and privileges.

Through the appropriation of Black culture to gain power, hiding the relevance of racial issues from the black community, and suppressing black consciousness, the white community tries to render Black people silent in their battle for equality. Due to the constant appropriation of their culture and constant efforts by the white community to convince them that racial issues are no longer prevalent in today’s world, the black community descends into the sunken place: an alternate reality where their voices for change cannot be heard. The problem with race within the society has not been resolved and cannot be swept under the rug, contrary to the actions of white individuals in Get Out. Thus, the parallels drawn from appropriating Black culture, efforts made to erase racial issues, and suppressing the black consciousness all tie into the main theme of the movie; the power struggle of the white community to silence the black community so no efforts are made in moving towards equality. The positive ending of the movie, however, is optimistic, suggesting the power has been given back to the Black community and their fight for equal treatment continues.

Works Cited

Johnson, Imani Kai. “BLACK CULTURE WITHOUT BLACK PEOPLE: HIP-HOP DANCE BEYOND APPROPRIATION DISCOURSE.” Are You Entertained?: Black Popular Culture in the Twenty-First Century, edited by SIMONE C. DRAKE and DWAN K. HENDERSON, Duke University Press, Durham; London, 2020, pp. 191–206. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctv1131bwx.15.
Peele, Jordan, director. Get Out. Youtube. 24 February 2017. http://www.youtube.com/watch? v=YfLSryEaAfw.

By Lizzy Lyons-Beal

Published in 1995, Helena María Viramontes’ novel Under the Feet of Jesus primarily follows the story of Estrella, the eldest daughter of migrant workers, as she navigates love, loss, and adolescence in the California grape fields. Over the course of the novel, Viramontes masterfully explores Estrella’s many rich, complicated personal relationships—from her duty to her family, to her infatuation with the young piscadore Alejo. Yet there is one relationship of Estrella’s that, though it falls outside of the realm of standard human connection, is remarkably constant and deeply meaningful: her relationship with a barn.

The old barn on her family’s lot is a vital character of its own throughout the narrative, as Estrella often seeks it during her most life-changing experiences; it is the first thing she looks at when her family moves into the bungalow, it is her destination after her first ever romantic encounter, and, following her separation from Alejo, it is the site of her final spiritual pilgrimage. Although the barn’s role changes, its presence is consistent, and it always seems to fulfill Estrella’s needs in the moment—whether they include satisfying her desire for companionship, agency, or even enlightenment. To this end, I submit that Estrella’s barn functions like a mirror within the text; she projects her innermost thoughts and feelings onto the barn, and consequently uses it as a means for personal reflection. Her connection with this barn allows her to both satisfy her most basic needs, as well as confront her deepest anxieties on her journey toward self-actualization.

One of the reasons Estrella grows so attached to the abandoned, decrepit barn behind her family’s bungalow is that she identifies with it. When Perfecto asks for her help in tearing it down, she anthropomorphizes the rickety structure and considers the cruelty of its dismemberment:

It’s not fair . . . The nails would screech and the wood would moan and she would pull the veins out and the woodsheet would collapse like a toothless mouth . . . Is that what happens? Estrella thought, people just use you until you’re all used up, then rip you into pieces when they’re finished using you? (Viramontes 74-75)
Her mental image of the barn being physically tortured reveals just how personal this kind of pain is to Estrella; it is a projection of the pain she feels as a piscadore. She supports her family by doing backbreaking work for long, grueling hours, all for an industry that views migrant workers as dispensable extensions of the commodities they harvest. Estrella is afraid that she and the barn will share the same fate—that she, too, will ultimately be “used up” and discarded.

Sadly, Estrella’s fear is not unfounded, as other characters’ bodies do noticeably deteriorate under the intense physical strain of their labor. In fact, Alejo faces the most extreme realization of Estrella’s fear when his health is all but destroyed after he is sprayed with pesticides in the peach orchard—an incident that effectively erases his sense of individuality. As his body begins shutting down and he drifts into unconsciousness, he imagines himself sinking into a tar pit: “He thought first of his feet sinking, sinking to his knee joints…black bubbles erasing him . . . Thousands of bones, the bleached white marrow of bones . . . No fingerprint or history, bone . . . No story or family, bone” (78). Like Estrella, Alejo also identifies with an object of utility in this moment: oil, a slurry of dead plants and animals that humans harness for energy. He feels black bubbles erasing him, leaving only bone, because the nature of his work does not leave space for one’s personhood. As a victim of a “tar pit,” he sees himself as fuel for an impersonal industry that will no doubt continue to profit off of his and others’ labor long after they are gone. This symbolic “dismemberment” of Alejo is Estrella’s worst nightmare, and it is the future she envisions for herself when she pictures the demolition of the once productive barn.

Estrella has a special relationship with the barn—a relationship that is unexpectedly rooted in kinship. When her family first arrives at their new home, Estrella explores the surrounding property with her siblings and curiously peeks her head inside the vacant structure. When she first looks upon the barn, she sees it as a “cathedral,” the religious overtones of which foreshadow the deep, spiritual bond that she develops with this unassuming building—a building which goes on to form the backdrop of many of Estrella’s formative moments throughout the text. One such example occurs immediately after her first romantic encounter with Alejo. Estrella thinks back to her childhood friend Maxine, but, realizing that this friend is gone, she quickly turns her thoughts to the barn, to which she runs “as fast as her clumsy boots allowed” (89). In this scene, the barn acts as a surrogate friend of sorts; Estrella runs to it in much the same way one would run to confide in a dear friend after reaching a significant pubescent milestone.

In addition to her friendly connection with the barn, Estrella is also connected to the barn through a common temporality. The first time Estrella sees the inside of the barn, she notes that the primary fixture is a long chain that hangs from the ceiling, swaying “like a pendulum, as if someone had just touched it and ran off” (10). Swinging pendulums are commonly associated with ticking clocks and, by extension, the passage of time. Estrella sees this swinging chain at two distinct moments, and both instances underscore major changes she faces as she crosses the threshold from childhood to adolescence. The first such instance occurs when she moves to the bungalow with her family. A change like this would be a significant disruption in any young person’s life, and it is a change for which other individuals—a child’s parents—are ultimately responsible. It is at this point that Estrella imagines that someone else has put the chain in motion, “[touching] it and [running] off.” The idea that an invisible person is moving this chain parallels her experience at the beginning of the novel; as a child, her life is primarily governed by the decisions of her parents, and, as a daughter of migrant workers, she is also at the mercy of a capitalist system that condemns piscadore families to poverty and strife. In other words, the metronomic pace of her life has largely been set by external forces, just as the chain’s pace has been set by some unseen kinetic energy.

However, Estrella’s second encounter with the chain is remarkably different. Following her intimate moment with Alejo, she runs full-speed to the barn and forcefully yanks the suspended chain, causing it to swing as it did the first time she laid eyes on it (90). This feat can thus be read as an act of defiance: Estrella seizes control of the chain, just as she seizes control of her burgeoning sexuality. This powerful assertion of agency marks her shift from passively abiding by others’ “time,” to actively empowering herself to define womanhood on her own terms as she comes of age within the text. The finality of this change is emphasized by the noticeable difference in her hands after she pulls the chain: “Once filled with light, her palms were now tainted with brick red rust” (90). The lightness of her palms prior to touching the chain parallels the inexperience and passivity of her childhood, and, once she takes control of the chain, her hands become “tainted,” evoking the voluntary surrender of her youthful innocence in exchange for agency.

As the novel progresses, the barn becomes much more than a temporal mirror for Estrella: it becomes a site of pilgrimage. Following her final goodbye with Alejo at the hospital, Estrella contemplates the utility of the resources upon which she relies for comfort: “What made her believe that a circle drawn in the earth would keep the predators away? That was all she had: papers and sticks and broken faith and Perfecto, and at this moment all of this seemed as weightless against the massive darkness, as the head she held” (169). Estrella realizes that, in this unforgiving landscape, the few sources of peace and security in her life—even her legal documentation and faith in religion—cannot protect her from a predatory, capitalist system that devalues the lives of piscadores, just as an arbitrary line in the sand cannot protect her family from scorpions. Shortly thereafter, acting on pure instinct, she runs to the barn, climbs the chain, and finally stands atop the roof, where she is “stunned by the diamonds,” and notes that the “sparkle of stars cut the night—almost violently sharp . . . like silver pomegranates [glimmering] before an infinity of darkness” (175). The literal darkness of night in this scene echoes the figurative darkness that Viramontes cites earlier in the text, when Estrella laments her lack of protection from life’s dangers.

Although Viramontes uses violent language to describe the stars’ effect on the night, the resulting image is ultimately one of hope and salvation; Estrella’s position on top of the barn enables her to see these stars and open her mind to the possibility that there could be other beacons of light capable of staving off darkness—and that she could be one of them. The final lines of the novel read: “Estrella remained as immobile as an angel standing on the verge of faith. Like the chiming bells of the great cathedrals, she believed her heart powerful enough to summon home all those who strayed” (176). At this moment, Estrella accepts that she cannot expect to find security in other people and things; lines in the earth, faith in Jesucristo, and even a man reliable enough to be called “Perfecto” cannot ensure her salvation. Instead, she stands on top of the barn as a beacon of light, resolute in her belief that she can act as a source of comfort and stability—not only for herself, but for the benefit of all people who seek hope in the darkness.

Throughout Under the Feet of Jesus, Viramontes presents this barn as an extension of Estrella’s body, mind, and spirit; Estrella sees her fear of deterioration, desires for companionship and agency, and hopes for the future all reflected in its feeble architecture. Ultimately, Estrella’s relationship with the barn mirrors her evolving relationship with her inner strength and independence—she initially refuses to participate in its destruction because sees the barn as a reflection of her own helplessness, and then, as her romance blossoms and she begins to assert her agency, she seizes control of the barn by grabbing its chain. At the end of the novel, despite her vulnerability and growth, Estrella realizes that the harsh conditions of piscadore life deprive her of agency in virtually all other respects—a realization namely brought on by the difficulty her family faces when they try to help the sick Alejo. She alone cannot conquer poverty, sickness, and systemic inequity. Instead, she conquers the barn. The barn in the final scene represents the numerous, seemingly insurmountable obstacles she has faced, and will likely continue to face. Therefore, her position atop the barn denotes her triumph; she has conquered the unconquerable, if only for a moment. This victory is a source of much-needed hope and inspiration for Estrella. As she gazes up at the stars whose light seems to pierce the impossible darkness of a night sky, she mourns that which she cannot change, and resolves to be the hope that she and all other lost souls need.

Works Cited
Viramontes, H. M. (1996). Under the Feet of Jesus. New York, NY: Plume, an imprint of Penguin Random House.

By Lizzy Lyons-Beal

Introduction
“You know nothing good will come, but the ride it takes you on proves fascinating” (Liz Shannon Miller). This is one IndieWire television critic’s take on the first episode of Black Mirror’s third season, yet the sentiment rings true across the series as a whole. As an anthologized television serial, each episode of Black Mirror explores a distinct, often dystopian vision of our world’s not-so-distant future—the conflict of which is often the direct result of unchecked technological advancement. Every episode employs different, self-contained characters, settings, and narratives, but the style is nonetheless recognizable. This paper seeks to explore the common themes within this televised serial, focusing primarily on the 2014 winter special, “White Christmas,” as well as the fourth episode of season three, “San Junipero.”

“White Christmas” explores how nonconventional, technologically-induced punishments affect a person’s sense of humanity, painting a picture of a dystopian world where both private citizens and the legal system alike can forcibly manipulate how people perceive others, and even how they perceive time. With the push of a button, individuals can manipulate others’ sense of sight to either protect their privacy, or to provide an alternative form of legal punishment. This service is called “blocking” because it literally blocks certain people from others’ sensory perception—it selectively muffles the voices of each party and causes them to resemble flat, gray silhouettes to one another. Blocking is one of two forms of punishment on display in this special; the second is the manipulation of a person’s sense of time—through a similarly futuristic technology, one man is sentenced to endure one thousand years for every minute that passes in his solitary prison, exacerbating his descent into madness.

While “White Christmas” shows the manipulation of time and social relationships as potentially inhumane and daunting, these narrative devices work toward a much more positive end in the episode “San Junipero.” “San Junipero” opens with two young women, Yorkie and Kelly, meeting at a dance club for the first time, seemingly in the 1980s. Yet, as is so often the case in Black Mirror, things are not as they appear. The audience comes to learn that these young women gallivanting around the city of San Junipero are actually digital projections of two elderly women’s consciousnesses; in fact, the real Yorkie and Kelly live hours away from each other and would have otherwise never met. Visitors of the San Junipero simulation experience time in a way that is all their own, as they have the power to manipulate the era in which they boogie based on their preferred aesthetic—the fluorescent 1980s, alternative 1990s, glittery early aughts, etc. Similarly, San Junipero subverts conventional notions of time by providing a space in which inhabitants may choose to experience an infinite, digital afterlife, thereby forcing them to grapple with the vexing notion of eternity. Characters in their twilight years must choose to either pass on to a quiet, dreamless death, or spend the rest of time together in a virtual paradise.

Ultimately, this paper explores the common themes within this televised serial, arguing that one of the most prominent themes throughout Black Mirror is the use of digital technology to highlight the nuances of the human experience, primarily as it relates to our perception of time and interpersonal relationships. I will begin by noting the different ways both episodes present temporal manipulation as a narrative device, and conclude by analyzing how characters’ respective communities—or lack thereof—affect their ability to endure incomprehensible infinities.

Part I: Finite vs. Infinite Temporality and the Human Experience
As I delve into how these episodes employ technology to showcase the cornerstones of human experience, I feel it is first necessary to establish that the simulated persons within these episodes are human, in the first place—a fact that is not even universally acknowledged by the primary characters themselves. I will first provide more context as to how humanity may be quantified in both “White Christmas” and “San Junipero,” and conclude with an exploration of how each episode presents their own daunting version of forever.

“White Christmas” opens with two men, Joe and Matt, who have spent the last five years together at a remote cabin in an icy tundra—or so the audience is led to believe. As the narrative progresses, the viewer learns that Matt is actually a programming professional who has manufactured a cabin simulation as a means to help draw a confession from Joe, a man who was the recipient of a longtime “block” following a bitter altercation with his partner, Beth. After Beth’s accidental death, Joe is finally able to meet the child who was conceived while the two were still together—pre-block—and is distraught to learn that Beth’s daughter is the product of an affair. This realization stuns Joe and, in a quick fit of rage, he strikes and kills Beth’s elderly father—the crime to which he eventually confesses. To draw this confession from Joe, Matt taps into his past as a technology consultant and creates a simulation with highly specialized parameters: he programs Joe’s simulated self to believe that he has been stationed at an isolated cabin for five years with one other person (Matt) and no outside contact whatsoever. While the “real” Joe sits alone in a cell, the simulated Joe shares the intimate details of his life with Matt, completely oblivious to the fact they are both merely digital duplicates of physical people.

However, there is some disagreement within the episode as to whether or not such simulations are technically “human.” When Matt recounts his past as a representative for a tech company called “Smartelligence,” he paints a vivid picture of the psychological torture he inflicted upon simulated minds—minds that he explains are made up of code and stored in a small device called a “cookie.” These devices are installed into digital home assistants, which are then responsible for performing the physical person’s most tedious daily tasks—tasks like setting appointments, ordering groceries, and toasting bread—all to the physical person’s exact specifications. In a flashback of one of his past jobs, Matt speaks to a simulation of a woman and explains that it is his responsibility to help her transition to her new reality as a home assistant for her physical self. After she begins to recover from shock, she vehemently refuses to be “some sort of push-button toaster monkey” (00:36:24-00:36:27). In response to her insubordination, Matt manipulates her perception of time to show her how unbearably mind-numbing and monotonous her life would be if she refuses to do chores for the person after whom she is modeled; he first accelerates time within the cookie by three weeks, and then, because her spirit is not yet sufficiently broken, he tacks on an additional six months of isolation. It is clear that this time lapse causes her intense psychological trauma as she pleads, “Please. Give me something to do . . . Please, I’ll do anything, just give me something to do, please” (00:38:12-00:38:34).

Moving on from the flashback and into the present-day cabin simulation, Matt and Joe meditate on this outcome and share the following exchange:
JOE. That’s slavery.
MATT. That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?
JOE. But she thought she was real.
MATT. But she wasn’t.
JOE. It’s barbaric.
MATT. It wasn’t really real, so it wasn’t really barbaric. (00:41:10-00:41:18)

Viewers are likely to side with Joe in this debate, but why? Which particular quality of the simulated persons makes them appear “real” to us? Certain twentieth-century existential philosophies suggest that it may be these characters’ apparent awareness of time that makes them human. One theorist by the name of Gabriel Marcel explores the relationship between human experience and temporality in narrative, deeming human experience itself a “temporal character” (Tattum 86). Philosopher Martin Heidegger expresses a similar idea in his work Being in Time, which writer Paul Gorner explains in his helpful introduction to the former’s oeuvre:

The activity of human beings takes place in time. The existence of an individual human being begins at a certain moment in time and ends at a certain moment in time . . . other things – animals, plants, stones and planets – are “temporal” in precisely the same way. But what makes the temporality of human beings special, one might say, is that . . . human beings are also conscious of time and take account of time. (155)

If we accept this idea that to be human is to have a fundamental awareness of the passage of time, the simulations in “White Christmas” definitely qualify; the woman in the cookie is noticeably disturbed after she is forced to suffer through six months in isolation, and Joe’s simulated self appears to experience significant trauma as he lives through one thousand years per minute at the episode’s end. That their respective temporal manipulations can bring them such anguish supports the idea that they are, in fact, able to conceive of time in this distinctly human way.

The two primary characters in the episode “San Junipero” also display a definitive awareness of time, and such awareness is even the root of the episode’s main conflict. Yorkie and Kelly both elect to “upload” their minds to the San Junipero database as a means to virtually inhabit the bodies of their youth, thus enabling them to live unencumbered by their advanced age, failing health, and real-world circumstances. However, they are not entirely on the same page regarding their long-term plans—at least not at first. At the start of the episode, they are both essentially taking a “trial run” of San Junipero; once Yorkie’s real-world self passes away, she plans to keep her mind in the simulation forever. Kelly, on the other hand, has her reservations. Yorkie tries to get her on board with eternity when she says, “You could have forever,” to which Kelly replies, “Forever. Who can even make sense of forever?” (00:50:22-00:50:26). This inability to comprehend eternity betrays a distinctly human perception of temporality—the concept of forever does not coalesce with how we as mortal beings understand time. In Time, Death, and Eternity: Reflecting on Augustine’s “Confessions” in Light of Heidegger’s “Being and Time,” philosophy scholar Richard Severson explores Heidegger’s ruminations on humanity, which state that “death is the ultimate futural possibility for authentic human existence” (8). Because the San Junipero simulation seemingly allows characters to sidestep death, it denies them the one definitive futural possibility that humans take for granted. In this moment, Kelly’s simulated self cannot begin to fathom life without death, and it is precisely her inability to do so that cements her character’s authentic humanity.

It is later revealed that Kelly’s loyalty to her family is holding her back from committing to this digital afterlife—her real-world daughter passed away before San Junipero existed, and her late husband chose not to use San Junipero because their daughter never had the chance. This scene presents an explicit juxtaposition between this character’s perception of mortal time and infinity. Despite her youthful appearance in the San Junipero simulation, Kelly has lived a full life, the length of which makes it all the more difficult for her to reckon with eternity. Through gritted teeth, she tries to explain her long-standing devotion to her husband: “Forty-nine years. I was with him for forty-nine years. You can’t begin to imagine . . . the years I gave him, the years he gave me . . . You want to spend forever somewhere nothing matters?” (00:51:59-00:53:58). Kelly’s ability to reflect upon the length of her marriage reveals that she can engage in the very human activity of taking account of time; however, the way in which her character emphasizes just how many years the couple spent together adds more nuance to the discourse. Although forty-nine years is a considerable amount of time within the span of an average person’s life, it is still quantifiable. Kelly knows exactly how long forty-nine years is because she lived it. Yorkie, on the other hand, did not have the same chance to experience all that forty-nine years can bring in her physical life, let alone a love that lasts as long. Still hurting from the loss of her family, Kelly lashes out at Yorkie: “You can’t know the bond, the commitment, the boredom, the yearning, the laughter, the love of [our marriage]” (00:52:05-00:52:20). Alongside the many arguably positive qualities she lists, “commitment” and “boredom” stand out as particularly mundane; their place among the more romantic aspects of long-term love shows that forty-nine years is too long a time to be without struggle. When Kelly is asked to consider what eternity could offer, she can only reflect upon her real-world, quantifiably temporal experiences—she knows first-hand that forty-nine years is a long time. Forever is inconceivable.

[2] The “real” Yorkie uses the San Junipero simulation because, in her early twenties, a horrific car accident left her completely paralyzed. She got into the wreck immediately after her ultra conservative family reacted negatively to her coming out. Thus, she did not have the same opportunity to experience love, or any other sort of romantic relationship on her terms in her physical life.

The impossibility of forever is similarly on display in “White Christmas,” when Joe suffers an especially cruel temporal manipulation in the final scene; after confessing to his crimes, he is victimized by the detectives who have been supervising Matt’s undercover interrogation. Once Matt is released and the investigators prepare to leave for the night, one of them remarks, “[I] changed the time settings [on Joe’s simulation]. Cracked him up to a thousand years a minute. There’s a proper sentence” (01:10:19-01:10:32). Although one thousand years per minute over the course of one night is technically quantifiable in a way that infinity is not, the monotony of so vast a sentence puts immeasurable strain on Joe’s consciousness in much the same way conceptualizing and experiencing eternity might. If we return to Heidegger’s idea that an authentic human experience necessitates a final death, we can begin to understand why Joe’s fate rings so inhumane: to be human is to exist definitely, within a conventional temporal timeline. Thus, we may conclude that Joe’s infinite sentence is inhumane because he is a temporal being who is forced to live outside of the realm of temporality.

Part Two: Community and Eternity
But what is it about the San Junipero simulation that makes that version of eternity so attractive to most? What is so heavenly about this digital eternity as compared to the hellish simulation in “White Christmas”? In the next portion of my paper, I will examine how the passage of time affects these characters’ sense of community and, conversely, how community impacts their willingness and ability to confront infinity.
When Matt initially manipulates Joe’s sense of time in “White Christmas,” he does so to create an implicit rapport between the two—as well as a sense of entitlement. It is Christmas Day when Joe walks out of his bunk and into the kitchen; Matt is apparently in the Christmas spirit as he tells Joe that he wants the two of them to eat, drink, and—most importantly for Matt’s purposes—talk with one another, exclaiming lightheartedly, “Come on, what’s it been, five years? How many sentences have you said to me? Three? I mean, I’m exaggerating . . . a little. Come on, there’s a little bit of a conversational drought happening here. My ears need water” (00:02:41-00:02:55). In this scene, the artificially produced time allows Matt to act as though he is owed Joe’s engagement; the illusion of having spent five years in complete isolation with one other person creates an intimacy that Matt exploits to draw the confession from Joe. Joe’s belief that he has spent a significant amount of time with another person creates space for vulnerability, reflection, and, ultimately, confession. He listens attentively as Matt confesses the past wrongs that he claims brought him to the cabin, explaining that he used to have a side job as a sort of digital pickup artist and that, in addition to massively and illegally violating others’ privacy, he was found indirectly responsible for one of his client’s deaths. The illusion of a previously established rapport works in conjunction with Matt’s openness to inspire reciprocity, as Joe feels compelled to share his own wrongdoings with Matt in return.

This false sense of intimacy is the closest thing we get to community in this episode; once Matt and Joe’s crimes are out in the open, both of these characters are made to endure punishments that forcefully limit their social interactions. When Joe lives through a thousand years per minute at the end of the episode, he does so in complete isolation. Modern research indicates that such solitude is physically and psychologically taxing, even without the threat of eternity. In their review of selected evidence on the nature of social isolation as a facet of the human “connection continuum,” psychologists John T. and Stephanie Cacioppo suggest that loneliness has the potential to “impair executive functioning, sleep, and mental and physical well‐being . . . contribut[ing] to higher rates of morbidity and mortality” (57). However, Joe is not a physical person, but a simulated one; his mental health does not affect him physically because he lacks any sort of physicality. Thus, without the promise of relief that sleep or death might normally bring, Joe must forever dwell within his painfully isolated, impaired mental state.
Joe’s cruel social condemnation is presented side-by-side with that of Matt, whose deal with the detectives turns sour once he succeeds in prompting Joe’s confession. After Matt returns to the physical world, he shares the following exchange with the investigators at the police station:
MATT. So, the deal? I break a confession from him and I go free, right?
DETECTIVE 1. We’ll make good on the offer. You’re free to go, Mr. Trent . . . with some caveats.
MATT. Caveats?
DETECTIVE 1. You’ll be on the register.
MATT. What register?
DETECTIVE 2. The one for peeping Tom pervs. (. . .)
MATT. What does it mean, this register?
DETECTIVE 1. It means you’re blocked
MATT. By who?
DETECTIVE 1. By everyone. (01:07:53-01:08:40)

Rather than receive jail time for his crimes, Matt was led to believe that he would be released after his job with Joe was done. Instead, the legal system offers him “freedom” with one glaring limitation: he is universally blocked. He leaves the police station and slowly walks through a Christmas market, hesitant and disoriented. Every single person in his line of sight is now a gray silhouette. He cannot hear the chatter of the market-goers—singing carolers and loud men peddling roasted chestnuts sounds only like a droning, muffled hum. This block goes both ways; as a newly registered criminal offender, others see him as a bright red silhouette, a warning to all that he could be a danger to society. This scene calls into question what it means to truly be “free.” Yes, Matt has successfully evaded jail time, but this universal block will impose upon him a sort of solitary confinement that is difficult to imagine. He is free to roam the city, but he will never again be able to verbally communicate with another living person, severely diminishing his ability to develop meaningful social relationships. In this sense, both Joe’s simulation and Matt’s physical self face similar degrees of social isolation—the difference being that Matt still exists within a mortal timeline, and thus has the freedom to yield to sleep, death, and any other manner of physical release.

While much of Joe and Matt’s suffering in the final act of “White Christmas” seems to stem from their inability to form interpersonal relationships, it is Yorkie and Kelly’s ability to control their social environments in the San Junipero simulation that affords them the opportunity to find love and achieve self-actualization—both of which make the concept of eternity infinitely more bearable. When Kelly is initially against San Junipero, it is because she is only thinking about her mortal loved ones and cannot conceive of an eternity without her family by her side. By the episode’s end, however, she is content with her choice to stay in San Junipero because she has found a new family in Yorkie, and, with this new-found love, she is ready to face all that eternity has to offer. In Yorkie’s case, San Junipero grants her the social and romantic freedom that she never knew in her physical life; whereas in the physical world she was denied the chance to fall in love, she is able to be her most authentic self and love without fear of persecution in San Junipero. These two women ultimately overcome any fear there may be of an infinite unknown so that they may choose each other, and that is not where the choices end.

There is no dearth of social choices in San Junipero, a fact that ultimately plays a hand in making this version of eternity more palatable. Both residents and visitors of San Junipero have the freedom to change their physical appearance and aesthetic time period at the drop of the hat. Yorkie and Kelly first meet in the 1980s simulation, and later, when Kelly gets frightened by the feelings she develops for Yorkie, the former is able to “hide” from the latter in the early aughts simulation. This era-hopping works like a sort of harmless time travel; there are none of the consequences usually associated with time traveling because nothing they do in the “past” could ever affect the “future”—every time period occurs simultaneously, in different components of the San Junipero database. Their limitless ability to time-hop promises a healthy mix of variety in their eternity, thus adding extra insurance against the menacing monotony that forever might ordinarily bring. Yet I feel it is important to note that even “forever” is a choice in San Junipero. During the scene where Yorkie tries to convince Kelly to stay, the former explains that they can spend “however long they want” in the simulation. Yorkie says, “You can remove yourself like that” with a snap of her fingers, and asserts, “It’s not a trap” (00:50:26-00:50:33). Because San Junipero only promises the potential for forever, eternity is not a condemnation, but a reward—not something they’re forced to experience, but something they have the freedom to choose for themselves.

Conclusion
Although both “White Christmas” and “San Junipero” employ temporal manipulation and interpersonal connection in ways that inspire the viewer to question the nuances of the human experience, they use nearly opposite methods to do so—such differences may be categorized under the terms “subhuman” and “superhuman,” respectively. In “White Christmas,” human characters are repeatedly forced to live through subhuman conditions; their temporality is constantly in flux owing to external manipulation, and their ability to interact with others is severely inhibited, if not completely snuffed. “San Junipero,” on the other hand, presents ways in which temporal manipulation and social relationships may be harnessed to produce an ideal vision of human existence—a superhuman reality. The primary characters never lose their autonomy within the simulation as they remain in complete control of their own timelines and social interactions. They are free to be themselves, fall in love, and socialize as part of the San Junipero community; they have the option of eternity, but they are not stifled by eternity in the way that Joe is.

With this reasoning in mind, I contend that “White Christmas” and “San Junipero” are thought experiments that emblematize two sides of the same coin: the first, a subhuman nightmare in which temporal manipulation and forceful social limitations are used as means of exploitation and punishment, and the second, a superhuman dream where characters are empowered to define their time and relationships on their own terms, even outside the realm of mortal temporality.

Works Cited
Brooker, Charlie. “San Junipero.” Black Mirror. 2016. Netflix Television.
Brooker, Charlie. “White Christmas.” Black Mirror. 2014. Netflix Television.
Cacioppo, J.T. and Cacioppo, S. “Social Relationships and Health: The Toxic Effects of Perceived Social Isolation.” Social and Personality Psychology Compass, 2014, 8: 58-72.
Gorner, Paul. Heidegger’s Being and Time : An Introduction. Cambridge University Press, 2007.
Miller, Liz Shannon. “‘Black Mirror’ Season 3 Review: New Genres, New Talent Give Anthology Series an Upgrade.” IndieWire. IndieWire, 21 Oct. 2016. Web. 10 May 2020.
Severson, Richard, and Klemm, David E. Time, Death, and Eternity: Reflecting on Augustine’s “Confessions” in Light of Heidegger’s “Being and Time”, 1990, pp. ProQuest Dissertations and Theses.
Tattam, Helen. Time in the Philosophy of Gabriel Marcel. Modern Humanities Research Association, 2013.

By Lisa Haugen

what is intimacy
if all that can be mutually found is
the abrupt and aloof denials
the orders
of discord, of chaos?
It is in the softness of subtleties,
the delicacy of awareness,
the tenderness that recognizes
itself
rippling and reflected and resonant in
another—
and it’s in all the strategies
we use to keep it selective,
even deceptive,
held at arm’s length.
Under the influence of one’s
own sphere,
intimacy is in the space
given
the gradual time
taken
as instruments are gently
brought into harmonic tune.

By Lisa Haugen

            It’s just after solstice in Sonoma County where the summer evenings are often warm and breezy and bright. I’m walking on my favorite nearby trail along a creek. Any trail I walk seems to be my favorite, though this gets the greater claim by default for its being the most-often-trodden. I see a woman approaching on her bike at some speed. An older man is on the other side of the trail, also approaching me. He’s a little unkempt, maybe, a very little, a little bent over, just a little bit. A little bit shabby, just a very little. He has a warm and pleasant somewhat spacey smile and fumbles with putting his mask on his face when he sees me. The woman on the bike calls out “on your left.”   
            I’m used to people and bikes navigating this trail fluidly together. I actively gauge the distance between the three of us. I’m going to pass the man by some several yards before she gets there. The space between is more than enough for her to pass even if the man and I were to create a bottle-neck. I don’t see any indication that he’s heard her call out, but the situation suddenly has my mouth clammed up as this woman approaches with another firm, insistent, “on your left,” as if there is a thing I or he should know to do and are somehow not knowing and not doing: this feeling is familiar and old, but unexpectedly new to the context.
           
            It isn’t a feeling of confusion for my own sake: everything looks well to me. It’s confusion about what she is asking to change and why—from my vantage point, all of our paths look clear.

On your left? I’m hardly aware, in my solid good mood, that some part of me is second-guessing. Does she mean she is on my left? I’m on my left, is she talking to me on her right or him on her left? Maybe she’s telling me to move to my left? —I edge all the way to the left side of the trail, just in case. In fact, I walk off the trail and into the mowed brush alongside it, though there is little of mowed brush to be had before it drops down a steep bank to blackberry brambles below. And still she is slowing down now and seems to be asking for more room? The man is walking on the far right edge, his own left and hers. I speed up to pass him sooner, and notice as I do he starts drifting to the middle of the road. Uh oh, I think, but know better than to try to get the man’s attention about the oncoming bike, now. In his own half-dreamy world I can tell he will be slow to the alert and possibly confused or disoriented for a moment if I do. He might step right into her path in response to me before he sees her coming toward him.
            The woman on the bike calls out again, though I’ve picked up speed to allow a bigger gap for her to navigate, making her passageway between the two of us pedestrians as wide as I possibly can. Nevertheless, she’s slowed down even more, as if the opposite were true. As she passes me, I mentally gauge the distance between the man and I and see that she has more than enough room to move around him, even if he’s drifted to the middle of the trail. She’s slowed down enough now to maneuver safely if he’s somehow still in her way. There’s room for both of them on the trail, and maybe it’s a minor inconvenience, but I’ve watched bikers on this trail navigate such failures of pedestrian attention swiftly and surely many times.

No reason for this to escalate. I turn and keep walking.
            Then I hear her crash.

I turn back and greet her frustration as she exclaims, “you wouldn’t listen!” Her accusatory tone immediately arrests the emotional portion of my concern for her tumble. The man is bending down to help her, and she says, “don’t touch me, get back.” I might say the same, I reason, casting myself in her proverbial shoes. I approach too but stay back, as she asked. It looks like her feet are strapped to the pedals and I’m concerned about whether or not she needs help getting back up, and how we can help her if she doesn’t want anyone near her—which she might not, because social distancing? She’s lying there, looking stuck and not moving at all to free her feet. I wonder if she can. The man is there and saying something apologetically. She answers him, a little embarrassed, a little cross: “I was having to slow down so much I fell, you weren’t listening.”
            “I don’t think he heard you coming,” I speak up as the man is backing up a little. “And bikes are supposed to yield to pedestrians, anyway. Are your feet attached to the pedals?” I ask, understanding growing in me that with her feet strapped down like that, she couldn’t have simply put one down to steady herself if she lost her balance. Wow, I would not do that! I do not have that kind of confidence on a bike! I reflect appreciatively. That would freak. me. out.
            “I’m fine,” but she looks down, having let go of the handlebars, grasping her knee instead. She makes a sound like she’s nursing something that hurts. I still can’t tell if she’s injured or stuck and needs help getting up. Is she mildly scraped, or maybe really bleeding—or just needs some time to recollect herself? She isn’t doing anything to free her feet or get up. She speaks again: “I said ‘on your left,’ like three times and you didn’t move.” She’s talking to the man but I’m aware she’s talking loud enough to include me, too. The man mumbles something oddly apologetic again and I ignore it. His ignorance isn’t a crime. And though she was responsible for yielding, none of us are happy that she fell and is hurt. The man and I both want to help her, at least to make sure she’s okay, being the people nearby when she fell.
            “Are your feet attached to the pedals?” I ask again.
            “You’re supposed to move to the left—”
            “Bikes yield to pedestrians,” I affirm. “Bikes yield to everyone, pedestrians yield to horses—we all yield to horses,” I add the last with a touch of humor.
            “The sign back there says you need to yield to the left,”
            I recall often seeing the bright yellow sign she’s referring to, whose arrows indicate whom yields to whom, not in any particular direction. I understand the concept of passing on the left, but it hadn’t ever been a thing in my experience on trails—especially this flat, paved one—that anyone clung hard and fast to. I tend to prioritize the reality of the trail itself and consider individual parameters moment to moment when deciding how to yield and in which direction.

            There is no “the left” on a trail going openly both ways. We’re all relating to each other, perceiving and projecting in relation to one another.

I reminded myself that I’d been passing the man walking slower than me to my left—at the asked for distance of at least six feet—and made sure she had plenty of time and space to pass. I was in too good a mood to be very phased but still felt a little dumbstruck. What more was she expecting or wanting out of the situation?
            “Are your feet strapped to the bike?” I ask again. “Do you need help getting up? I can see why that was tricky, not being able to put your feet down.” I say with some warmth I hope is disarming.
            It isn’t. She ignores what I’ve said—a game we both seem to be playing—and refers obstinately again to the rule of yielding to the left. The feeling of her words is unbudging: blame.
            And I feel pretty clear: no blame.
            Some other people are approaching at a recreational pace on their bikes. I realize this woman really doesn’t need or want any help. She’s wanting someone to blame. The man was happy to oblige, and then I wrecked it. She’s let go of her knee and is still sitting in the middle of the trail. I say again, “Bikes yield to pedestrians. The only rule is about who yields to who.”
            “Well, if everyone would just follow the rules, no one would get hurt,” she bites back.
            “That’s an interesting belief,” I answer before turning on my heel and walking away, oblivious to the anger that had left the conversation just ahead of me. I review the situation in my head, assessing it as thoroughly as I can, still feeling very . . . well, not blamey, nor blameable, as I reach the bridge. And, as we’re at a bridge, please forgive a bumpy transition from present to past-ish tense.
            “As long as we all follow the rules no one gets hurt—yeah right,” I muttered out loud just as I started to cross. I’d caught up to the wave of anger and it began to blend with the lighter mood I’d been in. I let it blend, my thoughts churning up a multitude of recent events: Covid; protests; a text discussion I’d had earlier with another grad student about violations against immigrants; bits and parcels of my own life. I don’t need much of any of that to bring what had been combining in me to a hot simmer.
            Then I wondered briefly if I was being unreasonable. Had my own ego simply been wounded by being wrong? Was I truly picking on someone who was down? I reconsidered the sign I remember seeing. I’d looked at it often, and I couldn’t recall seeing anything about passing on the left. Maybe I’d missed a new sign? I wonder, my head in a glass-lit cloud of self-doubt.
            The emotions simmering in me send up clarifying steam: why would I rely on a fixed and arbitrary rule to tell me what to do on a trail with possibly shifting and unpredictable conditions? It isn’t marked out like a road. It isn’t metaphorically parallel with street traffic: there is no trail-users test and license I must take and pass and carry with me and solemnly swear I will abide by all these rules as long as someone is looking and I feel like it (I usually do) and nothing else occurs that becomes more immediately important to me than the traffic rules . . .

I highly doubt people who use the trail want or welcome that kind of coloring book rigidity built in to it. Some guidelines and commonalities, mutual understandings are great, they’re part of the trail—the trail seasoned with the herbs and salts of easy, comfortable camaraderie, bright and loud or quiet and subtle, with degrees of nuance in-between. And a light touch of the peppers of annoyance, for variety.
            I’m rather used to the trail being at times crowded by bikers moving as fast and confidently as they please, passing on whatever side makes sense for them and I do the same—move or stay put on whichever side makes the most sense based on what I can observe in the moment a bike is approaching. How many are approaching at what speed, distance and interval? What other people or obstacles might they or I also need to maneuver around? I enjoy the quick attention and thoughtful calculation I give these matters for other people’s ease and mine, sometimes also considering the wisdom of watching my step: not everyone picks up after their dogs, and nobody picks up after their horse.
            On a trail I get to have fun with and put to creative use the hyper-vigilance developed in my formative years, with their less-than-fun conditions.
            I’ve crossed the bridge. What would you do if a horse, a bike, and a pedestrian were all trying to get by at the same time—I’m still angry-but-lighthearted as I make my way swiftly down the rocky bank to the creek’s edge and sit down in my favorite spot, the pleasant mixture of mint and damp vegetation wafting in warm gentle currents tickled by gnats, tree fluff, and something heard-rather-than-seen that issues a minuscule high-pitched wheedling of a buzz.
            If a bike is approaching at X miles per hour where two pedestrians are walking opposite directions on opposite sides of a trail roughly 8 or so feet wide, and everyone must stay six feet apart…
            What do you do when the man (or I) just won’t listen?
            What do you do when he innocently has no idea you’re behind him, and then when he does find out, can’t process what you’re saying and what is happening fast and well enough to keep you safe? What do you do when your left is my right, and I am stubbornly self-focused in ways that take all of us into account even when you would like me to be only you-focused, instead?
            What does blaming either of us serve?
            My mind drifts back to the text conversation I’d been engaged in earlier, where I’d described forcibly removing children from their mother as the true violation of a boundary—not the “illegal” crossing of a Federal or State border; an imaginary crime across an imaginary line. It’s a literal projection that justifies traumatic abuse and separation.
            Well, they broke the rules. The rules that keep everyone “safe,” I consider darkly.
            I hear approaching conversation and whizzing wheels as two bikes Ker-clunk Ker-clunk … Ker-clunk Ker-clunk across the bridge. The snippet of the bikers’ conversation rises then falls away:
            “and the laDY JUST STOOD THERE LECturing at her,”
            That settles in. I’m the lady. I fume. So that’s the story? I tell the truth and ask if she needs help and then like a game of telephone, she gets to misconstrue what happened and and and . . . but *I’m* the nice one: some defiant part of me leaps to its spirited feet, running after them—haunting after them with my own version of the story. I start to try to reel it in, but decide I know better, and let it go. I really didn’t want to reel it back in with the emotional energy of that self-righteous indignation on the line, anyway.

Better to let it run itself tired and come back when it’s ready.

If you were watching (and you weren’t, thank you, otherwise I’d have no reason to write this), you’d only have seen boring me, boring breathing and boring looking at the sky, half stung, half bemused and only just a little confused, knowing that once upon a time, that would have made me cry.
            And now, it doesn’t. Not even a stirring, not a whisper of a tear, though I cry readily enough at other times. Maybe just an echo somewhere in there. A ghost, a boring one that glances briefly up from whatever other better story it has found to read deep in the depths of me, a furrow of up-turned attention momentarily creasing its ghosty brow, before it turns back to the tale clasped in pale, rather wrinkled, shimmery hands.
            I exhale loudly. I feel centered, good, even though my thoughts are still grasping after wanting to have been right. And that was just wrong.
            The trunk of my beliefs, though, is that they’re allowed to have their version of the story. And I can have mine. It’s okay to be misunderstood.
            I feel good. That feels right. That is the truth, whatever they believe.
            And since when has there ever been a set of rules in any society that worked for everybody?
            Not anywhere in history.

I get up after a bit, cross the creek, climb the bank on the other side, and start walking back, glad to know now that sometimes bikers might be actively planning to pass on the left. It’s another consideration added to the social swirl of calculative data on my favorite little local trail. I’m glad to know now that sometimes bikers might have their feet trapped—attached to the pedals, unable to put their foot down to stop quickly or balance themselves. I wonder a little at the bravery, the gusto, the confidence, the skill that could empower a person to literally strap their feet to a bike and go. I can’t imagine myself ever doing that. But if I ever did, you can bet I’d slow myself down to a fall, too.
            As I’m walking back home, I look up at the sky and my mouth pops open underneath the mask I inconsistently remember to take off when no one is near me: I see this amazing, eagle-shaped cloud—so distinctly formed with a hooked beak, huge sweeping wings, even a little blue space for the eye—it looks just like the eagle in the post office logo. Priority mail! Clutched in its beak is the whispy cloud shape of some much smaller spread-winged bird. Dinner. Karma?
            Welcome to America! Where if we all just follow the rules, no one will get hurt.
            I’m nearly home and thinking more generously about the incident as a whole, understanding everyone has been on an edge of near-helpless frustration at times in this pandemic-stricken socio-political climate, though my anger remains. It is something new now, though: a tight little gnomish ball that is still raving about that mean woman for telling a mean story about me and trying to blame her accident on someone else, and she is mean and bad and should be punished, no no no, stop liking her, stop being nice to her, or thinking nice about her, she should be punished! Punished punished, mean bad, no! and it waves its fists and stomps and keeps talking as I envision cupping it in my hand, inside my chest as it rages away.
            A block’s walk of meditative attention to this manifestation of my anger, thus, transforms it to a mouse. Delighted, I think: how cute and soft you are. Annoyed at being so diminutively perceived, it bites my imagined internal hand, hard. Ouch. I drop it and it runs into a hole in the wall, somewhere in me. Internally I shrug, and visualize leaving it some cheese. I don’t like cheese, it huffs in response to the gesture, but I’m already happily considering all the other things I can offer that it might like better.

And I’m eager to tell the story.

By Lisa Haugen

Discrimination is a form
of personal disorientation—
it’s not the same as differentiation.
Discern, don’t discriminate
integrate
“turn from fear to love”
“all violence stems from hate.”
When you look outside
you’re always seeing
inside.
Learn to navigate.
Self-regulate.
If you must (and you must) expostulate
then take some time to let go
rest, reinstate peace, don’t shun
but engage in some creative interpolation.
Use your imagination:
don’t be afraid to create the world you want to see
because love will always rise
to fill the gaps
between you and me.

By Anthony Abuan

Abstract

Reading Paradise Lost requires cognitive and interpretive dissonance between the Biblical and Miltonic Genesis narratives. Milton’s reconceptualization of words towards his own narrative utility is a hallmark of his writing. Inconsistent with his internal monologue, Adam labels Eve as “adventurous” upon recognition of her transgression (IX.921). By disassociating “adventure” from its genre conventions, Eve, Satan, and the Fall may be reassessed in a new light of the Miltonic “adventure.” While anti-feminism surrounding Eve endures as a virulent strain of PL interpretation, new criticism demonstrates a significant need to reassess Eve both as a character and a potential heroine. This reassessment will not dismantle the historically dominant readings of PL that are suspicious of a prelapsarian Eve and vilify the fallen Eve as ontologically wicked – yet perhaps understanding Eve through a new context may destabilize older readings. When reassessed as a heroine on a fated intellectual adventure, Eve resonates with the heroism and romance of a knight-errant. Through examining what I call adventure politics, I seek to expose the emotional and intellectual texture of Eve’s character and role within PL and its counterpoint intersection with Satan’s adventure narrative. Milton employs adventurism in both Satan and Eve which resonates in the registers of theme, theology, and ideology. Articulating classical epic form, Satan embarks on a literal adventure full of peril and obstacles which he must evince. Emerging as an English Christian epic heroine, Eve engages in intellectual adventurism which is fraught with inner vulnerabilities, insecurities, fallacies, and consequences that she must overcome.

Errant Eve:

The Adventure Politics of Paradise Lost

Milton, as Achsah Guibbory observes, “is one of the most serious of poets” and that seriousness “was grounded in the view of the poet’s responsibilities” and that his “writing was driven by an educative, redemptive purpose” (Guibbory 73). To this end, Milton did not shirk away from redefining, reconceptualizing, and reimagining key terms in all his writing to fit the exact purpose he intended. A historical overview of the following definitions of adventure which the OED has flagged as long obsolete will be of significant value considering their usage leading up to Early Modern English. As the OED indicates, adventure may be “a chance occurrence or event, an accident” or simply the concepts of: “chance, fortune, luck” (“adventure, n.” def. 1-2). This is a useful framework to establish as Milton’s attempts towards a redefinition are grounded in the conceptual plasticity found here. Furthermore, adventure may also take the form of “any undertaking the outcome of which is uncertain” or merely “a test of luck” (“adventure, n.” def. 6). Lastly, as this will especially relate to the case of Satan’s articulation of adventure, it also may be  “a course of action which invites risk…a daring feat or exploit” to “a political or military venture, action, or policy” (“adventure, n.” def. 4-7). It is difficult to work through those definitions and not draw immediate parallels to Eve. Milton delineates classical adventure (led by Satan) versus intellectual, internal adventure (led by Eve) throughout the overarching text of Paradise Lost (PL) that is observable in the significant uses of “adventure” throughout the text.

Intellectual ambition and adventure are hallmarks of Milton’s PL in terms of plot, characters, and the poetic project as a whole. Riggs observes the crucial theme of “intellectual ambition” in the “exhilaration of new knowledge [as it] confronts the cautionary lesson of” Milton’s Eden and the entire text (Riggs 376).  This ambition resonates across Milton’s other writings as well; numerous commentators have drawn parallels between PL and Areopagitica in terms of the moral and ethical responsibility Milton foists upon the reader as rigorous, necessary work (Rumrich 148, Guibbory 73). Creaser sets this out in terms of “the most sustained account of life as perpetual quest and trial, as wayfaring that is also warfaring, without arrival or final victory” (Creaser 166). The very language commentators must summon up to discuss Milton is inundated with the rhetoric of adventure – though Creaser slinks back from that assertion to state that the Miltonic “quest is guided by momentous certainties: that a just and loving God exists” and “a redemptive faith is accessible to all” (Creaser 169). This is a significant point to bear in mind in turning to the first employment of adventure in PL as the poet-narrator opens up the entirety of the poem and project in asking the Muse to “Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song” (1.13). The interpretive effect of this line is three-fold. First, this line establishes a literary lineage between Milton and his novel, Christian epic and the Classical epic canon and their poets. Second, it aligns the poem’s plot with the adventure genre conventions of those Classic epics. Third, it affirms and anticipates the daring nature of Milton’s project itself: his theodicy to “justifie the ways of God to men” (1.26). Remarkably, Milton collapses this significant amount of exposition into the simple, yet freighted adjective usage of “adventurous” (1.13). As Fallon observes, Milton’s theodicy gives the illusion of tame piety while being truly and “audaciously, presumptuous and, from the prevailing Calvinist perspective, even damnable” (Fallon in Corns 329). Adventurous song, indeed.

The earlier Books of PL follow Satan along a demonic adventure cycle that articulate many conventions of Classic epic form and resonate with early English literary history as well. From the hero emblems Satan carries such as his shield and spear to the numerous, exhaustive lists and catalogues of allusions, Milton takes great authorial pains to indicate the conformity of his epic within the form’s tradition (1.284-94). As many commentators have noted, PL stands in unique conversation to Spenser’s The Faerie Queene and as Guibbory observes Milton’s admiration of Spenser’s representation of life “as a series of temptations or trials in which humans must make choices, rejecting evil and choosing good” so that both hero and reader “enact the arduous process of discerning the good in a complex, deceptive world” (Guibbory 75). Once more, we are presented with the conceptual connections between PL and Areopagitica (cf. Psyche passage in Hughes 728). As noted by Guibbory, Milton’s “Edenic nuptial bower recalls not just Spenser’s good Garden of Adonis but Acrasia’s evil Bower of Bliss” (Guibbory 81). To this end, Milton’s attempts to “assimilate to Christianity the literary and ethical legacy of the classical world” is evident in the larger thematic cross-textual conversation unfolding between PL and TFQ (Guibbory 74). Milton punctuates much of Satan’s early actions in the text with notions of adventure. After hearing the exploit Satan has resolved upon, Rebel Angels dread “not more th’ adventure then his voice / Forbidding” (2.474-5). As the adventurer Satan embarks alone, the Rebel Angels scout Hell’s landscape “on bold adventure to discover wide / That dismal world” (2.571-2). After this reconnaissance, “the adventurous Bands / With shuddering horror pale, and eyes agast / View’d first thir lamentable lot” (2.615-7). Sin in discussion to Death refers to their “adventurous work” in bridging Hell to Earth (10.253). In their last appearance, the Rebel Angels await “each hour their great adventurer” from his far-off exploits (10.440), and Satan articulates this sentiment himself in his speech citing their victory “by my adventure hard / with peril great atchiev’d” (10.467-8). Considering these numerous examples, Milton contextualizes the exploits of Satan and his demonic crew as adventurous. Milton rarely plays into the conventions of genre, so this suggests a darker irony in his employment of adventure here. This is not to say that Satan’s adventure is a false one, but one that is drastically corrupted by the faults of Satan as its hero. Fallon notes the central problem with the Hell sequences is that the rhetoric of Hell is “marked by incomprehension and contradiction, as they wander wide of the truth in their efforts to understand and improve their hopeless situation”; Fallon further indicates that the emblematically paradoxical image of Hell being “darkness visible” (1.63) “signals an intellectual murkiness” along with the visual murkiness it expounds (Fallon 333). Milton, the ever-stern polemicist, sets out a vision of Satanic adventure as exciting, but flawed.

With the adventure framework of PL’s early books in mind, the prelapsarian Eve is introduced as a character already tending towards an internal, intellectual adventure. Eve’s primary concerns after being created are to determine: “where / And what I was, whence thither brought, and how” (4.451-2). This alone does not evidence the grander sense of intellectual curiosity that I am suggesting she articulates, yet as several commentators have noted Eve’s primary concerns are distinctly different than Adam’s after creation. His first questions are of “how came I thus, how here?” and in anticipation of a hierarchy answers himself “by some great Maker then” to which his question moves towards “how may I know him, how adore” (8.275-80). Adam’s questioning of the world around him leads him naturally (in the space of half a line) towards the notion of a higher power. While many commentators latch on to this as Milton’s signaling towards male superiority – it should be stressed that in order for Adam to arrive at the conclusion of God – he first must reject himself. The whole sequence reads “how came I thus, how here? / Not of my self; by some great Maker then, / In goodness and in power praeeminent” (8.277-9, emphasis mine). Eve’s questions are brought into stark contrast when compared with this passage. To this end, Eve relates that “I thither went with unexperienc’t thought” to lay “on the green bank, to look into the cleer / Smooth Lake, that seemd to me another Skie” (4.456-9). The exterior elements and natural phenomena of Eden are encounterable and experienceable, and Eve’s curiosity and interest in them suggests a specific intellectual register in her character or what Riggs terms as “her cognitive signature in the poem” (Riggs 369). This is interesting when considering a signature or mark of authenticity in relation to Eve beholding her own reflection. Here, there is a clear link to the Narcissus myth noted by critics (Riggs 368, Forsyth 257). Milton embeds an alluring sense of symmetry in the text through the parallel “I started back / It started back” (4.462-3) perhaps as a means of mimicking the Narcissus myth. Eve seeks answers in the reflection; Milton gives the slightly cheeky response with the reflection’s “answering looks / Of sympathie and love” (4.464-5) before both Eve and narrator sternly check these notions as pining with “vain desire / Had a voice not thus warnd me” (4.466-7). Forsyth notes this as an extension of uxorious PL interpretation which suggests that Eve herself is susceptible to her image (Forsyth 257). Milton’s construction of Eve’s origin narrative registers an allusive connection between her and the pantheon of Greek mythology. Riggs aptly notices the fragility of this origin narrative in relation to “her story being poised against cultural materials heavy with moral implication” (Riggs 368). The cultural material economy of the poem which Riggs notes here is expansive and often favors Greek mythology in these earlier books.

Eve poses an interesting space in terms of how Milton is at once engaging with Christian and secular narratives. This liminal space is made all the more apparent in the first words said to Eve by Adam: “back I turnd, / Thou following cryd’st aloud, Return fair Eve” (4.480-1). Riggs is apt to note how Adam and Eve’s “dynamic has originated in error and whose first recorded words…register loss” (Riggs 368). The adventure politics I argue for registers this passage as Eve already being upon a path lit by curiosity and intellectual adventure. When Satan first spies Adam and Eve, the reader is given a significant visual account of the Edenic pair. Wittreich makes an astute general note that “if the intellectual density of Paradise Lost, its textual ambiguity and slippery perspectivism, opens the poem up to interpretive confusions, those confusions have been multiplied and exaggerated by the critical history Milton’s poem has occasioned” (Wittreich 96). The critic’s remarks are useful to negotiate the highly controversial territory of the poem in Milton’s initial physical characterizations of Eve: 

Shee as a vail down to the slender waste

Her unadorned golden tresses wore

Dissheveld, but in wanton ringlets wav’d

As the Vine curls her tendrils, which impli’d  

Subjection, but requir’d with gentle sway,

And by her yeilded, by him best receivd,

Yeilded with coy submission, modest pride,

And sweet reluctant amorous delay. (4.304-11)

This passage stands as a unique example of Milton’s brilliance through poetic maneuverings. What begins as an innocent enough depiction of Eve’s hair issues out into a larger and much commented on abstraction of her character. The enjambment of her curls “which impli’d / Subjection,” (4.307-8) is somewhat of a smoking gun in misogynistic PL interpretations, yet the more compelling phrase to the adventure politics I note is what follows: “but requir’d with gentle sway” (4.308). This, along with the prolonged rhyme finally realized with “delay” (4.311), gestures towards something a bit more complicated than a mere singular phrase being an interpretive skeleton key to Eve’s character. I argue that the “sway” (4.308) Milton poses here resonates with Eve’s concluding remarks that “with that thy gentle hand / Seisd mine, I yielded” (4.488-9). The reader is given an example of what this yielding exactly looks like. Contrary to what some commentators would project upon this passage, Eve is not imprisoned by Adam nor in absolute captivity. While “seisd” (4.489) does denote possession and carries connotations of ownership, this becomes more of a semantic problem than an interpretive one as “held” would function in much the same way. It is also important to note the gentleness of Adam’s hand and the willingness with which Eve yields. These might appear to be ushering the reader towards some sort of natural hierarchy in Eden, yet the employment of sway over subjection in the earlier passage conveys a clear sense of power and agency. Eve is able to internally and intellectually register herself as a subject that requires sway in the larger repertoire between herself and Adam. This sense of agency is also within her initial assessment of Adam through the slight humor evident in Eve stating “methought [Adam was] less faire, / Less winning soft, less amiablie milde / Than that smooth watry image” (4.478-80). The multivocal nature of PL is important to bear in mind when considering a passage such as this; the content of speech alone is not sufficient to interpret the larger movements within the text – one needs to consistently and scrupulously consider to whom a given character is speaking and the ways in which a certain audience might recontextualize a passage, its intent, and ultimately our own reading.

A brief survey of critical responses to this sequence in the text is useful in establishing a framework to the discourse surrounding Eve and the implications of this introduction. Dobranski notes the ways in which this passage has “raised doubts about [Eve’s] virtue” (Dobranski 342). J. Hillis Miller concludes that this “disheveled wantonness means that she has in effect already fallen” (qtd. in Dobranski 342). Several critics including Dobranski, Wittreich, and Forsyth reject Miller’s reading for good reason. While there is great deal of interpretive plasticity PL offers, an “already fallen” prelapsarian argument is perhaps a bridge too far. Wittreich jabs that this passage “is bait, not ballast for a deconstructionist reading, [and] bait swallowed with astonishing ease by J. Hillis Miller” (Wittreich 86). Forsyth draws a productive link between Eden’s “wanton growth” (4.629) and Eve’s “wanton ringlets” (Forsyth 269). Wittreich takes these descriptions and challenges the notion that they are intended to provide “evidence of Eve’s ‘subjection’ and…an impression of Eve’s fallenness” to which the critic concludes “Milton’s strange and slippery text eventually will check, if not cancel” this impression (Wittreich 86). Guibbory reminds readers that “Milton drew on the libertine tradition in describing the role of Eve’s ‘coy submission’ before the Fall” to marshal “adequate resources for representing Adam and Eve’s prelapsarian married sexuality” (Guibbory 83). Dobranski argues that Adam and Eve’s hair “both convey[s] an amorous reciprocity and signif[ies] the paradoxical strength and fragility of their Edenic marriage” (Dobranski 339). In relation to the adventure narratives mentioned earlier, Dobranski offers a Classic hero lineage to these descriptions of hair in noting that “in the Iliad, Homer describes Zeus and Poseidon as long-haired, and Achilles, Agamemnon, Hector, and Paris all have thick, long locks” (Dobranski 339). Wittreich argues that “Milton’s portrait of a disheveled, wanton Eve, [is] a figuration that is at odds with and challenging the orthodox depiction of a woman subjected” (Wittreich 87). One of the key moments where Eve’s intellectual adventurism is pulled into focus is during the discussion of separation on the fateful morning of the Fall. Eve’s arguments are posed as significant questions towards their Edenic condition as follows: “How are we happie, still in fear of harm?” (9.326) and “who rather double honour gaine / From his surmise prov’d false, finde peace within[?]” (9.332-3). This is followed up by an intertextual connection to Areopagitica’s “fugitive and cloistered virtue” in Eve’s asking “what is Faith, Love, Vertue unassaid / alone, without exterior help sustaind?” (cf. Hughes 728, 9.335-6). Here, Eve articulates a type of heroism in which Milton has reserved to the “true warfaring Christian” discussed in Areopagitica. Eve articulates a type of adventurism in her willingness to have her faith tested. There is an inventiveness and curiosity about the world around her that these passages are emblematic of. This is further evident in her concluding assertion that “Fraile is our happiness, if this be so, / And Eden were no Eden thus expos’d” (9.340-1). Eve’s critique draws upon a specific sense of uncertainty and chancery that registers her thinking as adventurous in many earlier discussed key ways.

The most crucial passage from the Temptation is Satan’s recontextualization of eating the apple as one that allowed him to “not onely discerne / Things in thir Causes, but to trace the ways / Of highest Agents, deemd however wise” (9.681-3). This is doubled down on by Satan’s rhetorical questions that ask “if what is evil / Be real, why not known, since easier shunnd?” (9.698-9) and his conclusion that the prohibition was meant “to keep ye low and ignorant” (9.704). There are significant similarities between Comus’ rhetoric of temptation in A Masque and Satan’s here. Yet where Comus’ rhetoric was geared towards ease, Satan’s gestures towards an epistemological temptation. This is the most significant factor towards interpreting the Fall as an intellectual adventure for Eve. There is a Satanic connection to the way in which Eve relates eating the apple to Adam. During the temptation after Satan has piqued Eve’s interest in the fruit, the narrator signals Satan’s next speech with: “To whom the wilie Adder, blithe and glad” (9.625); this description resonates heavily with the later retelling of events: “Thus Eve with Countnance blithe her storie told” (9.886). The repetition of blithe interconnects these two sequences which fits quite well as they somewhat bookend the major point of the poem’s plot. The sequence of events that follows this moment are crucial to the adventure politics argued for here. Adam, after processing the transgression Eve has committed, breaks his internal silence “First to himself” (9.895) in a way that is drastically different than what he will say aloud. Internally, Adam casts this act as Eve being “lost…on a sudden lost, / Defac’t, deflourd, and now to Death devote[d]” (9.900-1). These lamentations continue with Adam’s acknowledgement of horror in how Eve “yeelded to transgress” and “to violate / The sacred Fruit forbidd’n!” (9.902-4). Although Adam never appears to be the most apt student – he cuts to the quick of the issue here in assessing that “some cursed fraud / of Enemie hath beguil’d thee, yet unknown, / And mee with thee hath ruind, for with thee / Certain my resolution is to Die” (9.904-7). Yet all of this is only internal for Adam. All is withheld as he formulates a response to the narrative Eve has just related. His spoken response to her begins “Bold deed thou hast presum’d, adventurous Eve, / And peril great provok’t” (9.921-2). Thus, Adam is the first to recognize Eve as an adventurer. There are a wide range of possibilities to why Milton chose to have Adam’s response to Eve diverge internally and externally as two distinct responses, and other critics have noticed the significant difference as well. Wittreich notices this same process with Satan as well as Adam in relating that “there seems always to be a discrepancy between what they think of Eve and what they tell her directly” (Wittreich 90). This provides further evidence of PL’s multivocal nature.

            As Adam and Eve grapple with the consequences of transgressing, they cycle through rather unproductive emotions in coming to terms with their condition. At the end of Adam lashing out at Eve in the height of the text’s misogyny, the text relates

He added not, from her turn’d, Eve

Not so repulst, with Tears that ceas’d not flowing

and tresses all disordered, at his feet

fell humble, and imbracing them, besaught

His peace, and thus proceeded in her plaint. (10.909-13)

This passage offers a normative vision of the act of supplication with Eve at Adam’s feet. Yet there are a few significant points to the image Milton leaves us with here. First, Eve disobeys Adam’s command to get out of his sight and in her continuation of this dialogue with him. Second, the text affirms to readers that Eve is “not so repulst” (10.910) by Adam at his arguably worst. Lastly, this moment should be considered in contradistinction to Eve’s golden disheveled tresses in all their prelapsarian beauty. Her tresses now are “all disordered” in a state of distress and disarray (10.911). Milton uses disorder sparingly in PL, yet it should be noted that it is not necessarily in a negative context (cf. “Light shon, and order from disorder sprung” 3.713). This possibility of a positive disorder begins to recontextualize this moment as a bit more hopeful than one may initially perceive it to be.

One of the most important aspects to the intellectual adventure Eve has embarked upon is that her prelapsarian sensibilities and curiosities about the world around her have endured. She brings that sense of inventiveness and problem-solving to the deeply conflicted emotional terrain she and Adam traverse in Books 9 and 10. Eve, in an attempt to assess the best course forward, applies creative problem-solving to their condition and comes up with creative resolutions in “Childless thou art, Childless remaine” (10.989) and “Destruction with destruction to destroy” (10.1006). The idea being either to deceive Death or to meet it on their own terms – both ideas are emblematic of adventurous responses to her circumstances. Eve exposes the emotional texture of her remorse in “cries importune Heaven, that all / The sentence from thy head remov’d” to be placed upon “Mee mee onely just object of his ire” (10.927-36). After expressing this, Milton indicates the bourgeoning sense of penitence which Eve essentially invents as Eve “ended weeping, and her lowlie plight, / Immoveable till peace obtain’d from fault / Acknowledg’d and deplor’d, in Adam wraught / Commiseration” (10.937-41). There is a palpable extinguishing of animosity and bitterness in this sequence evidenced by “his heart relented” (10.941) and “his anger all he lost” (10.945). The creative force of Eve’s character and her willingness to engage in intellectual adventure pays off in the meditative, quiet reflection Book 10 ends on.

At the conclusion of PL, Eve is a demonstrably more developed character than the one introduced in Book 4. One of the subtle ways Milton signals this to reader is in her concluding speech that is set off by “And thus with words not sad she him receav’d” (12.609). This evidences Eve’s more developed sense of agency in these final passages which is further suggested by her manner of address to Adam and her knowledge of “Whence thou returnst, & whither wentst, I know” (12.610). This is a significant departure from the initial inquires Eve poses after her creation, and the intuitive nature of Eve’s education has been remarked upon by numerous critics. The expulsion from Eden configures the beginning of a new, human narrative which is registered in the emotional texture of the final lines. Yet Eve stands ready to meet this new adventure as indicated in her remarks “In mee is no delay; with thee to goe, / Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, / Is to go hence unwilling” (12.615-7). This passage gestures towards a sense of an internal Eden that Adam and Eve could never be expelled from. Fallon notes that our attendance to “the intellectual contexts helps us to see the great adventure of Paradise Lost is as much Milton’s adventure as it is the adventure of creation, fall, and redemption of humankind” (Fallon in Corns 347).  To this end, Eve’s larger adventure narrative Milton constructs is foisted back upon the reader in the end to untangle and find value in. In this light, Eve may be read as a female knight errant as she willingly goes in pursuit of internal, intellectual adventure. Various waves of criticism have gazed down upon Eve from an interpretive vantage point of privilege and within cultural systems that find value in male superiority. Wittreich remarks on the necessity of “reinterpreting Paradise Lost in the light of a continually emerging and expanding critical consciousness” (Wittreich 98). Milton’s Paradise Lost endures as a textual space because it offers endless interpretations and reinterpretations through the complicated network of associations, allusions, and redefinitions that is at once contradictory and exhaustively logical. 

Work Cited

“adventure, n.1-7” OED Online, Oxford University Press, November 2020, http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/2923. Accessed 20 November 2020.

Creaser, John. “‘Fear of Change’: Closed Minds and Open Forms in Milton.” Milton Quarterly, vol. 42, no. 3, 2008, pp. 161–182. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/24462119. Accessed 16 Dec. 2020.

Dobranski, Stephen. “Clustering and Curling Locks: The Matter of Hair in Paradise Lost.” PMLA, vol. 125, no. 2, 2010, pp. 337–512. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/25704429. Accessed 17 Oct. 2020.

Fallon, Stephen M. “Paradise Lost in Intellectual History.” A Companion to Milton, edited by Thomas N. Corns, Blackwell Publishing, 2003, pp. 329-347. Print.

Forsyth, Neil. The Satanic Epic, Princeton University Press, 2003, pp. 239-284. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt7rwjm.4. Accessed 17 Oct. 2020.

Guibbory, Achsah. “Milton and English Poetry” A Companion to Milton, edited by Thomas N. Corns, Blackwell Publishing, 2003, pp. 90-108. Print.

Milton, John, and Merritt Y. Hughes. Complete Poems and Major Prose. Indianapolis: Hackett Pub., 2003. Print.

Milton, John, and Dennis Danielson. Paradise Lost: Parallel Prose Edition. Dennis Danielson. editor, Broadview Press, 2012. Print.

Riggs, William G. “The Temptation of Milton’s Eve: ‘Words, Impregn’d / With Reason.’” The Journal of English and Germanic Philology, vol. 94, no. 3, 1995, pp. 365–392. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/27711182. Accessed 3 Dec. 2020.

Rumrich, John. “Radical Hetrodoxy and Heresy” A Companion to Milton, edited by Thomas N. Corns, Blackwell Publishing, 2003, pp. 141-156. Print.

Wittreich, Joseph. Feminist Milton. Cornell University Press, 1987. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.7591/j.ctvr697zg. Accessed 12 Nov. 2020.

About the Author

Anthony Abuan (he/him) is a graduate student in the English Literature M.A. Program at San Francisco State, where he is also pursuing a Certificate in the Teaching of Composition. In Spring 2020, he received degrees in English Literature and Modern Jewish Studies from San Francisco State. Anthony was the 2020 recipient of the Cunningham Scholarship, the 2018 recipient of the Linda Mazursky Kurtz Scholarship; he was also a 2018-19 University Research Fellow at the JFCS Holocaust Center in San Francisco. Anthony’s work ranges from narratives of diaspora, persecution, and exile to Kabbalistic and Jewish Mystical traditions in literature. Anthony also focuses on English Literature of the 19th Century with a profound love of George Eliot’s works.

By Samer Dabit

Initially perceptible as a pair of texts lacking correlation and connection, Carl Franklin’s 1995 film adaptation of Walter Mosley’s 1990 novel Devil in a Blue Dress and Gilroy’s 2014 film Nightcrawler, can be read upon closer inspection as deeply engaged in a singular conversation. Although varying considerably in tone, this interconnected dialogue is united through subject matter; the role of race and class in Los Angeles, and the lengths to which marginalized individuals will go to ensure their survival in inhumane economic, social and political systems. Taxonomically categorized as neo-noir films, these texts utilize classic  noir themes of the blurring of lines of morality, alienation within the cityscape, and dissatisfaction with the existing social order. They additionally incorporate contemporary issues such as racial profiling, digital journalism, and mainstream political discussion topics regarding capitalist economic policy in order to reflect a more modern context. Though tonally and temporally disparate, Carl Franklin’s Devil in a Blue Dress and Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler share central themes of intersection between racialization and socioeconomic status in Los Angeles, the marginalization of minority communities, the inherent corruption and ineptitude of law enforcement, and restriction in mobility within the cityscape.

Though both Franklin’s Devil in a Blue Dress and Gilroy’s Nightcrawler utilize and contextualize race in Los Angeles in order to complicate the functional ramifications of late stage capitalism, they are differentiated through their employment (or lack thereof) of cultural touchstones. Franklin’s film is distinguished by its usage of African-American music, art, history and vernacular, opening up on a shot of Harlem Renaissance artist Archibald Motley Jr.’s Bronzeville at Night. Depicting the Bronzeville neighborhood of Chicago, which operated as a safe haven for African-Americans seeking to migrate from the South, the utilization of this particular painting emphasizes the importance of an explicitly Black community in fostering support and connection in Easy Rawlins’ narrative. The portrayal of the Los Angeles cityscape in this film is one shaped by the spaces, boundaries, and racial ties shared between the minority characters, as well as the over policing, brutality, and socioeconomic hardships that impact the material conditions of their communities. Shefrin argues that “the South Central neighborhood references the incongruities between the city’s purported image of colorblind attitude and its real history of spatial injustices.” Naturally, the structure of Rawlins’ journey is informed by discriminatory color lines, and limitations of mobility.

In this sense, Franklin’s iteration of twentieth century Los Angeles is both racial and racialized. Gilroy’s film, on the other hand, though intensely racialized, does not share the usage of the racial, with no explicit reference made to Rick or Detective Frotieri’s racial identities. The hustling bustling community of Easy Rawlins is translated into a sterilized metropolis devoid of humanistic modes, instead defined through strict terms of profit and a culture of carnage, one in which violence is racialized and commodified through digital media. In explaining to aspiring journalist Louis Bloom the type of footage KWLA prioritizes, News Director Nina Romina states that the viewership is most “interested in urban crime creeping into the suburbs…a victim, or victims, preferably well-off and white, injured at the hands of the poor or a minority.” (Nightcrawler 20:24-20:37) Although KWLA peddles and disseminates images and recordings of the grotesque and obscene, including traffic collisions, murders, and robberies, it does so not primarily for shock value, but to boost its own ratings and satisfy the appetites of its audience. It is this exploitation and scapegoating of the socioeconomically disadvantaged and racially marginalized that defines Bloom’s endeavors in journalism, working to push falsified narratives in order to fear monger, enflame race relations, and create capital through ratings and advertising revenue.  He fully embraces the quantified value system assigned to human life, bargaining prices for his footage based on the citizenship status, race, and wealth of the individuals or victims suffering. Much like Mr. Albright, he manipulates a young man of color struggling to maintain a stable form of housing in order to aid him in doing his dirty work. As previously noted, however, Rick is differentiated from Easy Rawlins by his complete lack of community, and seemingly weak ties to his Pakistani heritage. Little is actually revealed about Rick, aside from his homelessness, as he, like most of the other characters, is primarily defined through economic struggle, never shown outside of his work with Bloom, and reduced to his low status in the capitalist hierarchy.

Rather than Rick, it is Bloom who most mirrors the narrative trajectory of Easy Rawlins, as both protagonists are introduced as economically suffering individuals who ultimately are able to establish self-employment in fields that are exhibited to maintain the racial and socioeconomic status quo. Whereas Rawlins’ decision to pursue a career as a detective is fueled by his aggressive and dehumanizing experiences with the police, and is framed as the infiltration of a system used to brutalize African-Americans in order to reform it from the inside, Bloom’s founding of Video Production News is built on a basis of enforcing racial prejudice and reaffirming the callous capitalist structure that he is initially excluded from. Bloom is shown to be driven by a devotion to succeed under neoliberalism by any means necessary, adopting the jargon of the corporate world and incorporating it into his everyday life. Described by Tim Robey as “the worst possible byproduct of the American dream, raised on a vocabulary of pure business-speak, and lacking in a single human quality except cunning, drive, and oneupmanship,” Bloom is introduced in the very act of pawning stolen construction materials, exhibiting an unwillingness or even cognitive inability to recognize the consequences of his actions outside of the monetary yield. Orlando argues that “Lou [Bloom’s] immersion into the American gig economy reveals the networks of falsehood upon which this system hinges, and simultaneously lays bare the viewer’s voyeuristic desires to know the world from a distance.” (30) This argument is supported by the film’s portrayals of coexisting affluence and material scarcity in Los Angeles, creating a jarring dissonance between Bloom’s belief in enterprise and the lived experiences of those around him. These falsehoods permeate almost every piece of footage Bloom sells to KWLA, as he moves bodies, breaks laws, and even goes so far as to instigate crimes in order to maximize his value to the company, to the benefit of their ratings and himself.

Bloom’s unfeeling nature and antisocial behavior situate him as the ideal candidate for the occupation of nightcrawler or stringer, but fundamentally prevent him from forming genuine personal bonds with those around him. Trading human attachment for economic transactions, he instead  leverages power and capital in his interactions with others. His working relationship with Rick is framed entirely around his attempts to indoctrinate him into the same calculating ideology he lives by, paying him less than minimum wage, and perpetually postponing his employee review. Though Rick is shown to be complicit in Bloom’s crimes against humanity, he maintains a moral compass that creates aggravation and friction between the two, signalling his own commitment to treating others with dignity and desperation for employment. Bloom is also shown to leverage his newfound role as an asset to KWLA by blackmailing Nina into reluctantly entering a sexual relationship with him, threatening to cut off his stream of footage right when she is up for contract renewal. In doing this, Bloom exhibits an ingrained belief that those around him can be commodified for his own gratification, as the moral quandaries posed by his actions do not require consideration unless they hinder his ability to climb the ladder of success. Brayton argues that Bloom’s unspecified mental illness acts as a prerequisite, rather than a hindrance, for his success in late stage capitalism, stating that his “lack of empathy, remorse, and guilt, his manipulative and superficial charm is rewarded by the film’s ending; in a dysfunctional capitalistic society such attributes become positive rather than negative.” When considering the temporal context, Bloom’s sociopathy can be read as a direct result of the Great Recession, as he can be seen adopting the predatory corporatist behaviors of Wall Street in his business practices. By consistently placing Rick in increasingly dangerous situations, while he is filming from a safe and advantageous distance, he directly mirrors the same patterns of predatory lending, commodification of crisis, and deregulation of safety standards. Similarly to those who perpetrate white collar crimes, Bloom is never properly held accountable for his actions, while the downtrodden Rick ultimately takes the fall, and Nina is forced into reducing her own body into capital in order to maintain her career and livelihood.

Whereas community is decentralized and absent from Gilroy’s film, it plays an intrinsic role in both Franklin’s adaptation and Mosley’s original novel, portraying a tight knit community of African-Americans working not necessarily to altruistically support one another, but to maintain social bonds amidst over policing and racialized violence. As opposed to the machiavellian nature of Bloom, Easy Rawlins operates as a bastian within his community, recognizable for his home ownership and pride, intermingling within a network of interconnected people. Acting as a representative of attitudes contemporaneous with the publication of Mosley’s novel, rather than the actual setting of 1948, Rawlins’ self-regard and insistence on being treated with respect sometimes aid but often hinder him in his interactions with white people, a deficit counterbalanced by the assistance of his Black allies. Rather than working alone, Rawlins’ journey to find Daphne Monet is mediated and buttressed by his relationships with Coretta, Odell, Mouse, amongst others. Though violent, Mouse is shown to be an unflappable companion, indicative of what Jezawi describes as “an underclass reacting in self-defense.” (42) Unlike Bloom, Easy is shown to grapple with the moral questions resulting from his actions, wondering if he should turn Mouse in, but ultimately coming to agree with Odell’s mantra; “All you got is your friends..” (Mosley 225)  Though still divided by gender and socioeconomic status and quite capable of doing harm to one another, the African-American community of Mosley’s original novel is shown to prioritize collaboration and the sharing of resources and information, qualities Gilroy’s film portray not only as liabilities, but contradictory to the existing systems of America. Easy’s entrance into the profession of law enforcement indicates an optimistic hope that these systems can be changed for the better in order to become more inclusive and indicative of a wider range of lived experiences. His decision to become a self-employed representative of his community within the same structures that terrorize them daily results in several questions of whether these internal systemic reconfigurations are feasible, and whether the existing racial and class hierarchies can be gradually altered over time. Set almost seventy years later, Gilroy’s film answers these questions in bleak and certain terms.

Both texts are connected through their narrative decision to situate law enforcement as an impediment to the goals of the protagonist, with Devil in a Blue Dress emphasizing the existential threat of safety the police pose to Easy Rawlins, the lack of standard protocol followed, and the precautions he must take in order to avoid them while navigating Los Angeles. The profiling, bigotry, and threatening nature of this iteration of the police speaks directly to the Rodney King riots, which took place three years after the publication of Mosley’s original novel but two years before the release of Franklin’s film. Whereas Easy operates as a generally upstanding citizen, whose forays into violence are necessitated by his surroundings and the machinations of those who wield power over him, Bloom is shown to actively circumvent the law. In the opening scene of Nightcrawler, an interaction is shown between him and a security guard who catches him stealing fencing and other construction materials he plans to pawn, resulting in Bloom assaulting the authority figure and stealing his expensive watch. As a white man, he is not faced with the same context of barbarity Rawlins is, and continues throughout his exploits to literally push the boundaries of what law enforcement officials will tolerate, moving closer and closer to scenes of violent crimes in order to get the perfect shot. While filming these incidents is not technically illegal, Bloom does commit legal transgressions in order to maximize his profit, ranging from breaking into scenes of crimes to withholding information about suspects. Acting as a direct answer to Easy’s intent to reform the criminal justice and policing systems, Detective Frontieri, who displays herself to be most determined to put Bloom behind bars, is the only African-American character in Gilroy’s film. Unfortunately, despite her efforts to collect substantial evidence in her case against Bloom, and her ability to piece together the details surrounding Rick’s death and the ensuing civilian casualties, she fails to achieve her goal. Her accusations of murder are brushed off by Bloom as merely “unprofessional,” continuously using the cold calculating language of the job market to replace emotionally charged terms.

A rigid dichotomy can be read from the two iterations of police interrogation, one in which the innocent Rawlins is scapegoated, assaulted, and racialized, whereas the guilty Bloom is accused in a professional and organized manner, but does not face any consequences. Whereas Franklin’s film portrays the role of law enforcement as reinforcing the class, social, and racial hierarchies, driving home the constant patrols through Easy’s neighborhood, Gilroy’s film crushes the hopes of the individual minority members who seek to rehabilitate these systems from within. Despite Detective Frontieri’s vigilance, intellect, and upright standards of morality, she is unable to gain support within her precinct in pursuing Bloom, and watches as the same cycles of racialization and lack of accountability that likely drove her career choice continue. In this sense, law enforcement is yet another system Gilroy portrays as corrupt, not only because of its history of brutality, but because of its failure and ineptitude in processing the criminals who do most harm. Bloom’s disrespect and deception in his interactions with law enforcement highlight his racial privilege as another tool in his arsenal that he has no qualms about employing in order to protect his business interests and well-being. The lack of progress in systemic reform illustrated through the trajectory of Detective Frontieri illustrates an inherent dead end for the likes of Easy Rawlins, continuing to portray law enforcement as arbitrators of mobility rather than impartial enforcers of justice. These societal issues appear to be more relevant in our own modern context than ever, with recorded and widely disseminated footage of police brutality making continual headlines and impacting the public consciousness and psyche more than actual legislation. Though Franklin’s film seems optimistic about the social, economic, and racial future, it is Gilroy’s unflinchingly nihilistic film that appears more accurately to portray our current moment.

Mobility in the Los Angeles cityscape within these texts is shown to be mediated and restricted by boundaries of race and morality, lines the protagonists cross to create ripple effects on the people around them. Rawlins’ form of navigation prioritizes his own safety as his neighborhood is shown to be overpoliced and underprotected, initially operating exclusively within the bounds of social spaces denoted for African-Americans. The breaching of these racialized boundaries is directly shown to put Rawlins in harm’s way, as he is harassed, disrespected, and threatened by what Szmańko coins as “oppressive faces of whiteness.” She argues that these “faces of whiteness” operate within the spheres of property and labour relations, as well as the established social and legal systems, and Rawlins must confront these forces in order to maximize his own mobility in Los Angeles. The incident he faces when speaking to a white woman at the docks makes a point of the lack of action he must engage in to elicit reactions of rage, what Szmańko describes as “oppressive white masculinity denigrating blackness.” His interactions with the white passing Daphne Monet and her own narrative arc contribute to this overall messaging on the limitations of race on freedom to travel freely across racialized barriers. While Daphne is able to leverage her beauty and sexual appeal to enter social space meant for African-Americans, Rawlins must sneak into the hotel she is staying at in order to see her, as she is ironically staying in a separated “whites only” section. The very linkage between the two is shown to pose a threat to Rawlins, due to the history of white women commanding their racial and gender identity in order to marginalize African-American men through the false allegations of sexual assault. Although Daphne never does this, Rawlins expresses his discomfort with being seen with her, stating “Here I was in the middle of the night in a white neighborhood with a white woman in my car. I wasn’t nervous. I was stupid.” (Devil in a Blue Dress 41:43-41:51) His vulnerable status creates a hyper awareness of how others perceive his race, a trait he shares with Daphne, which shapes the modes and methods through which he navigates the city, choosing to take the long ways around in order to minimize contact with law enforcement, and appear as innocent as possible in the eyes of white people. This positions Rawlins as a daywalker, one who purposefully embraces the most cautious modes of mobility and standards of living in order to act as an honorable representative of his historically maligned racial group.

Unlike Rawlins, Bloom’s mobility is shown to be shaped through the lines of decency and limitations presented by the law and its enforcers. Though he puts Rick in more harm than he does himself, Bloom is shown to risk safety in order to maximize the quality of footage he is able to record, crossing police barriers as well as breaking and entering in order to do so. Rather than safety, Bloom’s modes of navigation are shown, above all, to be based on efficiency, forcing Rick to learn every highway route and memorize reported traffic conditions so he can operate as the navigator. As Bloom’s business model relies on timely, clear, and graphic footage, the delay of his arrival hinders his profit model, particularly if the paramedics or police arrive before they can. When Rick makes navigational errors on his first official shift of work, Bloom quantifies his mistake through the money spent on gas used in taking a wrong turn, allowing for no sense of humanity to exist while footage and capital are on the line. Bloom internalizes KWLA’s implicit motto of “If it bleeds, it leads,” not only tolerating the gratuity and bloodiness, but receiving an intense sense of gratification in witnessing and recording it. Because the viewing audience is not titillated or terrified by violence in urban communities, they primarily experience and record crimes committed against affluent white suburbanites, the direct beneficiaries of the systems that left them for dead, creating a sense of voyeuristic vengeance that Rick is repelled by and Bloom is enamored with. Orlando defines this elation Bloom experiences as a “socio-sexual pleasure,” pointing out his monitoring of his own progress by watching the broadcasts of his footage every morning. Mobility itself is shown to be absorbed into terms of capital, with more blocked off high level crime scenes promising bigger paydays and front page headlines, resulting in risk, rather than safety, acting as a primary economic motivator.

In analyzing the conclusions of the two films, one can read a cross-temporal expression of optimistic hope being met with brutal and frank realism. Franklin’s film ends on an almost saccharine portrayal of Easy Rawlins’ budding African-American suburbia, framed entirely in daylight, and buoyed by iconography of little girls playing jump rope with another, families having their pictures taken, and a literal pony being led down the block. The messaging of this finale seems indicative of a yearning for a more diverse and inclusive form of capitalism, one in which African-Americans can own their own homes, support each other in a healthy community, and develop the same levels of intergenerational wealth as their white counterparts. This desire to reform, rather than upheave, the existing capitalist system is one which has formed the basis of several platforms of Presidential candidates, including Elizabeth Warren and Cory Booker. The optimism portrayed by this ending rings hollow when considering the continuous patrolling of the same officers who harassed Rawlins, however, and Gilroy’s film operates as a harsh rebuke of these reformationist fantasies.

The closing scenes of Bloom expanding his enterprise, Video Production News, framed almost entirely in the dark, reiterate the cycle of carnage he works to exploit and eternalize, giving the same sales pitch to a new batch of interns. Orlando’s description of him as “a self-made psychopath tailored to the current economic climate” oddly mirrors the ways in which Rawlins is also a product of his era, working to overcome obstacles through dedication, hard work, and independence. Though Bloom shares these qualities, the denouement of Gilroy’s film explicitly argues that the systems of exploitation, brutalization, and racialization will not only survive but thrive as new members of the disenfranchised masses discover the monetary gains presented by the selling out of one’s allies and community. Ultimately, despite their tonal and messaging distinctions, both Gilroy’s Nightcrawler and Franklin’s Devil in a Blue Dress prioritize varying portrayals of the deceit and commodification necessary to survive under a late stage capitalist system, ranging from Daphne Monet’s desperation to hide her racial identity to Rick’s prolonged toleration of treacherous working conditions and subpar pay rates in order to guarantee inhumane housing standards. Though the conversation elicited by analyzing the films in tandem with one another is not a hopeful or auspicious one in regards to the future, it allows for us to more closely inspect the moral decay evident in our modern world, and the ways in which visual texts can portray patterns of societal attitudes across wide expanses of time. Through the examination of the intersections between portrayals of race, class, community, and capital as portrayed in popular media, a clearer and more all encompassing understanding can be reached of a world in crisis, the individuals who fight for one another, and the individuals who manufacture and commodify the catastrophes we find ourselves in the midst of.

Works Cited

Brayton, Sean. “The “madness” of Market Logic: Mental Illness and Late Capitalism in The Double and Nightcrawler.” Communication and Critical/cultural Studies 14.1 (2017): 66-82. Web.

Franklin, Carl, director. Devil in a Blue Dress. TriStar Pictures, 1995.

Gilroy, Dan, director. Nightcrawler. Open Road Films, 2014.

Jezawi, Hanan. “The Black Persona in American Hard-Boiled Detective Fiction.” Jordan Journal of Modern Languages and Literature 4.1 (2012): 35-50. Web.

Mosley, Walter. Devil in a Blue Dress: an Easy Rawlins Novel. Washington Square Press, 1990.

Orlando, Nicholas. “Deconstructing an Evil Fakeness: Digital Media and Truth in Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler.” Excursions (Brighton) 9.1 (2020): 28-44. Web.

Robey, Tim. “Nightcrawler, Review: ‘Jet-Black Laughs’.” The Telegraph, Telegraph Media Group, 30 Oct. 2014, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/filmreviews/11077789/Nightcrawler-review-jet-black-laughs.html.

Shefrin, Elana. “”Le Noir Et Le Blanc”: Hybrid Myths in “Devil in a Blue Dress” and “L.A. Confidential”.” Literature Film Quarterly 33.3 (2005): 172-81. Web.

Szmańko, Klara. “Oppressive Faces of Whiteness in Walter Mosley’s Devil in a Blue Dress.” Text Matters 8.8 (2018): 258-77. Web.

“Enduring Relationships: Difficult Times in Literature and Our Lives”

Brief Description

Interpretations is the annual peer-reviewed journal of literary criticism, theory, and creative works published by the Graduate Literature Association, the student-run organization for the Master’s in English Literatures at San Francisco State University. The journal showcases the highest quality graduate-level work in literature by students in the English Literatures program at SFSU.

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Project

Length: Academic papers (10-20 pages), Nonfiction (10-20 pages), Short Stories (3 – 10 pages), and Poems (1-5 pages).

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Briefly tell us about your submission in 150 – 250 words.

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Elizabeth Lyons-Beal

Released in 1988, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? is a beautiful blend of old and new—seamlessly blurring the boundaries of animation and live action within a midcentury American landscape. However, these are not the only boundaries the film blurs. Who Framed Roger Rabbit? takes place in 1947 and tells the story of Eddie Valiant, an alcoholic private investigator who, following the death of his brother/partner at the hands of a “Toon” (one of the many animated cartoons who inhabit this version of Los Angeles), vows to never again work with members of this group. However, when a famous Toon by the name of Roger Rabbit is framed for the murder of the equally famous inventor Marvin Acme, Eddie begrudgingly helps clear his name. Over the course of this film, paranoia, deception, adultery, blackmail, and mystery all pepper the screen as Eddie uncovers the truth behind this highly publicized murder.

Yet this movie is not an entirely original creation. It is loosely based upon Gary Wolf’s 1981 mystery novel Who Censored Roger Rabbit?, and consequently has the same general setting and many of the same characters.[1] One theme which is consistent across both works is the fear and marginalization of the “Other,” as Toons are treated as second class citizens in both iterations of the narrative. While this fear of the Other is a theme that is pervasive across the film noir genre, this is arguably the greatest similarity between the novel and film, as they do diverge in respect to many other classic noir tropes. Take, for example, the characterization of Roger’s wife, sexy leading lady Jessica Rabbit. While she is depicted as a sultry bombshell in both pieces, these characters’ behavior could not be more different. Is she a femme fatale? If not, how does she fit into the noir world? Likewise, the novel and film’s differing treatments of classic noir themes such as cynicism and fatalism render these two works distinct creative endeavors. In this paper, I will explore how the novel plays to classic noir tropes, while the film ultimately provides a brighter, more optimistic take on the noir vision.

“Who belongs where?”: Racial Inequality and Un-American Sentiment

Despite their fantastical, animated physicality, the Toons in both the novel and the film face discrimination that parallels that which marginalized people of color faced in the United States in the 1940s. This discrepancy in power is especially evident when the book alludes to characters working in service. When Eddie visits Baby Herman, a famous and successful Toon in the entertainment industry, he is first greeted by a human man as he inwardly remarks, “The ultimate Toon status symbol, a human servant, in this case a butler in full regalia, opened the door” (Wolf 11). Baby Herman employing a human in this way subverts the traditional social hierarchy between these two classes. The fact that this particular power dynamic—a human serving a Toon—is considered a “status symbol” reveals a marked disparity in the way in which Toons and humans are viewed by society in this setting. Eddie sees a more typical example of the working relationship between humans and Toons when he questions Rocco, a “human”[2] character: “Rocco crossed his legs so that two teeny-weeny trolls, gripping opposite ends of a third troll dipped in shoe polish, could seesaw across his immense upraised oxford” (39). This level of servitude on the part of Toons appears to be par for the course in this universe, as Eddie does not bat an eye at the self-deprecating display. This flavor of discrimination is reminiscent of that which people of color experienced in the 1940s, as racially marginalized people often had limited employment options and frequently turned to find work in domestic servitude. In Los Angeles at this time, it would be typical for a white family to employ a black or Latino domestic servant, and the roles would very rarely be reversed. The juxtaposing roles of humans and Toons in this landscape thus represent the oppression that marginalized communities were wont to face in 1940s Los Angeles.

Though the film shows neither humans nor Toons working in domestic servitude explicitly, it illustrates a similar sense of “racial” inequality in other ways, many of which are evident in the scene where Eddie sees Jessica Rabbit for the first time. R.K. Maroon hires Eddie to take pictures of Jessica Rabbit and Marvin Acme after her show at the Ink and Paint Club, a club which Maroon describes as a “strictly humans-only Toon Revue” (00:07:07-00:07:14). When Eddie arrives, it is clear that the club is exactly as advertised: all of the guests are human and all of the servers and entertainers are Toons. This segregation reflects the real world experience of black Americans in the 1940s. This club is “humans-only,” a racist signpost which also occurs at various junctures in the novel, e.g.: when Eddie rides the “humans-only elevator” to get to Carol Masters’ studio, or when he whizzes past several “human-only” and “Toon-only” bars in search of one that will accept both him and Roger Rabbit (Wolf 15, 20). This is a direct allusion to Jim Crow laws that, while alleged to keep black and white Americans “separate but equal,” merely served to oppress African Americans by limiting their civil rights. African Americans were not legally allowed to inhabit “white only” spaces as guests; however, they were often employed as servers or entertainers, catering to the demands and voyeuristic gazes of white customers. Therefore, the similarly segregated culture of the Ink and Paint Club captures the essence of Jim Crow; Toons are there only to serve humans through either literal service, or through superficial entertainment.

This extreme othering of Toons is a direct reflection of the xenophobic anxiety that plagues much of the film noir genre. In Dark Borders: Film Noir and American Citizenship, Jonathan Auerbach discusses the anxieties surrounding citizenship and national identity in mid-twentieth century America in relation to the sense of alienation evident in American film noir—alienation which he states, “corresponds closely to the Cold War’s redefinition of the rights and responsibilities of citizenship” (2). He notes that the period between the 1930s and the mid-1950s was a time of questioning for Americans who, finding themselves more and more fixated on the idea of national belonging, started asking questions: Who is American? Who is not? How can I know the difference? This final question was an especial source of anxiety for Americans during the beginnings of the Cold War, as the enemy (i.e.: communists) did not necessarily have a defined “look.” As a result, the noir genre blurs boundaries as perceived foreigners supposedly take over domestic spaces, leaving noir protagonists feeling like “strangers in [their] own home” (6). Auerbach expands upon this idea by relating it to Freud’s concept of home and the uncanny:

Freud’s emphasis on the concept of home certainly makes an analysis [of the nation-state] available, as a number of his examples indicate: “Is it still heimliche[3] to you in your country where strangers are felling your woods?” . . . The uncanny in this regard is primarily a matter of trespassing or boundary crossing, where inside and outside grow confused as (presumed) foreigners enter domestic space and, conversely, the home reveals dark secrets hidden within. To feel that your home is strange, or more precisely, to feel like a stranger in your own house—this is the peculiar condition of citizenship intensified by wartime security measures, as well as a primary emotion driving many films noirs of the 1940s and 1950s (6).

Because the enemy could presumably be anyone hiding in plain sight, the home takes the shape of an eerie, boundaryless place, leaving noir protagonists with no strong sense of belonging. As “strange” Others begin to fill a space, potentially outnumbering the dominant position of the self, the idea of strangeness becomes jumbled: who is the “strange” one, if the previously dominant, majority group is rendered no more than a minority? This dynamic shift leads to a perceived loss of identity and feelings of alienation, as the owner of the space begins to feel like a “stranger” in their own country. Eddie Valliant’s prejudice against Toons—and specifically the frequency with which he must confront humanoid/human-passing Toons—evoke a similar sense of isolation, prompted by the uncanny boundary-crossing that he faces in an ever diversifying Los Angeles.[4]

            Both the novel and the film touch upon the uncanny concept of “crossing the line,” a process wherein humanoid Toons live their lives presenting themselves as human. The book first introduces the concept as playful speculation, when Eddie notes “a common belief that certain humans—Babe Ruth, Mae West, the Marx Brothers . . . were really humanoid Toons who had crossed the line” (Wolf 20). This idea comes into play at various other points in the novel: Eddie remarks that humanoid Toons such as Jessica Rabbit will often suppress their speech bubbles[5] in order to appear more human-like, and it is later revealed that both Rocco and Dominick DeGreasy’s birth records indicate that, contrary to their humanoid presentation, they were born Toons and have, therefore, “done an excellent job of crossing the line” (199). Likewise, this phenomenon also occurs in the film, when villain Judge Doom reveals that he has been a Toon in disguise all along (01:28:58-01:29:30). In each of these instances, characters intentionally cross the line, trespassing into an otherwise inhospitable world, in order to gain something that would otherwise be unattainable for members of their class: Jessica suppresses her speech bubbles to diversify her modeling prospects, enabling her to model in both human and Toon advertisements; Rocco and Dominick DeGreasy become human to bolster the success of their cartoon syndicate, and Judge Doom passes as human to achieve a position of authority within the Toon community so that he may ultimately destroy Toontown to satisfy his wicked greed. Eddie Valiant, who generally dislikes and distrusts Toons in each iteration of Roger Rabbit, finds that he must navigate Los Angeles as an uncanny space—Toons are infiltrating institutions that, prior to 1947, were typically reserved for humans. As the “inside and outside grow confused,” per Auerbach, Eddie is left questioning what he perceives to be the natural order of Los Angeles and, by extension, the United States as a whole. Therefore, Eddie’s anxiety surrounding the “How can I know the difference?” question, as it pertains to the dichotomy between humans and Toons, echoes the American versus un-American sentiment of the mid-twentieth century, and its presence in both the novel and film reflects the xenophobic fear that pervades the film noir corpus.

“Is she bad, or is she just drawn that way?”: Jessica Rabbit as a Femme Fatale

While the novel and the film both show Toons as marginalized “Others,” reflecting the xenophobic anxiety conventional within the noir genre, there are key differences that distinguish the film Who Framed Roger Rabbit? from its crime novel inspiration. One noticeable difference between the novel and the film is the depiction of Roger’s wife, Jessica Rabbit. Both versions of Jessica Rabbit utter the famous line, “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way,” but this statement is apparently debunked in the novel as Jessica shows that she is, in fact, “bad” by many definitions of the word. On the other hand, film-Jessica, while still mysterious and sexually tempting, proves herself to be loyal and trustworthy when Roger Rabbit and Eddie Valiant need her most. So, can we in good conscious call Jessica Rabbit a femme fatale in the book? The film? The fatal woman trope is ubiquitous in literature and culture; women have often been depicted as entities who serve to tempt, seduce, and corrupt men—after all, everyone knows that it was Eve who tempted Adam in the garden.[6]

In “Film Noir’s ‘Femme Fatales’ Hard-Boiled Women: Moving Beyond Gender Fantasies,” Julie Grossman offers a definition of the femme fatale, saying that she can be characterized as an “evil [woman] whose raison d’être is to murder and deceive.” However, she argues against the conventional wisdom of the noir genre by submitting that the majority of the noir women characters we refer to as “fatale” are unfairly categorized as such. Grossman submits that these women are acting largely out of necessity:

Exigency for most so-called femmes fatales moves these women to express—in aggressive physical and verbal gestures—an insistence on independence, which is then misread as the mark of the “femme fatale.” Readings of and references to the “femme fatale” miss the extent to which the role depends on the theme of female independence, often misconceiving her motives and serving mainly to confound our understanding of the gender fantasies that surround these so-called bad women. Such myths are perpetuated now both by film criticism and popular culture (21-22).

Many of the noir women frequently referred to as femmes fatales are not actually evil, murderous or deceitful, per Grossman’s definition of the trope. Instead, it is the gendered expectation that women be mild and virginal that lends to the characterization of independent, sexually expressive women as “bad.” Taking this disparity into account, other scholars define the femme fatale not by her intentions or by the content of her character, but rather by the effect that she has on noir men. James Maxfield examines noir women who are “‘fatal’ to the hero but who are not themselves evil or deliberate agents of the hero’s destruction as the classic femmes fatales . . . are seen to be.” He submits that the true theme of these movies could, therefore, be regarded as “male anxiety over . . . vulnerability” (Kaplan 5). These frameworks undoubtedly complicate Jessica Rabbit’s status as a femme fatale, which then begs the question: is she “bad”? Or is she “just drawn that way”?

            The Jessica Rabbit in the book, Who Censored Roger Rabbit?, often acts in her own self-interests and frequently uses her sexuality to get her way. This version of Jessica leaves her sleazy beau Rocco DeGreasy and apparently marries Roger on a whim and, after a year of marriage, leaves Roger as suddenly as she appeared and returns to Rocco. When asked about his brother’s turbulent relationship with Jessica, Dominick DeGreasy insists, “Sure she came back to him, but only when she found out that the rabbit couldn’t give her what Rocco could. She was out for nobody but herself” (Wolf 77). Similarly, the photographer character, Carol Masters, believes that Jessica is a gold-digging social climber. Masters alleges that, following Rocco’s death, Jessica will move on to his son for his inheritance: “If Little Rock inherits Rocco’s estate, Jessica’s number comes up, and she wins big. She’ll marry him and live happily ever after on his money. If he doesn’t inherit, she’ll rip him into teeny pieces and toss him into her wastebasket” (114). Now, please bear in mind that both of these allegations, although incriminatory, are merely second-hand accounts. Even more damning are the instances where Jessica herself offers to sleep with Eddie in exchange for his help and compliance, “[using] her body as currency with a shrug and a smirk” (Flowers 23). Moreover, she all but admits to goading Carol Masters and Little Rock into murdering Rocco, ensuring that she would reap the benefits Rocco’s inheritance—either directly (should she be named in the will), or through seducing Rocco’s son and other potential heir, Little Rock (Wolf 189). Though this plan ultimately does not come to fruition, Jessica’s willingness to inspire murder and to seduce men for personal gain does place her under both Grossman and Maxfield’s definitions of the classic femme fatale: she is murderous, despite never actually pulling a trigger, she deceives by way of feigning love and affection for men from whom she has something to gain, and, even looking past her intentions, she ultimately brings her unlucky male suitors to their untimely ends.   

            However, the Jessica Rabbit audiences see in the film, Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, is more nuanced in her characterization. With seductive eyes, a sultry voice, and cartoonishly flattering proportions, film-Jessica undeniably captures the aesthetic of the fatal noir woman. However, the parallels become thinner when one examines the content of her character. While there are instances where she uses her sexuality for apparently dubious purposes, she always does so with the intention of helping her husband. After Eddie photographs her seemingly committing adultery by way of a game of pattycake, Jessica reveals that she is merely a pawn in R.K. Maroon’s scheme: Maroon needs some dirt to blackmail Marvin Acme, so he threatened to blacklist Roger if Jessica did not agree to pose for those pictures (00:22:29-00:23:23). As she relates this information to Eddie, she stands firm in her loyalty to Roger, saying, “I’d do anything for my husband, Mr. Valiant…Anything,” implying that she is willing to do sexual favors for Eddie if it means she is able to help her husband, as she has apparently done in the past (if pattycake counts as sexual, and it seems to) (00:47:45-00:47:50). Additionally, though she is not afraid to resort to violence, she only does so to protect “the good guys”: Eddie and her husband, Roger. She saves Eddie’s life when she shoots at Judge Doom, whom she frightens away in the nick of time (01:14:14-01:14:17). Similarly, she unapologetically knocks Roger unconsciousness with a frying pan and puts him in Eddie’s trunk to protect him from incurring further harm (01:14:45-01:14:58). Though her methods are not necessarily conventional, film-Jessica’s love and devotion for her husband fuel her every move, and she is an invaluable asset to the noir protagonist. Thus, the film iteration of Jessica Rabbit is not a femme fatale, but a femme faux-tale. Her hypersexualized physique may give her the appearance of the classic fatal woman, but to call her a femme fatale because of the way that she is “drawn” is to demonize her sexuality as something inherently evil or destructive—an unfair categorization. Even applying the broader definition of the femme fatale as one who is defined not by intent, but by the disastrous effect she has on the noir protagonist, it is clear that film-Jessica does not fit the bill. She is by no means a deceitful temptress, and she does not contribute to anyone’s destruction or fall from grace. The film’s iteration of Jessica can thus be categorized as a character who, despite having the requisite “look,” is playing against the stereotypes of the femme fatale: a femme faux-tale.

“Will lady luck pay you a call?”: Fatalism in Roger Rabbit

            The differences between the novel and film versions of Jessica Rabbit reveal the underlying distinction between the novel and the film as a whole: despite the larger than life, fictional world in which the novel takes place, Who Censored Roger Rabbit? plays the noir tropes surprisingly straight. The femme fatale’s very presence threatens devastation, the protagonist struggles with the notion of identity (resulting in prejudice against the “Other”), the reader never knows who to trust, and the ending is just as bleak as the one might expect from a conventional noir crime novel. Even the prize for which many characters compete is an ode to that of noir stalwart The Maltese Falcon (1931).[7]However, the film veers in a much lighter direction:[8] Jessica is loyal and morally upright, not villainous; Eddie’s prejudice against Toons is given a sympathetic back story (a Toon killed his brother), and he slowly becomes more fun-loving and accepting; Judge Doom provides a very clear antagonist; and the ending is quite literally sunshine and rainbows. Many of the film’s changes can be traced back to a different relationship with fatalism, a philosophical worldview that is common within the noir genre. A fatalist—one who ascribes to a fatalistic perspective—is defined as one who:

. . . thinks he cannot do anything about the future. He thinks it is not up to him what is going to happen next year, tomorrow, or the very next moment . . . It would, accordingly, be pointless for him to deliberate about what he is going to do, for a man deliberates only about such things as he believes are within his power to do and to forego, or to affect by his doings and foregoings. A fatalist, in short, thinks of the future in the manner in which we all think of the past. (Taylor 56)

This mindset is a prevalent theme in noir, as protagonists find that, no matter what they do, they cannot escape that which would appear to be predetermined. Many significant plot points in the novel Who Censored Roger Rabbit? illustrate the fatalist philosophy in surprising, nonconventional ways. 

            Firstly, much of the novel’s action revolves around the idea of the temporary “duplicate,” a clone that Toons can produce at will, usually used as stunt doubles, errand runners, or alibies (in Roger Rabbit’s case). Duplicates look, act, and think exactly like their creators; the only caveat is that they disintegrate after just a few days or so, depending on the amount of effort that goes into their manifestation. The “real” Roger Rabbit is killed within the first few chapters, and it is his remaining duplicate who wants so desperately to solve the mystery of who shot the real Roger before the former’s inevitable disintegration. This format, a victim becoming his own private investigator, is also the plot of noir classic D.O.A (1949). In The Red and the Black: American Film Noir in the 1950s, Robert Miklitsch describes the unusual opening scene of this film, in which protagonist Frank Bigelow takes to the police station:

… since the sign on the door says “Homicide,” we suspect that the man has come to the police station to report a murder, and the ensuing laconic exchange between the police captain and the man appears to confirm our expectations: “Man: I wanna [sic] report a murder.” “Captain: Sit down. Where was this murder committed?” “Man: San Francisco last night.” “Captain: Who was murdered?” It’s only after the last question that we finally get a reverse shot, the camera cutting to a close-up of the man’s face before he declares—after a long pause—“I was.” (98)

In both D.O.A and Who Censored Roger Rabbit?, murder victims have the fortune (or misfortune, depending on perspective) to have “survived” their own murders in some capacity: Bigelow has been poisoned and has only days to live, and the Roger we see for the majority of the novel is an artificial copy that has just days to live, as well. In both cases, the murder victim desires closure and works tirelessly to solve their own murder, despite their inability to outrun their predetermined fate. Miklitsch expands on the theme of fatalism as it exists in D.O.A and likens Bigelow’s plight to a “metaphysical maze . . . [with] no escape.” He describes the scene in which Bigelow faces the urn that holds the remains of the man he has been tracking: “The urn represents what Bigelow will soon be—ashes . . . Hence the futility of Bigelow’s attempt to escape via a door that Majak, blithely waving his hand, observes is a closet” (105-106). No matter what he decides to do, Bigelow’s fate remains the same: he has a one way ticket to the undertaker, and there are no emergency exits—only deceptive closets. He knows that he is powerless to stop his inevitable demise, which is why he focuses his energy elsewhere by way of seeking justice.

            Similarly, the Roger in the book is also bent on solving his own murder, despite his own impending death. He is forced to face his mortality at several points in the novel, most of which occur when his body begins to fall apart. Early on, he says to Eddie, “I’ve started to have this feeling that I’m coming apart at the seams. I don’t know for sure, but I believe maybe I’m preparing to disintegrate” (Wolf 120). Roger’s expiration is, indeed, revealed to be fast approaching, as he and Eddie must keep track of his failing parts as they tumble off of his body. Eddie tries to help Roger feel better by using super glue and other adhesives to stick his parts back on, but they both know that it is nothing more than a temporary fix. Sure enough, at the end of the novel, Roger Rabbit lies on his death bed as Eddie talks him through the various cases he has cracked. While Eddie discovers the truth behind Roger’s murderer,[9] he also admits that he figured out that Roger, himself, is the one who killed Rocco. This revelation turns the sweet moment sour, as Eddie explains that Roger had intended to frame him for Rocco’s murder. However, Eddie reveals that he has known the truth for a while, yet he saw no point in dropping Roger’s case. Their final exchange reads:

“So while I played dumb with you, you played the sap for me . . . You’re a decent human being, Eddie. What is it you private eyes call it? A stand up guy.” He reached out his paw to shake, but it dissolved on the way. He reached out his other one, but it went likewise. He winked an eye instead, and the rest of him crumbled to dust. I opened my apartment window and let the draft have Roger’s remains. I looked up at the sky. It was one of those rare days when the Earth revolves a little faster and shoos away the smog. You could see a long way, but not half as far as Roger had gone. (226)

Roger accepts his fate with a wink, indicating that he has come to terms with his death. He always knew it was going to come to this, and he appears at peace with the choices he made during his final few days on Earth—playing detective with Eddie and helping solve his own murder. This acceptance confirms that, for Roger, it was never about changing his fate. It was about achieving closure by uncovering the truth behind his delayed assassination. In this regard, both Bigelow and Roger are helpless to control their ultimate destiny, as they exist in narratives that cultivate fatalistic themes.

            The film Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, on the other hand, largely centers upon the opportunity to change either one’s self or one’s circumstances for the better. Whereas the novel Who Censored Roger Rabbit? focuses primarily on understanding what has already come to pass, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? is about learning, growing, and making room for a brighter future. The Eddie Valiant in the movie used to be a fun, goofy guy, as evinced by the pictures hanging around his office showing him, his brother, and his father in full clown regalia.[10] There are also several newspaper clippings that reveal that Eddie and his brother, Teddy, used to work a considerable number of Toon cases. However, the audience learns that Eddie’s opinion of Toons was tainted when a Toon killed his brother while they were working a case in Toontown. This prejudice and generally unpleasant disposition prompt Roger Rabbit to affectionately refer to Eddie as a “sourpuss,” as the latter is shown time and time again to abhor all things comical. He does, however, eventually develop a soft spot for Roger, who slowly but surely reawakens Eddie’s goofy nature. This change is on full display at the end of the film, when Eddie must unleash his inner clown to defeat Judge Doom’s lackies, the weasels, who are prone to laughing themselves to death. Once he successfully vanquishes the weasels and Judge Doom, and frees Roger and Jessica Rabbit, Roger remarks, “That was a pretty funny dance you did for the weasels. Do you think your days of being a sourpuss are over?” and proceeds to shock him with an Acme hand buzzer. Eddie looks furious, and the crowd falls silent in anxious anticipation, until his finally responds, “Does this answer your question?” and plants a big smooch on Roger (01:35:23-01:36:14). This gesture illustrates Eddie’s character arc throughout the film: he has overcome his prejudice against Toons, and he has rediscovered his sense of humor. This is in stark contrast to the Eddie Valiant in the book, who begins his story with unwarranted bias and, though he develops a friendship of sorts with Roger, appears to round out the narrative in roughly the same hard-boiled position.

            In addition to the opportunity for personal growth, the film Who Framed Roger Rabbit? is a more optimistic story as a whole, as Eddie thwarts Judge Doom’s nefarious plot to destroy Toontown in favor of building a Los Angeles freeway. This plot device is inspired by real world events, events which Eric Avila explores in “LA’s Invisible Freeway Revolt: The Cultural Politics of Fighting Freeways.” Avila explains that, following WWII, the United States shifted to a new spatial paradigm known as the “postwar urban region,” which consisted of “slum clearance [and] highway construction” (831). Citizens were thus routinely forced out of their homes in the name of “progress”—but this displacement did not affect all people in the same way. Those who felt empowered to stand up against freeway construction did so, and their ability to successfully muster opposition informs our collective memory of the “freeway revolts.” Unsurprisingly, these people were primarily white and affluent. Avila remarks, “[There is] no surprise in the fact that a neighborhood in the throes of racial succession succumbed to the Interstate juggernaut, and no surprise that Beverly Hills did not” (835). As Toons are depicted as marginalized “Others” in this film, their inability to fight back against the terror of urban highway construction reflects the experiences of those whose marginalized neighborhoods fell victim to “progress” in the mid-twentieth-century. Eddie Valiant thus acts as a Toon savior,[11] protecting a vulnerable community from a government entity that does not have their best interests in mind. Therefore, instead of illustrating the fatalistic noir themes that pervade the novel, the film portrays the message that effecting positive change in the world is not only possible, but worth fighting for.

Smile Darn Ya Smile: Conclusion

Although Who Censored Roger Rabbit? and Who Framed Roger Rabbit? share a similar universe, the novel and the film each employ vastly different characterizations, plots, and thematic elements. They both use the relationship between humans and Toons to highlight the American versus un-American and otherwise prejudiced sentiment that is evident within the noir genre, but the similarities become thinner from there. The Jessica Rabbit in the book is the quintessential femme fatale by most definitions—scheming and seducing so that she may destroy men and acquire whatever her heart desires. Film-Jessica, on the other hand, is loyal, brave, and incredibly loving. Her overt sexuality and exaggerated physique create the illusion of the femme fatale, but it is simply that: an illusion, a femme faux-tale. Further, the book and the film differ in their depictions of fate and agency. The characters in Who Censored Roger Rabbit?, particularly Eddie and Roger, are not concerned with altering their lives or their “selves.” Roger employs a fatalistic outlook when he accepts that he has been murdered, and Eddie, even after everything that he goes through within the text, is not inclined to change his cynical ways. However, the characters of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? believe in achieving personal growth and affecting one’s own destiny. Eddie undergoes an enormous change from sourpuss to goofball,[12] and he is able to save Toontown from destruction at the hands of Judge Doom. However, despite these numerous changes between the crime novel and the film, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? undeniably deserves a seat at the film noir table. Though some of the elements border on parody, this movie shares the basic story pattern of a noir: the investigator (Eddie Valliant), the victim (Roger Rabbit), and the psychopath (Judge Doom) (Hirsch 167). Eddie Valiant must make sense of a topsy-turvy, corrupt world, where nothing and no one is quite what they seem—and what is more noir than that?

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[1] Their names, if not their actual characterizations.

[2] Although Rocco is later revealed to be a Toon masquerading as a human with the help of genie magic, he is meant to be read as human in this part of the story.

[3] German: “homely”

[4] It is also worth noting that Roger Rabbit takes place in 1947, a year of political and social consequence for the United States; Auerbach notes that 1947 was “arguably the defining moment of the Cold War [as it] marked the Truman Doctrine proclaiming the intention of the United States to defend against Soviet incursion around the globe” (Auerbach 2).

[5] Toons reflexively emit speech bubbles filled with their dialog, which they can manipulate stylistically to emphasize their emotions. If they wish, they can also suppress these bubbles completely.

[6] Despite this being “common knowledge,” it is not actually true. Eve is not present when God warns Adam of the dangers of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. By the next book, Eve is aware that they are not to eat this tree’s fruit, but she is under the impression that this is because the fruit is poisonous, or “deadly” (as this is what God said to Adam). When the serpent assures her that it is, in fact, “good to eat,” she takes the bait and offers the fruit to Adam, which assures their banishment from the garden of Eden (Genesis 2-3). The only “tempting” to speak of is done by the serpent, Satan. However, the pervasive image of Eve as a deceitful temptress demonstrates a cultural willingness to accept the fatal woman archetype.

[7] Before the true origin of the prized teakettle-turned-magic-lamp is revealed, Jessica asserts that it is a valuable artifact of the tenth century—made of gold and inlaid with diamonds and other precious stones. She claims it eventually came under the watch of the Templar Knights who painted it gray to keep it safe from bandits, but it was nonetheless stolen and subsequently lost to history. This backstory mirrors that of the prize in Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon, in which characters vie for an approximately 400-year-old, jewel-encrusted bird statuette made by the Knights of Malta. Similar to the teakettle, this prize is covered in black enamel.

[8] The relative cheerfulness of the film is most likely a result of its affiliating with Disney.

[9] Roger was murdered by a disgruntled genie. Presented without comment.

[10] If you look closely, you can see that the clown picture reads “on the road with dad,” indicating that his father was a traveling circus clown. Similarly, in Eddie and Teddy’s LAPD group photo, they don big red noses and even bigger smiles (00:27:18-00:27:27).

[11] The Eddie Valiant in the film is arguably an unconventional embodiment of the “white savior” complex, but that is an argument for another day.

[12] He even presumably makes the change from alcoholism to sobriety, as he is shown emptying his liquor bottle in the third act of the film, once again going against noir P.I. tropes.

Works Cited

Auerbach, Jonathan. Dark Borders: Film Noir and American Citizenship. 2011. Web.

Avila, Eric. “LA’s Invisible Freeway Revolt: The Cultural Politics of Fighting Freeways.” Journal Of Urban History40.5 (2014): 831-42. Web.

Carroll, Robert P., and Stephen. Prickett. The Bible: Authorized King James Version. Oxford ; New York: Oxford UP, 2008. Print. World’s Classics.

Flowers, Mark. “The Movie Is (Sometimes) Better Than the Book: Adaptations as Literary Analysis.” Young Adult Library Services 9.4 (2011): 21-23. Web.

Grossman, Julie. Rethinking the Femme Fatale in Film Noir : Ready for Her Close-Up, Palgrave Macmillan Limited, 2009. ProQuest Ebook Central, https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/sfsu/detail.action?docID=555490.

Hammett, Dashiell. The Maltese Falcon. Vintage Books, a Division of Random House, 1992.

Hirsch, Foster. The Dark Side of the Screen: Film Noir. Da Capo Press Paperback ed. New York, N.Y.: Da Capo, 1983. Print. Da Capo Paperback.

Kaplan, E. Ann. Women in Film Noir. New ed. London: BFI Pub., 1998. Print.

Miklitsch, Robert. The Red and the Black: American Film Noir in the 1950s. University of Illinois Press, 2017. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/j.ctt1kc6hn1.

Taylor, Richard. “Fatalism.” The Philosophical Review, vol. 71, no. 1, 1962, pp. 56–66. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/2183681.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Touchstone, Dir. Robert Zemeckis, 1989; Gary Wolf, Who Censored Roger Rabbit? New York: St. Martin’s, 1981.