Differences & Repetitions

Wow.

It’s rare that I read a book and feel compelled to reread it immediately. But that’s what happened when I finished Gerard Jones’ Men of Tomorrow: Geeks, Gangsters, and the Birth of the Comic Book (Basic Books, 2004). It offers a fascinating look into a nascent industry full of fast-talking hustlers, shrewd accountants, and nerdy young men all struggling to make their mark on U.S. culture in the 20th century.

Jones is an outstanding writer. I say this having read a fair amount of work by other comic book authors who’ve decided to switch genres, turning either to novels or to nonfiction. Usually the work isn’t a disaster, but then again, neither is it all that memorable. It’s a different story for Jones. He penned Batman, Spider-Man, and Superman early on in his writing career, where he developed a knack for exposition and an ear for engaging dialogue.

He uses both skills to his advantage in Men of Tomorrow. The book moves nimbly between large-scale social/cultural history and more intimate, narrative reconstructions of the lives of the early comic industry’s key figures. What results is a precarious yet perfectly executed balancing act. Jones’ account is rich with historical detail, yet he never manages to lose the plot.

The book opens with an aged Jerry Siegel, co-creator (with Joe Shuster) of Superman, learning that a blockbuster movie featuring the Man of Steel would soon be making its way onto the silver screen. It was the mid-1970s. Siegel was working as a mail clerk in Southern California, barely making ends meet and seething inside about having signed away rights to the lucrative character decades before. Men of Tomorrow then takes a sharp turn back in time and space: to New York City’s Lower East Side, circa the early 1900s, where we’re introduced to the sons of Jewish immigrants who’d go on to become the authors, illustrators, editors, printers, and distributors of a peripheral print genre that would, with time, become a part of the American cultural mainstream. Eventually the book returns to Siegel’s desperate, last-ditch effort to secure rights to Superman–a success, it turns out, owing the rallying of fans and others to the cause.

Jones isn’t only an outsanding writer, he’s a talented historian and analyst. He’s read practically all of the secondary literature, scholarly and otherwise, on comic books. He interviewed most of the early industry’s key players at one time or another, in addition to their family members. He meticulously reconstructs contested information and never tries to pass it off as anything but. Beyond these more insular, disciplinary concerns, his research displays a remarkable sensitivity to comics’ critical reception by midcentury academics and politicians who, owing to experiences far removed from those in the comic book industry, fundamentally misunderstood the genre’s psychosocial and cultural impact. Jones is a historian with a deft touch.

Men of Tomorrow ends with a provocative claim, namely, that U.S. culture today is significantly the product of geeks. And in this respect it shares something of a kinship with another book I admire: Fred Turner’s From Counterculture to Cyberculture, which I’ve mentioned in passing on this blog. In their best moments, both texts capture something rare. They manage to put into words what Raymond Williams called a “structure of feeling”–what it felt like to live (for some, at least) in 20th century America.

This is the mark of history at its best. Excelsior!

I’m undecided on the issue, personally, which is why I’m asking all of you to weigh in. On the one hand, it’s enough for me simply to maintain this blog, let alone to contribute to Sivacracy (oh–and earn a living). On the other hand, a recent peek at a friend’s Facebook page showed me that, well, essentially everyone I know in the universe belongs. No one’s directly pressured me to join, yet I feel compelled to be a part of something so many people seem to be engaging in. (Yes, I succumb fairly easily to peer pressure.)

In other news, I’ve made a few minor changes to add further interactivity to D&R. Each post now contains a footer with email, Digg, and subscription links. I’ve also changed my site syndication, which is now handled through FeedBurner.

Happy 2008, everyone, and let me know what you think about Facebook.

P.S. For more on this thread, see my post from May 2008, “Why Did I Join Facebook?“

It’s over. Summer break, that is. Today started orientation for new graduate students in my department here at Indiana University, which means fall semester has begun for all intents and purposes. Honestly, summer really ended about 10 days ago for me, when on last Monday morning there arrived an avalanche of emails pertaining to things that needed to happen NOW before the semester started. And on top of that, my department moved buildings. More on that, later.

The summer was a reasonably productive one, as I’m sure readers of D&R already know. When I wasn’t writing, reading, prepping for fall classes, or traveling, I spent a good deal of time watching reality TV. It seems as though that’s becoming an annual occurrence for me, as one of my posts from last summer attests and as my colleague, Jon Simons, reminded me today during one of our orientation sessions. This year I got sucked into two cooking competitions, Fox’s Hell’s Kitchen and Bravo’s Top Chef, in addition to On the Lot (a competition to become a feature film director) and So You Think You Can Dance. (Yes…I watched So You Think You Can Dance. Snicker all you want.)

Most of these shows wrapped within the last week, and so with a little critical distance under my belt, I’m moved to reflect on their significance as a genre. I’m especially intrigued with shows like On the Lot and So You Think You Can Dance, both of which, like American Idol (Pop Idol for my readers from across the Pond), base their weekly contestant eliminations on audience call-ins, text messaging, and internet voting.

This is marketing research, and a clever form of it at that. It’s so clever that rather than costing money, it actually generates income for show producers who subsequently sell the already-proven skills of the contest winner in the form of CDs, music downloads, movies–you name it. Think about it for a moment. Rather than someone from some random opinion-polling firm calling you up during dinner, bothering you with questions about whether you’d prefer to see this or that type of film, TV program, or performing artist, viewers contact these shows of their (our) own volition to provide essentially this type of information. We do it en masse. Now, this isn’t perfect research, to be sure. People typically can vote as often as they’d like within an allotted period of time. But even so, what’s essentially happening is that the unsexy drudge-work that used to be hidden away in mass culture’s “back office” (i.e., opinion polling) now is emerging front-and-center as a key aspect of the entertainment value of these shows. And of course, it’s never called “opinion polling” or “market research.” In good “democratic” spirit, these shows always stress audience interactivity and empowerment. (I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard Ryan Seacrest proclaim, “America voted, and here are the results….”)

All this is part of a larger set of trends. From bar codes becoming things that people other than cashiers now pay close attention to, to the widespread, public testing of “beta” versions of products and more, the boundaries between what used to be called “production” and “consumption” are increasingly fuzzy. And oftentimes, it seems, this fuzziness provides not only for a richer, more potentially informed and interactive relationship with TV programs and other cultural consumables; it also opens up weekly, hour-long opportunities to test-market products in front of millions of viewers.

Focus groups are just sooooo 20th century, aren’t they?

I wasn’t planning on writing for another week or so, but this one’s too good to pass up. I just caught this article in The New York Times about the final installment of the Harry Potter book series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, having made its way onto the internet. Someone got their hands on a copy of the book sometime before this Saturday’s highly-anticipated release, photographed a good chunk of the pages, and then posted them online. I’ve checked around and, sure enough, there they are–at least, that is, until Potter’s publishers get their act together and the takedown notices start flying!

Now, to all you Potter fans out there, you can rest assured that I’m not going to spoil any of the secrets. I like the books myself and respect your love of the series too much to do that. And to those of you who are hoping I’ll spill the beans, sorry. You’ll have to go elsewhere for that. My point in writing is to comment a bit on the Harry Potter security phenomenon. I talk about this at length in my upcoming book, The Late Age of Print: Everyday Book Culture from Consumerism to Control, which includes a chapter called “Harry Potter and the Culture of the Copy.” Here I’ll make just a few offhanded observations.

First, I take this security meltdown, and those preceding the release of the previous two Potter installments, as an effect of what in The Late Age of Print I call “the mass production of scarcity.” Think about it: 12 million copies of Deathly Hallows have been printed in the U.S. alone. By now they’re in bookstores all over the country, doing absolutely nothing as they sit locked away in stock rooms…other than generating hype.

Since Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, the boy wizard’s publishers have been enforcing what the book industry calls “global lay-down dates,” which, the publishers say, ensure that the books’ surprises remain sacrosanct. Clearly, they don’t. Even so, global lay-down dates do perform a kind of magic: they make Harry Potter, a mass-produced commodity if there ever was one, disappear despite his sheer ubiquity. And as anyone who’s taken Business 101 will tell you, scarcity tends to augment demand.

My second observation pertains to the fact that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows made its way online in the form of digital photographs rather than, say, scans. The folks over at PC World have noted that, in doing so, the culprit may well have inadvertently revealed her or his identity:

In an interesting development it appears that the person who took the pictures of the book left his camera meta info attached to the image files. This is significant because with the camera meta data you can extrapolate the serial number of the camera. And with that information and time authorities could track down who took the pictures.

Little did I–someone who studies digital culture–know that digital photos contain this kind of personal information. I suppose it’s naive of me not to have realized this, since privacy is nothing if not compromised online. In the end, what a cautionary tale it will be if the pernicious Potter pilferer is apprehended because of the digital trace she or he has left behind.

And finally, despite most, if not all, of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows’ secrets already having been revealed, I have nothing but confidence that all 12 million copies of the book will eventually sell–and then some.

First off, apologies, apologies. I’ve been swamped with writing projects of late, and so the prospect of writing still more just seemed too out of reach. Now that I’m out from under the really heavy stuff (at least for the moment), I figured I should get back into the swing of things on D&R. Thanks as always for your patience, dear readers.

I’m likely to get some smirks for telling the world this, but I download music from Apple iTunes. I know they’re not the friendliest of companies when it comes to music downloading, especially since they’ve long maintained Digital Rights Management (DRM) schemes that regulate what you can and cannot do with your paid-for music. I’m not a huge music downloader, though, and so I’ve never really bothered to look elsewhere, despite my professed uneasiness with DRM.

All that’s just a lead-up to tell you that I receive regular emails from iTunes, telling me about new music releases and other pertinent news. The other day, this message arrived in my inbox:

Now you can download music and videos from EMI that are free of DRM rules and restrictions. With iTunes Plus, you can burn the music you download from iTunes to as many CDs as you need, transfer it to as many computers (Mac or PC) as you want, or sync it to as many devices as you like. And because it’s encoded in 256 kbps AAC, your iTunes Plus music is virtually indistinguishable from the original recording. Hear it for yourself — you can preview all iTunes Plus songs before purchasing. iTunes Plus music is available now for many EMI artists, such as Paul McCartney, the Rolling Stones, Norah Jones, Coldplay, and many more. DRM-free EMI music videos are still $1.99 and music tracks are $1.29.

I’d been aware of Steve Jobs’ mention a few months back of how he thought music should be stripped of its DRM. Needless to say, I was pleased to see some movement on the issue from Apple.

But then I started to think about it further. Regular, DRM-laden music downloads are 99 cents on iTunes. That means, if you want to be free of DRM, you have to pay 30 cents more per song. That’s not a lot of money, admittedly, though if you’re a real music aficionado, I suppose it could add up over time. Anyway, what bugs me is the principle; what’s happening with schemes such as this is that Apple and other companies are creating (at least) a two-tier system of property owners. Those with more money can own their songs and videos more or less free-and-clear. Those unwilling to ante up the additional money, on the other hand, become indentured to iTunes and the record companies with respect to DRM-induced terms of use.

Something strange is happening to property, in other words. We’re slowly creating a system in which there are “haves” and “don’t quite haves.” I’m also troubled by the way in which these companies are beginning to leverage the mere prospect of DRM to extract more money from consumers.

I’m not altogether sure what my solution to the issue would be. I’d be inclined to say get rid of the DRM altogether, though I’m sure that wouldn’t sit well with intellectual property producers and distributors. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

P.S. If you want a copy of the article to which I linked above, you can email me at: striphas@indiana.edu

I’m writing to declare a moratorium on scholarly books and essays on The Matrix.

Why? First, it seems as if every other journal and book catalog I receive these days contains some new screed on one or more installments of the film trilogy. After I pointed out this phenomenon, a friend of mine in rhetoric aptly commented, “It’s as if The Matrix were becoming to the humanities what Abraham Lincoln’s ‘Gettysburg Address’ has long been to studies of public address in the United States”–which is to say, groundbreaking at one time, but at this point, overdone. Indeed, the shear volume of Matrix scholarship seems to be transforming the film into something of a trite object, so much so that the phrase, “the Matrix has you,” is becoming our scholarly reality.

Beyond that, though, a good deal–though certainly not all–of this scholarship tends to be rather boring anyway. Part of this has to do with the fact that The Matrix wears much of its potential scholarly insight on its sleeve. “Oh my! Is that Baudrillard’s Simulacra and Simulations? The film must be saying something about postmodernism!” “Is that Cornel West I see? There must be something philosophical going on here!” “Hmmm….how real is our so-called waking life? Maybe the films are about epistemology!” “Cause and effect, is it? Aha! Etiology at work!” “So I’ve already made all my choices in life, and now all that’s left to do is to find their meaning. Perhaps the films are about ontology after all!” And so on. This isn’t to say The Matrix trilogy isn’t valuable for, say, teaching purposes, and this isn’t to say that there aren’t good questions to be asked of and through the films even today. But at this point, scholars interested in writing still another book, essay, or what have you on The Matrix would do well to proceed cautiously…very cautiously.

Lest you think I’m just a tired old crank, I will say that my favorite piece on The Matrix is Jennifer Daryl Slack’s “Everyday Matrix,” which is included in her edited collection, Animations [of Deleuze and Guattari]. It’s a wonderful look at the mobilization of affect in, through, and beyond the first film, and in this respect it differs from many of the more textual “readings” or straightforward “philosophical” ruminations that tend to dominate the burgeoning field of Matrix scholarship.

And yes, indeed, it’s fast becoming a field–or maybe even an industry. Heck–if you need a quick publication, something on The Matrix would be a safe bet.

First of all, if you’re living in the United States, vote tomorrow. That’s what’s really important.

Now on to matters at hand. I was watching one of those “totally 80s” countdown shows on VH1 the other day, when I heard the Twisted Sister anthem, “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” start blaring. It was such a blast from the past, especially seeing lead singer Dee Snider all decked out in the band’s drag-show-gone-wrong regalia. I never was much of a Twisted Sister fan myself, though several of my friends had a penchant for drawing the band’s “TS” logo all over their notebooks when we were in junior high. Even so, there’s something so wonderfully anti-establishment about “We’re Not Gonna Take It” that it always manages to put a smile on my face.

Or so I thought. The “We’re Not Gonna Take It” clip also included a “where are they now?” segment, which focused mostly on the comings and goings of Dee Snider since the heyday of Twisted Sister. Evidently–and perhaps this is news only to me, since I live in Indiana–he’s a staunch Republican who’s campaigned for Arnold “the Govinator” Schwarzenegger and other Republican candidates. I was shocked to hear this, not only because of the song’s message (and here I’m reminded of the adage, “the politics of media texts aren’t inscribed in media texts…”), but also because of Snider’s resistance to the Parent’s Music Resource Center or PMRC. For those of you who don’t remember, the PMRC was founded in the mid-1980s by spouses of prominent US senators (then-Senator Al Gore’s partner, Tipper, chief among them) who campaigned to censor “explicit” music. One of the more intriguing moments that I can recall from my adolescence is seeing images of Dee Snider emerging from the US Capitol after testifying on behalf of musicians opposed to the PMRC. Talk about dissonance.

I suppose it was naive of me to assume that Snider’s resistance to media censorship would carry over into a more general, left-leaning politics. Beyond that, I’m also reminded of the fact that the PMRC was composed of both Republicans and Democrats, so I guess there should have been no reason for me to assume that Snider would have been a Democrat, anyway. I guess that all just goes to show how formal governmental politics and the politics of culture aren’t always commensurable and how, conversely, they sometimes make strange bedfellows.

Last weekend I rented V for Vendetta, the Natalie Portman/Hugo Weaving vehicle that’s based on comic book impresario Alan Moore’s graphic novel. For those of you who haven’t seen the movie, it’s set in the not-too-distant future and is about the people’s struggle against a totalitarian state–Britain, to be exact. V, the main character, is a modern-day Guy Fawkes who inspires the oppressed masses to rise up and to confront the homophobia, religious intolerance, fear-mongering, and lack of civil liberties that have beset jolly-old England.

What’s abundantly clear is that the film is a warning about the slippery slope countries like Britain and the United States find themselves on these days. The future Britain it portrays–where copies of the Koran are banned, sexual minorities must live underground, art is suspect, and eavesdropping on the populace is the order of the day–is, in some respects, embodied in our present, though perhaps not in quite those extremes.

You might say that the film offers a scathing critique of the current policies of the British and U.S. governments, especially many of the initiatives that have begun under the auspices of the “war on terror.” My question is this: Does it really matter?

Perhaps I’ve been out of the loop, but I don’t get the impression that V for Vendetta has sparked much of a serious public dialogue about democracy’s slide toward totalitarianism in either country. Perhaps that’s asking too much from one film. But for me it raises a larger question: to what extent are the media genuinely effective in producing concrete shifts in governmental policy? Another way of putting this would be to say: to what extent is cultural politics able to change formal governmental politics or policy anymore?

V, for me, is an intriguing test-case. To the extent that it hasn’t seemed to produce much public outcry (or effective public outcry), my inclination would be to say that the power critics once attributed to cultural politics may be on the decline. Don’t get me wrong. I still believe cultural politics matters. By the same token, a film like V suggests to me that cultural politics may not matter in the way that it once did.