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Northern Lights: Film and Media Studies Yearbook Volume 6, 2008 Digital Aesthetics and Communication Northern Lights: Film and Media Studies Yearbook is a peer-reviewed international yearbook started in 2002 and dedicated to studies of film and media. Each yearbook is devoted to a specific theme. In addition, every volume may include articles on other topics as well as review articles. The yearbook wants to further interdisciplinary studies of media with a special emphasis on film, television and new media. Since the yearbook was founded in Scandinavia, the editors feel a special obligation towards Scandinavian and European perspectives. But in a global media world it is important to have a global perspective on media culture. The yearbook is therefore open to all relevant aspects of film and media culture: we want to publish articles of excellent quality that are worth reading and have direct relevance for both academics in the broad, interdisciplinary field of media studies in both humanities and social sciences and for students in that area. But we also want to appeal to a broader public interested in thorough and well-written articles on film and other media.

Editorial Board: Ib Bondebjerg, Editor-in-chief (Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, Section of Film and Media Studies, University of Copenhagen), e-mail: [email protected] Torben Kragh Grodal (Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, University of Copenhagen, Section of Film and Media Studies) Stig Hjarvard (Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, University of Copenhagen, Section of Film and Media Studies) Anne Jerslev (Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, University of Copenhagen, Section of Film and Media Studies) Gunhild Agger (Department of Communication, University of Aalborg) Jens Hoff (Department of Political Science, University of Copenhagen)

Journal Editor Ib Bondebjerg Department of Media, Cognition and Communication Section of Film and Media Studies University of Copenhagen Njalsgade 80, 2300 Copenhagen S Phone: +45 35328102 Fax: +45 35328110 Mobile: +4524421168 Email: [email protected] Web: www.mef.ku.dk

Volume Editor Stig Hjarvard, Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, University of Copenhagen, Email: [email protected]

Corresponding Editors: Daniel Biltereyst (Ghent University, Belgium), Edward Branigan (University of California – Santa Barbara, USA), Carol Clover (University of California – Berkeley, USA), John Corner (University of Liverpool, UK), John Ellis (Royal Holloway University of London, UK), Johan Fornäs (Linköping University, Sweden), Jostein Gripsrud (University of Bergen, Norway), Andrew Higson (University of East Anglia, UK), Mette Hjort (Lignan University, Hong Kong), Dina Iordanova (University of St Andrews, Scotland), Steve Jones (University of Illinois, USA), Sonia Livingstone (London School of Economics, UK), Ulrike Meinhof (University of Southampton, UK), Guliano Muscio (University of Palermo, Italy), Janet Murray (Georgia Institute of Technology, USA), Horace Newcomb (University of Georgia, USA), Roger Odin (l’Université de Paris 3., France), Dominique Pasquier (CEMS, France), Murray Smith (University of Kent, UK), Trine Syvertsen (University of Oslo, Norway), William Uricchio (MIT, USA), Lennart Weibull (Göteborg University, Sweden), Espen Aarseth (Copenhagen, Denmark), Eva Warth (University of Bochum, Germany)

Northern Lights is published once a year by Intellect, The Mill, Parnall Road, Bristol, BS16 3JG, UK. The current subscription rates are £33 (personal) and £210 (institutional). Postage within the UK is free whereas it is £9 within the EU and £12 elsewhere. Advertising enquiries should be addressed to: [email protected] ©2008 Intellect Ltd. Authorisation to photocopy items for internal or personal use or the internal or personal use of specific clients is granted by Intellect Ltd to libraries and other users registered with the Copyright Licensing Agency (CLA) in the UK or the Copyright Clearance Center (CCC) Transactional Reporting Service in the USA, provided that the base fee is paid directly to the relevant organisation.

ISSN 1601-829X

Printed and bound in Great Britain by 4edge Ltd. Hockley. www.4edge.co.uk

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Notes for Contributors Editorial process All articles submitted for NL must be original works not published or considered for publication elsewhere. The journal is a refereed, international journal, and the editors and two anonymous referees will evaluate all articles submitted for the journal. Anonymity is also accorded to authors. Format Articles must not exceed 8000 words (50,000 characters, including space), including notes and references – but introduction, keywords, abstract not included. Author-name, Institutional affiliation, address, and e-mail of the author(s) on a separate title page only. Author-CV: On same page: short cv of author, max 150 words All articles should be made in Word. Font: Times New Roman size 12. Top of article: authors name in italics. Keywords – six words, or two-word phrases, that are at the core of what is being discussed. There is a serious reduction in an article’s ability to be searched for if the keywords are missing. Insert abstract after notes and references, in italics, max 150 words.

All omissions in a quotation are indicated thus: (...) Italics may be used (sparingly) to indicate key concepts. Images, Tables and Diagrams All illustrations, photographs, diagrams, maps, etc. should follow the same numerical sequence and be shown as Figure 1, Figure 2, etc. The source has to be indicated below. Copyright clearance should be indicated by the contributor and is always the responsibility of the contributor. When they are on a separate sheet or file, an indication must be given as to where they should be placed in the text. Reproduction will be in greyscale (sometimes referred to as ‘black-and-white’). If you are supplying any article images as hard copy, these should be prints between 10–20 cms wide if possible, and preferably greyscale if being submitted as illustrations for articles. However, colour prints, transparencies and small images can be submitted if you need to supply these. Photocopies are never advisable, but may be okay for diagrams. They are never acceptable for photographs. Line drawings, maps, diagrams, etc. should be crisp, clear and in a camera-ready state, capable of scanning and reduction. Although not ideal, slides are certainly acceptable.

If images are supplied electronically, all images need to have a resolution of at least 12 dpm (dots per millimetre) – or 300 dpi (dots per inch). The Format specifications figure showing the number of pixels across the Headings,Paragraphs and sections width of the image, a figure independent of Bold is used for title of article (bold, size 14). Bold millimetres, centimetres or inches, is reached by is also used for headings (size 12) in the article. By multiplying the width of the image in millimetres sub-headings, use italics (size 12). If further level required for reproduction in the journal by 12, or in is needed, use normal (size 12). inches by 300. This is the actual information available that allows the production team to offset A new paragraph is indicated by a carriage return resolution (dpm or dpi) against width. and one tabulator indent. A new section is indicated by two carriage returns (a blank line). Images sent in as e-mail attachments should be greyscale to save time uploading and downloading. Orthography Tables should be supplied either within the Word The Journal follows standard British English. But document of the main text or as separate Word standard American spelling may be used. Word documents. These can then be extracted and language checking for UK-English or American reproduced. Reproducing text within images can be used. Use ‘ize’ endings in stead of ‘ise’, supplied separately is difficult: they need a high when there is an option for that. final resolution – around 48 dpm. An additional Acrobat PDF document is encouraged. The PDF is a good proof copy that can also be used for References if the table is exactly as it should be, All references in the text should be according to the reproduction but if editing is necessary, this can be done in Harvard system, e.g., (Bordwell, 1989: 9). Book Word if there is a small spelling error or if a titles are italicized, with the main words statistical error is identified later. Diagrams are capitalized. The titles of articles are placed in difficult to construct in Word. Diagrams are best double quotation marks, with the main words constructed in an object-oriented computer capitalized, e.g., Gunning introduces these ideas in program rather than a text-oriented one. Diagrams an article from 1983, “An Unseen Energy Swallows can be supplied to us as JPEG, TIFF or Acrobat Space.” See also the sample references below. PDF documents. If a mistake is identified in a diagram, make the amendments and re-supply. Works mentioned Titles of films, TV-program, literary works etc. Bullets and numbered lists must be italicized. Works like this must be NL prefer that you use bullet points when listing is followed by year. Original title in other language necessary. If a numbered list is used they should be than English must be given, title in English after formatted as 1. 2. 3. Etc. year in italics, if original title in English exists, otherwise translation to English in double quotation marks, e.g. Italiensk for begyndere Notes (2000, Italian for Beginners), or Barnet (1940, Notes may be used for comments and additional “The Child”). information only. Do not use footnotes for simple reference-purposes. Use the Word-program for footnotes, and please do not use endnotes. Notes Quotations should be used only in very special cases and only NL’s style for quotations embedded into a as footnotes. Footnotes must not exceed 30 words. paragraph is single quote marks, with double quote marks for a second quotation contained Dates within the first. All long quotations (i.e. over 21 March 1978 four lines or 40 words long) should be 1970s, 1980s ‘displayed’– i.e. set into a separate indented 1964–67; 1897–1901 paragraph with an additional one-line space nineteenth century, twentieth century, above and below,and without quote marks at the twenty-first century beginning or end. Brief quotations within the main text are indicated by double quotation marks. Quotations of more than 50 words are Numbers treated as a separate section (blank line before one to twenty (words); 21–99 (figures); 100, 200 and after, no quotation marks, no indent). thirty, forty, fifty (if expressed as an approximation) ‘Scare quotes,’highlighting or questioning the use of 15 years old a term, are indicated by single quotation marks, also 3 per cent, 4.7 per cent, 10 per cent, within an actual quotation, e.g: As Bordwell states, 25 per cent “To speak of ‘interpretation’invites misunderstanding pp. 10–19, 19–21; 102–07, 347–49 from the outset” (Bordwell 1989: 1). 16mm, 35mm Punctuation marks should always be placed within quotation marks.

Abbreviations ibid., op. cit., Ph.D., BBC, UN, MA, PAR (practice as research) Foreign names Capitalized proper names of organizations, institutions, political parties, trade unions, etc. should be kept in roman type, not in italics. Specific Names Names of art exhibitions, film festivals, etc. should be in roman type enclosed in single quote marks. References All references are listed at the end of the article, alphabetically and beginning on a separate page. A blank line is entered between references. The reference list must follow the Harvard style of reference, more specifically the APA-standard (http://www.apastyle.org) that should comply with End Note and other electronic standard reference programs. The following samples indicate conventions for the most common types of reference: Anon (1931). Les films de la semaine. Tribune de Genéve, p. 15 (January 28). Cabrera, D. (1998a). Table Ronde de l’APA. La Faute á Rousseau: ‘Le secret’, 18(1), pp. 28–29. Cabrera, D. (1998b). Une chambre á soi. Trafic, 26 (1), 28–35. Flitterman-Lewis, S. (1990). To Desire Differently: Feminism and the French Cinema.Urbana and Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Grande, M. (1998). Les Images non-dérivées. In Fahle, O (ed.), Le Cinéma selon Gilles Deleuze. Paris: Presse de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, pp. 284–302. Gibson, R., Nixon, P. & Ward, S. (eds.) (2003). Political Parties and the Internet: Net Gain?. London: Routledge. Hayward, S. (1993). French National Cinema. 2nd edn. New York and Paris: Routledge. Hottel, R. (1999). Including Ourselves: The Role of Female Spectators in Agnés Varda’s ‘Le bonheur and L’une chante, l’autre pas. Cinema Journal, 38(2), 52–72. Roussel, R. (1996). Locus Solus, Paris: Gallimard. (Originally published 1914). Stroöter-Bender, J. (1995). L’Art contemporain dans les pays du ‘Tiers Monde’.(trans. O. Barlet). Paris: L’Harmattan. Mendoza, A. (1994). Las communicaciones en ingles y espanol [Communications in English and Spanish]. Madrid: Universidad de Madrid.? (So this is for titles in other languages you want to translate to English, and where an official English version doesn’t exist, list title in roman and in square brackets). Website references are similar to other references. There is no need to decipher any place of publication or a specific publisher, but the reference must have an author, and the author must be referenced Harvard-style within the text. Unlike paper references, however, web pages can change, so there needs to be a date of access as well as the full web reference. In the list of references at the end of your article, the item should read something like this: Bondebjerg. (2005). Web Communication and the Public Sphere in a European Perspective. At www.media.ku.dk, accessed February 15, 2005.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Editorial. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.3/2

Introduction The mediatization of religion: enchantment, media and popular culture Stig Hjarvard The 2008 issue of Northern Lights focuses on the interconnectedness of popular culture, media and religion and discusses the role of media in the possible (re-)enchantment of cultural experiences. Throughout the last decade, we have witnessed several media events that bear witness to the persistence of religious and quasi-religious symbols, actions and sentiments. Dan Brown’s novels and later the films, The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons, not only attracted millions of readers and viewers, but also stirred public debate about Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular to the point where religious institutions were forced to produce their own ‘counter-media’, like websites, television programmes and books that were critical of Dan Brown’s historical argument. The publication of the Muhammad cartoons by the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten ignited a major, worldwide and sometimes violent confrontation in the name of freedom of speech on the one side and religious tolerance on the other (Hjarvard 2006). The inauguration of Pope Benedict in 2005 also attracted widespread media attention outside the Catholic countries and his visits are often turned into media events (Gebhardt et al. 2007). Apart from these spectacular media events, religious topics and practices are also visible in the everyday flow of media. Religious issues have become more visible in the news media in many countries, and not least the ‘war on terrorism’ has made Islam a continuous concern in both foreign and domestic news. Outside the news agenda, a steady supply of television drama series like Lost, Medium and Heroes has rather explicitly dealt with supernatural or metaphysical phenomenon, and documentary programmes and reality television series have investigated magical occurrences and paranormal psychic experiences. Hollywood’s obsession with media technology has not hampered the film industry’s interest in metaphysical issues. On the contrary, the new advances in digital technology and manipulation of visual imagery have made the production of supernatural worlds and their inhabitants of gods and demons not only much more convincing, but also cheaper. On computer games and on the Internet, new synthetic worlds have emerged that provide users with new ways of engaging with religious issues and having magic and spiritual experiences. To some extent, the media also perform quasi-religious functions, for example, when in times of national crises the media provide a forum for the expression of anger, grief and

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emotional relief. Major media events perform social rituals and national celebrations, at the same time as celebrity and fan cultures provide a forum for modern and secular forms of worship and idolatry. With a focus on media, popular culture and enchantment, we wish to underscore the role of media in both transforming religion and as providers of enchantment in modern societies. Due to secularization, institutionalized religion may be on the decline, but the media provide a new institutional framework for production and circulation of religious imagery and enchanting experiences. The study of media, religion and culture is not a new discipline, although it may, from the point of view of mainstream media and film studies, be considered a newcomer to the field. Due to its topic, it is a cross-disciplinary field that has engaged researchers from sociology, sociology of religion, theology, cultural studies, film and media studies, and others. With the obvious risk of oversimplification, we may distinguish between two traditions and stages in the research on media, religion and culture. A first tradition has been concerned with religion in media, that is, the study of how the major institutionalized religions (Protestantism, Catholicism, Islam and so on) and their key texts are represented in media and what effects that they may have on individuals, religious institutions and the wider society. Typical of this tradition, we find studies of religious film discussing the aesthetics of Christian motifs and narratives (Flesher and Torry 2007) and institutional studies of televangelism in United States (Peck 1993). A second tradition has taken a culturalist approach and considered media as religion. This tradition has combined, on the one hand, a very wide definition of religion as a kind of cultural meaning-making practice related to ‘things set apart’ (Durkheim 2001: 46) with, on the other hand, a cultural studies approach to media and communication. As a consequence, the institutionalized religions are no longer at the centre of attention, and instead audiences’ reception and usage of media as ways of engaging with religious issues come to the fore. From this perspective, it may no longer be useful to distinguish between media and religion, because ‘they occupy the same spaces, serve many of the same purposes, and invigorate the same practices in late modernity’ (Hoover 2006: 9). Following on from this, emphasis is put on the role of media as facilitators of culture and community and as sources of meaning and identity. Whereas the first tradition typically has attracted scholars from the sociology of religion, theology and early film studies, the second tendency has more often found resonance among researchers from cultural studies, media studies and the sociology of religion. This volume of Northern Lights tries to move the research agenda a step further and conceptualize the relationship between media, religion and culture in a different manner. By looking at the mediatization of religion, it focuses on the ways that media and popular culture in general both transform existing religious phenomena and come to serve collective functions in society that hitherto have been performed by religious institutions. The contributors to this volume do not necessarily share a common theoretical framework on these issues, but rather inform from different perspectives and areas of research. The collection as a whole, however, does provide a different take on the study of media, religion and culture. It shares with the culturalist approach a wide understanding of religion with 4

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an emphasis on the non-institutionalized versions of beliefs in supernatural and metaphysical phenomenon. However, it does not dissolve the distinction between media and religion, but on the contrary tries to discuss the specificities of religious phenomena and their cultural, social and cognitive origins and characteristics and relate these to the affordances of the media that allow them to become modern vehicles of religious imaginations, actions and experiences. In addition to the cultural aspects of the interface between media and religion, this collection of articles stresses the importance of a sociological approach to the study of media and religion and the need to consider psychological aspects of religious experiences. Culturalist approaches typically emphasize the particular and situated properties of human interactions and – specifically in this context – the religious meaning-making properties of media production and reception. Such micro-level analyses do provide important insights, but they need to be supplemented by approaches at both meso- and macro-levels. The power relationship between different institutions in society (religion, media, politics and so on) and the historical longue durée of modernization, mediatization and changing force of religion, magic and supernatural phenomena are important contexts to consider in order to analyse the ways that media come to play a role as technologies and institutions of enchantment. Similarly, psychology and the developing cognitive psychology of religion may provide important insights into the cognitive and emotional qualities of religious phenomena experienced through the media. The volume consists of eleven articles. The first article by Stig Hjarvard on the ‘The mediatization of religion’ puts forward a sociological theory of the media as agents of religious change. By mediatization he understands the process through which the media have developed into an independent institution in society at the same time as they have become integral to the functioning of other institutions like family, politics and religion. As a result, religion is increasingly being subsumed under the logic of the media that become the primary source of religious ideas. Drawing on Michael Billig’s notion of ‘banal nationalism’, the article develops the concept of ‘banal religion’ in order to understand the dominant mode of religious representation in the media. A sociological perspective is also prominent in Graham Murdock’s article ‘Re-enchantment and the popular imagination: fate, magic and purity’ that focuses on the contradictory nature of modernity’s pursuit of progress and secularization. Examining the historical transformations as well as continuities of fate, magic and purity, he explores the forms that re-enchantment has taken in contemporary societies. The risks attached to nuclear weapons and global warming have helped revive notions of fate and become visible in different political movements’ religious-like iconography. The communications networks that underwrite global capitalism also provide the organizational resources for new forms of fundamentalism, just as the incessant promotion of consumerism in advertising depends on belief in the transformative power of magic. The next contributions introduce a psychological perspective. Torben Grodal’s article ‘Born again heathenism – enchanted worlds on film’ discusses three types of the supernatural on film: the fantastic-marvellous, the NL 6 3–8 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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horrifying, and the awe- and submission-inspiring films. The fascination with the supernatural in film is a by-product of different evolutionary cognitive and emotional adaptations. Human cognition is based on naturalism and causality, but this disposition also supports attention to fantastic violation of naturalist expectations. Similarly, there is an evolutionary background to the horror and fear of being preyed upon by powerful agents, whether they are real animals or fictitious monsters. Finally, Grodal discusses why films increasingly exploit the possibilities of creating viewer fascination by making films about fantastic and supernatural events that activate innate dispositions. In his article ‘Forms of the intangible: Carl Th. Dreyer and the concept of “transcendental style”’, Casper Tybjerg also addresses the experience of religious meanings in fictional narratives. Considering Paul Schrader’s notion of the transcendental style in film, it provides a critical discussion of how a particular film style might have a specifically religious significance. Paul Schrader’s argument that certain films may constitute a transcendental art and, as such, function as a sort of alternative religion, is compared to David Bordwell’s concept of parametric film narration and, in particular, Torben Grodal’s cognitive film theory. The article concludes that spiritual experience is better explained as the outcome of the combination of three elements: an art film style, content indicative of a ‘higher meaning’, and an audience predisposed for looking for such meanings. Ryan G. Hornbeck and Justin L. Barrett’s article on ‘Virtual reality as a “spiritual” experience’ examines the Internet phenomenon of Second Life from the perspective of the cognitive psychology of religion. They argue that human minds may interact with Second Life in a manner highly similar to that in which they interact with supernatural concepts. Both virtual reality media and supernatural concepts contain information that appear counterintuitive to users’ expectations of how ontological categories work (humans may transform themselves or jump in time and space), at the same time as users in virtual worlds may, due to anonymity and plasticity of representations, engage in activities that often elicit a superabundance of inferences, thus exciting the social cognitive mechanisms with minimal effort. In the article, ‘Understanding superpowers in contemporary television fiction’, Line Nybro Petersen addresses the possible audience gratifications and fascination of superpower in popular culture combining a sociological and psychological approach. Using the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and Heroes as key examples, she demonstrates how the attribution of extraordinary powers to otherwise normal characters are similar to the counterintuitive properties of religious agents. Stories of superheroes are similar to daydreams, because they provide a refuge from the insecurities of everyday life at the same time as they allow the individual to live out egocentric thoughts and desires. In addition to the universal cognitive features that support the fascination with the superhero, cultural contexts also play an important role. The predominance of American heroism gives superhero narratives a widespread cultural appeal in the United States, and contemporary television series often give the superhero protagonists a slightly more rounded character, also enabling supernatural heroines to appeal to a female audience. 6

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In ‘The occultural significance of The Da Vinci Code’, Christopher Partridge examines Dan Brown’s novel as a prominent example of a broader cultural shift from religion to spirituality in western societies. Important components in this shift, as reflected in The Da Vinci Code, are the romanticizing of the premodern world, a sacralization of the feminine and a distrust of institutionalized religion. The Da Vinci Code found resonance in the occulture, that is the melange of beliefs, practices, traditions and organizations related to the occult in a wider sense that constitute a cultic milieu in modern societies. In conclusion, the success of The Da Vinci Code bears witness to the fact that audiences often seem to be far more attracted to intriguing ideas circulating within occulture, including exciting arguments founded on weak logic, and by conspiracy theories disseminated within popular culture, than they are by serious scholarship or traditional theological exegesis. In Helle Kannik Haastrup’s ‘One re-enchanted evening – the Academy Awards as a mediated ritual within celebrity culture’, the Oscar television show is used as a case study to demonstrate the many layers of cultural meanings of this contest and coronation type of media event. The Oscars ceremony includes several elements that parallel religion: the stars are staged as half-gods, and there is a strong ritualization of events, from the celebratory presentations at the Red Carpet scenes to the emotional acceptance speeches. Whereas celebrity culture generally may be understood as a civil religion, the Oscars ceremony has become the essential religious festival of this civil religion. In the article ‘Religion, philosophy and convergence culture online: ABC’s Lost as a study of the processes of mediatization’, Lynn Schofield Clark analyses the audiences’ web-based discussions of religious and philosophical issues in popular culture. Using Henry Jenkins’s notion of fan discussions as a sort of ‘collective intelligence’, it examines how and to what extent blogs, online forums and other Internet discussion sites may enhance viewers’ understanding and appreciation of the Lost narrative, and provide a forum for a wider engagement with philosophical and religious issues. Although the results question the concept of ‘collective intelligence’, processes of mediatization of religion are discernable, for example by Lost’s use of religious symbols and narratives in contexts that are usually not considered religious, and by the emergence of norms in online forums for the popular presentation of philosophical and religious issues. In the final two articles, we look beyond the realm of European and American popular culture. Ehab Galal’s article ‘Magic spells and recitation contests: the Quran as entertainment on Arab satellite television’ documents the proliferation of satellite television stations and programmes in the Arab world with an Islamic orientation. In the fatwa programmes an Islamic scholar answers questions about how to live a Muslim life in accordance with the Quran, but the programmes are dominated by questions of lifestyle rather than theological discussion. Also in recitation contests and healing programmes, global forms of popular culture blend with elements of Islamic traditions. The mediatization of Islam supports a process in which a political and rational version of Islam is increasingly being replaced by a more individualized and consumer-based version. In Lars-Martin Sørensen’s article ‘Animated animism – the global ways of Japan’s national spirits’, he looks at the apparent paradox of the simultaneous NL 6 3–8 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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global spread of the Shinto religion through anime and similar Japanese pop culture and the re-nationalization of Shinto by power holders in Japan. Using Hayao Miyazaki’s films as the primary example, he demonstrates that while these films may be interpreted by a western audience as promoting an ecological awareness, they also promote traditional cultural values that may be interpreted in accordance with contemporary Japanese nationalism. These nationalistic meanings of Shinto may, however, not be obvious to a western audience, since the success of anime in the United States of America and Europe is also due to its cultural reinterpretations by, particularly, American fan communities. The inspiration for this volume on enchantment, media and popular culture has primarily emerged out of two research contexts. The Nordic Research Network on the Mediatization of Religion and Culture was established in 2005 and has provided a very fruitful forum for developing the study of these issues. Several of the articles in this volume were first presented at the network’s conference on ‘Enchantment, Popular Culture and Mediated Experience’ in April 2007 in Copenhagen. I wish to thank my Nordic colleagues in this network for their continuous inspiration and constructive criticism. Another important impetus for this volume has been the research priority area ‘The Mediatization of Culture’ at the Department of Media, Cognition and Communication at University of Copenhagen. Again, I wish to express my gratitude to my colleagues in this context for providing a stimulating cross-disciplinary environment for the study of media, religion and culture. References Durkheim, É. (2001 [1912]), The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Flesher, P.M. and Torry, R. (2007), Film & Religion, Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press. Gebhardt, W., Hepp, A., Hitzler, R., Pfadenhauer, M., Reuter, J., Vogelgesang, W., et al. (2007), Megaparty Glaubensfest. Weltjugendtag: Erlebnis – Medien – Organisation, Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Socialwissenschaften. Hjarvard, S. (2006), ‘Religion og politik i mediernes offentlighed’ (‘Religion and Politics in the Public Sphere of the Media’), in L. Christoffersen (ed.), Gudebilleder: Ytringsfrihed og religion i en globaliseret verden (Images of the Gods: Freedom of Speech and Religion in a Globalized World), Copenhagen: Tiderne Skifter, pp. 44–71. Hoover, S. (2006), Religion in the Media Age, London: Routledge. Peck, J. (1993), The Gods of Televangelism: The Crisis of Meaning and the Appeal of Religious Television, Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.9/1

The mediatization of religion A theory of the media as agents of religious change Stig Hjarvard Abstract

Keywords

The article presents a theoretical framework for the understanding of how media work as agents of religious change. At the centre of this theory is the concept of mediatization. Through the process of mediatization, religion is increasingly being subsumed under the logic of the media. As conduits of communication, the media have become the primary source of religious ideas, in particular in the form of ‘banal religion’. As a language the media mould religious imagination in accordance with the genres of popular culture, and as cultural environments the media have taken over many of the social functions of the institutionalized religions, providing both moral and spiritual guidance and a sense of community. Finally, the results of a national survey in Denmark are presented in order to substantiate the theoretical arguments and illustrate how the mediatization of religion has made popular media texts important sources of spiritual interest.

religion popular culture survey mediatization banal religion secularization

By the help of the most sophisticated media technology, supernatural phenomena have acquired an unmatched presence in modern societies. In recent blockbuster movies like Narnia, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and the Harry Potter film series, magicians, ghosts, elves, unicorns, monsters possessed by evil and spirits working for good are vividly alive and inhabit the world on a par with mortal human beings. The metaphysical realm is no longer something you can only imagine or occasionally see represented in symbolic forms in fresco paintings or pillars of stone. The media representations of the supernatural world have acquired richness in detail, character and narrative, making the supernatural appear natural. The salience of the supernatural world is, furthermore, supported by its mundane character in the media. Watching aliens and vampires in television series like The X Files and Buffy the Vampire Slayer week after week, season after season, and spending an hour or two every day fighting supernatural monsters in computer games, playing a magic character of your own creation, all make the world of the unreal a pretty familiar phenomenon. The supernatural world is not confined to the media genres of fiction. Discovery Channel’s television documentary series Ghosthunters (1996–)

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was among the first in a wave of television programmes dealing with supernatural, paranormal and traditional religious issues. In Denmark, for instance, national television has dealt with ghosts, exorcism and reincarnation in programmes like The Power of the Spirits and Travelling with the Soul, and on entertainment shows like The Sixth Sense, astrologists and chiromancers appear together with psychologists and fashion specialists. Not only has superstition, or new religion, become more prominent in the media, the institutionalized religions (Christianity, Islam and so on) have also received greater attention in factual programmes. The more highbrow channels of Danish radio (P1) and television (DR2) now frequently broadcast documentaries about religious issues and discussion programmes in which representatives of religious institutions appear. Over the last decades, the Danish press has also increased its coverage of both Christian and Islamic issues. In the period from 1985 to 2005, Rosenfeldt (2007) documents a multiplication of stories involving Christian issues (approximately three times as many) and Islamic issues (approximately eleven times as many). The publishing of the Muhammad cartoons by the daily newspaper Jyllands-Posten left no doubt that the media do indeed play a prominent role in the public circulation of religious representations and in the framing of religious controversy (Hjarvard 2006). Last but not least, the Internet has become a prominent platform for the dissemination and discussion of religious ideas, allowing many new religious movements to enter the public realm and changing the ways in which religious institutions interact with their community (Højsgaard and Warburg 2005). The increased presence of religious themes in the media may at first look like a negation of the ideas that secularization is the hallmark of high modernity and that the media are agents of enlightenment. Consequently, we could interpret the development as an increased tendency towards the de-secularization (Berger et al. 1999) or re-sacralization (Demerath 2003) of modern society in which secular tendencies are gradually being replaced or at least challenged by the resurgence of Christianity, Islam and newer mediatized forms of religion. However, in spite of the reappearance of religion on the media agenda, there is nevertheless a strong tendency towards the secularization of society. Norris and Inglehart (2004) have provided the most comprehensive analysis based on the available statistical data from 74 countries covering the period 1981–2001, and they report a clear correlation between the modernization of society and the decline in religious behaviour and beliefs. Thus, mediatization of religion may be considered a part of a gradual secularization: it is the historical process in which the media have taken over many of the social functions that used to be performed by religious institutions. Rituals, worship, mourning and celebration are all social activities that used to belong to institutionalized religion but have now been taken over by the media and transformed into more or less secular activities. Studying the ways religion interconnects with the media provides evidence of tendencies of secularization and of re-sacralization, and it may certainly be possible that both tendencies are at work at the same time – although in different areas and aspects of the interface between religion and media. For instance, some media genres, like news and documentaries, may in general subscribe to a secular 10

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world-view, whereas science fiction and horror genres are more inclined to evoke metaphysical or supernatural imaginations. For a sociological understanding of the role that modern media play in religion, it is important to stress that modern media do not only present or report on religious issues; they also change the very ideas and authority of religious institutions and alter the ways in which people interact with each other when dealing with religious issues. For instance, some strands of faith were previously considered to be superstition and denounced as low culture. The increased presence of such forms of faith on international and national television has increased the legitimacy of ‘superstition’ and challenged the cultural prestige of the institutionalized church. As expressed by a Danish bishop after the screening of The Power of the Spirits, ‘Danish culture will never be the same after this series’ (Lindhardt 2004). Similarly, we have witnessed how Dan Brown’s bestseller novel and movie The Da Vinci Code made new agendas for several of the institutionalized religions across the world. It is my aim in this article to develop a theoretical framework for the understanding of how media work as agents of religious change. At the centre of this theory is the concept of mediatization: the media have developed into an independent institution in society and as a consequence, other institutions become increasingly dependent on the media and have to accommodate the logic of the media in order to be able to communicate with other institutions and society as a whole. Through the process of mediatization, religion is increasingly being subsumed under the logic of the media, both in terms of institutional regulation, symbolic content and individual practices. A theory of the interface between media and religion must consider the media and religion in the proper cultural and historical contexts, and the mediatization of religion is not a universal phenomenon, neither historically, culturally nor geographically. The mediatization of religion is a modern phenomenon to be found in western societies in which media have become independent institutions. Also, within western societies, there are many differences both in terms of media and religion, and the resultant theoretical framework and analytical outline may be more adequate for developments in the north-western part of Europe than in other parts of the western world. The studies conducted by Clark (2005) and Hoover (2006) clearly indicate that the evangelical movement in the United States provides an important cultural context for the interplay between media and religion. This is clearly different from a Scandinavian and Danish context with a much more limited public presence of, and low level of attendance to, the Protestant Church. Thus, the empirical findings from a Danish context that are presented at the end of this article may very well differ from the US experience. The theory must also consider the fact that media are not a unitary phenomenon. Individual media are dependent on their technological features, aesthetic conventions and institutional framework, and this can mean that the consequences for religion of the Internet and television may differ somewhat. A thorough understanding of the impact of media on religion must therefore be sensitive to the differences between media and the various ways in which they portray religion, transform religious content and symbolic forms and transfer religious activities from one institution to another. NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Three metaphors of media Joshua Meyrowitz (1993) has suggested a useful distinction between three different aspects of communication media: media as conduits, media as languages and media as environments. In his framework, these metaphors are used to categorize existing strands of research on mediated communication, but here they will specify the various ways in which religion is affected by media. The metaphor of media as conduits draws attention to the fact that media transport symbols and messages across distances from senders to receivers. When focused on this aspect, research must deal with the content of the media: what kinds of messages are transmitted, what topics occupy the media agenda, how much attention does one theme get compared with another and so on. Following on from this position, the media are distributors of religious representations of various kinds. Most obvious perhaps are the religious key texts like the Bible, the Quran, hymn books and so on, which are also media products that are distributed both within religious institutions and through general media markets. However, the media in the sense of independent media production and distribution companies are only to a very limited extent channels for the distribution of texts originating from the religious institutions. Newspapers may have columns dedicated to religious announcements, and radio and television usually transmit religious services, but in most western countries this is a marginal activity. Most of the representations of religious issues in media do not originate from the institutionalized religions, but are produced and edited by the media and delivered through genres like news, documentaries, drama, comedy, entertainment and so on. Through these genres, the media provide a constant fare of religious representations that mixes institutionalized religion and other spiritual elements in new ways. The media become distributors of what I shall label banal religion and may hence serve as sources of re-enchantment. If we consider the metaphor media as languages, our attention focuses on the various ways the media format the messages and frame the relationship between sender, content and receiver. In particular, the choices of medium and genre influence important features like the narrative construction, reality status and the mode of reception of particular messages, and, as a consequence, the media adjust and mould religious representations to the modalities of the specific medium and genre in question. A newspaper story about the papal politics towards Latin America, a horror film like The Exorcist and a computer game like World of Warcraft provide very different representations of religious issues and, indeed, involve completely different assumptions about what defines religion. In contemporary Europe and North America, the media as languages first and foremost imply that religion is formatted according to the genres of popular culture. Popular culture has always practised an often contentious representation of religious issues, but the public service obligations of radio and television, and the stricter moral control of commercial media in general, previously meant that the institutionalized religions used to have a firmer grip on the ways religion was represented in the public media. Due to the increasingly deregulated 12

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and commercialized media systems in most European countries as well as in North America, radio and television have become far more integrated into popular culture, and newer media like computer games, the Internet and so on have, from the very outset, placed the themes and narratives of popular culture at the centre of their activity. Through the language of popular culture in the media, religion has become more oriented towards entertainment and the consumer, and the approach to religion is generally more individualized. Finally, if we consider the metaphor of media as environments, our interest concentrates upon the ways media systems and institutions facilitate and structure human interaction and communication. Due to their technical and institutional properties, public service media like the radio and television of the mid-twentieth century generally favoured a national, paternalistic, unidirectional (one-to-many) communication pattern, whereas the Internet of the twenty-first century favours a more global, consumer-oriented and multidirectional communication pattern. Because environments are much more stable than individual messages, this position encourages studies of wide-ranging historical changes; for instance, how the printing press stimulated the spread of scientific ideas and weakened the church’s control over the individual’s access to religious texts, thus supporting the individualization of belief and the rise of Protestantism (Eisenstein 1979). In the technologically advanced societies of the twenty-first century, the media have expanded to almost all areas of society and make up pervasive networks (Castell 1996) through which most human interaction and communication must be filtered. Consequently, the media also structure feelings of community and belonging (Anderson 1991; Morley 2000). The media ritualize the small transitions of everyday life as well as the events of the larger society (Dayan and Katz 1992). In earlier societies, social institutions, like family, school and church, were the most important providers of information, tradition and moral orientation for the individual member of society. Today, these institutions have lost some of their former authority, and the media have to some extent taken over their role as prov-iders of information and moral orientation at the same time as the latter have become society’s most important storyteller about society itself. The media’s impact on religion may be manifold and at times contradictory, but as a whole the media as conduits, languages and environments are responsible for the mediatization of religion. Mediatization designates the process through which core elements of a social or cultural activity (for example, politics, teaching, religion and so on) assume media form. As a consequence, the activity is, to a greater or lesser degree, performed through interaction with a medium, and the symbolic content and the structure of the social and cultural activity are influenced by media environments and a media logic, upon which they gradually become more dependent (Hjarvard 2004, 2008; Schulz 2004). Mediatization is not to be mistaken for the common phenomenon of mediation. Mediation refers to the communication through one or more media, through which both message and the relation between sender and NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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receiver are influenced by the ‘affordances’ (Gibson 1979), that is, the enabling and constraining features of the specific media and genres involved. However, mediation in itself may not have any profound impact on social institutions like politics or religion, as long as the institutions are in control of the communication. Mediation concerns the specific circumstances of communication and interaction through a medium in a particular setting. In contrast, mediatization is about the long-term process of changing social institutions and modes of interactions in culture and society due to the growing importance of media in all strands of society. Mediatization is the process of social change that to some extent subsumes other social or cultural fields into the logic of the media. In the case of religion, the media – as conduits, languages and environments – facilitate changes in the amount, content and direction of religious messages in society, at the same time as they transform religious representations and challenge and replace the authority of the institutionalized religions. Through these processes, religion as a social and cultural activity has become mediatized.

Banal religion In his book on nationalism and cultural identity, Michael Billig (1995) develops the concept of ‘banal nationalism’. The study of nationalism is often focused on the explicit and institutionalized manifestations of nationalism, like nationalistic ideologies (for example, fascism) or symbols (for example, the flag). However, nationalism and national identity are not only created and maintained through the use of official and explicit symbols of the nation, but are also to a very large extent based on a series of everyday phenomena that constantly reminds the individual of his or her belonging to the nation and the national culture. Billig distinguishes between metaphorically ‘waved and unwaved flags’ (Billig 1995: 39); that is, between manifest and less noticeable symbols of the nation. Whereas the collective ‘we’ and ‘them’ in specific historical circumstances have evidently served to demarcate the nation against outsiders, such pronouns also live a quiet, everyday existence in other periods, providing natural, yet unnoticeable, references to the members and non-members of the national culture. It is this unnoticed, low-key usage of formerly explicit national symbols that constitutes what Billig calls ‘banal nationalism’. In continuation of Agger (2005), I take the notion of ‘banal nationalism’ a step further than Billig (1995) and include a whole series of everyday symbols and occurrences that only have a marginal or no prehistory as symbols of the nation or nationalism. Many cultural phenomena and symbols may be familiar symbols of aspects of both culture and society, but they are not necessarily seen as expressions of a national culture or a nationalistic ideology. In a Danish context, phenomena such as herrings and schnapps, the Roskilde rock festival, young people bathing in the North Sea and the chiming of the bells at Copenhagen’s City Hall on New Year’s Eve may for many people be familiar experiences that constitute parts of their cultural environment and memories. These experiences and symbols may not be related to nationalism, but can just as well be related to instances of individual history, family events or class culture. In some circumstances they may, nevertheless, be mobilized for nationalistic 14

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purposes, and acquire a whole new set of meanings. A good example of such a reinterpretation is the campaign video of the extreme right-wing party in Denmark, the Danish People’s Party (Dansk Folkeparti) for the 2001 parliamentary election. Accompanied only by music, a five-minutelong montage of still pictures of ‘banal Danishness’ was shown. The video conveyed a very powerful and positive picture of Denmark and Danishness, and through the usage of these banal national symbols, it systematically excluded elements of foreign culture from being worthy components of Danishness. Just as the study of nationalism needs to take the banal elements of national culture into account, the study of religion ought to consider the fact that both individual faith and collective religious imagination are created and maintained by a series of experiences and representations that may have no, or only a limited, relationship with the institutionalized religions. In continuation of Billig (1995), I label these as banal religious representations; they consist of elements usually associated with folk religion, like trolls, vampires and black cats crossing the street; and items taken from institutionalized religion, like crosses, prayers and cowls; and representations that have no necessary religious connotations, like upturned faces, thunder and lightning; and highly emotional music. From the point of view of human evolution (Boyer 2001; Pyssiäinen and Anttonen 2002), it seems reasonable to assume that these banal religious representations provided the first inventory of religious imaginations, and they continue to inform a kind of primary and to some extent spontaneous religious imagination. In the course of history and the subsequent differentiation of society, religion became partly institutionalized, and religious professionals produced progressively more complex and coherent religious narratives that excluded part of the banal elements as superstition and included others as part of the Holy Scripture, as well as invented new ones. Instead of accepting the institutionalized religious texts as the most valid and true sources of religion and belief and consequently considering folk religion or ‘superstition’ as incomplete, undeveloped or marginally religious phenomena, it is both theoretically and analytically far more illuminating to consider the banal religious elements as constitutive for religious imagination, and the institutionalized religious texts and symbols as secondary features, in a sense as rationalization after the fact. The label ‘banal’ does not imply that these representations are less important or irrelevant. On the contrary, they are primary and fundamental in the production of religious thoughts and feelings, and they are also banal in the sense that their religious meanings may travel unnoticed and can be evoked independently of larger religious texts or institutions. The religious meaning of banal religious elements rests on basic cognitive skills that help ascribe anthropomorphic or animistic agency to supernatural powers, usually by the means of counterintuitive categories that arrest attention, support memory and evoke emotions. Thus, banal religious elements are about the supernatural and intentional force behind a sudden strike of lightning (ascribing agency), or about dead people who still walk about in the night (counterintuitive mix of categories). The holy texts, iconography and liturgy of institutionalized religions may contribute to the stockpile of NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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banal religious elements, and as such they may circulate and activate meanings that are more or less related to the authorized religious interpretation. The power relationship between banal religious representations and institutionalized religion may, of course, vary historically and geographically, but the increasing role of media in society seems to make room for more of the banal religious representations.

Enchanting media According to Max Weber (1998 [1904]), the modern world is characterized by the steady advance of rationality. As social institutions became more and more differentiated and specialized, the bureaucracy, the military, the industry and so on were subsumed into the logic of rationality. Consequently, the modern world was disenchanted: as magical imagination, religion and emotions – in short, irrationality – lost ground to the allencompassing logic of modern institutions, modern man gradually became imprisoned in an ‘iron cage’ of rationality. Although Weber’s analysis of the role of rationality in modern society may still apply, his diagnosis of a progressive disenchantment is hardly valid. In the muddy reality of modern culture, rationality thrives next to irrationality. As the two authoritarian catastrophes of the twentieth century, fascism and Stalinism, bear witness to, extreme rationalism may very well go hand in hand with rabid irrationalism like the cultic celebration of a leader, mythological stories and prophecies, and diabolical depictions of the enemies. Irrationalism may also, in normal social conditions, be rationalism’s bedfellow. As Campbell (1987) demonstrates in his analysis of the interconnections between the spread of consumer culture and the rise of a romantic sensibility, the advance of rationality is only one side of the story. Ritzer (1999) has developed Campbell’s argument in an analysis of the postmodern consumer culture, in which ‘cathedrals of consumption’ like shopping malls, theme parks and so on stage consumption in spectacular settings in order to endow the goods of mass production with extraordinary qualities and provide a magical experience. At the same time that both the production and distribution of consumer goods are subjected to still higher levels of ‘McDonaldization’, that is, more calculation, effectiveness and technological control, the goods themselves and the process of consumption are bestowed with magical meanings in order to re-enchant a still more soulless world of identical consumer goods. In a similar vein, religions may provide a source of re-enchantment in the modern world. In continuation of Gilhus and Mikaelson (1998), I argue that the advance of new religious movements indicates the return of ‘enchanting’ elements from a premodern world, while at the same time these new religions are a source for identity and meaningfulness for modern self-reflexive individuals who, increasingly, are left alone with the responsibility of constructing a purpose in life. At the same time that secularization relegated institutionalized religion to the periphery of society, less organized and more individualized forms of religions seemed to emerge within various institutions, including businesses and industries where quasi-religious elements inform management training, branding and so on. It should be noted, however, that neither the old nor the newer kinds of religion necessarily imply a re-enchantment of the modern world. 16

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The intellectualization of modern Protestantism and the tight behavioural control within certain Islamic fundamentalist groups are two very different examples of religious developments that diminish the enchanting potential of religion. In the same way that the new religious movements have done, the media contribute to a re-enchantment of the modern world (Murdock 1997; Martin-Barbero 1997). The media are large-scale suppliers of narratives – fictional as well as factual – about adventures, magical occurrences, the fight between good and evil and so on (Clark 2005). The media are, of course, also a source of information, knowledge and enlightenment and as such propagators of reason, but at the same time they are a well of fantasies and emotional experiences. The media have become society’s main purveyor of enchanted experiences. When Ritzer (1999) singles out the ‘cathedrals of consumption’ as the re-enchanting institutions par excellence in modern society, he is in fact only pointing towards some specific media industries. A theme park like Disneyland magnificently re-enacts narratives from a single media mogul, and the shopping mall’s attempt to induce consumption with extraordinary experiences usually relies on the workings of advertising techniques, licensing of media brands, and physical environments saturated by pop music and television screens. In a similar vein, I argue that a series of new religious movements has achieved a greater resonance among its audience because the media have published similar stories. For instance, there are strong interdependencies between the media’s continuous preoccupation with aliens in general and the Roswell mythology in particular, and the proliferation of quasi-religious beliefs in aliens (Rothstein 2000; Lewis 2003). It may be said that religious messages have always been distributed through the media: the book has been an instrument of teaching and a source of key holy texts, and the church may, from a certain perspective, also be considered a communication medium with a whole series of genres like the sermon, psalms and so on. However, the both quantitative and qualitative development that the media have undergone in society is overlooked in this argument. In the past, the mass media were very much in the service of other social institutions. Books and journals were in the service of religious institutions, the scientific institution and the cultural public sphere, and newspapers were very much the instruments of political parties and movements. In a North European context, radio and television were cultural institutions and, through an elaborate scheme of political and cultural control, broadcast a balanced representation of political as well as cultural institutions in society. Moving towards the end of the twentieth century, most media gradually lost their close relationship with specific social institutions, organizations and parties, and the media themselves became independent institutions in society. Consequently, the media no longer see themselves as purveyors of other institutions’ agendas; instead, their activities are much more attuned to the service of audiences – very often incorporating the logic of a commercial market. Phrased differently, the media increasingly organize public and private communication in ways that are adjusted to the individual medium’s logic and market considerations. Other institutions are still represented in the media, but their function becomes progressively more that NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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of providers of raw material, which the media then use and transform for the purpose of the media themselves. The liturgy and iconography of the institutionalized religions become a stockpile of props for the staging of media narratives. For example, popular action adventure stories about Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Lara Croft in Tomb Raider, and Van Helsing blend and recontextualize all sorts of religious, pagan and secular symbols in new and unexpected ways. In sum, the media as cultural institutions become prominent producers of various religious imaginations, rather than conveyors of the messages of religious institutions.

Community and rituals Considering the media as environments, we may take the etymology of the words ‘medium’ and ‘communication’ as a starting point. The word ‘medium’ originates from the Latin medius, meaning ‘in the middle’, and the word ‘communication’ derives from the Latin communicare, meaning ‘to share or to make common’. Thus, the media are located at the centre of or between people, and through the media, people share experiences that become common knowledge. A considerable part of media studies is concerned with these communal aspects of media and communication. James Carey (1989) argued that besides transporting information, the significance of the media lies in their cultural functions, that is, in their ability to create and sustain communities and to regulate the relationship and belonging between an individual and the society as a whole. As Dayan and Katz (1992) have demonstrated in empirical studies, the media carry out collective rituals with a highly social integrative function. Broadcasting media have performed a vital role in the ritualization of important societal transitions, like the funeral of presidents, celebration of national feasts, inauguration of a new king and so on. Radio and television’s live broadcasts of such events make it possible for a whole community (region, nation or world) both to witness and participate in the ceremony. Such media events deepen the emotional ties between community and members and make the events part of the community’s collective memory. The media also become important for the collective mourning and coping with grief in cases of tragic events, like the terror attack in the United States on 11 September 2001. Kitch (2003) has shown how the news magazines, Time and Newsweek, in their coverage of the events did not only provide information, but also a kind of psychological help by guiding readers through consecutive stages of grief and providing resilience and closure to a national catastrophe. The treatment of collective feelings is not reserved for the big catastrophes; it is a recurrent feature of the media, and they may not only be responsible for emotional guidance, they may also facilitate the construction of collective emotions in the first place. A celebrity event like the death of Princess Diana was made into an international event by the media, and the media both built up emotional responses and provided examples of how to express sorrow in a number of ways, for example, by laying flowers at embassies, lighting candles and so on. During ritual events, an interesting interplay between the media and the church can often be noticed. Whether it is a tragic disaster like the Asian tsunami (26 December 2004) or a national celebration, like the wedding of the Danish Crown Prince Frederik to Mary Donaldson 18

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(14 May 2004), the transmission of a religious ceremony plays a minor, yet important role. The majority of the media coverage of such events is carried out by the media themselves using their traditional genres and formats like news, interviews, documentary, live commentary and so on. However, ceremonial actions are best performed as direct transmissions; for a moment the media pass the baton to another social institution, making it temporarily responsible for the performance of the ritual. In other words, when the media try to be at their most solemn, they perform as nakedly as possible: they stage themselves as pure channels of transmission, connecting the community to the religious institution that is conducting the memorial service or performing the wedding ritual. As Cottle (2006) has argued, media rituals are not necessarily consensual or affirmative of a dominant social order. They may occasionally be ‘politically disruptive or even transformative in their reverberations within civil and wider society’ (Cottle 2006: 411). This may also apply to media rituals concerned with religious issues. Thus, the media have not only taken over the performance of affirmative rituals that were previously performed by the church, but media rituals may also serve to transform religious imagination and its social status. For instance, the global media events related to the film premiere of The Lord of the Rings trilogy may have been crucial to the increase in cultural prestige of the fantasy genre in general, at the expense of institutionalized religious imagination. Rothenbuhler (1998) has pointed towards both the habitual and ritual aspects of the use of the media itself. For most people, the use of media is embedded in everyday routines, and the use of specific media and genres also serve to mark minor and major transitions in the course of the day, the week, the year and so on. The sound of the morning radio and reading the newspaper indicate the beginning of the day in the same way that the late evening news on television ritualizes the end of the day. Previously, religious institutions provided such temporal orientation by ringing the church bells, conducting morning and evening prayers and so on. Today, the media mark such nodal points in the temporal flow of everyday life. A key activity of religious institutions is the worship of symbols, gods and saints, but they no longer enjoy a monopoly in this field. The media frequently promote worship behaviour. A whole section of weekly magazines makes a living out of facilitating para-social relationships (Horton and Wohl 1956) between the audience of ordinary people and the celebrity world of media personalities, movie stars, royal families, the rich and the famous and so on. The film, television and music industries are consciously trying to develop cult phenomena, fan clubs and idolization as an integral part of the marketing efforts, but worship-like behaviour may also emerge spontaneously. In a similar vein, modern corporate branding strategies try to create both a cultural and spiritual relationship between brand, employees and consumers. Jenkins (1992) specified the characteristics of media fan cultures. Among other features, the fans develop a special mode of reception of the key texts, and the fans constitute a kind of interpretative community as well as an alternative social grouping. Furthermore, fan cultures often take part in the development of an ‘art world’, that is, special artefacts that in various ways comment on and pay tribute to the worshipped media products. NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Fan cultures share many of the characteristics of religious groups, although they in substance – what the adoration is directed towards – may differ. The fans do not necessarily believe that the media’s heroes and idols possess divine powers, but, on the other hand, fans do often treat media idols as if they were saints. As Hills (2002) argued, the similarities do not necessarily lead us to equate fan cultures with religious communities. Instead, the parallels bear witness to the fact that a series of religious activities, like worship and idolatry, can without major changes be recontextualized in more or less secular settings.

Surveying the media’s spiritual function In order to empirically validate the above-mentioned arguments about the interrelationship between media and religion, a series of questions were posed in consecutive surveys among a representative sample of the Danish adult population (18 years or older) during 2005. The first question aimed to chart to what extent Danes use the media as sources to engage in spiritual issues. The questions invited answers that implied a very broad understanding of religion, including ‘banal religion’. As the results in Table 1 indicate, discussion with family members and close friends was the most frequent way to engage in spiritual issues. Next, the use of television programmes, Ways of engaging in spiritual issues

Per cent

Discuss with family and close friends

30.7

Watch television programmes

25.7

Read non-fiction books (e.g. philosophy and psychology)

14.9

Visit websites/Internet discussions

11.5

Read novels

10.5

Attend church ceremonies

10.5

Listen to radio

9.2

Attend meetings/public lectures

8.9

Go to cinema

7.3

Read the Bible (or other holy scripture)

5.2

Other

4.6

Did not engage in such issues

42.8

Table 1: Ways of engaging in spiritual issues Question: ‘People may have an interest in spiritual issues, including faith, folk religion, ethics, magical experiences, life and death and so on. If you are interested in such issues, how did you engage in them during the last couple of months?’ Note: The respondents were asked to tick a maximum of three possibilities, thus, the sum exceeds 100 per cent. The question was part of the survey undertaken by the Zapera research institute’s quarterly Internet-based survey in Denmark in 2005. N = 1005.

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non-fiction books and the Internet were frequent ways of engaging in spiritual topics. It is interesting that the institutionalized ways of engaging in spiritual issues – going to church or reading religious texts – were rather marginal activities compared with the use of media. Reading the Bible (or other religious texts) was the least frequent way mentioned among the possible answers. Reading a novel was just as frequently a way to engage in spiritual issues as going to church. That discussion with family and close friends plays such a prominent role (rather than talking to the minister or other members of a religious congregation) may reflect the fact that spiritual issues in a highly modernized society are considered private and personal, rather than public and social, while at the same time, family and friendship have come to serve very emotional functions (Giddens 1992). It should also be noted that many people have not engaged in such matters at all: more than 40 per cent have neither used the media nor other possibilities of exploring spiritual issues. The next question illuminated the extent to which specific media and genres were used as sources of the fight between good and evil. As such, the question related to the media as sources of moral orientation, not necessarily of spiritual guidance, although these aspects may be intertwined. Not surprisingly, as Table 2 demonstrates, narrative and fictional media and genres provide most stories that have made a profound impression on the Per cent Film

41.1

Television programme

25.2

Fiction novel

22.0

Newspaper

14.4

Computer game

11.4

Internet

6.7

Magazine monthly/weekly

6.0

Radio programme

6.0

Religious books or texts

5.5

Other

3.6

Cannot remember any/don’t know

41.4

Table 2: Media stories about the fight between good and evil Question: ‘The media are full of stories about the fight between good and evil. It may be feature films (e.g. Star Wars), novels (e.g. Harry Potter), religious books (e.g. the Bible), factual programmes (e.g. television news) and so on. Please tick 1–3 media in which you have experienced a story about the fight between good and evil that has made a profound impression on you. If you remember the title, you may specify.’ Note: The respondents were asked to tick a maximum of three possibilities, thus, the sum exceeds 100 per cent. The question was part of the survey undertaken by the Zapera research institute’s quarterly Internet-based survey in Denmark in 2005. N = 1005.

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respondents. But factual news is also a frequent source of stories about the fight between good and evil and, accordingly, the two Danish TV newscasts, Tv-Avisen and Nyhederne, are frequently mentioned as television programmes that have provided such stories. Religious texts have, to a very limited extent, made a profound impression on the Danes in this respect. The question invited the respondents to list concrete titles of media products, and the most frequent was the Lord of the Rings film trilogy. Among the most frequently mentioned films were the Harry Potter movies, the Danish Adams Æbler, the German Der Untergang and the American Passion of the Christ and Constantine. Among fictional novels, Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons are frequently mentioned together with (again) the Harry Potter books and the book The Lord of the Rings, as well as the Danish fantasy series The Shamer Chronicles. Among the explicit religious writings, the Bible is frequently mentioned. In order to examine whether media not only support an existing interest in spiritual issues but also encourage a further interest in such matters, four popular media products were singled out because of their explicit, yet somewhat different, ways of thematizing these issues. The respondents were asked if these media products increased their interest in ‘magic and fantasy’, ‘spiritual issues’ and/or ‘religious issues’ respectively. This differentiation of possible answers was made in order to distinguish between various aspects of religious issues, since one way of addressing an interest in religion may render other important aspects invisible. ‘Magic and fantasy’ may be said to highlight the supernatural and folk religious aspects; ‘spiritual issues’ may connote existential, philosophical and/or emotional aspects; and ‘religious issues’ may designate an interest in the institutionalized and formal features of religion. As Table 3 shows, the Harry Potter stories, Dan Brown’s novels and the Lord of the Rings trilogy have all increased interest in ‘magic and fantasy’ for about a third of the respondents. The computer game World of Warcraft increased the respondents’ interest in ‘magic and fantasy’ in 22.5 per cent of the cases. It should also be noted that most people did not report an increased interest in such aspects in all of the four cases. When it comes to the media product’s effect on the interest in ‘spiritual issues’ (Table 4), they are lower in the case of the Harry Potter stories, the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the computer game World of Warcraft. However, more than one out of ten respondents stated that these media products increased his or her interest in spiritual issues. With regards to an increased interest in ‘religious issues’ (Table 5), there was a further drop in percentages for these three media products; however, there were still some respondents who felt that, for instance, Harry Potter made a difference in this topic. Dan Brown’s novels display a rather different pattern compared to the others. His books are more prone to encourage an interest in the spiritual and, even more so, in the institutionalized bearings of religion than any of the other three media products. More than half of the respondents reported an increased interest in religious issues after reading those novels. This is not surprising, since Dan Brown’s novels explicitly deal with the spiritual and institutionalized aspects of Christianity. It is perhaps much more surprising that media narratives, which at first glance seem to have only a remote, if any, relationship to religion, like for instance Harry Potter (Sky 2006), nevertheless stimulate an interest 22

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Harry Potter stories (novels, films and/or computer games)

Dan Brown’s novels (Da Vinci Code and/or Angels & Demons)

Lord of the Rings trilogy (novel, films and/or computer game)

World of Warcraft (computer game)

Yes

32.3

29.3

35.2

22.5

No

64.6

68.3

62.6

75.5

3.1

2.4

2.1

2.0

Don’t know

Table 3: The effect of different media stories on the interest in magic and fantasy The media story has increased my interest in spiritual issues

Harry Potter stories (novels, films and/or computer games)

Dan Brown’s novels (Da Vinci Code and/or Angels & Demons)

Lord of the Rings (novel, films and/or computer game)

World of Warcraft (computer game)

Yes

11.5

38.4

13.4

12.1

No

84.5

58.1

83.7

86.5

4.1

3.5

2.9

1.4

Don’t know

Table 4: The effect of different media stories on the interest in spiritual issues The media story has increased my interest in religious issues

Harry Potter stories (novels, films and/or computer games)

Dan Brown’s novels (Da Vinci Code and/or Angels & Demons)

Lord of the Rings (novel, films and/or computer game)

World of Warcraft (computer game)

Yes

4.5

53.5

7.2

7.1

No

91.7

43.1

90.1

90.0

3.7

3.4

2.7

2.8

Don’t know

Table 5: The effect of certain media stories on the interest in religious issues Note: Tables 3, 4 and 5 indicate the effect of certain media stories on the interest in magic and fantasy, spiritual issues and religion; in percentage (vertical) of respondents having read, seen or played at least one version of the media story in question. Among the total number of respondents (N = 1007) 588 had read, seen or played at least one Harry Potter story; 350 had read at least one of the two novels by Dan Brown; 716 had read, seen or played Lord of the Rings, and 133 had played the computer game World of Warcraft. The questions were part of the quarterly Internetbased survey undertaken in Denmark in 2005 by the Zapera research institute.

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in supernatural and spiritual issues, and even – although to a limited extent – encourage interest in institutionalized religion. An increased interest in such matters does not necessarily equate an increased belief in magic or religion; on the contrary, it may – as the case of Dan Brown’s books demonstrates – go hand in hand with a sceptical awareness and critique of dominant forms of religion. The results of the surveys demonstrate, however, that the media have acquired a prominent role in the realm of religion, and people’s interest in such matters is prompted by the media institution.

Epilogue In this article, a framework has been developed to conceptualize the ways that media may change religion. The developments are complex and do not necessarily have a uniform impact on religion; in some instances, media may further a re-sacralization of society, in others, they undermine the authority of institutionalized religion and promote secular imaginations, rituals and modes of worship. At a general level, these processes share a common feature: they are all evidence of the mediatization of religion. Through mediatization, religious imaginations and practices become increasingly dependent upon the media. As conduits of communication, the media have become the primary source of imagery and texts about magic, spiritualism and religion, and as languages the media mould religious imagination in accordance with the genres of popular culture. The media as cultural environments have taken over many of the social functions of the institutionalized religions, providing both moral and spiritual guidance and a sense of community. Consequently, institutionalized religion in modern, western societies plays a less prominent role in the communication of religious beliefs and, instead, the banal religious elements of the media move to the fore of society’s religious imagination. References Agger, G. (2005), Dansk tv-drama (Danish Television Drama), Frederiksberg: Samfundslitteratur. Anderson, B. (1991), Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso. Berger, P., Sacks, J., Martin, D., Weiming, T., Weigel, G., Davie, G. and An-Naim, A. (eds) (1999), The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics, Washington DC: Ethics and Public Policy Center. Billig, M. (1995), Banal Nationalism, London: Sage. Boyer, P. (2001), Religion Explained: The Human Instincts that Fashion Gods, Spirits and Ancestors, London: William Heinemann. Campbell, C. (1987), The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Carey, J. (1989), Communication as Culture: Essays on Media and Society, Winchester, MA: Unwin Hyman. Castell, M. (1996), The Information Age: Economy, Society and Culture, vol. 1–3, Oxford: Blackwell. Clark, L.S. (2005), From Angels to Aliens: Teenagers, the Media, and the Supernatural, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cottle, S. (2006), ‘Mediatized Rituals: Beyond Manufacturing Consent’, Media, Culture & Society, 28: 3, pp. 411–32.

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Dansk Folkeparti (2001), Valgkampsvideo (Danish People’s Party: Election Campaign Video). http://www.danskfolkeparti.dk/Valgfilm.asp. Accessed May 5th, 2008. Dayan, D. and Katz, E. (1992), Media Events: The Live Broadcasting of History, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Demerath III, N.J. (2003), ‘Secularization Extended: From Religious “Myth” to Cultural Commonplace’, in R.K. Fenn (ed.), Sociology of Religion, Oxford: Blackwell. Eisenstein, E.L. (1979), The Printing Press as an Agent of Social Change, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gibson, J.J. (1979), The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception, Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Giddens, A. (1992), The Transformation of Intimacy: Sexuality, Love, and Eroticism in Modern Societies, Palo Alto: Stanford University Press. Gilhus, I.S. and Mikaelsson, L. (1998), Kulturens refortrylling: Nyreligiøsitet i moderne samfunn (The Re-enchantment of Culture: New Religions in Modern Societies), Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Hills, M. (2002), Fan Cultures, London: Routledge. Hjarvard, S. (2004), ‘From Bricks to Bytes: The Mediatization of a Global Toy Industry’, in I. Bondebjerg and P. Golding (eds), European Culture and the Media, Bristol: Intellect Books, pp. 43–63. ____________ (2006), ‘Religion og politik i mediernes offentlighed’ (‘Religion and Politics in the Public Sphere of the Media’), in L. Christoffersen (ed.), Gudebilleder: Ytringsfrihed og religion i en globaliseret verden (Images of the Gods: Freedom of Speech and Religion in a Globalized World), Copenhagen: Tiderne Skifter, pp. 44–71. ____________ (2008), ‘The Mediatization of Society’, Nordicom Review, 2, (in press). Hoover, S.M. (2006), Religion in the Media Age, London: Routledge. Horton, D. and Wohl, R. (1956), ‘Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction: Observation on Intimacy at a Distance’, Psychiatry, 19, pp. 215–29. Højsgaard, M.T. and Warburg, M. (eds) (2005), Religion and Cyberspace, London: Routledge. Jenkins, H. (1992), ‘ “Strangers No More, We Sing”: Filking and the Social Construction of the Science Fiction Fan Community’, in L. Lewis (ed.), The Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media, London: Routledge, pp. 208–37. Kitch, C. (2003), ‘Mourning in America: Ritual, Redemption, and Recovery in News Narrative after September 11’, Journalism Studies, 4: 2, pp. 213–24. Lewis, J. (ed.) (2003), The Encyclopaedic Sourcebook of UFO Religion, New York: Prometheus Books. Lindhardt, J. (2004), ‘Overtro er det glade vrøvl’ (‘Superstition is Sheer Nonsense’), Dagbladet Politiken, 3 January. Martin-Barbero, J. (1997) ‘Mass Media as a Site of Resacralization of Contemporary Culture’, in S. Hoover & K. Lundby (eds.), Rethinking Media, Religion and Culture, Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Sage, pp. 102–116. Meyrowitz, J. (1993), ‘Images of Media: Hidden Ferment – and Harmony – in the Field’, Journal of Communication, 43: 3 (Summer), pp. 55–66. Morley, D. (2000), Home Territories: Media, Mobility, and Identity, London: Routledge. Murdock, G. (1997), ‘The Re-Enchantment of the World: Religion and the Transformations of Modernity’, in S.M. Hoover and K. Lundby (eds), Rethinking Media, Religion and Culture, London: Sage, pp. 85–101. Norris, P. and Inglehart, R. (2004), Sacred and Secular: Religion and Politics Worldwide, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Pyssiäinen, I. and Anttonen, V. (eds) (2002), Current Approaches in the Cognitive Science of Religion, London: Continuum. Ritzer, G. (1999), Enchanting a Disenchanted World: Revolutionizing the Means of Consumption. Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Pine Forge Press. Rosenfeldt, M.P. (2007), ‘Hvor meget fylder religion?’ (‘How Much Space does Religion Take Up?’), Kritisk Forum for Praktisk Teologi, 109 (October), Copenhagen: Anis, pp. 31–47. Rothenbuhler, E. (1998), Ritual Communication: From Everyday Conversation to Mediated Ceremony, London: Sage. Rothstein, M. (2000), UFOer og rumvæsener: Myten om de flyvende tallerkener (UFOs and Aliens: The Myth of the Flying Saucers), Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Schulz, W. (2004), ‘Reconsidering Mediatization as an Analytical Concept’, European Journal of Communication, 19: 1, pp. 87–101. Sky, J. (2006), ‘Harry Potter and Religious Mediatization’, in J. Sumiala-Seppänen, K. Lundby and R. Salokangas (eds), Implications of the Sacred in (Post)Modern Media, Gothenburg: Nordicom, pp. 235–54. Weber, M. (1998 [1904]), The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, Los Angeles: Roxbury.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.27/1

Re-enchantment and the popular imagination: fate, magic and purity Graham Murdock Abstract

Keywords

Theorists have long argued that the world is becoming more secular as modernity’s celebration of scientific and technological progress displaces religious systems from the centre of institutional and imaginative life. This assumption is increasingly untenable. All the world’s major religions see their support increasing. This continued vitality is due, in part, to the contradictory nature of modernity’s pursuit of progress. The global reach of the risks attached to nuclear weapons and global warming have helped revive notions of fate. The communications networks that underwrite global capital also provide the organizational resources for new forms of fundamentalism. Advertising’s incessant promotion of consumerism depends on belief in the transformative power of magic. Taking these three core cultural themes of fate, magic and purity as a focus, this article explores the forms that re-enchantment has taken within the popular media.

fundamentalism fate risk magic media networks

Unseating religion from its central place in institutional and imaginative life has always been western modernity’s core project. It set out to banish superstition and faith from its technologies of inquiry and construct a new social order around market relations overseen by secular states. It urged people to think of themselves as citizens and consumers rather than believers. The murk of the ‘Dark Ages’ would be dispelled by the enlightened rationality of objective scientific research, technological innovation and dispassionate deliberation. This onslaught provoked a concerted reaction as religious systems and communities struggled to reclaim the popular imagination, pointing to the spiritual vacuum at the heart of the new materialism and science’s awkward silence on fundamental questions of meaning and value. This battle between secular and sacred seductions, enlightenment and re-enchantment was fought out above all across the sprawling terrain of vernacular culture. The onward march of modernity coincided with the spaces, schedules and rituals of this culture becoming increasingly colonized by successive innovations in print, photography, cinema, recorded sound, broadcasting and, now, digital media. Religious organizations were quick to harness these media and their merchandising possibilities, leaving no possibilities untapped. In 2007, David Socha, the founder of the Christian toy makers, one2believe, announced that the company was launching a Bible Princesses series in direct competition with Barbie, the most successful girls’ toy of NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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the last 49 years. Where Barbie offers a concerted training in materialism, encouraging play based on a range of fashion items and consumer goods, the Princesses carry hidden spiritual messages taken from the Bible. This is not a marginal curiosity. In the United States, the company’s existing lines, led by the Messengers of Faith series which offer scriptural readings and Bible stories at the press of a button, are stocked by Wal-Mart, the country’s largest retail chain, and they make estimated profits of $4.6bn a year. In December 2007, one of the world’s leading media conglomerates, News International, acquired Beliefnet, with 3 million users a month, the largest faith and spiritual information site on the World Wide Web. In combination with Fox Faith, the company’s new film studio geared to producing ‘family oriented’ entertainment, this gives Rupert Murdoch a solid presence in a growing market, not just in the United States, but worldwide. In 2005, over 2 billion people across the globe claimed to be adherents of Christianity and this figure is projected to rise sharply in the next two decades to well over 2.5 billion (Micklewait 2008: 26). Far from being a waning or residual force, religious belief appears resurgent and remains central to the culture of reenchantment that continually introduces elements of the mystical, intangible and sacred into the imaginative enclosure constructed by secular modernity. This unexpected turn of events has prompted a fierce response from defenders of secularism and scientific rationality led by the distinguished evolutionary biologist and militant atheist, Richard Dawkins, whose best-selling book The God Delusion (2006), mounts a relentless attack on the case for religious belief. It is all too easy to construct the present ‘culture wars’ over the intellectual and moral foundation of modern life as a simple set of binary oppositions: faith versus science, conviction versus evidence, the intangible versus the material. Closer examination reveals a more complex set of connections and dynamics, however. In attempting to minimize religion’s influence on institutional and intellectual life, the pursuit of modernity has inadvertently created the conditions for its continued vitality and popular currency. I want to explore this idea by taking a closer look at three core themes within the culture of re-enchantment: magic, purity and fate, and at the role of popular media in their construction. Modern science set out to replace the seductions of magic with the sovereign power of reason, but as Marx recognized, the stability of capitalism depended crucially on a consumer system based on the alchemy of commodities that promised to turn the base metals of disappointment and longing into the gold of personal fulfilment. Modernity did not demolish the magician’s cell or the power of devotional images; it installed them at the heart of the advertising system and the shopping mall. In constructing a transnational network of subjugations, encounters and exchanges, the modern world system not only facilitated migration, intermingling and heterogeneity, it created the conditions for the reassertion of religious and national projects aimed at expelling contamination and restoring purity. The technologies of networked communication that underpin the latest globalizing phase of capitalist modernity also provide the infrastructural supports for revivified forms of fundamentalism. But I want to start with the central thread in the culture of re-enchantment, the idea of fate. 28

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The transition from notions of fate to models of risk is generally seen as the decisive conceptual shift marking modernity’s emancipation from religious schemas and its commitment to interventions in the natural and social worlds based on calculations of costs and benefits. The argument that scientific discovery and technological innovation would free citizens from avoidable risks was central to modernity’s meta-ideology of ‘progress’. At a popular level this promise of ever increasing security and comfort was never completely accepted. Mediated imagery and storytelling repeatedly showed modern science releasing destructive forces it could not recall. This sense of a world escaping human agency has deepened in the post-war period, first with the proliferation of nuclear weapons and accidents at nuclear power stations and now with the gathering concerns over genetic modification and the crisis of global warming. The prospect of planet-wide destruction and extinction offers fertile ground for the return of beliefs in fate and divine judgement. To properly understand this process, however, we need to return to the earthquake that devastated Lisbon in 1755. This marked the defining moment in the development of modern notions of risk and progress and their popular representation. The rhetoric and imagery of disaster brought into play then have proved remarkably resilient.

Fate Progress year zero: Lisbon 1755 In the mid-eighteenth century, Lisbon found itself caught more forcibly than any other major European city on the fault line between a modernity rooted in rational calculation and a medieval world organized around religious belief. The capital of the first great modern maritime empire, its entrepreneurs, adventurers and administrators employed the latest techniques and technologies to further their commercial and political goals. Vasco da Gama’s arrival in India in 1498 and Pedro Cabral landing in Brazil two years later had transformed the city from a provincial centre to a global hub. The profits flowing from control of the spice trade with the East Indies coupled with command over the flow of gold and diamonds from Brazil had established Lisbon as a showcase. Its imposing buildings and grand projects, including a new quay outside the customs house made entirely of marble, were the envy of fashionable Europe. Its libraries housed one of the most comprehensive collections of maps, books and paintings. These cultural and material resources for an emerging modernity, however, sat uneasily alongside the entrenched power of the Catholic Church at its most militant. Lisbon was a pivot of Jesuit power and the major base for a branch of the Inquisition intent on rooting out heresy and challenges to religious authority wherever they were to be found. The relative order of Inquisitional interrogations was accompanied by periodic autos-da-fe (acts of faith), when backsliders and unbelievers were forced to purge themselves by submitting to the cleansing fire of public burnings. At a more mundane level, the Christian calendar continued to punctuate everyday life. All Saints Day, on 1 November, when the faithful celebrated all those who had ascended to heaven and achieved beatific vision, was one of the key dates in this cycle. In 1755, the day dawned bright and clear. The city’s cathedrals and churches were full by nine o’clock in the morning and those who remained NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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at home were lighting fires to prepare the midday meal. The first earthquake struck at 9.30 a.m. Buildings shook but remained standing. After a pause, tremors resumed and lasted for another four to five minutes bringing down buildings. The church of Sao Paulo, the largest in the city, collapsed after the second quake and the roofs of many smaller churches fell in on densely packed congregations. Many of those still able to walk made their way through the rubble and falling debris to the waterside in the hope of finding a boat to take them to the other side of the river. Hundreds were drowned when a series of tsunamis rolled in from the Atlantic Ocean around two hours after the first tremors, including those who were standing on the marble quay when it disintegrated. Those still in the city found themselves faced with numerous fires that broke out after the quakes had stopped and were soon raging out of control fanned by a strong north-west wind. The fires lasted for almost a week and caused at least as much damage as the original earthquake. By the time they were extinguished, ‘only 3,000 of Lisbon’s 20,000 houses remained habitable [and] at least half of the city’s churches were damaged or reduced to rubble’ (Jack 2005: 11). ‘To this day [the Lisbon] earthquake is considered the most catastrophic in European history’ (De Boer and Sanders 2005: 88). The effects were felt over an area of more than 15 million square kilometres, reaching Finland in the north and the West Indies and the eastern seaboard of America to the west (De Boer and Sanders 2005: 94). More immediately, tremors and tsunamis caused widespread destruction in other parts of Portugal, in south-west Spain and along the north-west coast of Africa. Fez and Casablanca were both destroyed and there was extensive damage in Cadiz, Algiers and Tangier. Attention, however, focused primarily on Lisbon. Witnessing the centre of a major world power suffering such devastation was profoundly shocking to commentators across Europe and demanded an explanation. Religious representatives were quick to claim that the city’s woes were a divine punishment for worldliness and lack of piety. The prominent Jesuit, Gabriel Malagrida, was in no doubt that the cause of the death of so many people and of the flames that devoured so many treasures are your abominable sins […] It is scandalous to pretend the earthquake was just a natural event, for if that be true, there is no need to repent. (De Boer and Sanders 2005: 99)

This call to repentance was not confined to Catholic clerics. In Protestant England in February 1756, Thomas Newman delivered a fiery sermon in Westminster Abbey to members of the House of Lords, the second chamber of parliament, proclaiming that God’s visitation on Lisbon revealed a clear purpose: ‘It is to bring us back to his law, which is no other than the dictates of divine wisdom’ (Ingram 2005: 112). Later that same year, Hans Adolphe Brorson, the bishop of the Ribe diocese in Denmark, published an epic poem on the ‘Pitiful Destruction of Lisbon’ arguing passionately that ‘when Folk strut on earth so cock-sure and so bold /As if there were no doom and God in heaven above’ they leave God with no choice but to ‘descend and make his presence known / And such defiance cast like Babel to the ground’ (Qvortrup n.d.).

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There was, however, another reaction. Faced with the scale of the disaster, scientifically inclined observers redoubled their efforts to ‘understand typical locations and effects of earthquakes, to uncover signs of their approach, and to discover ways of avoiding them or limiting their destructiveness’ (Loveland 2005: 199). They included Philibert Guneneau de Montbeillard, who compiled a comprehensive chronological list of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes, which he published in the Collection Academique, as part of a series of volumes designed to make the research produced by scientific academies around Europe available in French. Montbeillard was a typical representative of the emerging celebration of systematic observation and reason as the royal routes to knowledge and insight. He contributed an article to the Encyclopedie, the founding text of the Enlightenment and went on to collaborate with Leclerc de Buffon on the ‘Natural History of Birds’, an important early contribution to zoology. Others went further, attempting to move from description to explanation. In 1760, John Mitchell, a geology professor at Cambridge University, published Conjectures concerning the Cause, and Observations upon the Phaenomena of Earthquakes, in which he argued that if the direction of the waves caused by earthquakes in different locations are plotted as lines on a map and extended outwards, the point at which they intersect will be the quake’s point of origin. Using this method, he was able to confirm the widely held assumption that the Lisbon earthquake had originated in the eastern Atlantic. This and other work laid the basis for a decisive break with notions of fate and divine retribution and helped to install the concepts of progress and risk at the centre of modernity’s intellectual framework. Humanity was no longer at the mercy of forces set in motion by unknown processes or God’s displeasure. The ever expanding understanding of natural processes offered by advances in scientific inquiry would allow the risks they carried to be assessed and managed and wherever possible averted or turned to advantage. The result would be progressive improvements in safety, well-being and comfort. For champions of the Enlightenment, however, securing progress required social engineering as well as scientific knowledge. In a letter to Voltaire, one of the most influential Enlightenment thinkers, Jean Jacques Rousseau, another formative figure, argued strongly that if only ‘the residents of that large city had dispersed more evenly, and built lighter houses, the damage would have been much smaller, even none at all’ adding that the situation was made worse because ‘many wretches lost their lives’ attempting to collect ‘their belongings – some their papers, some others their money’ (quoted in Bauman 2006: 59). For many observers, the rational solutions to these problems lay in better city planning and insurance schemes based on calculations of risk. The first would minimize damage to the fabric of public life, the second would compensate individuals for losses. In Lisbon the task of rebuilding the city was assigned to the Marques de Pombal, a long-standing and ambitious servant of the Crown. He had attended the Royal Society during his time as a diplomat in London and was a true Enlightenment figure. Born the son of a country squire, he represented a rising class wedded to rational calculation. He had the centre of the city redesigned around a grid system based on the great square on the NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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waterfront. Street lighting was installed. The result was ‘one of the most upto-date Enlightenment cities, a home fit for a new middle class on whom national prosperity would depend’ (Jack 2005: 15), a vision encapsulated in the renaming of the square, Commercial Square. The reconstruction of Lisbon was tangible proof of progress in action. From the year zero of a city virtually razed to the ground, it had emerged as one of Europe’s most advanced capitals. It was an impressive demonstration of modern technology’s ability to transform devastation and chaos into order and elegance. Religious zeal, however, did not fit into this new, meticulously planned, rectangular space and in a series of bold moves, Pombal set out to marginalize the power of the Church, particularly the Jesuits. Their university at Coimbra was closed and leading members of the order arrested and executed or incarcerated. Later, all Jesuit property was confiscated and the order exiled. This loss of material power was not replicated in the symbolic sphere, however.

The vernacular archive In her meditation on photography, Susan Sontag argues that our memories of events, and the hopes and fears clustered around them, are carried most forcefully by images; ‘memory freeze frames; its basic unit is the single image’ (Sontag 2003: 22). The Catholic Church had always understood this, filling cathedrals and churches with carvings, paintings and stained glass windows that dazzled the illiterate with visual narratives. Protestantism set out to erase this reliance on display, demolishing windows, smashing statues and painting walls a uniform white. In their place, the word of God, translated into vernacular languages and made freely available by cheap printed Bibles, was installed as the privileged gateway to personal spiritual understanding. But alongside books and newspapers, printing also made images more available than ever before. The Lisbon earthquake was not only widely reported across Europe, it was also extensively pictured in engravings and prints. A number of these captured the most dramatic moments: people fleeing in panic from falling buildings or advancing fires, the wholesale destruction of ships and quaysides as the huge wall of water driven by the tsunami hit the harbour. As James and Kozak (2005) argue, in their detailed analysis of depictions of the disaster, many of these images combined a scientific world-view dedicated to precise observation with a new humanitarian concern with the fate of strangers. The fleeing figures are not sinners suffering divine retribution but ordinary citizens caught up in an entirely unexpected natural disaster. Reportage has replaced allegory. As the first major catastrophe of modernity, the popular images generated by the Lisbon earthquake were deposited in a vernacular visual archive constructed around a limited number of master templates that are available to be continually re-used and refreshed. We see these same basic compositions and points of view in the posters for some of the most successful disaster films of recent years. The family running from the crumbling buildings and advancing conflagration in Earthquake in New York (1998) are direct descendents of the panic-stricken victims of 1755, and the tsunami engulfing New York in The Day After Tomorrow (2004) smashes into the waterfront and surges through the streets in much the 32

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same way as it did then, except that Manhattan is now cast as the iconic urban landscape of commercial power and modern innovation. Looking at this constant recirculation of essentially secular sources of imagery, it is tempting to assume that religious iconography has lost its purchase on the popular imagination. This is a mistake.

The return of fate On 16 July 1945, Robert Oppenheimer stood in the New Mexico desert, his eyes fixed on the horizon. As a young lecturer at Caltech and the University of California at Berkeley, he had spent his summers lamenting that since ‘My two loves are physics and New Mexico. It is a pity they can’t be combined’ (quoted in Buchan 2008: 9). On that July day, on the Jornado del Muerto (the Plain of Death), waiting to see if the atomic bomb that he had helped to build would detonate, they fused with a fearsome finality. Watching the mushroom cloud rise into the sky, he famously quoted a line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita: ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ His colleague Bainbridge was more direct, noting, ‘We’re all sons of bitches now’ (quoted in Davis 1969: 310). A few weeks later, Oppenheimer’s intimation was translated into a terrible reality when bombs using the same design were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, reducing the cities to ruins. These new weapons marked the moment ‘when technological developments made it possible, for the first time ever, for the human community to inflict massive damage on the entire planet’ (Rogers 2007: 2). Almost a decade and half later, the hero of one of Alfred Hitchcock’s most successful films, North By Northwest (1959), finds himself alone on a rural road pursued by a light aircraft spraying toxic chemicals, his assassination ordered by spies intent on smuggling state secrets out of the country. Three years later, the biologist Rachel Carson returns to these twin threats in Silent Spring (1962), her best-selling polemic against the increasing use of pesticides in industrialized farming. In Hitchcock’s film the link is implicit, but Carson is in no doubt that ‘Along with the possibility of the extinction of mankind by nuclear war, the central problem of our age has become the contamination of man’s total environment with substances of incredible potential for harm’ (quoted in Bourke 2005: 339). The fears evoked by these threats were later amplified by concerns about the safety of nuclear power stations and the destructive impact of crops that had been genetically engineered to resist chemicals sprayed on fields to eliminate weeds and pests. Bob Shapiro, the chief operating officer of Monsanto, one of the major companies involved in producing genetically modified (GM) seeds, recognized that people saw the two risks as stemming from the same drive to restructure basic natural processes. As he told a journalist, after a year facing concerted popular opposition to the commercial planting of GM crops: When people hear about biotech, about how it’s tinkering with the very essence of life, the immediate association is to nuclear science. It’s dawned on them that we have probed the mysteries of the universe down to the atomic level, and look what happens: Boom! You kill millions of people, you poison the air. (Herrera 2000: 162–64)

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Religious imagery played a prominent role in attempts to imagine these consequences. As Boholm demonstrates in his analysis of the press photographs that accompanied stories marking the tenth anniversary of the explosion at the Chernobyl nuclear plant: the images chosen consistently evoked ‘an event preordained by divine forces striking at a sinful humanity’ (Boholm 1998: 139). As we noted earlier, the move from conceptions of fate to calculations of risk, from resignation to control, marks a decisive break with religious schemas and ushers in a secular modern attitude to natural forces as there to be harnessed. But dispassionate calculation does not speak to deepseated fears around death and spoliation, and this void offers a space in which religious imagery can flourish. The protesters who invaded fields planted with GM crops understood this very well and often dramatized their position by dressing as the grim reaper, the harbinger of death in traditional Christian iconography (Murdock 2004: 255). This image has proved remarkably resilient and has been constantly recycled in news coverage of the continuing debate over GM crops and foods (see HorlickJones et al. 2007: 151). The sense of steadily accumulating and proliferating risks signalled by popular concerns around the dangers of genetic modification on the one hand and nuclear weapons and energy on the other have been further reinforced in recent years by the accumulating evidence of global warming and its devastating consequences. This realization fundamentally alters our conception of the threats we face. They are no longer a series of discrete events; they have become a systemic and global consequence of contemporary life. This shift provides the ideal context for the return of fate. As Zygmunt Bauman has argued: Viewed retrospectively, the modern wager on human reason […] looks more like the starting point of a long detour […]. At the end of a long voyage […] undertaken in the hope that it would place humanity at a safe distance from cruel […] nature, humanity found itself facing human-made evils every bit as cruel, unfeeling, callous, random, and impossible to anticipate as were the Lisbon earthquake, fire, and high tide. (Bauman 2006: 63)

This sense of the multiplicity and ubiquity of threat, coupled with the potential scale of destruction, has revived notions of a coming apocalypse.

Apocalypse soon Secular senses of an ending are grounded in statistics rather than imagery. As Krishan Kumar points out, they envisage a slow, incremental decline based on extrapolations of long-term trends; ‘a steady increase in population, or a slow poisoning of the planet’ (quoted in Bourke 2005: 341). Religious conceptions of apocalypse imagine a terrible and total collapse unfolding inexorably within a very compressed time scale. In 1981, James Watt, the Secretary of the Interior in the first Reagan administration and a devout Pentecostalist, told the United States Congress ‘that protecting natural resources was unimportant because Christ was about to return’ (Pearson 2006: 281). He was joined by the 59 per cent of 34

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Americans who told a 2002 opinion poll organized jointly by Time magazine and CNN that they believed the events prophesied in the Book of Revelations – the last book in the Bible and the founding text for contemporary Christian visions of apocalypse – would definitely come to pass (quoted in Pearson 2006: 3). This sense of fatalism draws support from cross-cutting themes in popular culture. As Susan Sontag famously argued, ‘The imagery of disaster in science fiction films is above all the emblem of an inadequate response’ (Sontag 1967: 224) of institutions and planning unable to cope with the immensity of the threat. This sense of impotence has been underpinned by recent news reporting that global warming may have reached its ‘tipping point’, and that no amount of remedial and preventative action can now throw the process into reverse. Again, it is popular imagery that anchors this fear, in news footage of huge slices of the Arctic ice sheet melting and crashing into the sea and photos of polar bears clinging to thin slivers of frozen firmness, cast adrift in an immensity of water. Ironically, the Arctic wilderness is the setting for the final conflict between Baron von Frankenstein and the creature he has created in Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein. First published in 1818, Shelley’s cautionary tale has been recycled countless times in comic books, films and stage shows, and has since become a potent focus for popular fears about the unanticipated consequences of scientific overreaching. At the time, warnings that the onward rush of scientific exploration and technological innovation might generate new dangers as well as novel solutions was drowned out by the chorus of commercial and political voices championing progress. Now, faced with a global threat to the future of mankind’s survival, the unanticipated consequences of progress are all too easily seen as coalescing into a single constellation. This realization has provoked contrasted reactions. Defenders of business-as-usual argue that scientific ingenuity and technological breakthroughs will allow global warming to be addressed without significantly reducing current levels of consumption. They are opposed by an increasingly vocal array of social and environmental movements calling for substantial and urgent changes to prevailing practices based on an ethos of global responsibility and generational justice. But for many, the scale of the problem seems impervious to any alternations they might make to their own lifestyles. For the devout, the narrative of apocalypse offers a convenient escape route. In the dominant eschatology, Satan’s descent to earth, Christ’s return and the final conflict between good and evil, Armageddon, will be followed by the Rapture when the righteous will be instantly removed from danger and transported to heaven. This is not an abstract belief. It is anchored firmly in popular culture with bumper stickers across the American Bible Belt warning passing motorists that ‘In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned’ (quoted in Pearson 2006: 220). The popular novels in the Left Behind series which depict, in lurid detail, the misery and violence visited on those not transported are among the best-selling books in the United States with a print run of more that 62 million (Fraser 2007: 55). Predictably, the novels identify the Antichrist with the United Nations, the major secular agency attempting to address global problems and the main competitor to the Second Coming. For those able to afford practical relief from more immediate threats, however, there are privatized disaster services. NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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When Hurricane Katrina struck the coast of Louisiana, breaking the coastal defences and inundating New Orleans, the secular division between the materially elect and the damned was starkly exposed. The economically secure drove out of town, checked into hotels, and called their insurance companies. The 120,000 people [...] who depended on the state to organize their evacuation, waited for help that did not arrive, making desperate SOS signals or rafts out of their refrigerator doors. (Klein 2007a: 408)

The news films and photos of the desperate and dispossessed drowned in the flood or waiting in line for food was excellent publicity for firms, like Sovereign Deed, offering a ‘comprehensive catastrophe response’ to subscribers caught up in disasters that may ‘cause severe threats to wellbeing’ (quoted in Klein 2007b: 34). At first sight, this profane association of consumption with righteousness seems to cut across the grain of a Christian commitment to care for strangers, but as we shall see it is securely anchored in the Protestant tradition and in the continuing struggle between religion and magic.

Magic Religion and the persistence of magic In his path-breaking book, Religion and the Decline of Magic (1997), Keith Thomas details how the early modern church in England set out to consolidate its intellectual authority by waging a ceaseless war against rival power bases rooted in witchcraft and other ‘magical’ practices. This effort was accompanied by a purge on ‘enthusiasm’ in its original sense of being possessed by a deity. Practices designed to put people in touch with the divine through bodily expression were discontinued and replaced by an idealized vision of devotion as the sober search for spiritual enlightenment though Biblical reading and contemplation (Ehrenreich 2007). This was not a peaceful transition. It was often imposed by rampant force. In England, efforts to purge the country of magic saw an estimated 40,000 women burned as witches, while violent religious wars between Catholics and Protestants scarred families and communities. In a strong reaction to these excesses, the eventual ascendancy of the state-sanctioned church identified religious observance firmly with respectability recasting England as ‘a watery, temperate country with a soundly based suspicion of intensity […] hostile to fervour’ (Marr 2008: 29). A version of this new ‘reasonable’ Protestantism was taken up with particular zeal in the newly independent United States, where strenuous efforts were made to ensure that religious observance displayed ‘no bodily ecstasies […] no mortifications of the flesh, no demonic agency, and no hallucinatory provocations’ (Schmidt 2000: 192). They met with only limited success. Across the continent, evangelical congregations continued to embrace faith-healing, holy rolling, speaking in tongues and the insistent toe-tapping rhythms of gospel music. At the same time, churches of every persuasion remained united in their refusal of magic, but again with limited success. 36

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Nor did technological innovation succeed in banishing either magic or unorthodox forms of spiritual observance. On the contrary, they were locked in an awkward dance. The 1840s saw the launch of the two innovations, the telegraph and positive–negative photography, that together laid the basis for a media environment based on image saturation and instant connection over distance. In 1844, when Samuel Morse asked the daughter of the commissioner for patents to nominate the message that he would send from Washington to Baltimore to demonstrate his new telegraph system, she chose: ‘What hath God wrought?’ The similarities between the telegraph’s transcendence of space and God’s omnipresence were underlined in 1858 when the first transatlantic cable began operations, prompting preachers to reach for biblical references, notably, ‘Their line is gone out though all the earth, and their words to the end of the world’ (Psalms 19) (Standage 1998: 79–80). Not only did religious texts furnish potent metaphors for the ‘miracle’ of the new technology, the telegraph provided a template for new spiritual practices. When the two daughters of the Fox family clapped their hands in response to persistent rappings and knockings in their cottage in New York State in 1848 and elicited a response, they were widely seen as having ‘opened a “telegraphic line” to another world’ (Sconce 2000: 22), a belief that become the foundation of the new Spiritualist movement in which ‘mediums’ attempted to contact those on ‘the other side’. One of Spiritualism’s most dedicated supporters was Arthur Conan Doyle, inventor of the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, the very model of scientific inquiry based on verifiable evidence and deductive reasoning. When Conan Doyle saw the photographs taken by Elsie Wright and her cousin in 1917, purportedly showing fairies in their garden in Cottingley, in the north of England, he was convinced that he had found incontrovertible proof of the spirit world. For him, the claimed objectivity of photography put the issue beyond doubt. Others were more sceptical. Elsie’s father, Arthur, a trained electrical engineer, immediately declared them to be fakes, an opinion widely shared by commentators of the time. But Conan Doyle’s belief remained unshaken, and in 1922, he published a widely read book, The Coming of the Fairies, defending their genuineness. Alongside fairies, sorcerers and white witches a variety of other magical figures have remained stubbornly embedded at the core of popular culture. In 1797, Goethe published a popular ballad, recounting the story of a sorcerer’s apprentice who is left to clean his master’s workroom. He discovers an incantation that will get the brooms sweeping and mopping by themselves but cannot find the spell to stop them. The central image of brooms marching inexorably onwards, carrying overflowing buckets that flood the magician’s cell was later appropriated by Walt Disney and given new vitality as the most famous set piece in his feature-length animation, Fantasia (1940). Never slow to capitalize on the merchandising possibilities of success, the Disney Corporation has ensured that the figure of Mickey Mouse as the sorcerer’s apprentice has continued to be widely available in multiple forms ranging from pillows and decorative pins to Royal Doulton figurines and a nine-minute clip on YouTube. Magic is also central to J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels, the most successful sequence of popular fiction of recent times. In 2001, public burnings of NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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the books took place across America. Where they were disallowed by the fire department on the grounds of public safety, as in Lewiston, Maine, the faithful resorted to cutting them up with scissors (Stolow 2005: 120). These efforts were underpinned by a deep irony, since the Christian groups who gathered to destroy the Harry Potter books were themselves thoroughly immersed in magic’s most pervasive expression within modernity: conspicuous consumption.

Romancing the product: the magic of possession In his reworking of Max Weber’s thesis on the Protestant ethic’s contribution to the moral basis of capitalism, Colin Campbell (1989) argues that while the early Calvinist emphasis on asceticism and hard work as signs of godliness was highly functional in underwriting the initial drive towards accumulation, the second phase of industrial development required the expansion of consumption. This was achieved by linking moral goodness to the sense of beauty displayed by good taste. As a result, he argues, later Calvinists re-enchanted the rationalized world of production by filling it with desirable possessions. By the late nineteenth century, rising real incomes and the explosion of consumer choice in Victorian England had created an expanding middle class eager to demonstrate both their success and their moral character through the objects they chose to buy and display. Faced with 7,000 varieties of bedstead and sideboards in 300 different styles, it was essential to make the right choice, and the clergy were only too eager to advise on which goods signalled the personal qualities needed for salvation and incorporated consumer advice into their sermons (Wulf 2006: 10). Coming from a rabbinical family and growing up in a city divided between Catholicism and Protestantism, Karl Marx saw at once that possessions not only signalled moral qualities, they also took on the characteristics of religious fetishes, objects venerated for their intrinsic powers, like the relics of saints or statues of the Virgin Mary. In an early comment, written when he was 24, he ridicules the idea that these objects raise people above their sensuous desires. On the contrary, he argues, ‘fetishism is the religion of sensuous desire’ designed to deceive ‘the fetish-worshipper into believing that an inanimate object will give up its natural character in order to comply with his desires’ (quoted in Wheen 2006: 43). He returns to this idea in the famous opening chapter of the first volume of Das Kapital, where he argues that commodities operate in exactly the same way, encouraging consumers to invest them with the power to transform their lives. Every act of purchase is a secular baptism, a chance to be ‘born again’, to become the person and to lead the life one has always wanted. Commodities project attention relentlessly forward, to the moment of possession. As Raymond Williams noted, the advertising that sustains their imagined power and welds it to the deepest human desires operates as a system of magic, banishing awkward questions about how they have been made and at what human and environmental costs with a wave of the art director’s wand (Williams 1980: 189). As the representative of one American retail chain noted, ‘You’ve got to romance the product […] You can’t just pile it high and watch it fly. You’ve got to give something extra’ (quoted in Ritzer 1999: 105). 38

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In 1900 the American author Frank Baum published two books: The Art of Decorating Dry Goods Windows and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The first was a pioneering handbook advising stores on how to attract customers by creating window displays that dazzled the passer-by with mechanical eggs and animated tableau. The second became one of the best-loved children’s books of the century and the basis for a highly successful film in 1939 starring the young Judy Garland as Dorothy, a farm girl who leads a group of inadequate and damaged characters in search of a fabled wizard with the power to make them whole. By urging manufacturers and retailers to display commodities in enchanted settings, Baum and the advertising agencies, which were mushrooming at the same time, promised consumers that, like Dorothy and her companions, they could travel their very own yellow brick road to the promise of personal transformation. This sense of enchantment is central to advertising, much of which employs the underlying structure Vladmir Propp identified in fairy tales in his Morphology of the Folk Tale (1928), in which the hero is helped in his struggle to reach his goal by a ‘donor’ who gives him a magic object. As consumption has become a mass phenomenon, so advertising and promotion have become more pervasive, enveloping and personalized. Films, television shows and video games are packed with placements that integrate products seamlessly into the narrative. Social networking sites on the Web are used for viral marketing campaigns, which present engineered product endorsements as spontaneous enthusiasm and grassroots opinion. Synthetic on-line worlds, like Second Life, reproduce the retail environments of the off-line world in every detail, enveloping users in a shopping mall without walls. Continually hailed and addressed by the discourses of marketing, consumers are encouraged to identify themselves through what they buy, own and display. The clergy may no longer offer spiritual advice on interior decoration, but the assumption that market choices are a window of the inner self remains. The universal language of objects compiled by advertising may speak powerfully about who we feel we are and wish to be, but it has not silenced other vocabularies of identity. On the contrary, the global expansion of consumerism has been accompanied by the resurgence of fundamentalist forms of belief.

Purity Fundamentalism takes a variety of forms, but they all have one thing in common: a refusal to accommodate uncertainty, ambiguity, pluralism and difference. ‘Fundamentalists inhabit a world of cut-and-dried oppositions’ (Fraser 2007: 55) that draw an uncrossable line between ‘us’ and ‘them’. In religious systems, this is sustained by enforcing literal interpretations of sacred texts. In national systems, it is secured by rewriting myths of national origin and destination as stories of ethnic purity that exclude the contributions of other groups. Both variants have experienced a resurgence in recent years in response to the blurring of boundaries created by the accelerating flows of peoples, goods and images set in motion by the globalization of capitalism and the collapse of the counter-utopias offered by socialism and communism. NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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As Olivier Roy has argued, the recent resurgence of Islamic fundamentalism ‘is more a product of contemporary globalization than of the Islamic past’ (Roy 2003: 4). Its adherents share the same mode of operations and the same world-view as the new transnational capitalist class of financiers and entrepreneurs, who ‘are more or less in control of globalization’ (see Sklair 2001: 5). Both are geographically mobile; both operate in many different countries; both make extensive use of the advanced communication facilities offered by satellite channels, Internet sites and mobile phones; and both see themselves as members of a global community operating in a single, borderless world. Al-Qaeda’s structure reproduces exactly the networked organization of the contemporary transnational enterprise, with a core research and development nexus subcontracting operations to locally based franchise holders and inspiring freelance brand imitators. It is precisely because it is a quintessential ‘modern organisation’ (Gray 2003: 76) that it has become transnational capitalism’s dark double. In a profound paradox of globalization, the same technologies of communication that enable transnational capitalism to operate effectively also provide the essential infrastructural supports for its fiercest opponents. We see this same contradiction at work at the level of the nation state, particularly in countries like India, which are looking to become major players in new arenas of the global capitalism. In this changed context, religiosity and nationalism are bound together in new ways. In India, in the 1990s, the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) created a new populist political platform by identifying the country as essentially Hindu and attacking the ruling Congress party for its secularization and tolerance of hybridity. Against this, it presented itself as the custodian of ‘ancient Hindu wisdom and science, empowered to retrieve this illustrious antiquity and to reclaim its rightful place on the world stage’ (Stolow 2005: 128). Ironically, it was the hugely successful series of television dramatizations of the great Hindu myth cycles, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, produced by the state broadcaster Doordarshan, under the close supervision of the Congress Party that helped boost the popular currency of this appeal. A similar claim to restore lost power and redress real or imagined wrongs and injustices visited by foreign invasion or rule by corrupt governments also underpinned Osama Bin Laden’s original project. In a speech delivered in 2004, he recalls watching news footage of the USsanctioned Israeli invasion of Lebanon: I still remember […] high rises demolished on top of their residents […] As I was looking at those destroyed towers in Lebanon, I was struck by the idea of punishing the oppressor in the same manner and destroying towers in the US […] punishing the wicked with an eye for an eye. (MEMRI 2004: 1–2)

Over half a century earlier, Hitler had had a remarkably similar vision. As Albert Speer, one of his closet associates, recalls in his diary: he pictured for himself and for us the destruction of New York in a hurricane of fire. He described the skyscrapers being turned into gigantic burning torches,

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collapsing upon one another, the glow of the exploding city illuminating the dark sky. (Pearson 2006: 227)

The parallels are not hard to find. Both Bin Laden’s militant Islamicism and Hitler’s Nazi totalitarianism are fundamentalist systems intent on purging impurities and installing a worldwide power, the one by restoring the Caliphate, the other by building a thousand-year Reich. Both view the United States as the principal enemy, and both see the Manhattan skyline as the key symbol of a modernity based on promiscuous hybridity and raw economic and imperial power. This equation is attractive but also perhaps too simple. As the English social thinker, John Gray, has noted, capitalist modernity is not simply fundamentalism’s ‘other’; it is itself a form of fundamentalism. ‘In contemporary western societies’, he argues, ‘repressed religion returns in secular cults [and in] the eschatological hopes that shaped [both] Marxian “scientific socialism” and neo-liberal “free-market economics”’ (Gray 2003: 116). Adding that ‘The idea that you cleanse the world of evil by converting everybody to or from something is a very Christian idea’ (quoted in Jeffries 2007: 11). The militant free-market creed originally preached by Milton Friedman and his disciples in the economics department at the University of Chicago is ‘like all fundamentalist faiths, for its true believers, a closed loop […] If something is wrong […] there must be some interference, some distortion in the system, a rogue element that must be purged’ (Klein 2007a: 51). As the veteran commentator on African affairs, Anthony Sampson, has caustically noted, the present-day proponents of neo-liberal economics set off for ‘the dark continent’ in exactly the same spirit as evangelical missionaries. ‘Carrying not the Bible but The Economist’, they assured ‘the benighted tribesmen that they can be saved by putting their faith in freemarket global capitalism, which will rid them of their local superstitions and bring them a new era of prosperity’ (Sampson 2004: 11). So we arrive at the paradoxical conclusion that far from rendering religion redundant, modernity’s core ideology of progress, rooted in the rational application of science, has succeeded in installing a thoroughly Christian eschatology of a fall from grace in the Dark Ages, followed by the redemption of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment and the completion of a worldly utopia of choice and plenty through the progressive triumph of technological innovation. Marshall McLuhan offers an interesting variant on this end-of-history schema. A convinced Catholic, his recasting of history as the destruction of organic communication by the invention of printing and its restoration by electronic media, can be read as a thinly veiled attack on Protestant interiority and a celebration of the sociality, visuality and orality of High Mass. As he recognized in his savage early critique of advertising, The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man (1951), the economy of desire that sustains the market system depends for its survival on developing ever more elaborate forms of magic and enchantment. As a recent editorial in the popular weekly magazine New Scientist noted: ‘To want to cleanse society of religion before understanding its purpose seems strangely unscientific’ (New Scientist 2007: 3). At the same time, the coagulation of contemporary NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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threats to personal and collective well-being from pandemic diseases, terrorism and climate change, and the growing conviction that it may already be too late to reverse the effects of the global warming caused by capitalism’s promise of ever increasing opportunities for personal fulfilment through consumption, has revivified the sense that the world is moving inevitably towards its pre-ordained fate when the sin of selfishness will be visited by cataclysmic floods, droughts, starvation and disease. As Karen Armstrong has pointed out, however, this is not the only possible way that religious tradition might contribute to remaking contemporary thought and practice. She argues that the Axial Age, which lasted from 900 to 200 BC and saw the formation of the great intellectual traditions that have dominated western thought – monotheism in Israel, Confucianism and Taoism in China, Hinduism and Buddhism in India and philosophical rationalism in Greece – was defined by one master ethical principle: concern and compassion for others (Armstrong 2006: 34–35). This shared commitment cut across the differences between belief systems and held out the prospect of a common purpose. We see its ethical legacy now in the emerging movements for environmental protection and global justice, and it is here that our best hope for the future lies. References Armstrong, K. (2006), ‘What’s God got to do with it?’, New Statesman, 10 April, pp. 34–35. Bauman, Z. (2006), Liquid Fear, Cambridge: Polity Press. Boholm, A. (1998), ‘Visual images and risk messages: Commemorating Chernobyl’, Risk Decision and Policy, 3: 2, pp. 125–43. Bourke, Joanna (2005), Fear: A Cultural History, London: Virago. Braun, T.E.D. and Radner, J.R. (eds) (2005), The Lisbon Earthquake of 1755: Representations and Reactions, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. Buchan, J. (2008), ‘The Burden of the Bomb’, The Guardian Review, 2 February, p. 9. Campbell, C. (1989), The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism, Oxford: Blackwell. Conan Doyle, A. (1922), The Coming of the Fairies, London: Hodder and Stoughton. Davis, N.P. (1969), Laurence and Oppenheimer, London: Jonathan Cape. Dawkins, R. (2006), The God Delusion, New York: Bantam Press. De Boer, J.Z. and Sanders, D.T. (2005), Earthquakes in Human History: The FarReaching Effects of Seismic Disruptions, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ehrenreich, B. (2007), Dancing in the Streets, London: Granta. Fraser, G. (2007), ‘Blind Faith’, The New Statesman, 5 February, pp. 54–55. Gray, J. (2003), Al Qaeda and What it Means to be Modern, London: Faber and Faber. Herrera, S. (2000), ‘Reversal of fortune’, Red Herring: The Business of Technology, March, pp. 154–64. Horlick-Jones, T., Walls, J., Rowe, G., Pidgeon, N., Poortinga, W., Murdock, G. and O’Riordan, T. (2007), The GM Debate: Risk, Politics and Public Engagement, London: Routledge. Ingram, R.G. (2005), ‘The trembling Earth is God’s Herald: Earthquakes, religion and public life in Britain during the 1750s’, in T.E.D. Braun and J.R. Radner (eds), The Lisbon Earthquake of 1755: Representations and Reactions, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, pp. 97–115.

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Jack, Malcolm (2005), ‘Destruction and regeneration: Lisbon, 1755’, in T.E.D. Braun and J.R. Radner (eds), The Lisbon Earthquake of 1755: Representations and Reactions, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, pp. 7–20. James, C.D. and Kozak, J.T. (2005), ‘Representations of the 1755 Lisbon earthquake’, in T.E.D. Braun and J.R. Radner (eds), The Lisbon Earthquake of 1755: Representations and Reactions, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, pp. 21–33. Jeffries, S. (2007), ‘Apocalypse Now: An interview with John Gray’, The Guardian Saturday Review, 7 July, p. 11. Klein, N. (2007a), The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, London: Allen Lane. ____________ (2007b), ‘Rapture rescue will airlift you to safety: If you can afford it’, The Guardian, 3 November, p. 34. Loveland, J. (2005), ‘Gueneau de Montbeillard, the Collection academique and the great Lisbon earthquake’, in T.E.D. Braun and J.R. Radner (eds), The Lisbon Earthquake of 1755: Representations and Reactions, Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, pp. 191–207. McLuhan, M. (1951), The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man, New York: Vanguard. Marr, A. (2008), ‘God: A Little Local Difficulty’, New Statesman, 4 February, pp. 28–30. MEMRI (The Middle East Media Research Institute) (2004), Special Dispatch Series no. 811, http:// www.memri.org/sd.html. Accessed 8 February 2007. Micklewait, J. (2008), ‘The culture wars go global’, The World in 2008, London: The Economist, p. 26. Murdock, G. (2004), ‘Popular representation and postnormal science: The struggle over genetically modified foods’, In S. Braman (ed.), Biotechnology and Communication: The Meta-Technologies of Information, Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, pp. 227–59. New Scientist (2007), ‘The trouble with reason’, 10 November, p. 3. Pearson, S. (2006), The End of the World: From Revelation to Eco-Disaster, London: Robinson. Qvortrup, L. (n.d.), ‘The Tsunami of the Media: The Structural Coupling Between Mass Media and Religion’, unpublished manuscript, Copenhagen: University of Copenhagen. Ritzer, G. (1999), Enchanting a Disenchanted World: Revolutionizing the Means of Consumption, Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge Press. Rogers, P. (2007), ‘A Century on the edge: 1945–2045’, Open Democracy, http//www.opendemocracy.net/node/35466/print. Accessed 30 December 2007. Roy, O. (2003), ‘Neo-Fundamentalism’, Social Science Research Council, http://www. ssrc.org/sept11/essays/roy.htm. Accessed 18 November 2003. Sampson, Anthony (2004), ‘Knots in the bottom line’, Guardian Review, 17 April, p. 11. Schmidt, L.E. (2000), Hearing Things: Religion, Illusion and the American Enlightenment, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sconce, J. (2000), Haunted Media: Electronic Presence from Telegraphy to Television, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Sklair, L. (2001), The Transnational Capitalist Class, Oxford: Blackwell. Sontag, S. (1967), ‘The imagination of disaster’, in S. Sontag, Against Interpretation and Other Essays, London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, pp. 209–25. ____________ (2003), Regarding the Pain of Others, New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux.

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Standage, T. (1998), The Victorian Internet: The Remarkable Story of the Telegraph and the Nineteenth Century’s Online Pioneers, London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Stolow, J. (2005), ‘Religion and/as Media’, Theory, Culture and Society, 22: 4, pp. 119–45. Thomas,K (2007) Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Belief in Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century England. Oxford. Oxford University Press. Wheen, F. (2006), Marx’s Das Kapital: A Biography, London: Atlantic Books. Williams, R. (1980), ‘Advertising: The Magic System’, in R. Williams, Problems in Materialism and Culture: Selected Essays, London: Verso, pp. 170–95. Wulf, A. (2006), ‘When priests chose the curtains’, The Guardian Saturday Review, 4 November, p. 10.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.45/1

Born again heathenism – enchanted worlds on film Torben Grodal Abstract

Keywords

The article discusses films with fantastic elements using evolutionary psychology. The fascination with the fantastic on film is a by-product of different evolutionary mental adaptations, like the interest in causality with the purpose of control, that create interest in fantastic violation of naturalist expectations; the horror fear of being preyed upon by powerful agents (animals or other humans) and the fear of contamination from dead bodies; and the need to enforce moral supervision and submission to powerful others to enhance group cohesion, and these functions get a powerful emphasis by invention of supernatural agents. The prominence of supernaturalism in media is not necessarily linked to an increase in religious interest vis-à-vis science but could also be caused by a diminished ‘heresy control’ allowing media to exploit a range of innate dispositions of being intrigued by different supernatural phenomena that might be called ‘heathen’ because it often reuses all kinds of folk superstitions.

Evolutionary theory supernaturalism enchantment horror films fantasy films film melodrama

There has, at least since the Enlightenment of the eighteenth century, been a battle between those that believe in a supernatural world order of religious origin and those that believe in a non-supernatural, naturalistic world. Romantic periods that emphasized enchanted and supernatural dimensions have followed periods with a more naturalistic outlook, especially in high culture. However, Max Weber’s observation in Science as a Vocation that the historical tendency has been one of increasing ‘disenchantment, a spreading out of a scientific outlook to all aspects of life and a diminishing role of religion’, has often been accepted as the standard tendency of history. This prophecy has, of course, not been unanimous, and there have been fluctuations over time. Thus, in the last decade or so, many have argued that religion is back – based, for example, on the rise of Christian fundamentalism in the United States of America, the religious revival in eastern Europe, and the rise of Muslim fundamentalism – and people may argue that such a revival expresses an innate urge to have a supernatural world order. Others claim that, for decades, the attendance of church and similarly organized rituals has declined worldwide (including the United States of America), but this decline has been veiled by over-reporting in Gallup polls (cf. the classical study of Hathaway et al. 1993).

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This article discusses the use of different supernatural effects in film and the evolutionary dispositions that support viewer fascinations with audio-visual enchanting supernaturalism. It argues that the interest in supernatural phenomena is supported by several distinct mental mechanisms, none of which can be described as religious instincts as such. The central elements of enchantment are curiosity related to the violation of basic norms; feelings of empowerment by magical activities; activation of a series of fear-and-disgust mechanisms (from fear of invisible predators to fears of contamination of the body); emotions related to the feeling of guilt and shame; emotions related to social submission; and coping mechanisms related to social exchange. Mental models of social exchanges projects mental models that work in social life, like ‘I give you something and you give me something in return’, into a general supernatural model in which humans make exchanges with supernatural agents, like: I provide sacrifices, humble prayers and so on, in the hope that some supernatural agency will provide some goods or services in return, like health, eternal life or reparation of feelings of guilt. Science may compete with supernatural procedures by providing means of empowerment or procedures to deal with illness, just as a secular society may try to induce submission to social systems and promise goods and services in return. The fascination with superior healing powers has the same emotional background – whether felt by a credulous person in relation to so-called alternative medicine and miraclehealers or an incredulous person in relation to powerful scientific medicine – just as the fear of contaminating monsters may feed on the same fear mechanisms as the fear of cancer. The difference is one of insight and trust versus mistrust in the scientific project. Modern magic often mimics aspects of science (magnetic fields or balance in the body). Many people may try to have it both ways, like going to doctors as well as covering their options by visiting healers, or beginning to pray to supernatural beings when the odds for a solution of problems backed up by science are low. In this way, many people may be very pragmatic in their attitude to superstition and science because they are driven by an interest in empowerment and by fear – and not by any clear ideas of how the world works. The problem with discussing the disenchantment thesis, as well as its negation (the idea of a spiritual or religious revival) is that the realm of the supernatural is a large one that covers fantasies and all kinds of magic and rituals, as well as religions that claim to have an allencompassing theory of the universe. Furthermore, established religions are not only vehicles for supernatural ideas but also social institutions that fulfil social functions. One might argue that, for example, the rise of Muslim fundamentalism is driven by its social functions – that is, to back up traditional gender roles and family values in a period of cultural and economic transition or being a rallying organization for nationalistic or imperial ideas.

Evolution and the supernatural Models of enchantment or disenchantment presuppose that, somehow, the historical point of departure for the natural–supernatural dichotomy 46

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was a state in which people were fundamentally living in a world that was fully enchanted, and that science then evolved to become the antagonist of supernatural ideas. However, from an evolutionary point of view, naturalist mental functions are older than those that support supernaturalism. The force behind the millions of years of evolution of animal and human intelligence has been to the advantage of increased fitness – by developing instrumental reason and sophisticated mental models of the world and its inhabitants, these mechanisms enhanced survival and reproduction. Supernatural ideas are – in an evolutionary perspective – a relatively recent phenomena (having perhaps only evolved in tandem with the ability to make symbolic representations 50,000–100,000 years ago). Central aspects of a naturalistic world-view are products of evolution and are based on a series of innate dispositions, some of which we share with higher animals (for an overview of evolutionary psychology, see Buss 2005 and Barrett, Dunbar and Lycett 2002). Fundamental physical properties such as causality (the stone moved because it was pushed), the distinction between animate and inanimate objects and so on, are not based on late scientific knowledge but innate dispositions that have evolved because such naturalistic knowledge enhances survival. Pascal Boyer (2001) has furthermore shown that the idea that people living in pre-industrial societies (for instance, in hunter-gatherer societies) have no clear boundaries between the supernatural and the natural is wrong. In remote hunter-gatherer societies that have had little contact with the industrial world, there is a very clear understanding of many basic physical facts among the inhabitants. Their fascination with the supernatural exists in the very fact that it is counterintuitive and violates everyday experiences: for example, trees that are able to hear and remember, mountains that move, spirits whose acts are counterintuitive and fantastic. Their appeal is partly due to this counterintuitive quality, because brain mechanisms based on calculating rule-following events are highly triggered by events that violate such rules. The development of the human mind is not only one of boosting a general and abstract intelligence. Cognitive psychologists have argued (cf. Cosmides and Tooby 1997) that we have developed a series of specific adaptations of a modular kind: for example, modules to detect cheaters, modules to perform fundamental categorizations into plants, animals and so on (cf. Atran 1994). Such modules boost the learning that is necessary to survive. So, when fantasy films such as Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), The Lord of the Rings (2001–03), or the Harry Potter series (2001–) make composites of plant and animal worlds – for example, trees that intend and use their branches as arms – they create arousal by violating fundamental mental dispositions. The mental fascination with processes that violate the result of such cognitive representations seems to be a side-effect of those same mechanisms that enhance naturalist representations. Supernatural features need not necessarily express some deep religious urge. The fantastical and supernatural were most likely enhanced when humans developed language and pictorial representations some 50,000–100,000 years ago, because whereas our senses are constrained NL 6 45–58 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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by the natural exterior world, symbolic forms allowed for fantastic combinations, such as making composite creatures like sphinxes, or making violations of categories like plants that see and hear like animals, or humans that fly. Language supports naturalistic communication but it also supports fantasy and lies; stories may be true or fantastic, while pictures remove naturalistic constraints on representations. Thus, in general, scientific progress continues the evolutionary processes that began with the development of instrumental reasoning in animals and early humans, while fantasy and enchanted representation are consequences of the same development of enhancing cognitive control – because of the advantages of making representations in some symbolic media that allow a certain independence vis-à-vis the immediate world of sensory impressions. Pascal Boyer (2001) and Scott Atran (2002) have convincingly argued that there is no single psychological mechanism that disposes humans to have supernatural and religious beliefs; rather, religious beliefs and other supernatural imaginations are supported by a heterogeneous body of dispositions. Boyer points in particular to five functional fields that are important in supernaturalism: agency, predation, death, morality and social exchange. Supernaturalism is intimately linked to ideas about powerful agents who may often prey on humans – the origins of this are precautionary systems that helped our ancestors to be on the lookout for dangerous animals and other humans. Death poses a series of problems including how the spirit may not die with the body but haunt the living; how corpses are a source of contamination and disgust; and wishful ideas about eternal life. Supernatural agents may often be implicated in the surveillance of morality and the punishment of sinners; and humans often try to model how they may bargain with agents, by means of social exchanges like sacrifices, prayers and so on. Another way to describe the various dimensions in the supernatural is to say that one dimension concerns the violations of basic natural laws and natural properties (like humans that fly or walk on water), a second dimension concerns supernatural agencies (from fairies to gods), and a third dimension concerns the relations between society and the supernatural. Central functions of the supernatural are sheer mental salience, but also magic empowerment, fear and control of fear, including the existential fear of dying, and moral regulation via the supervisory and/or punishing interference of supernatural agents.

Communicating the supernatural The mental dispositions for supernatural ideas interact with cultural inventiveness and the reproduction of and transmission of supernatural ideas. Once invented, mind-grabbing fairy tales or religious, supernatural ideas may spread from mind to mind. A person or group of persons will have all kinds of mind-grabbing dispositions that have no clear internal order and no clear delimitation between the fantastic and the supernatural. Angels, devils, fairies and so on may be part of fantastic storytelling but may also be elements in some religions, depending on the degree of beliefs that the individuals or groups may allocate to such ideas, and the possible links to rituals and social institutions. 48

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However, social organizations may also, for different reasons, try to block the diffusion of certain supernatural ideas. Organized religions that relate to distinct social groups (eventually in distinct physical locations) will often pick a subset of the available supernatural ideas as being true, and try to suppress other, competing ideas and denouncing them to be heretical and false. This can often lead to punishing or even killing the heretics. The conflict between different competing religions and other organized forms of supernatural beliefs has been just as important as the possible conflict between naturalism and supernaturalism, with all kinds of possible alliances. In the nineteenth century, the technological superiority of Britain functioned as an argument for the superiority of the British versions of Christianity compared with the beliefs of people living in areas with a lower technology. So science and a certain version of monotheism might be allied in the opposition to the beliefs in local spirits, labelling these with the pejorative ‘heathenism’. Different strands of Christianity had different degrees of inclusiveness of enchanted elements such as miracles, exorcisms and so on. Islam, Judaism, Christianity and other monotheistic religions may in some dimensions enhance an enchanted world-view by trying to advocate an integrated, supernaturally based world-view emanating from one powerful source. But they may also by that very effort be in conflict with other types of enchantment, like the belief in ghosts and fairies, and the belief in healers and witches, or the beliefs in local powers (like those haunting specific houses). Such monotheistic religions depend on social institutions that repeat some core supernatural elements and that suppress competing superstitions, or, phrased differently: an important function of religion is to create social and tribal cohesion. The Enlightenment weakened the power of organized Christian supremacy, and in the following Romantic period, in the late eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, all kinds of folklore resurfaced, in gothic tales and in fairy tales, just as pre-Christian mythology gained strength within the culture. The growth of high culture and mass entertainment in the nineteenth century did not only consist of developing disenchanted, ‘scientific’ realism but also in fabricating marvellous or romantic-mythic stories. Wagner’s operas are examples of the way in which non-Christian enchanted mythology derived from all kind of sources competed with the organized religion to create ad hoc mythologies. The film industry followed the same paths as the previous culture industry and transformed gothic horror or folk tales and all kinds of fantastic stories into film in parallel with biblical stories. The film industry, and especially Hollywood, sold their products globally with the purpose of earning money by making mind-grabbing films, and even the local market for Hollywood, USA, was made up of many different religious groups. A successful strategy in this market has been to make films that activate the whole spectrum of innate dispositions for enchantment and marvel, even if this means making films that are clearly outside the mainstream versions of Christianity. Horror stories started out as a minor genre in the 1920s, and this genre has grown continuously, just as fairy tales and other types of enchanted worlds have grown in importance. The youth culture in the 1960s made Asian and indigenous religious forms popular, and films like NL 6 45–58 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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The Exorcist (1973) or Rosemary’s Baby (1968) defied a monotheistic Christian framework by making Satan an alternative to God. Science fiction films were other venues for miraculous agents and happenings, sometimes with the miraculous seen as the prolongation of science, sometimes with an opposition between the natural and the supernatural. The effect of the film industry, in many ways, has been to let loose the total global inventory of supernatural mind-grabbing agents and events, and thus to loosen the link between the supernatural and a locally organized set of rituals for a community, undermining the dominance of monotheistic systems that interpret the world as ruled by only one supernatural agent. I am thus arguing that the increasing role of supernatural themes in media does not necessarily indicate an increasing interest in the supernatural, but that the traditional Christian hegemony in the realm of the supernatural has been weakened in the last fifty years and, therefore, that media and viewers have been more free to exploit alternative ‘heretical’ forms of the supernatural. Of course, due to digitalization, the price of making certain kinds of marvel has also decreased. In the following paragraphs, I will discuss in more detail three important types of the supernatural on film: the fantastic-marvellous, the horrifying and the awe- and submission-inspiring types (for a more detailed discussion of the different types of supernaturalism in film, see Grodal (2007) and Grodal (forthcoming)). These types are not genres as the types of supernatural phenomena described exist in several genres.

Enchantment by marvel and empowerment The simplest form of the supernatural might be the fantastic and marvellous that we find in many fairy tale films. In such films, there are violations of basic categorical distinctions, such as animals that talk, empowering tools like magic wands or brooms, unnatural colours (blue apples) or supernaturally enhanced natural phenomena (visible, powerful sunrays; all-encompassing northern lights). Such marvellous phenomena are salient; they catch the eyes, ears, imagination and memory. Ara Norenzayan et al. (2006) has investigated the success of fairy tales. They found that those stories that had a few salient counterintuitive features (like the talking wolf and the unharmed return of the grandmother from the wolf’s belly in Little Red Riding Hood) were better remembered than those with none or too many (too many counterintuitive elements burden memory function and are therefore difficult to process and remember). Thus, because the marvellous may deviate from the normal, it becomes salient by the same mechanisms that other phenomena are salient by deviation. The main character in the animated film Finding Nemo (2003) is salient for a natural and a supernatural reason: Nemo is a clown fish with red and white stripes, thus clown fish are perceptually salient for natural reasons, but Nemo is also salient because of counterintuitive, supernatural features: Nemo can talk and he possesses a lot of the other characteristics of human agency. Just as visual salience is intriguing, so are violations of innate, intuitive knowledge about the world. The reasons for the fascination with magical agency as a means of empowerment are self-evident. Chinese Wuxia films show sword fighters that are able to fly through the air due to a magical empowerment. The 50

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way in which wishes for naturalistic and supernatural empowerment bleed into each other is often obvious in science fiction films, which provide pseudo-science as explanations for magical empowerment. Science fiction films, to a certain extent, have also functioned as mental laboratories and motivators for ideas for technical achievements. The six Star Wars science fiction films were strongly inspired by fairy tales, but also by the fascination of technical empowerment, and the first film in the series had a direct feedback on military thinking as it inspired Ronald Reagan to launch a defence programme, nicknamed Star Wars. Science fiction has become a major genre vehicle for fantasy films. In fantasy stories, which rely on the marvellous and on empowerment, there are no really strong conflicts between fantasy power and naturalistic power. The world of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) is dominantly marvellous, the trees are animated, the animals talk and the evil stepmother has magical powers. Such fairy tale stories are primarily targeted at children, for whom playing with categorization and dreaming about empowerment is highly salient. Such stories often have good, supernatural helpers and bad, supernatural villains, and this similarly reflects the way in which children rely on and relate to agents outside their active control. The Harry Potter series (2001–) has had a fantastic success by upgrading the interest in magic empowerment by mixing the marvellous elements into stories for older children, so that they too can enjoy the pleasures that have previously been more typical in films for younger children.

Enchantment by activation of predator fear A more complex form of the supernatural consists in the portrayal of worlds in which there are often traumatic conflicts between natural and supernatural types of power and control as we find in horror stories, such as the different versions of the Dracula story, or films like The Evil Dead series (1981–92). The primary target audience for such films is teenagers and young adults. Here the worlds are divided in two: on the one hand, there is a naturalist world inhabited by the characters that the viewers are supposed to have allegiance to; and on the other hand, there are some dangerous supernatural agencies that have evil intentions vis-à-vis the human beings that live in a naturalistic world. Such stories are predominantly predation stories, where there are extremely dangerous predatory monsters or spirits waiting to prey on the innocent (or guilty) humans. Boyer (2001) and Barrett (2004) have argued that supernatural stories about monstrous predators activate mechanisms that have evolved for a different reason in a different environment. For millions of years, our ancestors have been on a constant lookout for dangerous animals and therefore developed mental mechanisms and dispositions to enact such vigilance, because even if these mechanisms very often triggered a false alert, there was an enormous advantage in avoiding any such mortal encounters. Barrett has given these mechanisms the name HADD: hyperactive agency detection devices. Horror stories reveal control problems, given that those threatened only have naturalistic means of defence. So such stories do not only activate strong fear but also use a series of supernatural antidotes, a rich collection of magical instruments assembled from heterogeneous traditions: for example, garlic, silver bullets, crosses, holy water, magic formulas NL 6 45–58 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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and magic wands. Since the first horror films were produced in the beginning of the twentieth century, the genre has seen a massive increase in production and audience, particularly over the last forty years. Horror films make the existence of supernatural agents highly salient and their mode of being defies a normal naturalist world. However, the horror story project consists mainly in control efforts that aim to re-establish the naturalist world, although by temporarily using all kinds of supernatural means. Furthermore, horror worlds do not typically depict a world that is controlled by general systems, in contrast to monotheistic systems with only one power centre. The evil forces inhabit special places, like graveyards, tombs or old castles, and it is from such places that they move out to make inroads on humans. The mental models of such evil agents therefore often have similarities to dangerous animals and to the kinds of beliefs that have continuously been present in superstition, more than to monotheistic or pantheistic agencies, possibly possessing universal power and/or a beneficial moral control. Furthermore, victims of evil predators cannot negotiate with the assailants nor pray, make sacrificial exchanges or have any other types of social exchange that are typical of many religions; it is a fight of life and death. The worlds of horror films (and splatter films) often have affiliations to psychological fields that Boyer and others have indicated are central in religions: functional clusters related to morality, death and supernatural agencies. Social life elicits the fear of being punished for transgressions of moral norms. Although the guardians of morality may be nice agents, the job of getting moral norms obeyed is often conveyed to all kinds of devils and snake gods, as exemplified in the Christian idea of Satan as a supernatural agent that devours sinners. Although horror films mostly do not explicitly state that monsters, vampires and such things punish those that violate moral norms, nevertheless such agents have preferences for devouring ‘sinners’. In splatter films, the semi-supernatural monster goes for sexually active young people and it is often killed by a virtuous, tomboyish girl (Clover 1992). In The Evil Dead (1981), the young people violate interdictions and may not fully live up to conservative norms of sexual behaviour. Horror films equally focus on death, graveyards, bones and spirits of dead people turned evil. Boyer (2001) suggests that the prominence of evil agents connected to dead bodies is partly linked to innate mechanisms that activate disgust in relation to corpses that are possible sources of infections. Numerous horror stories like Dawn of the Dead (1978) describe how victims are instantly contaminated by the undead assailants and turned into the undead themselves. The way in which horror films that include a series of supernatural effects have become an important part of the repertoire of films for (especially) young people may partly be explained as an indication of how traditional religious institutions has lost its influence in the last fifty years. Those fears, and the superstitious remedies for those fears, that, for hundreds of years, institutionalized churches have tried to suppress or channel into their framework (and science has shown to be groundless and ineffective) are now activated by powerful audio-visual means in media that profits from producing arousal by reactivating ‘dormant’ dispositions (this is partly because, as mentioned earlier, organized religion has lost some of 52

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its power to suppress ‘heathenism’). This is especially evident in the way in which horror worlds rely on devils and witchcraft. Horror films are in principle produced as untrue fiction to provide thrills, but they have become an important vehicle for reproducing medleys of thousands of years of Eurasian superstition. Some strains of horror stories – like The X Files (film 1998, as well as TV series 1993–2002) – actively reflect a science–superstition conflict from the point of view of superstition. Horror stories may therefore have potential learning effects that enhance the innate HADD mechanisms in the direction of paranoia.

Enchanted submission and social bonding Fantasy films feed on a mixture of salient violations of innate naturalism and magical agency enhancement, and horror films centrally feed on ‘predator fear’, including the fear of contamination centrally linked to death and sometimes also linked to a satanic system of enforcing morality. However, some melodramas feed on quite different mechanisms that originate in adaptations to group living and tribal bonding. The emotional roots of such films are not only predator fear, but also mechanisms of bonding, dominance and submission. The submission may be linked to the heroic dead warriors that have sacrificed their lives for ‘God and country’ or some similar higher cause; it may be a kind of primitive social exchange, where some innocent person is sacrificed, or ‘exchanged’, to appease some higher power. The supernatural agency or the supernatural forces are mostly invisible except for some sublime signs, and the focus of such films is on the acts of submission and bonding. A film like Saving Private Ryan (1998) is centred on a complex notion that glorifies solidarity between brothers-in-arms, even if that implies death. The main part of the film consists in violent fights between Germans and Americans (and other Allied forces). However, the focal frame story consists of a scene of mourning and the submissive bonding with a dead soldier on a military burial ground in Normandy, in a landscape of mostly crosses and a few David stars. The relatively recent Vietnam film, We Were Soldiers (2002), links the military activities with religious worship performed by the main character played by Mel Gibson (who financed the successful film about Jesus) and a cult-like interest in the bringing home of dead bodies. The fourth film in the Harry Potter series (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005)) is centrally about the bonding that takes place when fighting evil, and – typical of the way in which the series have changed focus from the marvellous in the first film to horror confrontation in the third film – ends with a ceremony of mourning and bonding for Potter’s dead brother-in-arms, and the Hogwarts school serves as a tribal unit. An example of the classical function of sacrifice and submission is Yimou Zhang’s Hero (2002) that provides a kind of founding myth for China (see Grodal (2007) and Grodal (forthcoming)). The story takes place more than two thousand years ago. The king of Qin is about to conquer what will become China, but four rebels from tribes that have been conquered by the king decide to assassinate him. In order to train their martial arts skills and supernatural powers, like the ability to fly, they also need to learn Chinese calligraphy so that external aggression is counterbalanced by submission to some symbolic order. What follows is a lot of NL 6 45–58 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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aggressive fighting, but then two of the rebels decide to give in to the king and to sacrifice their lives. The reason is given at the end: the king of Qin’s effort to unite several kingdoms into one is described as the foundation of China and all its glory. In the film, the king is represented as an almost divine person living in awe-inspiring surroundings. Thus, submission to the king and the sacrifice of one’s own life provides tribal prosperity. The most successful recent films that represent a supernatural world based on a combination of aggression, bonding, submission, tribalism and morality is The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001–03). The films are about the necessity of submitting to a moral order, to forge friendships, warbuddy contracts that serve to forge moral altruistic obligations, so that they may sacrifice their lives for the benefits of the group. The central symbolic act is that of giving up personal power and gratification in order to save the community. In one of the final scenes, there is even a strong parallelism between the way in which the Hobbits fight with overcoming individualism, and a fierce, cruel battle between the coalition of the good and the forces of the evil Sauron. The world is an enchanted one in which moral-psychological processes, naturalistic processes and processes driven by supernatural forces interact. The trilogy resembles a horror film in one respect: the evil predator-Satan, Sauron, is to some extent visualized (as an eye) whereas those supernatural forces that are behind the good tribe (for instance the guarantee that giving up the wish for power by means of sacrificing the ring will cause liberation from evil) are unrepresented, except as incarnated in people like Gandalf and Frodo. However, in contrast to the supernaturalism of horror films that emanates from special places and special agents, the world of The Lord of the Rings is controlled by some universal dualist good–evil metaphysics. The Oscar-winning Spanish film, Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) exemplifies a film that uses sacrifice as part of a supernatural social exchange. During the Spanish Civil War, a 12-year-old girl, Ofelia, is by some mythical power led into performing three tasks, of which the outcome of the ultimate task is that Ofelia sacrifices her own life in order to save the life of her younger brother. The film partly uses fairy tale magic in relation to the girl’s psychological development and partly realism when depicting the Civil War. However, the underlying symbolism in the film makes Ofelia’s act of submissive self-sacrifice into an act that symbolizes how the tribal bonds that have been severed during the Civil War may be healed by submission.

Tribalism, aggression and the supernatural/sublime Ethologists Konrad Lorentz (1974) and Irenäus Eibl-Ebesfeldt (1979, 1989), have argued that although most species of animals only engage in mortal combat with possible prey or dangerous enemies belonging to other species, some species like rats, wolves and humans are adapted to group living in combination with a fierce competition of resources with other groups of the same species. Such species engage in mortal fights with members of alien groups. To control the aggression within such groups, these species have a hierarchal dominance structure. Thus, fear in such groups is not only or primarily mobilized in relation to other species or even other groups, but also fear of the dominant alphas. Tribal religions, that is, religions that function 54

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as a sort of superstructure for a given group, strengthen the internal tribal bonds and support competitions with rival tribes, also by providing a supernatural dimension to the dominance hierarchy. The key to success in such tribes is to minimize the individuals’ maximization of their individual fitness or the fitness of their closest kin in order to sacrifice even their lives for the maximization of the fitness of the group. Such tribal supernatural systems became increasingly fitness enhancing as the world’s population grew and the intra-species competition for resources became fiercer. Central in such supernatural systems are ceremonies of submission to powerful supernatural agents that are special to the tribe, eventually supported by different kinds of social exchange (providing gifts and sacrifices to the powerful supernatural agent). A central function of such submission is to strengthen group cohesion. Classical Judaism illustrates the mechanisms in tribal religions: Yahweh has elected one tribe, the Israelis, and will help them kill the surrounding tribes, such as the Philistines, if they show absolute submission to the god and submit to a series of moral rules aimed at reducing intra-tribal conflict (banning murder, conflict-inducing adultery, theft and so on). Similarly, David Sloan Wilson (2002) has argued that the success of the early Christian communities was based on the strengthening of internal group altruism, supported by ideas of submission to a supernatural agent that guaranteed justice and payback, eventually only in the afterlife. In other tribes, for instance, in China and Japan, kings and emperors have had a semi-divine status as exemplified in Hero (2002). Similarly, the Islamic fundamentalist revival in the last twenty years in parallel with the efforts to construct a mega-tribe in the competition for power with the West and the fight for territory with Israeli fundamentalists underline how such religions of submission often feed on the need for a constitution of a tribal identity and blind submission of its members by supernatural means. It might be argued that such tribal behaviours are only contingent cultural constructions and not based on innate dispositions. However, evolutionary psychologists, prominently Boyd and Richerson (1998) and Richerson and Boyd (2001, 2005), have argued that as tribal cohesion has became increasingly important (starting around 50,000 years ago), there has been a kind of interaction between the cultural and the genetic stream – those individuals who did not submit to tribal values had poorer chances of survival than those who did submit. In this way, adaptations to living in larger tribal groups may be one of the central examples of how culture provides feedback to biology. To make films that adhere to a specific religious system and that link such systems with a specific tribe is clearly in conflict with the way in which films increasingly are produced for a global market. To fight ‘for God and country’ may be easier to sell when making British films for a British audience than for products for a global market. The religious fervour that often backed up older films about clashes between white, Christian settlers and heathen Indians, which were acceptable in the first half of the twentieth century, have become increasingly problematic. A nation has many different religions; and it is media, not congregations, that bind people together. NL 6 45–58 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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The modern trend has been to create increasingly large social organizations so that ‘mega-tribes’ like multinational alliances have become important. Central in The Lord of the Rings is the formation of an alliance between many different tribes (reflecting also the way in which World War II had influenced Tolkien’s book) and the way in which spirituality is not explicitly linked to a concrete historical cult. Other variations are earthlings versus aliens with science fiction bleeding into forms similar to supernaturalism. A strange variation of this is We Were Soldiers, in which the main character, played by Mel Gibson, participates in Catholic religious activities, but in a speech to his American soldiers he implicitly argues that there is only one God that may be called by different names in different parts of the globe and, as the soldiers come from all over the globe they are as Americans, living in God’s own country, the chosen freedom fighters of the globe. It is therefore logical that the formation of mega-alliances has become important for modern versions of spiritual tribalism. One solution is to create enemies that no possible viewer will identify with, for example, that Earthlings should become friends to fight the aliens from outer space. An even more grandiose effort to make a universal system of bonding based on sublime submission may be found in Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977). Here, some chosen people from all over the world get an inner religious feeling about the importance of going to a specific mountain (in Wyoming), and these chosen Earthlings participate in a sublime ceremony of bonding with some representatives of some highly developed aliens. Some ‘prisoners of war’ are released from their stay with the aliens and some Earthlings enter the spaceship.

Conclusion I have described different mental mechanisms that support supernaturalism in film, and for practical reasons I have divided them into three prototypes: (1) stories about the marvellous that feed on the salience of counterintuitive phenomena, centrally magical empowerment; (2) stories about the fear of predator-like supernatural agencies that often function as snake gods: evil punishers of moral transgressions that are often related to death as a powerful source of contamination; (3) stories about aggression, submission and tribal bonding, often linked to social exchange with counterintuitive agents (exchanges that cross the life–death barrier), eventually in relation to the propagation of moral supervision by such agents. Films increasingly exploit the possibilities of creating viewer fascination by making films about fantastic and supernatural events that activate innate dispositions. There are different reasons for this. One reason is technical: it has become much cheaper to make supernatural films. Another reason is that the erosion of hegemonic religious control with public space has set film-makers free to use the global stock of supernatural mind-grabbing phenomena, deemed ‘heathen’ by orthodox churches (that, for centuries, have provided themselves with an ‘enlightened’ profile by rejecting, say healing, fighting demons and so on). To what extent such films create superstition and to what extent they just create arousal and marvel is quite another matter. Those functions of the mind that support a naturalistic vision of the world are for the majority of 56

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viewers strengthened by the disenchantment performed by science, and thus the salience and pleasure of counterintuitive and supernatural events are experienced on the background of a firm disenchanted naturalism. Some types of science fiction films may provide an enchanted aura to technology. For a minority of viewers, in contrast, for whom the naturalistic world-view backed by scientific development does not infuse trust and a feeling of control, the supernaturalism in films and other media may boost supernatural beliefs and fears, and make supernatural means of control (like rituals, prayers or social-exchange actions) salient. However, the supernaturalism in films and other media is not an integrated part of rituals, physical participation in acts of worship or prayers, and is not backed by social institutions that may reinforce the contents. Some products, such as Lord of the Rings, Star Wars or the Harry Potter films have fan clubs and sites, but the primary way audiences are linked together is by means of the media product. Thus, the revival of pre-monotheistic and non-universalistic supernaturalism, ‘heathenism’, in films may compete more with organized religion than with the scientific project and its naturalistic world-view. References Atran, S. (1994), ‘Core domains versus scientific theories: Evidence from systematics and Itza-Maya folkbiology’, in L. Hirschfeld and S. Gelman (eds), Mapping the Mind: Domain Specificity in Cognition and Culture, New York: Cambridge University Press, pp. 316–40. Atran, S. (2002), In Gods We Trust: The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barrett, J. (2004), Why Would Anyone Believe in God? Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press. Barrett, L., Dunbar, R. and Lycett, J. (2002), Human Evolutionary Psychology, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Boyer, P. (2001), Religion Explained: The Human Instincts that Fashion Gods, Spirits and Ancestors, London: William Heinemann. Boyd, R. and Richerson, P. (1998), ‘The Evolution of Human Ultroasociality’, in I. Eibl-Eibesfeldt and F.K. Salter (eds), Indoctrinability, Ideology and Warfare, New York: Berghahn Books. Buss, D.M. (ed.) (2005), The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology, Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Clover, C. (1992 [2004]), Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film, Princeton: Princeton University Press, and London: British Film Institute. Cosmides, L. and Tooby, J. (1997), Evolutionary Psychology: A Primer, available from http://www.psych.ucsb.edu/research/cep/primer.html. Accessed 5 February 2008. Eibl-Eibesfeldt, I. (1979), The Biology of Peace and War, London: Thames & Hudson. ____________ (1989), Human Ethology, New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Grodal, T. (2007), ‘Pain, Sadness, Aggression and Joy: An Evolutionary Approach to Film Emotions’, in Projections: The Journal for Movies and Mind, 1: 1, pp. 91–105. Grodal, T. (forthcoming), Embodied Visions: Evolution, Emotion, Culture, and Film, New York: Oxford University Press. Hathaway, C.K., Marler, P.L. and Chavez, M. (1993), ‘What the polls don’t show: A closer look at church attendance’, in American Sociological Review, December, pp. 741–52. Lorentz, Konrad (1974), On Aggression, Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace. Norenzayan, A., Atran, S., Faulkner, J. and Schaller, M. (2006), ‘Memory and Mystery: The Cultural Selection of Minimally Counterintuitive Narratives’, in Cognitive Science, 30, pp. 531–53. NL 6 45–58 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Richerson, P. and Boyd, R. (2001), ‘The Biology Commitment to Groups: A Tribal Instincts Hypothesis’, in R.M. Nesse (ed.), Evolution and the Capacity for Commitment, New York: Russell Sage Foundation. ____________ (2005), Not By Genes Alone: How Culture Transformed Human Evolution, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wilson, D.S. (2002), Darwin’s Cathedral: Evolution, Religion, and the Nature of Society, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.59/1

Forms of the intangible: Carl Th. Dreyer and the concept of ‘transcendental style’ Casper Tybjerg Abstract

Keywords

The book Transcendental Style in Film, written in 1972 by future film director Paul Schrader, offers perhaps the most extensive analysis of how a particular film style might have a specifically religious significance. The article provides a critical discussion of Schrader’s theory, with a particular focus on the films of Carl Th. Dreyer. Schrader’s ideas are compared to alternative explanations of the same stylistic features provided by David Bordwell and Torben Grodal. The article concludes that while Schrader identifies a number of pertinent stylistic features, the ‘transcendental film’ is better understood as a subset of the art film mode. Torben Grodal’s description of the intertwined effect of a salient (often abstract) style and thematic content indicative of higher meaning, coupled with the contribution of a suitably disposed spectator, is, the article argues, more plausible than Schrader’s analysis.

Carl Th. Dreyer Paul Schrader religion and film transcendental style film style cognitive film theory

Films are often described as ‘religious’ on the basis of content – they are called religious because they present biblical stories or other narratives where the divine or the supernatural appears directly; stories about saints, priests or other holy figures; or moralistic tales, where religious doctrine is more or less explicitly presented. In this way André Bazin divides religious films into biblical films, films about saints and films about priests and nuns in an important essay from 1951, ‘Cinema and Theology’ (Bazin 2002: §§ 3–5). But Bazin’s essay is also an argument for the significance of film style for such films. Despite Bazin’s example, later writers have tended to neglect the aesthetic dimension, argues Melanie Wright in her recent introduction to the field, Religion and Film: ‘Typically, the narrative dimension of the films being studied is emphasised, with little attention to mise-en-scène […], cinematography, editing or sound’ (Wright 2007: 21). Accordingly, the great Danish director Carl Th. Dreyer is identified as a ‘religious’ director because he made a film about a saint and a film about a miracle: La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc/The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and Ordet/The Word (1955). There are some writers, however, who have explored the aesthetic dimension of religious films in greater detail. They tend to argue that there is a specific set of stylistic features particularly appropriate for religious

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matters. The most prominent of them is probably Paul Schrader. In his book Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer (Schrader 1972), Schrader suggests that the styles of these three film-makers may, in effect, make manifest the divine. This goes against the idea that particular stylistic effects cannot generally be said to have meaning in and of themselves, and for that reason alone, Schrader’s book is worth examining closely. In doing so, I will focus mainly on Dreyer’s films, not only because they are clearly important to any discussion of whether there are film styles that are particularly religious or spiritual, but also because I think they best illustrate both the strengths and the shortcomings of Schrader’s conception. I shall conclude that while Schrader identifies a number of pertinent stylistic features, the ‘transcendental film’ is better understood as a variant of the art film; in arguing this, I shall be drawing on the theoretical work of Torben Grodal, which shows that these films combine thematic and stylistic procedures to create an impression of ‘higher meaning’ that invites or at least facilitates a religious interpretation.

Dreyer’s ‘frightful chromolitographs’ Schrader distinguishes sharply between films in the transcendental style and more conventional films that depict a religious subject matter. As Schrader himself points out, religious films were made from the very beginning of cinema, but he dismisses nearly all of them because the conventionality of their style renders them incapable of manifesting true spirituality. It would have been interesting to read what he thought of Dreyer’s only completed example of biblical film-making, his second film Blade af Satans Bog/Leaves from Satan’s Book (1919). This film is divided into four parts, taking place in four distinct historical epochs. In each epoch, Satan, ordered by God to tempt humanity to sin, tries to manipulate a vulnerable individual to commit a heinous wrong. The first episode shows how Judas betrayed Jesus, beginning just before the last Passover and ending with the arrest of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. Schrader, however, does not mention the film at all, probably because he had not seen it. The biblical section of Leaves from Satan’s Book exemplifies a stylistic feature that has been very persistent in biblical films: the use of famous devotional artworks by the great masters of western art as models for the film’s images. ‘All [Jesus] films draw extensively upon familiar works of western religious art’, writes Adele Reinhartz (2007: 7) in her excellent book, Jesus of Hollywood, which despite its title includes European films. Reinhartz makes only a cursory reference to Leaves from Satan’s Book, but her remarks are certainly true of this film as well. The scene of the Last Supper, in particular, uses the arrangement best known from Leonardo da Vinci: Jesus and his disciples are seated along a long table placed parallel to the picture plane, with Jesus in the middle. There are a number of differences, though; Dreyer was not content to imitate Leonardo’s famous painting, so he looked at other variations as well. A handwritten note (opposite page 14) in his personal copy of the screenplay, conserved at the Danish Film Institute, also refers to the versions of the scene painted by Ghirlandaio (around 1480) and Eduard von Gebhardt (1870). 60

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Dreyer thus presents the familiar iconography, but with some interesting variations. Nevertheless, Dreyer was later strongly critical of his own work. In 1935, the French director Julien Duvivier made the sombre and ambitious Golgotha, the first major sound film about Jesus, which focuses on the passion. When it was released in Denmark, the director A.W. Sandberg, who wrote film reviews at the time, was rather critical of it and suggested that Leaves from Satan’s Book was a superior Jesus film. Compared to Duvivier’s Last Supper scene, Dreyer achieved a much more powerful atmosphere in the same situation in the silent film Leaves from Satan’s Book; there, both the apostle types, the performances, the composition, the set, even the photography accorded better with the spirit of the material. (Sandberg 1935)

Dreyer immediately wrote a letter to Sandberg (which he subsequently quoted in an interview in 1954) where he dismissed his own efforts, thanking Sandberg but insisting that his praise was completely unwarranted: I must definitely protest against this. I haven’t seen Duvivier’s film, but I know my own, two-thirds of which was just heaps and heaps of histrionics. The Christ episode was the worst: a frightful collection of chromolithographs. I am absolutely opposed to having these tyro errors brought out of well-deserved oblivion. (Dreyer 1954)

This dismissive attitude towards traditional imagery is by no means exclusive to Dreyer. In fact, it is shared by Schrader, by the French critics he has been influenced by, and by André Bazin as well. Bazin gently dismisses Bible films as being ‘simply amplified variations on the Stations of the Cross or on the Musée Grévin’ (Bazin 2002: § 3), that is, devotional church images and waxworks displays. More recently, Bazin’s translator Bert Cardullo has published an article strongly critical of Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ (2004), which he believes exemplifies the inescapable, patent inauthenticity of the visually spectacular religious film: The fundamental requirement of an authentic spiritual style, or a religiously significant one, is that it be grounded in naturalistic simplicity, even abstraction – not in widescreen pyrotechnics of the kind to be found in such sand-and-sandals epics as Quo Vadis? (1951), The Ten Commandments (1956), and Ben-Hur (1959). The spirit, after all, resides within – in internal conviction – not in external trickery or ‘special effects’. (Cardullo 2005: 622–23)

In Transcendental Style in Film, Paul Schrader took a similar position and his book supports it with theoretical claims about the very nature of film. The argument is based on the difference between two kinds of artistic means, ‘abundant’ means and ‘sparse’ means. These terms come from the writings of the French Catholic philosopher, Jacques Maritain (1882–1973). In NL 6 59–73 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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his small book, Religion et culture (1930), he distinguishes between two kinds of good works: those that sustain physical existence and those that sustain the spirit. Because the first need tangible resources, Maritain calls them ‘abundant temporal means’ (‘moyens temporels riches’); and because the second increase in effectiveness by unburdening themselves of all material furnishings, he calls them ‘sparse temporal means’ (‘moyens temporels pauvres’). While both are necessary, it is evident that the first must ultimately serve the second, more important ones: ‘the abundant means keep the body alive so that the sparse means can elevate the soul’ (Schrader 1972: 154). Schrader goes on to explain that the distinction applies to art as well; here, the abundant means keep spectators engaged, while the sparse, again, elevate their souls: The abundant means in art […] are sensual, emotional, humanistic, individualistic. They are characterized by soft lines, realistic portraiture, three-dimensionality, experimentation; they encourage empathy. […] The sparse means are cold, formalistic, hieratic. They are characterized by abstraction, stylized portraiture, two-dimensionality, rigidity; they encourage respect and appreciation. (Schrader 1972: 155)

Because film is more lifelike than other arts, showing actual people moving in real time, it must, by its very nature, overwhelming privilege the abundant means: ‘[O]f all the arts, I think film is one of the most difficult to be used in a spiritual manner, because it is so kinetic, so visceral’, Schrader has told an interviewer (Asika 2002). Similarly, in his video introduction for the DVD edition of Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket (1959), he says: Film is not a very spiritual medium, and if you want to convey transcendence or quietude, film is really not for you. Because film is filmed reality, it’s images, and it’s images moving in real time, so therefore, what it’s good at is empathy, evoking emotions and of course movement, so that psychological realism is the film medium’s strong suit, and action is the high card. (Schrader 2005)

The conventional religious film relies on emotion, action and identification: ‘For an hour or two, the viewer can become that suffering, saintly person on screen; his personal problems, guilt, and sin are absorbed by humane, noble, and purifying motives’ (Schrader 1972: 164). But the experience this gives the spectator is not an authentically spiritual one; it does not elevate the viewer to the level of the sacred, it brings the sacred down to the level of the viewer. Schrader’s understanding of the sacred mostly derives from the German theologian Rudolf Otto, whose 1917 book Das Heilige: Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen (English translation 1923: The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry into the NonRational Factor in the Idea of the Divine and Its Relation to the Rational) has had a great deal of influence in religious studies. Otto describes the holy as ‘das ganz anderes’, the wholly other. It is completely beyond the mundane; it cannot be grasped by human reason, and it cannot be defined,

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taught or properly described. It can only be suggested through the emotional responses it produces. This inexpressible mystery, this ‘unnamed Something’, is the essence of religion. ‘There is no religion in which it does not live as the innermost core, and without it no religion would be worthy of the name’ (Otto 1958: 6). While this ‘wholly other’, the ‘Transcendent’, cannot be circumscribed by the human mind, it may be experienced – an experience that Schrader refers to as ‘transcendence’, – and it is possible for human acts or artefacts to be ‘transcendental’, to express or reflect at least part of it (Schrader 1972: 5). As Schrader goes on to say, to speak of ‘transcendental art’ – art that ‘expresses the Transcendent in a human mirror’ – implies an equivalence between art and religion: ‘Transcendence is the imperious experience; art and religion are its twin manifestations’ (Schrader 1972: 5–6). And Schrader embraces this equivalence on the first page of his book, choosing as its epigram a quote from the Dutch theologian Gerardus van der Leeuw, the founder of the phenomenology of religion: ‘Religion and art are parallel lines which intersect only at infinity, and meet in God’ (Schrader 1972: v).

The idea of a transcendental style In arguing that certain films were indeed transcendental art and therefore could, in effect, function as a sort of alternative religion, it would seem that Transcendental Style in Film (1972) grew out of Schrader’s own disenchantment with organized religion and consequent loss of faith. An interviewer remarked that the book ‘gives the impression of being the work of someone who is still a believer’, to which Schrader replied: But a believer in spirituality, not a believer in any sectarian notion of God. I was no longer a member of my church or a believer in its doctrines. […] What hit me was that religions of that nature are really social institutions, not spiritual institutions, and that spirituality was just an occasional adjunct of its social and economic functions. (Jackson 1990: 28)

It is thus not surprising that Schrader should embrace the phenomenological accounts of religion offered by Otto and van der Leeuw, where the institutional, social and even moral aspects of religion take a back seat to individual spiritual experience. Schrader identifies the style of film-making he believes is most likely to offer this kind of spiritual experience ‘transcendental style’. In films of the transcendental style, normally significant elements such as ‘plot, acting, characterization, camerawork, music, dialogue, editing’ are all ‘nonexpressive’, Schrader writes, continuing: ‘Transcendental style stylizes reality by eliminating (or nearly eliminating) those elements which are primarily expressive of human experience, thereby robbing the conventional interpretations of reality of their relevance and power’ (Schrader 1972: 11, original emphasis). This stylization proceeds in three progressive steps over the course of a film during which abundant means are increasingly replaced by sparse means. The first step is called ‘the everyday’: films in the transcendental NL 6 59–73 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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style will present ‘a meticulous representation of the dull, banal commonplaces of everyday living’ (Schrader 1972: 39, original emphasis). There is little dramatic build-up, because the events and actions we see do not really lead anywhere; they will occur again in much the same way on another day. Character psychology is submerged in a routine where no particular action seems more important than any other. The spectators’ potential empathy with the characters is held back, and ‘sparseness’ is thus achieved by ‘gradually robbing the abundant means of their potential’ (Schrader 1972: 160). Already, this seems to fit Bresson’s films better than either Dreyer’s or Ozu’s; it certainly seems odd to me to say that Ozu’s characters ‘seem to be automatons’ (Schrader 1972: 44); this description might seem more appropriate for the characters in Dreyer’s Gertrud (1964), with their controlled movements and slow, hieratic speaking patterns, but Schrader does not consider it to be an example of transcendental style at all. It also seems difficult to argue that character psychology is eliminated in Dreyer’s films, and Schrader acknowledges this; but he argues that the way the long takes in Ordet allow ‘time for a character to walk the full distance of a room and engage in conversation without a cut’ is a characteristic example of a technique belonging to the ‘everyday’: ‘by subrogating the empathetic qualities of natural life and formalizing its factual detail, everyday creates a cold stylization’ (Schrader 1972: 133). The second step is ‘disparity’. This emerges because the spectator gradually ‘senses there are deep, untapped feelings just below the surface’ (Schrader 1972: 44, original emphasis). The depth and strength of these feelings seem incompatible with the ‘cold, sparse stylization’ of the surface of the film (Schrader 1972: 161). This creates a disturbing feeling of unease in the spectator. The figure of Johannes in Ordet is in Schrader’s view an exemplary instance of this: Johannes is a character ‘who has no psychological (interior or exterior) cause for his estranging passion’; and something similar could be said of Jeanne d’Arc (Schrader 1972: 120). Particularly in La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc, this disparity is reinforced by a stylistic tension between ‘naturalistic settings’ and ‘contrived camera position and angle’ (Schrader 1972: 120). Eventually, the increasing sense of disparity culminates in a ‘decisive action’: a totally bold call for emotion which dismisses any pretense at everyday reality. The decisive action breaks with everyday stylization; it is an incredible event within the banal reality which must by and large be taken on faith. In its most drastic form, as in Dreyer’s Ordet, this decisive action is an actual miracle, the raising of the dead. In its less drastic forms, it is still somewhat miraculous: a non-objective, emotional event within a factual, emotionless environment. [ … ] The everyday denigrated the viewer’s emotions, showing they were of no use, disparity first titillates those emotions, suggesting that there might be a place for them, and then in the decisive action suddenly and inexplicably demands the viewer’s full emotional output. (Schrader 1972: 46–47, original emphasis)

Even though Schrader regards the miracle in Ordet as a ‘decisive action par excellence’, I think that it is somewhat misleading to say that it is

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either ‘unexpected’ or ‘implausible’ (Schrader 1972: 134). The dialogue refers repeatedly to miracles, and the presence of the Christ-like figure of Johannes also helps suggest that they might be possible; furthermore, very few people have gone in to see Ordet without knowing that it ends with a miracle – even when the film was first released, Danish spectators, at least, would have been aware of the ending: the play, after all, was one of the best-known plays of Kaj Munk, at the time probably the most famous contemporary literary figure in Denmark because of his assassination at the hands of the Gestapo during the occupation. Second, while miracles are inherently implausible, the whole construction of the film is designed to overcome this. In a note at the end of the screenplay, Dreyer writes that the spectators must gradually and carefully be placed in an emotional state like that of guests at a funeral. Once they have been brought to this condition of reverence and introspection, they more easily let themselves be induced to believe in the miracle – for the sole reason that they – being forced to think about death – are also led to think about their own death – and therefore (unconsciously) hope for a miracle and therefore shut off their normally sceptical attitude. (Dreyer 1964: 294)

Moreover, in Inger, the woman who is raised from the dead, Dreyer creates a character so lively, so caring and full of goodness, so important for the happiness of all the others, that her death seems profoundly unjust and hard to accept, creating a strong emotional desire in the spectators for the miracle to happen, however disinclined they might be to believe that such a thing could happen. The third step in the progression is ‘stasis’. In Schrader’s view, the unearned, arbitrary character of the decisive act – the way a sudden emotional surge occurs without dramatic or psychological justification – creates a contradiction which cannot be resolved, ‘the paradox of the spiritual existing within the physical’, and the viewer must accept (or reject) ‘a view of life that can encompass both’ (Schrader 1972: 82, original emphasis). Stasis follows; it is a still, frozen scene at the end of the film, which ‘represents the “new” world in which the spiritual and the physical can coexist, still in tension and unresolved, but as part of a larger scheme in which all phenomena are more or less expressive of a larger reality – the Transcendent’ (Schrader 1972: 83). As an example, Schrader evokes the shot, more than half a minute long, of the bare, charred stake remaining after Jeanne’s death at the end of Bresson’s Le Procès de Jeanne d’Arc/ The Trial of Joan of Arc (1962); the stake is ‘still a physical entity, but it is also the spiritual expression of Joan’s martyrdom’ (Schrader 1972: 83). In a later interview, Schrader summarizes the hypothesis of the three steps of the transcendental style in a more succinct fashion: The whole of the Transcendental Style hypothesis is that if you reduce your sensual awareness rigorously and for long enough, the inner need will explode and it will be pure because it will not have been siphoned off by easy or exploitative

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identifications; it will have been refined and compressed to its true identity, what Calvin calls the sensus divinitatus, the divine sense. (Jackson 1990: 28–29)

As an interpretation of Robert Bresson’s films, again, this seems quite reasonable, and Schrader is able to support it with extensive quotes from interviews with him. Schrader’s hypothesis does not, however, fit the two other directors as closely. While Ozu’s films often end in stillness, the claim that this is an expression of the Transcendent, a spiritual state, depends on an understanding of Zen and Japanese culture which more recent scholars have been very reluctant to take on board. David Bordwell writes in his massive study of Ozu that ‘any such use of Zen in Ozu is not direct, let alone directly religious, but will be mediated by proximate historical practices’ (Bordwell 1988: 29). An explicitly critical account can be found in MitsuhiroYoshimoto’s book-length study of Kurosawa. Schrader, Yoshimoto writes, ‘tries to discard anything that does not confirm the image of Ozu as a Zen artist’ (Yoshimoto 2000: 13). Schrader uses Zen as a ‘magic word’ to resolve the striking contradiction posed by the broad popular appeal in Japan of Ozu’s films – an appeal that would be inexplicable if the films really did suppress emotional identification in the way the theory requires. Instead, Schrader claims that ‘the concept of transcendental experience is so intrinsic to Japanese (and Oriental) culture, that Ozu was able both to develop the transcendental style and to stay within the popular conventions of Japanese art’ (Schrader 1972: 17). That is just a transparent attempt to have one’s cake and eat it too, Yoshimoto argues; and it is furthermore based on a stereotypical conception of ‘the oriental’ as naturally spiritual.

Style without transcendence Schrader recognizes that there are even greater difficulties in describing Dreyer’s style as transcendental. Not only are there considerable stylistic differences among Dreyer’s works, it turns out that not a single one of his films employs the transcendental style throughout. Dreyer, writes Schrader, ‘was never able to achieve stasis, the final test of transcendental art, to the extent that Ozu and Bresson did because, it seems to me, he never relied on the transcendental style to the extent that they did’ (Schrader 1972: 120). The people’s uprising at the end of La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc and the affirmation of life at the end of Ordet pull back from the realm of the Transcendent and remain within the human world. For Dreyer scholars, obviously, this limits the usefulness of Schrader’s model somewhat. Nevertheless, his analysis does identify a number of significant stylistic features and provides a suggestive explanation of their functions. It is interesting to compare with the rather different analysis of some of the same features found in David Bordwell’s book Narration in the Fiction Film (1985). Here, Bordwell describes different ‘modes’ of fiction film narration. One of them is parametric narration, which is a relatively rare form; its characteristic feature is that certain stylistic patterns are not subordinated to the demands of the narrative, but operate ‘systematically [… ] across the film’ according to their own ‘distinct principles’ (Bordwell 66

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1985: 281, original emphasis). As an example, Bordwell mentions JeanLuc Godard’s Vivre sa vie (1962), which is divided by numbered intertitles into twelve episodes. ‘At the level of visual style, each segment is characterized by one or more variants on possible camera/subject relations’ (Bordwell 1985: 281). Bordwell’s point is that such stylistic patterns need not be motivated ‘by appealing to thematic considerations’; instead, as in abstract art, ‘representational meaning may be played down or withheld, and sheer perceptual order may become strongly profiled’ (Bordwell 1985: 283). The sense of order is its own purpose. For these patterns to become visible, the film must establish a set of parameters for the stylistic variations, so that they become perceptible against a stable background. Bordwell identifies two different strategies for this. One, which he calls ‘replete’, is exemplified by Vivre sa vie: the ‘strongly articulated sequences’ of this film ‘permit a clear comparison of different paradigmatic options at the level of style’ – each segment using a very different style to present a similar kind of scene (Bordwell 1985: 285). The other option Bordwell calls the ‘ “ascetic” or “sparse” option, in which the film limits its norm to a narrower range of procedures than are codified in other extrinsic norms’; that is, the range of shot scales, camera angles or compositions employed may be drastically limited in comparison with mainstream cinema – Bresson, for instance, ‘confines himself to the straight-on medium shot, often of body parts’ (Bordwell 1985: 285). The main practitioners of this sparse approach turn out to be the same three directors Schrader discusses in his book: Bresson, Ozu and Dreyer, although Bordwell also adds Mizoguchi and (in part) Tati. It is worth pointing out that Bordwell considers the modes of narration he describes, including the parametric, to ‘transcend genres, schools, movements, and entire national cinemas’ (Bordwell 1985: 150). This is very similar to Schrader’s assumption that there are ‘common representative artistic forms shared by divergent cultures’ (Schrader 1972: 9). The transcendental style he describes is, of course, such a form. Bordwell never refers to Schrader in Narration in the Fiction Film. He does not share Schrader’s interest in spirituality, and his discussion of parametric film emphasizes that its ‘richness of texture […] resists interpretation’; it is, ‘in a strong sense, non-signifying – closer to music than to the novel’ (Bordwell 1985: 289, 306, original emphasis). Still, Bordwell acknowledges that this kind of order without meaning ‘tantalizes’ spectators (Bordwell 1985: 305), tempting them to project interpretive schemata onto impersonal stylistic patterns, sometimes understanding them to be an expression of spirituality: It is significant that the most celebrated exponents of the sparse parametric style – Dreyer, Ozu, Mizoguchi, and Bresson – are often seen as creating mysterious and mystical films. It is as if a self-sustaining style evolves, on its edges, elusive phantoms of connotation, as the viewer tries out one signification after another on the impassive structure. The recognition of order triggers a search for meaning. Noncinematic schemata, often religious ones, may thus be brought in to motivate the workings of style. (Bordwell 1985: 289)

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But to impose such a framework of meaning, to insist that the non-signifying should yield to interpretation, obscures the refinements of the stylistic structure, and Bordwell suggests that such an imposition should be resisted. To do so is not easy: the presence of human characters irresistibly causes spectators to ask questions about their stories, making an appreciation of the film on a purely abstract level hard to achieve; as Schrader points out, the audience ‘has a natural impulse to participate in actions and settings on screen’ (Schrader 1972: 160). Torben Grodal has provided a sophisticated analysis of this impulse and the way it is manipulated by different kinds of film. A central premise of Grodal’s theory is that viewer engagement in conventional narrative films is based on an immersive simulation of the concerns and action tendencies of the protagonist: ‘If, for instance, the character on the screen takes control of the situation and overcomes the obstacles presented, then the viewer vicariously experiences voluntary, goal-directed, motor activity’ (Grodal 2006: 6). This does not mean that there is any ‘ego confusion’ (Grodal 2001: 117) – we do not mistake ourselves for the character. Rather, it is ‘as if both the brain and the body project themselves into the external world of the film’ (Grodal 2006: 5). For instance, several times during The Da Vinci Code (Ron Howard, 2006) the hero Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks) is held at gunpoint by villains. Watching this, spectators will tense their muscles, simulating a readiness to dodge the bullet or leap at the gunman. These actions are not necessarily those that the spectators might perform themselves in such a situation, but those that they expect a movie hero would perform. As it turns out, the cerebral Langdon relies far more on his wits and sheer luck than on strength or agility to overcome the villains, extricating himself from the life-threatening situations in ways we may not have foreseen. Nevertheless, we vicariously experience his relief and satisfaction at having emerged safely from danger. In many kinds of film, however, ‘vicarious action tendencies are blocked’ (Grodal 2006: 6). This happens when characters become the passive victims of forces beyond their control, as is the case in many melodramas, tragedies and horror films. There is little the characters can do, but if their concerns have become important to the spectator, he or she will experience a great deal of emotional pressure. The realization that the characters are powerless against the forces that victimize them may cause the spectator to experience involuntary autonomic responses like crying or shivering and accompanying emotions like pity and fear, providing relief from the emotional tension (Grodal 2007: 143–46). Vicarious action tendencies may also be blocked in other ways. The concrete here-and-now-like fictional reality that canonical narrative films present typically confronts the protagonists with practical, non-abstract problems that can be engaged and surmounted through direct action. Many art films, however, present realities that diverge from the easily graspable here-andnow. They can suggest broad, abstract categories or levels of meaning that exist only in a disembodied way, like ‘Humanity’ or ‘Love’ or, indeed, ‘the Transcendent’; they can emphasize memories or dreams, states of reality that are not here-and-now; or, as a third option, they may present a here-andnow without highlighting those aspects of it that have a pragmatic relevance 68

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for the goals of the protagonist, suggesting instead an undifferentiated ‘flow of perception’ – life observed, rather than events participated in (Grodal 2000: 36, 47). These different ways of engaging viewers are often linked to differences in the saliency of style. In mainstream films like The Da Vinci Code, ‘style serves to flesh out such concrete actions and the correlated emotions’ (Grodal 2000: 36). Viewers, therefore, often do not notice the stylistic orchestration of scenes; as Stephen Prince points out, citing several empirical studies, ‘viewers tend to attribute the details of stylistic design to content areas, assimilating them into their pre-existing schemas of character and situation’ (Prince 2006: 21). However, in some kinds of film – particularly art films – style is used in such ways that the spectator’s attention is drawn to it, so that it becomes ‘salient’ for the spectator without being tied strongly to the storyline. Accordingly, unlike most stylistic features in mainstream films, this salient style cannot ‘fully be transformed into story information’: The stylistic features, therefore, activate feelings and emotions indicating ‘meaning’ that cannot fully be conceptualised by the viewer. The viewer, therefore, has a feeling/an emotion that there must be some deep meanings imbedded in the salient style features, because the emotional motivation for making meaning out of the salient features is not turned off. (Grodal 2000: 50)

This is the meaning-making impulse Bordwell believes should be resisted. I think that Bordwell is quite right to say that some film-makers play with stylistic elements for their own sake. Vivre sa vie is one example of this; Ozu’s Ohayo/Good Morning (1959) is another, as Bordwell’s analysis of its ‘parametric play’ shows (Bordwell 1988: 354). And Bresson, in a 1957 interview, stated that the cinema should express itself ‘not through images, but through the relation of images’. He elaborated: In the same way a painter doesn’t express himself through colours but through the relation of colours; a blue colour is blue in itself, but if it is next to a green colour, or a red, or a yellow, it is no longer the same blue: it changes. We must arrive at the point where a film plays on relations of images; there is an image, then another which has relational values, that is to say that the first one is neutral and that suddenly, in the presence of the other one, it vibrates, life bursts into it: and it’s not so much the life of the story, the characters, it is the life of the film. From the moment the image lives, you make cinema. (Bresson 1957: 4)

Allowing the ‘life of the film’ to take precedence over the ‘life of the story’ could almost be said to be definitional of parametric narration. The problem of the meaning-making impulse remains, however. The highly sophisticated directors that we are dealing with here would surely be aware of it; they would know that most spectators would look for some sort of meaning behind the stylistic surface. And, at least in the case of Dreyer, I would argue that that is precisely what he is aiming for. NL 6 59–73 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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The function of abstraction In 1955, shortly before Bresson made his statement on the importance of the interrelations of colours and images, Dreyer voiced somewhat similar ideas, also comparing film and painting, in an essay published in English as ‘Color and Color Films’ and in Danish in a slightly different version with a title that translates literally as ‘Color Film and Colored Film’. Dreyer stresses interrelations and the importance of abstract compositional values: In black-and-white films light is set against darkness, and line against line. In color films surface is set against surface, form against form, color against color. What the black-and-white film expresses in changing light and shade, in the breaking of lines, must, in color films, be expressed by color constellations. (Dreyer 1955: 166, original emphasis)

The use of colour, moreover, should not be bound by the restrictions of naturalism, he urged. ‘Only then will the colors have a chance of expressing the inexpressable [sic], i.e., of expressing that which can only be perceived’ (Dreyer 1955: 166). In the Danish version of the text, the last part of the sentence reads ‘expressing [… ] that which cannot be explained but only felt’ (Dreyer 1973: 171). To accomplish this would also seem to be the purpose of the sparse style Dreyer employs in his later films: the slow, deliberate pace; the carefully choreographed camera movements; the measured delivery of the dialogue; what Schrader characterized as the ‘subrogation’, the replacement, of ‘the empathetic details of natural life’ (Schrader 1972: 133) – all these stylistic features together form a strongly salient sparse style, but they do not have any obvious conceptual meaning. They do not create the sort of narrative ambiguity found in many art films, typically motivated as a reflection of existential reality, of memory and other psychic processes, or as symbolic commentary (cf. Bordwell 1979, 2008; Grodal 2000). Dreyer’s stories are not hard to follow – all the later films are based on classically constructed plays. The spectator is thus presented with a story that seems straightforwardly comprehensible but also with a powerful style of an austere intensity not fully motivated by the narrative. This seems an excellent way of expressing the inexpressible, of creating a sense that there is something more, something that is unseen, something that cannot be captured directly in either words or images. The Catholic film critic Amédée Ayfre expressed it beautifully in an essay from 1964: ‘What the body is to the soul, what the sacraments are to grace, what the word is to the thought – that is what Dreyer’s films are to a mysterious world which normally escapes us’ (Ayfre 2004: 205). It is evident from both the colour film essay and the films that Dreyer had a strong interest in stylistic patterning, but he did not pursue it for its own sake alone – it serves a function in the films. I believe, however, that it is a mistake to impose a particular meaning on the sense of the inexpressible or ineffable that Dreyer creates. This is, of course, what Schrader does when he identifies it with the Transcendent; but in that regard I think it is very revealing that Schrader only mentions Gertrud (1964) in the most cursory fashion. He calls the film a ‘kammerspiel’ (one of 70

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the stylistic categories he uses to describe Dreyer’s films), a style distinct from the transcendental style; by implication, Gertrud is not a film in the transcendental style. Yet it includes many of the same salient features of the sparse style that we find in Ordet, and it is, if anything, even more static and anti-naturalistic. It has a decisive-seeming act towards the end – Gertrud’s rejection of all her lovers – and a final scene of stasis. Why does Schrader not consider it to be a transcendental film? Schrader would probably argue that Gertrud’s decision to walk out is not a ‘decisive act’. In his terms: it is not ‘an incredible event [ …] which must by and large be taken on faith’ (Schrader 1972: 46); on the contrary, the entire story is constructed to support it psychologically. I think, however, that another reason for the exclusion of Gertrud from consideration is the complete lack of explicit religiosity anywhere in it. It is a determinedly secular story, unlike Bresson’s films and (if one accepts Schrader’s problematic claim that they are deeply imbued with Zen) also unlike Ozu’s. This suggests that Schrader is himself most likely to discover the transcendental style in films that also contain thematic elements with religious connotations. This is not surprising. It agrees well with Torben Grodal’s description of how the ‘best art films’ will employ ‘two intertwined procedures’ for the creation of ‘higher’ meaning: they will provide ‘a “symbolic” representation of some fields of meaning above the “basic level”’ as well as ‘a series of salient stylistic features’ that seem relatively isolated from any ‘transparent narrative function’ (Grodal 2000: 50). The vague sense of higher meaning created by the stylistic features, as we have seen, ‘tantalizes’ the spectator and encourages meaning-making; thematic elements may suggest some kinds of meaning rather than others, but they will remain spectator constructions. To Schrader, it is the artwork that has the potential to reveal the divine; the spectator needs merely to open his eyes and his mind to it. It seems more likely, to me at least, that those who experience the ineffable ‘something’ suggested by the sparse styles of Dreyer and others as intimations of the divine are those who are disposed to do so. As Astrid Söderbergh Widding remarks in the brief but incisive discussion of Schrader in her article entitled ‘Manifesting the Invisible in the Medium of the Visible’: What Schrader tends to overlook, however, is that to the extent these styles open up a transcendent dimension in the film, it is at least as much through the gaze of the spectator that it comes to exist. It is therefore not even enough to include both aesthetics and thematics in the equation. To at least an equal degree, it is a matter of the spectator’s participation and creative contribution to the film viewing process. (Söderbergh Widding 2005: 83)

One of the great strengths of Grodal’s model is that it allows us to understand how the mind of the spectator makes this creative contribution.

Conclusion For the understanding of supposedly ‘transcendental’ films, I believe that Grodal’s model offers a superior analytical instrument to Schrader’s. NL 6 59–73 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Grodal’s description of the intertwined effect of a salient (often abstract) style and thematic content indicative of higher meaning, coupled with the contribution of a suitably disposed spectator, seems (to me) more plausible than Schrader’s belief in the Transcendent and in a particular style ultimately convergent upon it. That being said, if one disregards the transcendentalist premises of Schrader’s work, it contains much that is insightful and suggestive. The stylistic features he identifies and describes are highly relevant to understanding the workings of the films in question. In the end, however, the ‘transcendental film’ is best understood as a subset of the art film mode described by Grodal.

Note Except where noted all translations are by me. All emphases in the extracts are in the original. References Asika, U. (2002), ‘Sexist jerks in beads and bell-bottoms’, Salon.com, http://archive. salon.com/ent/movies/int/2002/10/18/schrader/index.html. Accessed 4 November 2007. Ayfre, A. (2004), ‘L’univers de Dreyer’, in Un cinéma spiritualiste, Paris: Cerf, pp. 201–06. Bazin, A. (2002), ‘Cinema and Theology: The Case of Heaven Over the Marshes’, Journal of Religion and Film, 6, available at http://www.unomaha.edu/jrf/ heaven.htm. Accessed 15 October 2007. Bordwell, D. (1979), ‘The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice’, Film Criticism, 4: 1, pp. 56–64. ———— (1985), Narration in the Fiction Film, London: Methuen. ———— (1988), Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema, Princeton: Princeton University Press. ———— (2008), ‘The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice’, in Poetics of Cinema, New York: Routledge, pp. 151–69. Bresson, R. (1957), ‘Propos’, Cahiers du Cinéma, 75, pp. 3–9. Cardullo, B. (2005), ‘The Violence of the Christ’, Hudson Review, 57: 4, pp. 620–28. Dreyer, C.T. (1954), ‘Filmen, der skal aflive myten om jødernes skyld’ (interview), Dagens Nyheder, 21 February. ———— (1955), ‘Color and Color Films’, Films in Review, 6: 4, pp. 165–67. ———— (1964), Fire Film: Jeanne d’Arc, Vampyr, Vredens Dag, Ordet, Copenhagen: Gyldendal. ———— (1973), Dreyer in Double Reflection: Carl Dreyer’s Writings on Film (trans. D. Skoller), New York: Dutton. Grodal, T. (2000), ‘Art Film, the Transient Body, and the Permanent Soul’, Aura, 6: 3, pp. 33–53. ———— (2001), ‘Film, Character Simulation, and Emotion’, in J. Friess, B. Hartmann and E. Müller (eds), Nicht allein das Laufbild auf der Leinwand…: Strukturen des Films als Erlebnispotentiale, Berlin: Vistas, pp. 115–28. ———— (2006), ‘The PECMA Flow: A General Model of Visual Aesthetics’, Film Studies, 8, pp. 1–11. ———— (2007), Filmoplevelse: En indføring i audiovisuel teori og analyse, 2nd edn., Copenhagen: Samfundslitteratur. Jackson, K. (ed.) (1990), Schrader on Schrader, London: Faber and Faber.

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Otto, R. (1958), The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry into the Non-Rational Factor in the Idea of the Divine and Its Relation to the Rational (trans. J.W. Harvey), Oxford: Oxford University Press. Prince, S. (2006), ‘Beholding Blood Sacrifice in The Passion of the Christ: How Real Is Movie Violence?’, Film Quarterly, 59: 4, pp. 11–22. Reinhartz, A. (2007), Jesus of Hollywood, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sandberg, A.W. (1935), ‘Lidt af hvert’, Ekstrabladet, 4 October. Schrader, P. (1972), Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. ———— (2005), Pickpocket video introduction [DVD], Criterion Collection. Söderbergh Widding, A. (2005), ‘Att gestalta det osynliga i det synligas medium’, in T. Axelson and O. Sigurdson (eds), Film och religion: Livstolkning på vita duken, Örebro: Cordia, pp. 77–95. Wright, M.J. (2007), Religion and Film: An Introduction, London: I.B. Tauris. Yoshimoto, M. (2000), Kurosawa: Film Studies and Japanese Cinema, Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.75/1

Virtual reality as a ‘spiritual’ experience: a perspective from the cognitive science of religion Ryan G. Hornbeck and Justin L. Barrett Abstract

Keywords

Virtual reality (VR) is often described as a gateway to a religious or spiritual experience – but why? In this article, using theories and evidence taken from the cognitive science of religion (CSOR), we hypothesize that human minds may interact with VR-hosted phenomena in a manner highly similar to that in which they interact with supernatural concepts. Specifically, we note that both VR inputs and supernatural concepts contain information that (1) contradicts the intuitive set of expectations we bring to an ontological category of phenomena (for example, natural objects, animals) and (2) allows us to draw a superabundance of inferences from our social cognitive mechanisms with minimal effort. We then summarize these points by illustrating a common VR phenomenon – ‘virtual touch’ – wherein counterintuitive representations and strategic information coalesce to create an emotionally salient experience that is itself counterintuitive and by some accounts spiritual-like.

virtual cognitive religion Second Life touch

Since the virtual reality (VR) boom of the 1990s, VR platforms and interactive worlds have been strong attractors for religious concepts. On the one hand, we see established religions, such as Christianity, Islam and Judaism using VR worlds as a place to congregate and evangelize (Grossman 2007). On the other hand, we often find that VR platforms are perceived as a gateway to a different, often ‘spiritual’, reality. Cyberpunk genre novels, many of them inspired by William Gibson’s revolutionary and now classic Neuromancer (1984), frequently equate VR’s immaterial properties to concepts of heaven and body transcendence (Wertheim 1999). Researchers working with sensory-immersive VR platforms (the types with the headgear and motion sensors) have described VR as ‘interactive mythology’ (Rogers 1997) and ‘mythological space’ (Pesce 1997). Julian Dibbell, author of several popular books on VR and consultant to Linden Labs, creator of Second Life, was quoted in USA Today saying, ‘virtual reality is in some ways an essentially spiritual experience’ (Grossman 2007). Buddhist practitioners writing for websites such as http://www.secondseeker.com review the best VR sites for meditation. By these accounts and others considered

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Social anthropologist Tom Boellstorff has pointed out that using the term ‘real’ to describe non-computer mediated interactions is problematic in that it falsely presumes there is nothing ‘virtual’ about such interactions (Lattin 2007). We consider this to be a valid point but we have retained the use of ‘real’, by which we mean non-computer mediated interactions, in order to minimize confusing language and theoretical asides.

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below, it would seem that VR and religious concepts go quite well together – but why is this so? In this article, we present theories and evidence drawn from cognitive science of religion (CSOR) that address this question. These findings might be of use to other researchers interested in the ‘mediatization’ of religion and the ‘enchantment’ of popular culture. Research in CSOR has shown that supernatural concepts the world over share certain properties with respect to the way they interact with the mind’s social cognitive mechanisms and its natural and early-developed base of intuitive knowledge. In brief, supernatural concepts in religions contain information that (1) contradicts the intuitive set of expectations people bring to an ontological category of phenomena (i.e. natural objects, animals, etc.) and (2) allows people to draw a superabundance of inferences from their social cognitive mechanisms with minimal effort. In addition to briefly outlining some of these findings, we suggest that human minds may interact with VR-hosted phenomena in a manner highly similar to that in which they interact with supernatural concepts. Quite simply, VR representations frequently manipulate ontological norms, and VR world residents, enjoying anonymity and plasticity of representation, readily advertise the type of information that excites social cognitive mechanisms but which may be highly inappropriate or disadvantaging in the ‘real’1 world. If religious concepts and VR-hosted phenomena do share properties that make them highly similar cognitive inputs, this might help to explain why VR is often referred to as a spiritual experience and, to a lesser extent, why it is a popular new frontier for religious evangelism. We then summarize these points by illustrating a common VR phenomenon – ‘virtual touch’ – wherein counterintuitive representations and strategic information coalesce to create an emotionally salient experience that is itself counterintuitive and, by some accounts, spiritual-like. We intend these latter observations to serve (rather tentatively, we realize) as a preliminary empirical footnote to what is otherwise a conceptual analysis. Finally, we conclude by suggesting that if VR worlds can generate experiences that are subjectively referred to as ‘spiritual’, then such worlds can be a productive laboratory for CSOR researchers and media theorists alike. Throughout this article we frequently use Second Life (SL) as a base of reference for our observations about VR. Though VR technically refers to any technology that allows a user to interact with a computersimulated environment – this could be anything from a chat room to a sensory-immersive CAVE platform – we have selected SL for several reasons. For one, SL’s popularity makes it representative of many people’s perceptions of VR. SL currently hosts over eight million open accounts and approximately 40,000 residents are online at any given moment. For another, SL’s impressive graphic and interactive capacities make it one of the most potentially immersive (i.e. ‘otherworldly’) VR worlds created to date. Finally, because SL is entirely imagined, created and owned by its users, the content therein reflects a relatively democratic expression of human cognition, as opposed to heavily themed content designed by a team of professional developers. With these reasons in mind and in order to prime the reader with a better understanding of VR 76

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Figure 1: Welcome to Second Life.

and VR-based relationships, we wish to preface the main body of this article with a brief introduction to SL.

Introduction to Second Life Every day, people all over the world interact with each other in SL, a VR world that is entirely imagined, created and owned by its users. Residents inhabit SL in their virtual bodies – their ‘avatars’ – humanoid or otherwise, which they construct with limits set only by their imaginations and artistic abilities using SL’s built-in content creation tools. Unlike massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGs), such as the popular World of Warcraft, SL has no objectives or pre-programmed activities. Rather, SL simply encourages residents to recreate their lives ‘inworld’ – to find a means of deriving an income (SL boasts a fully integrated economy that transacts over one million US dollars – real money – per day), buy a cosy virtual home, fall in love and socialize with fellow residents. Indeed, there are numerous venues in which to socialize. SL is filled with museums, beach parties, shopping malls, research institutions, picturesque gardens, support groups and worship services. Management consultants meet and give presentations on private islands. Directors film movies in SL and exhibit them at SL film festivals. Charity organizations host galas and raise thousands of US dollars for various causes. And so on. Avatar interactions in SL feature prominently in this analysis, so a little background might be helpful. SL residents are situated in SL by way of an avatar, which serves as a resident’s ‘zero point’ of perception and social contact. One can go a little outside, but cannot move entirely beyond one’s avatar. For example, one cannot be viewing books in a SL library while one’s avatar is soaking up rays on the beach. Resident and avatar are inextricable, and so the latter is an important part of one’s online identity. Consequently, great amounts of time, effort and money go into avatar construction. Avatars are almost infinitely malleable; and for those who lack the artistic talent or software skills to develop their own appealing avatar, hundreds of privately owned boutique shops trading in body shapes, skin colours, hairpieces and even genitalia enable residents to look their best. NL 6 75–90 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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These avatars communicate with one another in various ways. The most basic form of communication is text based. Typed messages may be sent privately or displayed to all avatars in a general area. Avatars may also create or buy gestures; these animate the avatar into a themed sequence of movements, such as ‘wave hello’ or ‘roaring laugh’. Or, avatars may be animated into certain motion sequences by clicking on pose balls, which initiate a sequence of animations (frequently used for dancing and cuddling) that is circuitous and continues until the user(s) wishes to stop. Lastly, SL has recently gained voice-over capabilities. These enable a resident to speak in real time with other residents.

The cognitive appeal of supernatural concepts CSOR research shows that supernatural concepts tend to cluster around phenomena that (1) contradict the intuitive set of expectations we bring to an ontological category of those phenomena (i.e. natural object, animal, etc.) and (2) allow us to draw a superabundance of inferences from our social cognitive mechanisms with minimal effort. Starting with point (1), we might begin to explicate these findings by way of a simple question: do you find it requires more mental effort to solve ‘345 x 729 = ?’ or to recognize your cousin at an annual family reunion? Most of us would agree that multiplying three-digit figures is more difficult than recognizing a family member, even if we have not seen him or her in a few years; but why is this so? What is happening in our minds that we can process the minutiae of one’s facial details and match those details to an image set down in memory a year ago, yet a multiplication problem taken from an elementary school textbook requires paper, pencil and time? Why are our minds more receptive to some forms of information than others? Cognitive scientists studying the way human minds organize and develop during childhood generally agree that either from birth or during childhood human minds develop numerous functional subsystems that carry out particular information-processing tasks (Pinker 1997). These functional units operate with such fluency and automaticity, especially when performing tasks that are fundamental to human survival, that we often process them without conscious effort or awareness. To illustrate, for most humans recognizing familiar faces requires no studying of features or deliberate attention to detail; rather, this task is automatic. Along with this automaticity, or what might be called cognitive naturalness (McCauley, forthcoming), come certain cognitive biases. That is, within a given domain our minds automatically assume certain kinds of relationships and tend towards certain kinds of understandings. Again, this intuitive knowledge makes good sense in terms of survival. For instance, developmental psychologists have demonstrated that within the first few months of life babies provide behavioural evidence (typically looking behaviours) indicating that they understand that physical objects (1) do not pass through one another, (2) must move as cohesive wholes, and (3) must move continuously from one place to another (instead of disappearing and reappearing) (Spelke and Kinzler 2007). These expectations of physical objects can be understood as intuitive knowledge in the sense that people intuitively assume it is true of any object encountered. Experimental evidence suggests that humans routinely acquire domain-specific intuitive 78

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knowledge concerning – and sometimes specific to – a range of ontological categories for things as ordinary as physical objects, artefacts, animals and other living things, and intentional beings such as people (Sperber, Premack and Premack 1995). Cognitive scientists studying cultural expression have found it productive to ask how the intuitive knowledge generated by cognitive systems informs and constrains the generation and transmission of cultural expression. For instance, the psychologist, Thomas Ward, discovered that when trying to create novel extraterrestrial beings, adults’ creations were highly constrained by the assumptions of our intuitive ontological knowledge concerned with living things. Novel beings overwhelmingly exhibited bilateral symmetry and at least one pair of major sense organs and limbs, even when adults were explicitly told to be as creative as possible and not worry about believability (Ward 1994, 1995). Similarly, the psychologists Michael Kelly and Frank Keil (1985), found that the metamorphoses in the writings of Ovid and Grimm’s Fairy Tales were not arbitrary or uniformly distributed over theoretically possible types of transformations, but appeared to be closely constrained by intuitive cognitive systems. Transformations to ‘neighbouring’ ontological categories (based on childhood concept formation) appeared to be more effective story devices than other types of transformations. Perhaps the most developed area in this cognition and culture field is CSOR. In the area of religious expression, too, scholars have suggested that culturally successful ideas must closely conform to the intuitive expectations or biases of early developing cognitive systems. Such intuitive ideas are more likely to be spontaneously produced and successfully communicated because their elements already lurk in human conceptual systems. But being completely intuitive is not always a good thing. When competing for human attention, the intuitive can be overlooked. Intuitive is often boring. Cognitive scientists of culture have noted that better than being wholly intuitive is being slightly counterintuitive (Barrett and Nyhof 2001; Boyer 2001; Sperber 1996). Compare the idea of a cat that has kittens with the idea of a dog that has kittens. As much as one might enjoy a moving tale about a cat having kittens, hearing about a dog having kittens is likely to be much more striking and worthy of retelling. Why? The anthropologist and psychologist Pascal Boyer suggests that it is because one version is wholly intuitive and the other modestly counterintuitive. Research has shown that young children intuitively know that animals have offspring of their own kind, passing on those features that have biologically functional consequences (Keil 1989; Springer and Keil 1989). A dog having kittens is thus counterintuitive, in this technical sense, and more striking than other unusual arrangements. Experiments demonstrate that concepts with a single counterintuitive feature are better remembered and communicated than comparable wholly intuitive concepts (Barrett and Nyhof 2001; Boyer and Ramble 2001). These technical senses of intuitive and counterintuitive allow for a concept to be intuitive in two ways. First, a concept may be specified by naturally developing cognitive systems; for example, that solid objects cannot pass through other solid objects appears to be a default assumption of natural cognitive systems. The idea of a brick not being able to pass through NL 6 75–90 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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a tree is intuitive because it conforms to default assumptions. A second way in which an idea may be intuitive is by simply not violating expectations. The idea of a 100-pound rodent is intuitive (even if surprising) because natural systems do not specify how much rodents can or cannot weigh. A clarification may be helpful at this point. In keeping with Boyer’s and others’ previous research in this area, we reserve the term ‘counterintuitive’ for ideas that violate naturally developing intuitive knowledge, what McCauley (forthcoming) calls ‘maturationally natural’ cognition. That is, cognition that develops as part of normal human maturation regardless of cultural settings. Nevertheless, with special cultural aids such as explicit instruction, opportunity for rehearsal and supporting artefacts, individuals may acquire tremendous cognitive fluency in particular areas. McCauley dubs this culturally dependent kind of cognitive mastery ‘practiced naturalness’. Consider, for instance, chess or calculus mastery. Scripts for social interactions (such as what to do when ordering at a restaurant) or schemata (such as the expected temperament of different breeds of dogs or the size limits of rodents) exemplify the sort of individually or culturally specific conceptual structures that arise through practised naturalness. We might term ideas that violate these practiced natural expectations counterschematic. Counterschematic ideas, then, violate expectations that have arisen through practised natural systems and are analogous to counterintuitive ideas that violate expectations that have arisen through maturationally natural systems. To illustrate this, asking for the bill at a sit-down restaurant before the ordered meal has arrived could be counterschematic but not counterintuitive. The idea of a 100-pound rodent or a high-strung Labrador might be counterschematic, but neither is counterintuitive. Whether or not something is counterschematic is individually and culturally variable. Whether or not something is counterintuitive is a matter of normal human development. Concepts that are counterintuitive can be more attention demanding, but this advantage is not without limits. Rather, Boyer (2001) suggests an optimum. Concepts that are mundanely intuitive are acceptable candidates for being successfully spread within a population; those with just a minor counterintuitive tweak are better; and those with too many counterintuitive features are disastrous. Consider a liquid dog that gives birth to invisible artichokes made of cardboard whenever someone thinks about something that will happen next Tuesday. Such a dog concept (if indeed it can be called a concept) so greatly violates the intuitive conceptual structure that it is hard to understand and difficult to communicate effectively without distortion. Furthermore, its counterintuitive structure renders it cumbersome for generating predictions, explanations or inferences. A large, brown dog with floppy ears, a white-tipped tail and a pleasant disposition that gives birth to kittens does not present the same conceptual challenges for its communication or for its ability to generate predictions, explanations or inferences. Applying these cognitive insights to supernatural concepts, Boyer and his colleagues have argued that the vast majority of supernatural concepts that feature in religious belief systems across cultures have a number of defining features (see, for example, Atran 2002; Barrett 2004; Boyer 80

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2001, 2003). First of all, they tend to be minimally or modestly counterintuitive; that is, one or two intuitive expectations are violated. For example, a statue that can listen to petitions is an artefact to which has been added the property of having a mind. Forest spirits in some places might be characterized as essentially invisible people – invisibility being the single important counterintuitive feature. A second common feature of religious concepts is that their counterintuitive feature enhances their inferential potential in important realms, such as survival or social interaction. By inferential potential we refer to these concepts’ abilities to rapidly generate further ideas, inferences, explanations and predictions, particularly about those things that matter to us. We can be more clear here about ‘inferential potential’ and ‘those things that matter to us’ by way of a brief introduction to evolutionary psychology and, specifically, the importance of our unique, evolved social cognitive mechanisms. These social cognitive mechanisms2 enable our species to communicate and cooperate in a manner that is unique in scope and complexity. Relative to other species common to our evolutionary milieu – the African savannah of Pleistocene onwards – humans are in many respects an outmatched class. Humans are not particularly fast or strong, they cannot easily navigate treetops, and they have no protective covering. Their large brains create birthing hazards, require additional time to develop and consume a disproportionate share of nutritional resources. Without the unique set of cognitive abilities that enabled the formation of cooperative bonds and the transmission of accumulated information, humans would never have enjoyed such spectacular evolutionary success. To illustrate this, one such social cognitive mechanism, ‘theory of mind’ (ToM), refers to the human mind’s unique3 ability to form assumptions about another person or animal’s mental state. ‘Theory’, in this case, refers to our ability to postulate, or form a theory about, what other people might be thinking. For example, if a friend stops waving to me as I pass him on my daily commute to work, I might assume that in his mind he is angry with me. Or, if a co-worker’s promotion was mentioned in an e-mail to all employees, when I go to congratulate her I will assume that she knows that I know she was promoted. Here I am not just theorizing about her mental state, I am also theorizing about what her mind might be theorizing about my mind. This is an instance of what we would call ‘secondorder’ ToM. An instance where Jack assumed that Jane thought that Bob suspected Linda of thievery would be an instance of third-order ToM. These multiple-order ToM exercises represent the day-to-day conditions of social interaction, that is, the conditions contributing to prosperity or failure. We are constantly stressing about and trying to gain access to the information that others have about us. ‘Does my boss think I am doing a good job?’ ‘Was Jason suggesting that Michael is out to get me?’ These are important questions. And tens of thousands of years ago, figuring out who was of a cooperative mind and who was liable to cheat was a daily matter of life and death. Given the importance of ToM in both our evolutionary history and contemporary circumstances, these types of thoughts enjoy privileged access to the conscious realm of our minds. Even seemingly non-related tasks often feed back into ToM, such as when a child NL 6 75–90 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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2.

By ‘system’, ‘mechanism’, or ‘device’ we refer to a functional unit of the brain that may or may not be driven by a particular localized section of the brain devoted to a particular task. Our mental hardware for vision, for example, is mostly located in six specific areas (V1 to V6) of the occipital lobe. Even where the location, or locations (tasks may be highly distributed), of the system may be debatable, we may be relatively certain that some taskcentric bounded entity exists in the mental hardware because, as the following examples show, some persons who have sustained head injuries or abnormal brain development have lost the ability to perform the particular task in question (though all other brain functions may be unaffected).

3.

Neither autistic humans nor primates seem to share our ToM capacities, though the status of a chimpanzee’s theory of mind is contentious. Some researchers deny chimps have provided any clear evidence of ToM capacity (Povinelli and Vonk 2003), whereas others believe chimps have rudimentary ToM (Tomasello, Call, and Hare 2003). Nearly all scholars in this area agree that chimps are not capable of the ToM capacities of threeyear-old children and certainly do not reach third-order ToM.

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4.

By emotional incentive, we refer to those biochemical processes that result in mental states that are commonly referred to as love, sadness, anger, jealousy and so forth. From an evolutionary perspective, these biochemical processes and their associated mental states were crucial in motivating and guiding our behaviour to sustain important social relationships (Fessler and Haley 2003; Fiske 2002), especially when these required action that was inconsistent with our immediate self-interest.

5.

Access to strategic information is also part of what separates gods and spirits from counterintuitive but decidedly nonreligious concepts, such as a cartoon animal that can speak English. Aside from not being postulated to exist or act in the real world, counterintuitive fictional characters have little inferential potential in day-to-day activities.

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practises her algebra so that her parents might form positive mental representations of her. Consider also that ToM exercises that are decoupled from the consequences of real social interaction make for fascinating, emotionally charged entertainment. People all over the world love to exchange gossip about what some people think about other people (Gambetta 1994; Haviland 1977). Fans of detective thrillers and Shakespearean dramas delight in figuring out who has access to what information and what inferences can be drawn from that information (Dunbar 2004; Stiller, Nettle and Dunbar 2004). In fact, ‘dramatic irony’ by definition occurs when the audience has important information that the characters lack. That we pursue these exercises even when there is nothing practical to be gained points to another important characteristic of social cognitive mechanisms – they are often accompanied by strong emotional incentives.4 Given, then, its importance in our evolutionary history and its access to powerful emotional states of mind, ToM is always tugging at the conscious realm of our mind, looking for inputs – or strategic information – that will help ToM produce helpful inferences about what is going on in other people’s minds. We might briefly examine the relationship between these two: first, what qualifies as strategic information will differ for each person and circumstance. For example, the information that you have a new, expensive, red mountain bike in your garage is not necessarily strategic to me, unless I am missing such a bike. If I am missing such a bike, the information becomes strategic and is seized upon by my social cognitive mechanisms, which generate inferences that motivate and guide my next actions. With respect to ToM, I now infer that you might be harbouring other uncooperative thoughts in your mind. I am now angry or fearful and well motivated to take precautions to safeguard against your anti-social tendencies. In summary, our minds are always receptive to information that enables us to infer what others are thinking about us, because getting this information was crucial to our survival in our evolutionary past. This brings us back to the second common feature of religious concepts – their counterintuitive feature enhances their inferential potential in realms important to humans, such as survival or social interaction. Gods always seem to know more than people do – particularly about the intentions of others or which herbs in the forest heal us, rather than human intestinal length or how many frogs live in Colombia. Sometimes gods have access to this strategic information by virtue of super knowledge or super perception, but others gain it through invisibility or counterintuitive spatial or physical properties (Boyer 2001). Supernatural entities could be counterintuitive by virtue of vanishing every new moon or experiencing time backwards, but these counterintuitive properties do not stimulate interesting questions and speculations about who might know what I did last night with whom.5 In summary then, supernatural ideas are distinguished by the special use they make of our ordinary cognitive capabilities. They get our attention and stimulate our naturally developing cognitive systems by (1) striking a balance between understandable intuitiveness and attention-grabbing novelty; and (2) including properties that enhance (rather than detract 82

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from) inferential potential in matters of importance, particularly social ones. These two properties give supernatural concepts in religious systems cognitive appeal – they demand attention, support conceptual exploration and often generate strong emotional experiences. We suggest that these two features also factor prominently in VR worlds and suggest a reason why participants in SL and other virtual spaces often compare their experiences to the spiritual and religious. From a cognitive science perspective, SL is populated by analogues of supernatural beings and prompts pseudosupernatural experiences. But how exactly is this so?

The cognitive appeal of VR inputs Consider first that SL is replete with counterintuitive representations. An avatar, for example, preserves most of the same expectations we would have of a real person: it has a specifiable location in space and time, selfawareness and expressive mental states, moves in goal-oriented ways and understands language and communication. Also, avatars interact in a manner that is largely intuitive (even if a bit surprising): they gossip, play sports, attend social events, engage in intimate behaviours and so forth. Yet an avatar, even one that looks strikingly real, also presents a few critical violations. The most obvious of these is that avatars lack materiality. Avatars can go through walls (if the VR physics generator permits), move objects without coming into contact with them, disappear, fly and radically alter their anatomy. This immaterial property of VR simulations has long fascinated VR enthusiasts, who frequently equate this property with religious and spiritual concepts. In Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984), the protagonist, Case, is at one point banished from the digital paradise of cyberspace (an event referred to as ‘the Fall’) and condemned to a life of ‘imprisonment’ in the flesh (i.e. embodiment and its corporeal restrictions). Fortunately for Case, in the end he regains ‘the bodiless exaltation of cyberspace’ (Gibson 1984: 6), and presumably a release from those intuitions predisposed to a material world, when his digital form is fed into the matrix to live forever in cyber-paradise. Gibson’s next protagonist, Bobby Newark, achieves a similar end in Mona Lisa Overdrive. In fact, this vision of body transcendence is a popular theme throughout the cyberpunk genre. Journalist and non-fiction author, Margaret Wertheim, summarizes great tracts of this genre when she observes that ‘nothing epitomizes the cybernautic desire to transcend the body’s limitations more than the fantasy of abandoning the flesh completely by downloading oneself to cyber-immortality’ (Wertheim 1999: para. 10). Wertheim suggests that this desire reflects the cyberpunk belief that ‘at core a human being is reducible to an array of data’ (Wertheim 1999: para. 15), and this separation of the person or self from the body shares much with the cross-culturally recurrent religious notion that a soul or spirit may be separated from the body (for example, Cohen (2007); see also Bloom (2004) for an account of dualism’s origins in human cognitive development). This association with religious phenomena makes even more sense when we consider that immateriality enhances one’s access to strategic information by enabling an analogue of the super perception enjoyed by so many ancestors and deities. Without material constraints, avatars can NL 6 75–90 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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teleport instantly to any location in SL, see through walls and across great distances, and become invisible. Like many gods and spirits, they can be anywhere at any time and can evade detection. Additionally, SL is teeming with strategic information that is not necessarily built into, but is nonetheless associated with, these counterintuitive representations. Computer mediated communication (CMC) researchers and theorists have long noted that online relationships, particularly romances, are often vulnerable to a ‘boom or bust phenomenon’ (Cooper and Sportolari 1997). This phenomenon occurs where a rapid process of self-disclosure leads budding relationships to develop at a highly accelerated pace towards success or failure. For CSOR researchers, this ‘boom or bust phenomenon’ might seem to be what naturally happens when social cognitive mechanisms are super-stimulated. Given access to plentiful stores of strategic information, i.e. a potential mate’s preferences, values and so forth, our social cognitive mechanisms are able to process dispositions towards others much more quickly than they could in the real world, where strategic information is hard to acquire. We can identify at least two mechanisms of this phenomenon in SL. First, most residents in SL observe strict boundaries between SL and what they frequently refer to as ‘1st’ life. Simply clicking on the ‘1st Life’ tab of a resident’s profile often produces a pithy defence of anonymity such as ‘Don’t ask.’ Many theorists have commented on the affordances gained by this anonymity. Lea, Spears and DeGroot (1995: 202), for example, have noted that: The visual anonymity of the communicators and the lack of co-presence – indeed the physical isolation – of the communicators add to the interaction possibilities, and for some this is the ‘magic’ of on-line relationships.

Undoubtedly, some of these ‘interaction possibilities’ and part of this ‘magic’ also resides in the immunity to negative consequences that might be suffered for being too forthcoming with strategic information in the real world. For example, to blatantly advertise oneself as a potential sexual partner in the real world could be quite damaging to one’s social status. But in SL, such information might be displayed on one’s profile, as might one’s values, accomplishments, scandals and so on. With anonymity, people can (and do) do whatever they please, and this includes trade freely with pieces of strategic information. Second, SL’s content creation tools enable a resident to shape visual, audible and, if using a haptic interactive device, tactile, rhythmic or proprioceptive information into strategic information. Evolutionary psychologists have noted that some physical traits tend to be highly sought after when selecting mates. Women are usually attracted to men approximately 6 inches taller than themselves and who show physical signs of dominance such as musculature and a square jaw (Ellis 1992). Among other features, men value youthful appearance – younger than themselves – (Buss 1989) and facial symmetry (Grammer and Thornhill 1994). Theoretically, these features suggest a high degree of evolutionary fitness to a potential mate, who of course wants to maximize his or her progeny’s chances for survival. In SL, one may design one’s avatar in accordance with these features

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Figure 2: Strategically proportioned avatars.

or any other visual, audible or tactile properties that are likely to be seized upon by one’s social cognitive mechanisms. VR concepts, then, like supernatural concepts, are distinguished for making special use of ordinary cognitive capabilities. They get our attention and stimulate our naturally developing cognitive systems by (1) striking a balance between understandable intuitiveness and attention-grabbing novelty; and (2) including properties that enhance (rather than detract from) inferential potential in matters of importance, particularly social ones. These two properties give VR concepts cognitive appeal – they demand attention, support conceptual exploration and can be accompanied by powerful emotional experiences. However, it should also be clear that VR concepts do not work at an optimum. They are weak analogues, not functional equivalents, of those supernatural concepts that feature in popular religions. It is possible that focusing on this gap in affective content could be productive for both CSOR researchers and media theorists. We will return to this suggestion in our conclusion.

Virtual touch: a case of combining counterintuitive representations and social inferences As a tentative empirical footnote to these observations, we wish to illustrate a phenomenon in SL (we have termed it ‘virtual touch’) in which the two inputs discussed here (counterintuitive representations and strategic information) combine to produce an experience that might resonate as supernatural or ‘spiritual-like’. In previous examples, strategic information was visual (Y can see X’s treachery) or audible (Y hears that X has a crush on her); but it can also be kinaesthetic. Consider the satisfaction one feels when one receives a hug or a caress from a loved one. The pleasure of touch is no accident; it is, rather, an important part of our evolutionary heritage. Anyone who has been to the zoo knows that chimpanzees spend a lot of time grooming one another. This is not just idle folly on the part of the chimpanzee. Rather, chimpanzees are social animals that depend on cooperative bonds for survival; and because chimpanzees have no language, touch is an extremely important form of communication. When one chimpanzee removes parasites and other detritus from the back of NL 6 75–90 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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another chimpanzee, the groomed chimpanzee registers a spike in endorphins (Dunbar 2004). It feels good to be touched and groomed, and these good feelings provide a strong emotional platform for cooperative bonds. It is the same with humans. Gently touching a human infant’s body releases oxytocin, a ‘feel good’ hormone that predisposes the infant to develop an attachment to the mother and is essential to the infant’s proper mental and bodily development (Uvnas-Moburg 1998, 2003). This relationship between touch, pleasure and social cooperation persists in adulthood and has been demonstrated in many studies (Hertenstein, Holmes, Kerestes and Verkamp 2006). It follows that touching someone is an embodied and powerful form of social cognition because it can catalyse oxytocin and predispose the recipient to think in a certain, social way – that is, affectionately and cooperatively – about his or her peers. And touching, like many forms of strategic information, is much more regulated in the real world than it is in SL. Now consider that SL avatars are constantly touching one another through the use of pose balls and animations. Lovers stroll through a park arm-in-arm. Churchgoers hold hands during a worship service. Friends greet one another with a hug, a slap on the back or perhaps a kick to the chest. A common but curious feature of these activities can be found in reports of extended embodiment by way of tactile sensations registered through the avatar. That is to say, if one’s avatar is touched on the arm or chest, one sometimes registers tactile sensations on the corporeal arm or chest. Consider these examples, taken from various blogs and websites, in which SL residents report or suggest corporeal sensations and oxytocinlike benefits (all interactions described are between avatars in SL): The SL hug is a high fidelity representation of the actual experience, and even though no one would confuse the virtual hug with the real one, the virtual one will still make you respond in the same way – it evokes a remarkably warm and fuzzy ‘feeling’ of being hugged. (Johnson 2007) The [sadomasochism] desk allows an animation where he can caress my ass before spanking it. Then seeing his hand rise and fall with the blows …Ohhhhh *shivers and grins* …it’s very very sensual. (Horton 2007) Odd how all of SL fades when we are together – that the ‘touch’ of another avatar is better than the sweetest singer or most breath-taking view; that a kiss or caress distracts me from my need to dance or travel. (Website is no longer available) ‘It could get pretty hot and erotic at times,’ Farrant said. ‘You see your avatar placing your hands on another avatar, which is a very sensual thing.’ (Machalinski, McConnon and Nicholson 2006) SL hugs warm the heart – OK not like a real life hug, but that person still touches you. (Viklund 2007)

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Figure 3: Avatars touching.

These reports have been analysed elsewhere for what they can tell us about the cognitive foundations of instances of extended embodiment (Hornbeck 2007). Here we simply wish to note that SL residents who were highly focused on VR phenomena (for example, for more information on ‘presence’ or ‘being there’ in VR worlds, see Garau, Slater, Pertaub and Razzaque (2005) and Yee (2005)), which included counterintuitive representations (avatars, VR terrain) and strategic information (touching and any profile, visual or other information), reported an emotionally salient experience – corporeal sensations and ‘warm’, oxytocin-like effects – that was itself counterintuitive! That is, to register tactile sensations where no material agent has administered them violates intuitive expectations of the relationship between touch and sensation, and might by some accounts be considered a ‘spiritual-like’ experience by virtue of this counterintuitiveness. If something remotely ‘spiritual-like’ can be imparted by technology that is very tame in comparison to those other worlds represented in cyberpunk literature, future VR developments could inspire experiences that are, by all accounts, religious or spiritual.

Conclusion Making special use of ordinary cognition seems to characterize many religious concepts and experiences as well as many VR concepts and experiences. Specifically, religious cognition and VR cognition only modestly violate intuitive cognitive expectations in such a way as to yield unusually high levels of inferential potential, particularly in social domains. Perhaps because of these parallels, for some the conditions already seem sufficient to qualify VR experiences as quasi-religious or spiritual. This is potentially significant. For CSOR researchers, VR suggests a new way of examining the mind’s resources. Cognitive scientists have long recognized that it can be productive to look at brain-damaged patients who have lost the capacity to perform certain tasks – to look at how the system responds when something has been knocked out (Gazzaniga, Velletri and Premack 1971). In VR worlds such as SL, on the other hand, where we can retain control over phenomenal inputs, we may proceed by examining what has been put into the user. Which conditions suffice for a religious or spiritual experience, NL 6 75–90 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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and which do not? Perhaps by using VR and borrowing from media theorists specializing in religious content, we can approach these questions with greater precision. For media researchers, examining this gap in affective content and how this gap narrows or widens with new technologies could help to explain how VR, and media generally, contributes to the ‘mediatization’ of religion and to the ‘enchantment’ of popular culture. The CSOR material we have presented here is only a brief introduction to a large body of work that could be valuable to those researchers. References Atran, S. (2002), In Gods We Trust: The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion, New York: Oxford University Press. Barrett, J.L. (2004), ‘Counterfactuality in counterintuitive religious concepts’, Behavioral & Brain Sciences, 27, pp. 731–32. Barrett, J.L. and Nyhof, M.A. (2001), ‘Spreading non-natural concepts: The role of intuitive conceptual structures in memory and transmission of cultural materials’, Journal of Cognition & Culture, 1, pp. 69–100. Bloom, P. (2004), Descartes’ Baby: How the Science of Child Development Explains What Makes us Human, New York: Basic Books. Boyer, P. (2001), Religion Explained: The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought, New York: Basic Books. Boyer, P. and Ramble, C. (2001), ‘Cognitive templates for religious concepts: Crosscultural evidence for recall of counter-intuitive representations’, Cognitive Science, 25, pp. 536–564. ____________ (2003), ‘Religious Thought and Behavior as By-products of Brain Function’, Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 7, pp. 119–24. Buss, D.M. (1989), ‘Sex differences in human mate preferences: evolutionary hypotheses tested in 37 cultures’, Behavioral & Brain Sciences, 12, pp. 1–49. Cohen, E. (2007), The Mind Possessed: The Cognition of Spirit Possession in an Afro-Brazilian Religious Tradition, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cooper, A. and Sportolari, L. (1997), ‘Romance in cyberspace: Understanding online attraction’, Journal of Sex Education and Therapy, 22: 1, pp. 7–14. Dunbar, R.I.M. (2004), The Human Story: A New History of Mankind’s Evolution, London: Faber and Faber. Ellis, Bruce J. (1992), ‘The evolution of sexual attraction: Evaluative mechanisms in women’, in J.H. Barkow, L. Cosmides and J. Tooby (eds), The Adapted Mind: Evolutionary Psychology and the Generation of Culture, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 267–88. Fiske, A.P. (2002), ‘Socio-moral emotions motivate action to sustain relationships’, Self and Identity, 1, pp. 169–75. Fessler, D.M.T. and Haley, K.J. (2003), ‘The strategy of affect: Emotions in human cooperation’, in P. Hammerstein (ed.), The Genetic and Cultural Evolution of Cooperation, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 7–36. Gambetta, D. (1994), ‘Godfather’s gossip’, Archives Europeennes de Sociologie, 35, pp. 199–223. Garau, M., Slater, M., Pertaub, D.P. and Razzaque, S. (2005), ‘The responses of people to virtual humans in an immersive virtual environment’, Presence-Teleoperators and Virtual Environments, 14: 1, pp. 104–16. Gazzaniga, M.S., Velletri, A.S. and Premack, D. (1971), ‘Language training in braindamaged humans’, Federation Proceedings, 30, p. 265.

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Gibson, W. (1984), Neuromancer, New York: Ace. Grammer, K. and Thornhill, R. (1994), ‘Human (Homo sapiens) facial attractiveness and sexual selection: The role of symmetry and averageness’, Journal of Comparative Psychology, 108, pp. 233–42. Grossman, C.L. (2007), ‘Faithful Build a Second Life for Religion Online’, http://www.usatoday.com/tech/gaming/2007-04-01-second-life-religion_N.htm. Accessed 27 April 2008. Harris, R.J., Schoen, L.M. and Hensley, D.L. (1992), ‘A cross-cultural study of story memory’, Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology, 23, pp. 133–47. Haviland, J.B. (1977), Gossip, Reputation, and Knowledge in Zincantan, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hertenstein, M.J., Holmes, R.M., Kerestes, A.M. and Verkamp, J.M. (2006), ‘The communicative functions of touch in humans, nonhuman primates, and rats: A review and synthesis of the empirical research’, Genetic, Social, and General Psychology Monographs, 132: 1, pp. 5–94. Hornbeck, R.G. (2007), ‘Virtual touch and affection in SL’, unpublished M.Sc. thesis, Oxford University, Oxford. Horton, C. (2007), ‘Cyberspankings: The appeal of virtual S & M’, Pixel Pulse Magazine, http://www.slpixelpulse.com/2007/02/09/cyberspankings-the-appeal-ofvirtual-sm/. Accessed 8 August 2007. Imai, S. and Richman, C.L. (1991), ‘Is the bizarreness effect a special case of sentence reorganization?’, Bulletin of the Psychonomic Society, 29, pp. 429–32. Johnson, L. (2007), ‘Down the Rabbit Hole ... or how the NMC took the red pill, got a SL, and found love on the 3D Web’, http://immersiveeducation.org/library/Down_the_ Rabbit_Hole-Larry_Johnson_2007.pdf. Accessed 8 August 2007. Keil, F.C. (1989), Concepts, Kinds, and Cognitive Development, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kelly, M. and Keil, F.C. (1985), ‘The more things change...: Metamorphoses and conceptual structure’, Cognitive Science, 9, pp. 403–16. Lattin, D. (moderator) (2007), ‘This revolution will be televised from SL’, News 21: Faces of Faith in America, 2 August, http://newsinitiative.org/story/2007/07/31/this_ revolution_will_be_televised. Accessed 20 September 2007. Lea, M., Spears, R. and DeGroot, D. (1995), ‘Love at first byte? Building personal relationships over computer networks’, in J.T. Wood and S.W. Duck (eds), Understudied Relationships: Off The Beaten Track, Newbury Park: Sage, pp. 197–233. Lewis, C.S. (1952), The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, England: Geoffrey Bles. Machalinski, A., McConnon, A. and Nicholson, C. (2006), ‘Dating and mating in Second Life’, http://www.scienceandsex.com/images/TheDigitalLover.pdf. Accessed 8 August 2007. McCauley, R.N. (forthcoming), The Naturalness of Religion and the Unnaturalness of Science. Publisher: Not available. Pesce, M. (1997), ‘Ritual and the virtual’, in R. Ascott (eds), Consciousness Reframed: Abstracts, Newport: CAiiA, University of Wales College. Pinker, S. (1997), How The Mind Works, London: Penguin. Povinelli, D.J. and Vonk, J. (2003), ‘Chimpanzee minds: suspiciously human?’, Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 7(4), pp. 157–160. Rogers, K. (1997), ‘Viperscience’, in R. Ascott (ed.), Consciousness Reframed: Abstracts, Newport: CAiiA, University of Wales College. Rubin, D.C. (1995), Memory in Oral Traditions: The Cognitive Psychology of Epics, Ballads, and Counting-Out Rhymes, New York: Oxford University Press.

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Rumelhart, D.E. (1997), ‘Understanding and summarizing brief stories’, in D. LaBerge and S.J. Samuels (eds), Basic Processes in Reading: Perception and Comprehension, Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Schmidt, S.R. (1991), ‘Can we have a distinctive theory of memory?’, Memory and Cognition, 19, pp. 523–42. Spelke, E.S. and Kinzler, K.D. (2007), ‘Core knowledge’, Developmental Science, 11, pp. 89–96. Sperber, D. (1996), Explaining Culture: A Naturalistic Approach, Oxford: Blackwell. Sperber, D. and Hirschfeld, L.A. (2003), ‘The cognitive foundations of cultural stability and diversity’, Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 8, pp. 40–46. Sperber, D., Premack, D. and Premack, A.J. (eds) (1995), Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 44–78. Sperber, D. and Wilson, D. (1995), ‘Relevance: Communication and Cognition, Oxford: Blackwell. Springer, K. and Keil, F.C. (1989), ‘On the development of biologically specific beliefs: The case of inheritance’, Child Development, 60, pp. 637–84. Stiller, J., Nettle, D. and Dunbar, R. (2004), ‘The small world of Shakespeare’s plays’, Human Nature, 14, pp. 397–408. Thorndyke, P.W. (1977), ‘Cognitive structures in comprehension and memory of narrative discourse’, Cognitive Psychology, 9, pp. 77–110. Tomasello, M., Call, J., and Hare, B. (2003), ‘Chimpanzees understand psychological states – the question is which ones and to what extent’, Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 7(4), pp. 153–156. Uvnas-Moburg, K. (1998), ‘Oxytocin may mediate the benefits of positive social interaction and emotions’, Psychoneuroendocrinology, 8, pp. 819–35. ____________ (2003), The Oxytocin Factor, Cambridge, MA: Da Capo Press. Viklund, A. (2007), ‘Hello hello!’, http://virtualanalise.wordpress.com/2007/05/. Accessed 8 August 2007. Waddill, P.J. and McDaniel, M.A. (1998), ‘Distinctiveness effects in recall: Differential processing or privileged retrieval?’, Memory and Cognition, 26, pp. 108–20. Ward, T.B. (1994), ‘Structured imagination: The role of category structure in exemplar generation’, Cognitive Psychology, 27, pp. 1–40. ____________ (1995), ‘What’s old about new ideas?’, in S.M. Smith, T.B. Ward and R.A. Finke (eds), The Creative Cognitive Approach, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 157–78. Wertheim, M. (1999), ‘Is Cyberspace a Spiritual Place?’ Cybersociology Magazine, 7 (1 September), http://www.cybersociology.com/files/7_wertheim.html. Accessed 10 October 2007. Yee, N. (2005), ‘In their own words: The immersion component’, http://www. nickyee.com/daedalus/archives/001302.php. Accessed 8 August 2007.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.91/1

Understanding superpowers in contemporary television fiction Line Nybro Petersen Abstract

Keywords

The presence of the supernatural is a recurrent component in contemporary television fiction series. From Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), to Charmed (1998–2006), and Heroes (2006–), audiences follow the narratives of otherwise ordinary characters that are attributed extraordinary abilities. Naturally, superheroes have been the focus of research within different fields, offering understandings within the framework of psychology and anthropology (Bettelheim 1976; Barrett 2004; Boyer 2002) or sociology, and as cultural myth (Partridge 2004 and 2005; Lawrence and Jewett 2002). The article argues that the salience of superpowers should not solely be understood through a sociological framework or as a common psychological feature in humans, but rather that both approaches are relevant when attempting to grasp the phenomenon. Thus, the article attempts to uncover questions of ‘gratification’ and ‘fascination’ for audiences on a mental, as well as on a societal level.

superpowers television fiction cognition daydreams collective mourning popular culture

The phenomenon of superheroes has notably been a relevant field of study for researchers ranging from media studies and psychology through to social theory, but also in religious studies and semiotics. In the field of psychology, or cognition, the primary interest of researchers, such as Justin Barrett (2004) and Pascal Boyer (2002), has been the seemingly permanent and universal fascination with the supernatural as it often emerges within religious contexts. On the other hand, sociologist Graham Murdock (1997), Christopher Partridge (2004, 2005) and others mainly discuss the persistence with which magical narratives remain a crucial part of modern western communities that, for the most part, consider themselves secularized. In this context, both fields of study allow us to pose two relevant questions: ‘How can we understand audiences’ fascination with stories about supernatural agents?’ and ‘What gratification do these stories offer audiences?’ By exploring the audiences’ ‘gratification’, I focus mainly on the possible reasons that people might indulge in stories of superheroes. Thus, the analysis of the three contemporary serials, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), Charmed (1998–2006) and Heroes (2006–) considers aspects of the supernatural through both universal and sociocultural perspectives. It is relevant to consider the relation between the two research fields, cognition and sociology, since society is certainly shaped by human minds developed through evolution, but human minds are also affected by the structures of society, thereby evolving our cognitive predispositions. NL 6 91–106 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Eviatar Zerubavel discusses the advantage of taking a theoretical approach that considers both the cognitive and the sociological: In highlighting the social aspects of cognition, cognitive sociology reminds us that we think not only as individuals and as human beings, but also as social beings, products of particular social environments that affect as well as constrain the way we cognitively interact with the world. (Zerubavel 1997: 6)

Thus, the initial part of this article briefly frames the analysis of the selected serials, with the particular focus on superheroes, as central to American popular culture. Following this introductory section, I turn to the two questions posed earlier, commencing with a discussion of two main cognitive and psychological aspects: our fascination with the supernatural (which seems to have universalistic features) and the gratification of such stories (which I argue are comparable to our daydreams by providing a mental escape from the insecurities of life). A similar frame for indulgence is then discussed in the light of social theory, as I propose that these stories can be viewed as ‘tools’ in shaping modern identities. Finally, I return to the issue of fascination, which seems to be enforced within the more culturally specific features of these stories, namely American heroism.

The salience of superpowers in contemporary television Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and Heroes are representative in the sense that they underline the constant popularity of characters with superpowers: Buffy and Charmed ran seven and eight full seasons respectively, while Heroes, as a newcomer, was the highest rated show in the autumn of 2006, with 14 million American viewers (Mahan 2006). A quick view of other contemporary serials illustrates how an iteration of specific superpowers can be found. The characters Phoebe in Charmed and Isaac in Heroes have the ability to see the future, and similar psychic abilities are also played out in serials such as Medium (2005–), Ghost Whisperer (2005–), The Dead Zone (2002–) and 1-800-Missing (2003–06). In Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy’s extreme physical strength, which enables her as a young woman to fight much larger and presumably stronger vampires, can also be recognized in the female characters of Niki from Heroes and Max in Dark Angel (2000–02). As we shall see, this iteration is not due to a lack of imagination, but may rather be understood as cognitive memorable constructions. Buffy has a classical quality in the sense that the serial centres around one heroic figure, while both Charmed and Heroes have several heroic figures and thereby become an ensemble of supernatural abilities. The multi-plot narrative reflects a dominating contemporary tendency in serial dramas. It should be clearly noted that the scope of this article does not include the extensive history of superhero characters in American popular fiction, but only briefly recognizes that these serials certainly have close ties to the superhero genre that is explored intensively in Marvel comics and other comic books with famous figures, such as Spiderman and Superman. The latter was adapted into television serials several times throughout television 92

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history, the latest being both Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman (1993–97) and Smallville (2001–). The connection to comic book superheroes is even made explicit numerous times in Heroes when the Japanese character Hiro Nakamura constantly refers to his own situation as being parallel to that of his fictional heroes and, concurrently, his future is narrated in a comic book drawn by the character Isaac Mendez, who has the ability to draw the future. Characters that were created with great reference to the comic book-style hero can be found in television fiction serials from as early as The Six Million Dollar Man (1974–78), which was later spun off into the Bionic Woman (1976–78). These television programmes spurred on a wave of comic book heroes in television fiction (Brooks and Marsh 2003). Notably, a remake of Bionic Woman premiered on US television screens in 2007 and on Danish television (TV3) in 2008. Generic relations to, for example, science fiction should also be considered. From the television series The Twilight Zone (1959–64) in the Golden Age of American television and onwards, science fiction can be seen as a genre that heavily comments and reflects upon contemporary society, and is allowed to do so because of its out-of-this-world setting. As Steven D. Stark claims about the creator of The Twilight Zone, Rod Serling: ‘Serling had turned to science fiction primarily because it offered him more freedom to make statements about political and social conditions’ (Stark 1997: 87). Therefore, such genres, in spite of the display of the supernatural and fantastic, offer a level of realism incorporated within the fiction, which then mirrors society. ‘The Twilight Zone implicitly dealt with our newfound national inability to trust anyone or anything – even reality itself. Beneath the facade of fifties unity there were doubts, after all’ (Stark 1997: 89). I will return to this issue to discuss whether the contemporary serials reveal collective feelings in contemporary society. Finally, Stark (1997) comments that the devoted audience within the science fiction genre were typically teenage boys and young men, but a new tone or direction can be detected in the portrayal of superheroes. While the superhero genre can, as such, be seen initially as male dominated, with the aforementioned classical comic book heroes and few female characters, (post-) feminism seems to have entered the scene in a serious way and, in this way, attempts to attract a wider female audience. The examples chosen for this article illustrate this as all three serials have female characters with superpowers, but more can be found in series such as Sabrina, The Teenage Witch (1996–2003), Dark Angel, and Tru Calling (2003–05). It is furthermore worth noticing that a significant part of these serials appeals to a teenaged audience. Christopher Partridge explains the appeal in these terms: Positive images of witchcraft portrayed in popular series [… ] have transformed the popularity of occult figures to the extent that they are seen as symbols of ‘girl power’. They seem to offer the hope of a degree of control to teenagers seeking to negotiate the complex emotional world of relationships and identity formation. (Partridge 2004: 134)

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The targeting of a young audience is not only illustrated by representing young protagonists, it is also done with the appeal of the horror genre which ‘invaded the domestic space and opened up the family room to the horrific world outside the traditionally private and safe domain’ (Freedman 2005: 159) and appeals to teens through ‘...expressing the anxieties of inbetween-ness – a metamorphosing body caught between childhood and adulthood’ (Freedman 2005: 161). We can argue that the deliberate use of well-established generic elements aids in targeting the fascination of a specific audience that is often younger and, to a higher degree than previously, female.

Mental fascination with supernatural agents In an effort to uncover this issue, I will discuss superpowers of ordinary characters in terms of cognition. Cognitive anthropologist Pascal Boyer argues that our fascination with such constructions is quite natural, which explains why these types of stories hold such a permanent place in our minds. The central issue is discovering patterns in supernatural agents, and we shall see how the serials discussed here cover the most frequently used structural tools in terms of how these powers are constructed. Pascal Boyer uses the term ‘counterintuitive properties’ in order to define the supernatural (Boyer 2002), and an example from the first episode of Heroes illustrates this. The character Peter Petrelli has recurrent dreams that he is able to fly and, eventually, the dreams become so convincing that he jumps off the roof of a building to test his theory. He realizes instead that his brother, Nathan, is the one with the flying abilities, while he himself adapts superpowers from the people he comes into contact with. This means that when he is near his brother, he can fly. Peter quickly understands the responsibility of being special and quits his day job as a male nurse so that he can pursue his destiny. Just as for Peter, the serials discussed in this article all deal with normal human beings discovering their superhuman abilities. The hero is, in other words, always created in the form of a human and this illustrates, as Pascal Boyer points out in his Religion Explained (2002), the similarities to the structure found in religion: ‘That Gods and spirits are construed very much like persons is probably one of the best-known traits of religion’ (Boyer 2002: 162). Boyer argues that supernatural concepts are not the result of randomness or strangeness, although it might seem this way on the surface (Boyer 2002). Television producers might think that by allowing a main character to do strange things will make a new series interesting but, as Boyer says, this strangeness will always be constructed in a certain way in order for it to be memorable, plausible and salient in viewers’ minds. The question of individual and collective recollection is important, since it is the constant recycling of the same construction in new settings that allows us to consider that these figures have some impact on our thoughts, whether it is in popular culture or in the world’s major religions. Boyer applies a simple formula to his theory: supernatural beings are always the fusion of a subject [person] with counterintuitive properties

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(Boyer 2002: 73). For Peter and his brother, the formula would look like this: Peter Nathan

[person] + special biological property (absorbs others’ superpowers) [person] + special physical property (disregards forces of gravity)

Buffy, as another example, is the vampire slayer of her generation, a destiny her family has tried to avoid by moving from Los Angeles to smalltown Sunnydale. Alas, her destiny cannot be ignored as Sunnydale turns out to be the world centre for vampires. By the beginning of episode one, Buffy therefore already knows her own superpowers; she has incredible physical strength, especially for a normal-sized teenage girl. Thus, the same formula applies to her: Buffy

[person] + special physical property (extreme physical power)

The special feature, whether it is physical, psychological or biological is always something that counters our intuitive ontology about human abilities, thus creating a superhuman. In the construction of many superheroes, though, it is certainly true that they have a range of counterintuitive properties. For example, female superhero Jaime Sommers in Bionic Woman, who obtains her powers following a bionic operation that saves her life. She has great physical strength in her right arm, legs that give her great speed and the ability to hear over long distances. These characteristics are not unlike those of Superman (1978–2006, movie serial). The point is that the nature of such powers is always constructed within the context of physical, biological or cognitive properties. Boyer concludes that since supernatural concepts are constructed in this simple fashion ‘… there is only a rather short Catalogue of Supernatural Templates that more or less exhausts the range of culturally successful concepts in this domain’ (Boyer 2002: 90). The iteration of certain superpowers explored in television fiction that was mentioned earlier underpins Boyer’s argument. We might also view our fascination in light of the events that often compel superheroes to act. These serials are morality plays; they deal with what is wrong and what is right. They also deal with the injustice and misfortune of the innocent, such as young teenagers getting killed by hungry vampires at Sunnydale High in Buffy the Vampire Slayer or perhaps, the more relative theme of the threat of an atomic bomb exploding in New York killing thousands of people, which was the main plot in season one of Heroes. Justin Barrett (2004) argues that when we stand before unexplainable events, we are cognitively predisposed to search for a ‘who’ to explain the ‘why’. In other words, we search for agency, supernatural or not. Barrett labels this mechanism as a hyper agency detection device (HADD), which is activated when rational reasoning does not seem to suffice as an explanation. It is the same ability that enables us to determine correlations about absolutely normal events in our lives (Barrett 2004). ‘Because people are so good at tabulating regularities, however, we often overestimate the connection between factors’ (Barrett 2004: 51). This is the ‘hyper’ part of HADD, which most of us will NL 6 91–106 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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recognize for example, as being, when a series of small but unfortunate things happen to us within a short period of time, we explain them by claiming ‘someone must really be out to get me’. Mysterious and unfortunate events activate HADD and encourage us to search for an explanation outside rationality. Thus, superheroes and the stories that involve them trigger our evolutionistic cognitive remains, which aid in deciphering a possibly dangerous situation and let us know whether we are about to ‘eat or be eaten’. These are situations that we, living in civilized societies, are no longer exposed to on a daily basis, thus the stories offer a rare (and safe) form of excitement. Furthermore, psychologist Bettelheim discusses the meaning and importance of fairy tales in The Uses of Enchantment (1976) and argues that they appeal to us in the same way as daydreaming. … although the events which occur in fairy tales are often unusual and most

improbable, they are always presented as ordinary, something that could happen to you or me or the person next door when out on a walk in the woods. Even the most remarkable encounters are related in casual, everyday ways in fairy tales. (Bettelheim 1976: 37)

The same can be said for stories of superheroes. In Heroes, the characters discover their powers by coincidence, prior to which they lived rather normal lives at all levels of society: as policemen, teenage cheerleaders or single parents. This makes it possible for the viewer to identify with the characters at different levels, and it seems that part of the attraction lies simply in applying superpowers to these ordinary people. Furthermore, in Heroes, the usage of very common names such as Peter, Claire and Jessica strengthens the accessibility for identification. This generic construction of characters is not only developed through commonly used names, but also through establishing stereotypical figures – such as the shy journalist Clark Kent, who only succeeds with the opposite sex when he turns into Superman. In Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the main character is seemingly just another teenage girl, and the three sisters in Charmed are just normal women, with normal jobs and normal lives – at least until they discover their destiny. Eco discusses identification in his ‘The Myth of Superman’ (1979) and emphasizes that the double identity is important in the sense that ‘any accountant in any American city secretly feeds the hope that one day, from the slough of his actual personality, there can spring forth a superman who is capable of redeeming years of mediocre existence’ (Eco 1979: 108). Notably, most commercials play on the same feelings of hope as the product is the catalyst for a change in social status, whether it is the newest mobile phone or car. We can detect a development from the classical superhero to the contemporary television hero, exemplified by Buffy who has the ability to feel both self-assured and insecure about the events in her life and is, therefore, not as stereotypically characterized as the Clark Kent figure. The superheroes discussed here are slightly more rounded characters, where the emphasis is placed on the individuality of the character, thereby allowing the viewer to reflect on the characters as complex modern individuals, not unlike themselves. This newly discovered reflexiveness is discussed further when we move on to consider social theory. In short, three levels of attraction can be identified in the cognitive science of religion and psychology: first

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of all, the cognitive construction ensures that the characters are memorable; second, these stories invite us to search for agency; while, third, they offer us accessible identification.

Superpowers and the gratification of daydreaming Cognitive theory in this way provides us with an understanding of why we find supernatural beings interesting and fascinating, but cognitive theory of religion also deals with the significance and influence of these phenomena, which are often considered to have a greater impact within the realms of religion than elsewhere. However, to dismiss the importance of the so-called non-serious supernatural representations would be a mistake ‘because there is no difference in origin between concepts in the serious and non-serious registers. Indeed, concepts often migrate from one to another’ (Boyer 2002: 105). Basically, what has a cultural impact is constantly changing; so, while we might consider popular culture phenomena as part of the non-serious register, it can still have an impact on a mental level. Supernatural concepts within popular culture are, as Boyer’s formula illustrates, clearly similar to those of gods and spirit within religion and activate the same cognitive inference systems. In the reality game show Who Wants to Be a Superhero (2006–), eager young participants create their own superhero character in the hope of becoming the next American superhero. The show illustrates how people are encouraged to erase the borders between the fictional and the real, and to establish schemas for social success on either level. In Heroes, the origin of the powers themselves is explained in terms of genetic evolution: They say that man uses only a tenth of his brainpower. Another per cent, and we might actually be worthy of God’s image. Unless, of course, that day has already arrived. The Human Genome Project has discovered that tiny variations in man’s genetic code are taking place at increasingly rapid rates. Teleportation, levitation, tissue regeneration. Is this outside the realm of possibilities? (Heroes 2006: episode 1, ‘Genesis’)

These words are spoken by the Indian genetic scientist, Mohinder Suresh, while teaching a class during the first episode of Heroes, but the idea of alternate DNA was already played out in the television serial Prey (1998). Although, in Prey, the advanced human race is the enemy rather than the saviour, and the protagonist Dr Sloan Parker does not have any superpowers herself. Hence, Prey is not a story of superheroes but a more general science fiction narrative. It is an imperative element in stories of superheroes that the identification lies with the protagonist who has superpowers. But at the same time, the antagonists are also equipped with superpowers: the vampires in Buffy, the warlocks in Charmed and evil Sylar in Heroes. We might argue that this element simply reinforces the importance of the superhero. Superpowers can only be fought with superpowers. Without vampires, Buffy’s abilities would not be needed, and a display of her powers would seem foolish rather than heroic. The representation of good versus evil is therefore crucial, and one necessitates the other. In this sense, this narrative construction legalizes the presence of a rather egocentric way of life by manifesting viewers’ moral sympathies with the protagonist. NL 6 91–106 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Stories of superheroes, as well as daydreams, offer two main things: first and foremost, they provide a refuge from the insecurities of everyday life; and second, they are at the same time valid places to live out egocentric thoughts and desires. An explicit example is the Internet stripper and mother, Niki Sanders, in Heroes. She has a lot of trouble making ends meet, and her son Micah is expelled from private school during the first episode because of her debts. Just when things cannot get any worse, Niki’s alternate personality, her superego Jessica, comes forth and saves the day by killing the evil-minded men who are trying to collect the debt. In contrast to Niki, Jessica is in absolute control of her life and continues to provide for her family by working as a hired gun. This loss of control in one’s own life is recognizable to most people at some level, just as the desire to regain control. Bettelheim summarizes the possibilities that daydreams offer in these terms, ‘...the fulfilment of wishes, the winning over competitors, the destruction of enemies...’ (Bettelheim 1976: 36). In other words, the world of superheroes, just as our daydreams, is the ultimate source of self-realization and mastering of the world. Along the same lines, we can then understand the gratification of superheroes as a source of identification in which new grounds for selfworth can be found. In the first episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy is the new student at a high school and the entire episode deals with the issue of her fitting in, finding the right group of friends and re-establishing a self-identity. This is a recognizable situation for most people entering a new social environment but for Buffy, her new friendship with the girl, Willow, is quickly solidified as Buffy saves Willow from the deadly bite of a vampire and so what could have been a long process of finding one’s own place within social structures is quickly resolved for the superhero. Her insecurities about how to establish a sense of her own worth are ‘fixed’ by her extraordinary abilities. I also mentioned the egocentric nature of the superhero figure. Peter Petrelli in Heroes cries out, ‘It’s my turn to be somebody now, Nathan’ (Heroes 2006: episode 1, ‘Genesis’), before jumping off the roof of a building. This quote demonstrates the desire to be special that often unfolds in such stories. What characterizes daydreams is that they are often so egocentric that we would consider them socially unacceptable, so they remain as part of our inner thoughts. Thus, stories of superheroes become playgrounds for displaying such grim feelings, but the need for discretion is transferred into the fictional world in order for the story to maintain plausibility. In Buffy the Vampire Slayer, it is imperative to the story that Buffy’s strength is kept secret to the general public because, if not, the story would take a dramatically different course focusing on the attention, disbelief and questioning that Buffy would face. This would simply get in the way of her saving the community time and time again from evil vampires, thus violating the frame for the daydream. Finally, we can argue that the narratives in stories of superheroes, as well as the direction in daydreams (in contrast to regular dreams), are controlled. This means that whatever we wish to happen will happen. In Charmed, Piper is lured into a trap by her boyfriend Jeremy, who turns out to be a witch murderer. He attempts to kill her and attain her powers. 98

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In the same pilot episode, Prue bumps into Andy, an old friend, but the meeting is somewhat awkward as Prue obviously fancies Andy. But for our superheroes everything is resolved: Piper is saved, the warlock is killed and Andy stops by the manor to ask Prue out on a date. This, Bettelheim would argue, is similar to the understanding of fairy tales, which he says is very much the result of common conscious and unconscious content having been shaped by the conscious mind, not of one particular person, but the consensus of many in regard to what they view as universal human problems, and what they accept as desirable solutions. (Bettelheim 1976: 36)

While the serials might deal with basic universal desires, the framework is often determined by the social context in which they are produced. Thus, the daydream, as well as superhero narratives, is structured around a fluid transcendence between the everyday-like and the egocentric – one legitimizing the other. The same issues, namely the issue of personal insecurity and control, are also at stake, when we consider the issue of fascination in terms of social science.

Superheroes mirroring late modern identities The cognitive science of religion and the studies of Bettelheim illustrate a universalistic mental attraction to the supernatural, but they fail to answer questions about the salience found in western, particularly American, popular culture. Why do supernatural agents seem to play such a dominating role in contemporary American television fiction? And can this salience be understood according to sociologists’ thoughts on late modernity? The following focuses on the latter question and the matter of ‘gratification’, before turning to the issue of ‘fascination’. Cognitive theory deals mostly with the non-conscious and perhaps even non-reflected actions of humans, but as Anthony Giddens points out about people living in late modernity, ‘… agents are normally able, if asked, to provide discursive interpretations of the nature of, and the reasons for, the behaviour in which they engage’ (Giddens 1991: 35). It is the reflected responses to one’s own role in contemporary society that might enable us to understand the issue of superheroes as an indication of a societal state of mind. As mentioned, superpowers are constructed in such a way that the people holding them are exempt from recognizable insecurities about social exchange, and superheroes are also in the position of being offered the certainty of destiny. But the question of ‘destiny’ is constantly placed within the frame of late modernity, which means that it is considered as something that can be negotiated. When the teenage cheerleader, Claire, in Heroes, initially discovers that she has special abilities, she searches for answers to where those powers came from. She gets the high school nerd, Zach, to videotape her as she jumps from a construction building, as a sort of manifestation of her powers of tissue regeneration. Claire is obviously, in contrast to Zach, popular in school; she is pretty, has long blonde hair, and wears her cheerleading outfit. Throughout the first half of season one,

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Claire struggles with her newly discovered identity. In the third episode, she rejects her powers in order to claim her normalcy: Zach: Claire: Zach:

Claire:

‘So that’s it? You’re just gonna go pump your pom-poms and pretend you’re no different than any other girl on the squad?’ ‘Yes, actually.’ ‘But you are, Claire! You are different. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see that none of this matters? School spirit doesn’t matter. Being a pretty blonde cheerleader doesn’t matter. It’s not who you are anymore.’ ‘Who am I? So what, I can crawl through a wood chipper and live to tell about it. That narrows my choices in life to freak or guinea pig, in most cases both. What’s wrong with wanting to be normal? You should try it.’ (Heroes 2006: episode 3, ‘One Giant Leap’)

This rejection of one’s destiny can be seen as a classical trait of modernity, which places emphasis on individuality, ‘The idea that each person has a unique character and special potentialities that may or may not be fulfilled is alien to pre-modern culture’ (Giddens 1991: 74), and also argues that ‘modernity effectively involves the institutionalisation of doubt’ (Giddens 1990: 176). Claire finally discovers the superficial nature of her relationship with the popular cheerleaders and embraces her friendship with Zach, whom she has come to trust. She accepts that she is special. The construction of ‘Claire’ as a character underlines Partridge’s notion that girl power and the appeal to a young female audience is in focus. In connection with the preceding discussion about daydreaming and identification with the protagonist, this rejection becomes important in order for viewers to identify with Claire. Her decision is based on values that can easily be transferred from fiction into society – namely, the basis of choosing your friends. This also illustrates how Heroes draws upon characteristics of the self-reflexive individual as described by Giddens, ‘At each moment, or at least at regular intervals, the individual is asked to conduct a self-interrogation in terms of what is happening’ (Giddens 1991: 76). Giddens recognizes the dualistic nature of late modernity, because the openness towards the future means insecurities for the individual and for society ‘opening itself up to a problematic future’ (Giddens 1991: 111). This openness that was incorporated in late modern societies can then lead to a search for greater meaning, whether in established religions, New Age or even in popular television fiction. Graham Murdock argues that religion or the search for greater meaning can be understood as a commodity that can be purchased and tried on for size, simply to be discarded and replaced at a later stage in life. But Murdock argues that consumer culture at all levels of society leads to a feeling of redundancy: ‘We have entered the age of the “dispensable self”. Consumption could offset the boredom of the assembly line, but it cannot easily compensate for this deep loss of dignity and self-worth’ (Murdock 1997: 95). Perhaps superpowers can be seen as a sort of commodity, whose functions are compensatory for feelings of redundancy. This display of ‘destiny’ that is found in the serials discussed here has evolved from the definition of destiny that is often displayed in religious

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narratives or classical mythology. Umberto Eco deals with the classical superhero figure and suggests that such heroes are instruments in maintaining the idea that personal responsibility is obsolete (Eco 1979). Eco’s argument is that if the world is unchangeable and the hero is trapped by destiny, he cannot be held accountable. Rather, in contemporary narratives, superheroes are constantly held accountable for the way in which their actions affect society. In Spider-Man (2002), Peter Parker’s decision not to stop a robber leads to the murder of his grandfather, who uttered the telling phrase ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ only hours before his death. The duality also becomes explicit within other elements of the narrative structure, which illustrates the openness of modernity but reveals it as flawed. According to Giddens, the self-reflexive individual finds selfworth in knowing one’s direction in life. The Charmed sister, Phoebe, is in many ways the family’s black sheep, as she lives a life without goals and prospects in the beginning of episode one. Nonetheless, the discovery of her powers almost immediately leads to a sense of peace and purpose for her. In contemporary society, we are no longer expected to follow the footsteps of our parents but instead to find our own path in life. This, Giddens argues, leads to great insecurities as a result of constantly re-inventing oneself (Giddens 1991). Hence, these narratives offer some comfort of not having to make that decision, and we might assume that we are drawn to them for this reason. The three sisters in Charmed realize that they have inherited their powers as witches from their mother and grandmother, and they follow in their footsteps. Throughout all of the seasons of Charmed, both mother and grandmother return as ghosts to guide the inexperienced witches, and this new understanding of their roots leads to a tighter family bond. Thereby, Charmed uses elements of a more traditional society and the more classical traits of superheroes to reinforce the notion of destiny. Thus, the duality built in to the narrative structure of modern-day superheroes illustrates what is offered to audiences following the serials: first, the reflexiveness with which the characters are established allows for accessible identification and the opportunity to reflect upon the insecurities in the audiences’ own lives; and second, the level of identification allows viewers to fall into the utopian dream of a predestined life – a life of making morally correct decisions and finding security and identification in their roots.

Cultural appeal of the American hero I have argued that the construction of supernatural beings fascinates us on a basic cognitive level, but some of our fascination can also be understood as being more culturally determined. Taken within a more specific cultural framework than the more general notions about late modernity outlined above, American culture takes centre stage. ‘Superhero narratives clearly give substance to certain ideological myths about the society they address: the USA’ (Reynolds 1992: 74). There are two ways in which stories of superheroes can be said to be particularly appealing to an American audience: they represent the journey of the individual saviour as well as the establishing of an ‘us-against-them’ theme. An early manifestation of the superhero as an American icon is the comic book series Captain America, which, according to creators Jack Kirby and Joe Simon, was created as America entered the fight in World War II NL 6 91–106 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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As a Marvel comic book hero, Captain America returned as a member of the Avengers comic book series beginning in 1963. The Avengers was a team of the strongest heroes that also included Thor, a character solely created on the basis of Asgardian religion. This is one of many examples of the similarities in the construction of religious figures and superheroes, which makes a transition from one universe into the other plausible.

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(Simpson, Rodiss and Bushell 2004). Captain America was a true patriotic superhero who single-handedly fought the Nazis. And certainly he represents specific characteristics that apply to modern-day superheroes as well.1 Patriotism is still a popular issue, particularly in Heroes, as the phrase ‘Save the cheerleader. Save the world’ becomes significant in saving New York (and thus the world) from the explosion of an atomic bomb. Peter Petrelli is the lead motivational figure in the resolution of this plot and is therefore similar to the Captain America figure; it is one man’s fight against the world. In the multi-narrative of Heroes, Peter is joined by his fellow superheroes. They leave their families behind, so the journey of the superhero is a journey that you travel alone. This also underpins the appeal to a youthful audience, as the serials basically mirror the transformation into independence. An important feature of the superhero is the self-sacrificing individual nature. Character Hiro states, ‘A hero never uses his powers for his own good’ (Heroes 2006: episode 1, ‘Genesis’) after discovering his ability to stop the time-space continuum when his friend Ando challenges him to stop time and reappear in a ladies bathroom. Loeb and Morris use the following distinction in their definition of the superhero, ‘The more powerful a person is, the less he or she would risk in fighting evil or helping someone else [...] if you are actually heroic in your actions, it must be because you indeed have a lot to lose’ (Loeb and Morris 2005: 12). The sacrificing of family or close relationships is therefore what makes the superhero truly heroic. The superheroes fight for ‘truth, justice, and the American way’ as the tag line says in the television serial Adventures of Superman (1952–58) (Garrett 2005). Garrett claims that: The traditional superhero myth suggests that power in one set of capable hands is the surest way to achieve justice, that democratic systems can’t be trusted to perform their tasks alone, that anyway, the hero would never take advantage of those he serves, and that the world requires American superheroism. (Garrett 2005: 77)

Strong arguments for this are certainly illustrated in the rather obvious allegory of the unpreventable events of 9/11 found in the plot of Heroes. It is an element that is visible within a range of television series, from Jericho (2006–) to every season of 24 (2001–); they revisit a sort of mental processing of terrorist attacks on American soil. Furthermore, there is an element of a collective processing of feelings, as understood according to Stig Hjarvard’s thoughts on the renewed role of the media as a space for collective mourning and celebration, Treatment of collective feelings is not reserved for the big catastrophes, but is a recurrent feature of the media and they may not only be responsible for emotional guidance, but facilitate the construction of collective emotions in the first place. (Hjarvard 2006: 10)

The discourse in Heroes unmistakably puts forth the notion that a solution to such world events are indeed preventable and can be resolved by the hands of one or a few true heroes, and such is the outcome of season one. In a way, what viewers are watching through the narrative is the rewriting

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of history, and the narrative addresses the collective national feelings about such events. This also illustrates the connection of the stories mentioned earlier to generic elements of the sci-fi genre, which is specifically open to comment on current events. Quentin Schultze writes about the role of such narratives within mass media: Stories both enable humans to see what is wrong with the world and equip them to imagine a better, redeemed world. Stories thus enable people to talk of beginnings and endings, to connect those delimiting events to the present, and to relate the stories to their own life. (Schultze 2003: 182)

He continues to say that such stories invite ‘audiences to join in the expressions of these stories by thinking wishfully with others’ (Schultze 2003: 187), and this is certainly what is provided here. That stories of superheroes create a space for wishful thinking follows the argument of the similarities to our daydreams that unfolded previously, and in doing so represents an utopian society or, as Reynolds puts it, ‘The superhero by his very existence asserts American Utopianism, which remains [...] a highly potent cultural myth’ (Reynolds 1992: 83). So, we might say that these stories reflect a society that urges the creation of stories, which can replace the unbearable events of the past and insecurities about the future. These stories are at the same time a place for the exploration of collective feelings, which might reflect a sense of unity within a society. This unity is reinforced by another important element as the conflict between good and evil in stories of superheroes is constructed around a clear axis of ‘us versus them’. In Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the fight against evil is illustrated as very clear-cut. There are rarely any doubts about who might be considered to be evil, since vampires and warlocks are often portrayed as hideous-looking creatures. These serials both operate with this narrative structure, which might be understood as being particularly American – the united society against an outside enemy. Although, in Heroes, the structure is somewhat different: throughout season one, ‘evil’ is represented through Sylar, a young man who kills people with extraordinary abilities and takes on their powers as his own, but Sylar tricks people into believing that he is good. Those who believe him die a terrible death. This narrative is similar to the Christian narrative of the Book of Revelation, in which the Antichrist rises in the shape of a saviour, only to expose himself before Judgement Day and leave his followers doomed from salvation. Partridge notes that this type of Satanization of others is connected to Christian eschatological thinking, which particularly appeals to an American audience (Partridge 2005). Eschatological themes are indeed salient within the tales of superheroes, which are often about death and world destruction, and Garrett implies that the link to Christianity is evident, ‘comics deal with issues near and dear to our hearts: faith, hope, belief, guilt, justice, redemption, ultimate meaning, ultimate evil [...] the American monomyth is actually an ongoing retelling of the Judeo-Christian story of redemption’ (Garrett 2005: 25). The references to spirituality or even institutionalized religion are noticeable within all three serials. In Charmed, an Ouija board is used NL 6 91–106 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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as a tool that opens up the sisters’ awareness of the spirit world, and in Heroes, Professor Suresh mentions that if God created himself in his own image, it would be that of a cockroach, since the cockroach has adapted itself to survive almost any circumstance. The many and obvious references to religion and spirituality can be understood in two ways. First of all, we can consider these intertextual references as a structural device used to indicate to audiences that the serial contains a layer other than just solid entertainment. In other words, the series position themselves as providing food for thought and invites us to search for connections hidden beneath the surface. In accordance with Barrett’s cognitive approach discussed earlier, these types of serials then attempt to activate our HADD. The use of references of any kind is extremely widespread within television fiction and is described by Catherine Johnson in these terms, ‘These programmes signalled themselves as literate, complex, and “deep”, while simultaneously offering the familiar pleasures of “everyday” television, inscribing different reading positions within one text’ (Johnson 2005: 58). And second, these references are connected to a general American interest in themes about the Apocalypse and, as Garrett points out in his Holy Superheroes (2005), that: It’s not that people don’t get killed, that destruction on a massive scale doesn’t take place, that in a sense, the world doesn’t end. All of those things take place. It’s just that all of those events happen for a reason – which is what apocalyptic literature always tells us. (Garrett 2005: 130)

Thus, we can understand stories of superheroes as being about disregarding notions of despair, almost in the same way of thinking as within messianism or millennialism (Partridge 2005). We are invited to hope, to daydream, to aspire and to desire. But this invitation is not random, Schultze argues, ‘In short, popular culture can serve as a mythopoetic function in Americans’ lives, creatively reflecting and directing audiences’ sentimental desires through the expression of quasi-religious stories’ (Schultze 2003: 185), and he continues, ‘Americans desire predicable liturgies of hope’ (Schultze 2003: 191).

The conjunction of the cognitive and the social When 14 million viewers in the United States tune into Heroes week after week, we might understand their fascination and interest in relation to the issues discussed here. The examples brought to the forefront in the analysis illustrate the usefulness of applying different theoretical perspectives, when discussing viewers’ experience of the supernatural in television fiction. By pointing to some of the main issues within cognitive as well as social theory, we can see where the fields of study overlap and where each field provides new aspects and nuances in answering the two questions posed here: ‘Why do these figures fascinate us?’ and ‘How do they provide gratification to audiences following them?’ The representation of a magical universe and humans with extraordinary abilities appeals to us on a basic cognitive level because of counterintuitive and therefore memorable properties. This is parallel to the recycling of religious figures 104

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across cultural borders as well as time. The recirculation of recognizable constructions of supernatural beings implies that we should consider them as culturally successful and possibly impacting on our thoughts. The superheroes’ double identities and, in particular, the ‘normal’ aspects of their personalities attract our attention by simple means of identification. The point about accessible identification is small, but it aids us in the understanding of some of the gratification that these stories provide. On a psychological level, identification establishes sympathy with the morally correct hero, thereby allowing for the acting out of egocentric thoughts, such as the desire to be special. On a more societal level, identification is strengthened by means of reflecting late modernity and the reflexiveness of the individual. This, then, creates a space for a ‘search for meaning’ in terms of offering something to believe in that has the comfort of traditions and roots, as well as a predetermined future without personal accountability. The offer to ‘believe’ that is presented to audiences can almost be understood as being commodities that are presented to consumers; it is socially and personally without cost to enter the beliefs presented in the fiction, as opposed to, for example, entering an established religious community. This is similar to aspects of the psychological, which I determine is the creation of a space for self-actualization and control of the surrounding society. From a media scholar’s standpoint, the narrative construction of intertextual references paid to religiosity and so on provides another level of fascination that draws the viewer in by appealing through eschatological mysteries, thereby activating our HADD. Once again, these stories provide closure and reason to unbearable events or fictitious events that are often transferable to society, thus providing a space for collective mourning and re-establishing a sense of ‘unity’. The question of fascination with stories about eschatology, a clear-cut narrative about good and evil and the promotion of the individual hero becomes especially evident in the light of culturally specific features of American culture. Finally, the universality explains the success with which these serials are internationally exported, while still having elements of a more limiting cultural nature to attract the native audience. Filmography Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), Created by Joss Whedon for 20th Century Fox Television. Episode 1 entitled ‘Welcome to the Hellmouth’. Charmed (1998–2006), Produced by Brad Kern, E. Duke Vincent and Aaron Spelling for Spelling Television. Episode 1 entitled ‘Something Wicca This Way Comes’. Heroes (2006–), Created by Tim Kring for NBC Universal Television, Episode 1, ‘Genesis’. References Barrett, J. (2004), Why Would Anyone Believe in God? Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Berger, P.L. (1969), A Rumour of Angels: Modern Society and the Rediscovery of the Supernatural, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc. Bettelheim, B. (1976 [1991]), The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales, London: Penguin Books.

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Boyer, P. (2002), Religion Explained: The Human Instincts that Fashion Gods, Spirits and Ancestors, London: Vintage. Brooks, T. and Marsh, E. (2003), The Complete Directory to Prime Time Network and Cable TV Shows: 1946–Present, 8th edn., New York: Ballantine Books. Campbell, J. (1968), The Hero With A Thousand Faces, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Eco, U. (1979), ‘The Myth of Superman’, in The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts, Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press. Garrett, G. (2005), Holy Superheroes! Exploring Faith and Spirituality in Comic Books, Colorado Springs, CO: Pinon Press. Giddens, A. (1990), The Consequences of Modernity, Cambridge: Polity Press. ———— (1991), Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, Cambridge: Polity Press. Hjarvard, S. (2006), ‘The Mediatization of Religion: A Theory of Media as an Agent of Religious Change’, paper presented to the 5th International Conference on Media, Religion and Culture. Johnson, C. (2005), ‘Quality/Cult Television: The X Files and Television History’, In M. Hammond and L. Mazdon (eds), The Contemporary Television Series, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Lawrence, J.S. and Jewett, R. (2002), The Myth of the American Superhero, Cambridge: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. Loeb, J. and Morris, T. (2005), ‘Heroes and Superheroes’, in T. Morris and M. Morris (eds), Superheroes and Philosophy: Truth, Justice, and the Socratic Way, Peru, IL: Open Court/Carus Publishing Company. Mahan, C. (2006), ‘Ratings: Heroes goes up and away’, http://www.tv.com/story/ 6868.html. Accessed 24 October 2006. Murdock, G. (1997), ‘The Re-enchantment of the World: Religion and the Transformations of Modernity’, In S.M. Hoover and K. Lundby (eds), Rethinking Media, Religion, and Culture, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Partridge, C. (2004), The Re-Enchantment of the West: Alternative Spiritualities, Sacralization, Popular Culture and Occulture, vol. 1, London: T. & T. Clark International. ———— (2005), The Re-Enchantment of the West: Alternative Spiritualities, Sacralization, Popular Culture and Occulture, vol. 2, London: T. & T. Clark International. Reynolds, R. (1992), Superheroes: A Modern Mythology, Jackson: University Press of Mississippi. Stark, S.D. (1997), Glued to the Set: The 60 Television Shows and Events that Made Us Who We Are Today, New York: The Free Press. Schultze, Q.J. (2003), Christianity and the Mass Media in America: Toward a Democratic Accommodation, Ann Arbor: Michigan State University Press. Simpson, P., Rodiss, H. and Bushell, M. (eds) (2004), The Rough Guide to Superheroes, London: Rough Guides. Wikipedia.org (2006), Messianism, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Messianism. Accessed 10 October 2007. ———— (2007), Avengers (comics), http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avengers_% 28comics%29. Accessed 21 October 2007. Zerubavel, E. (1997), Social Mindscapes: An Invitation to Cognitive Sociology, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.107/1

The occultural significance of The Da Vinci Code Christopher Partridge Abstract

Keywords

The popularity of books such as The Da Vinci Code is interesting in that it would seem to support surveys indicating at least a general level of public interest in the spiritual and the paranormal. More specifically, an analysis of the dominant ideas articulated in The Da Vinci Code suggests that it is a book reflecting key themes within western ‘occulture’ which have become central to the shift from ‘religion’ to ‘spirituality’ in western societies: the sacralization of the self; the turn from transcendence to immanence; the emergence of the sacred feminine; the focus on nature and the premodern; and a conspiracist suspicion of the prevailing order and dominant institutions, particularly the Church.

Da Vinci Code occulture re-enchantment mediatization sacralization spirituality

The popularity of The Da Vinci Code raises important questions for those who have been persuaded by classical secularization theories because, rather than simply indicating a penchant for an exciting story, it suggests the continuation of the appeal of a particular type of world-view (Partridge 2004a: 29–59, 2004b: 39–67. See also Heelas 2006, 2007; Hervieu-Léger 2006). This is not to deny that secularization is taking place. There is, certainly in the case of traditional institutional Christianity, a gradual erosion of attendance at formal worship in the West, particularly in Europe and Scandinavia (Bruce 2002, 1992; Martin 1978; Partridge 2004a: 8–16; Norris and Inglehart 2006). However, whilst there is an erosion of theistic supernaturalism, books like The Da Vinci Code are enormously appealing to westerners. It won ‘best book’ in the 2005 British Book Awards (BBC 2005), it has sold more than 30 million copies in 40 languages, and Penguin Books have even produced a guide to the context of the novel in its ‘Rough Guides’ series (Haag and Haag 2004). Moreover, the controversy it has caused is also indicative of its success. For example, Easter 2006 saw the Vatican condemn the book, the Archbishop of Canterbury attacked its veracity in his Easter sermon (Williams 2006), Trinity College Dublin hosted six public lectures examining the issues raised by the book (January–March 2006), and over 25 books have been written, as well as DVDs and videos produced contesting its claims (e.g. Burstein 2004; RBC Ministries 2006). The reason for this reaction is, I suggest, not only because it challenges some traditional orthodoxies but also because clerics and scholars have, generally speaking, been bemused by the phenomenon in supposedly secular societies. Why, they wonder, in a largely secular society, are so many people fascinated by ancient rites, persuaded by NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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In 1930, occult books constituted 7% of religious books published. This gradually rose to 17% in 1990, dipped to 11% in 1995, and rose again to 15% in 2000 (see Brierley 2000: 666–67).

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revised sacred histories and interested in alternative religious convictions? Could it be that disenchantment is not the whole story of the West? Whatever your view, it is certainly the case that the existence of widespread interest in and commitment to non-traditional belief is significant and that, to some extent, it problematizes classical or strong secularization theories. What I want to argue, therefore, is based on the premise that such theories of secularization in the West need modification. Without some acceptance of western re-enchantment, the conspicuous fascination with alternative spiritual beliefs (which are becoming increasingly mainstream), spiritually oriented conspiracy theories, the paranormal and the phenomenal success of popular cultural texts such as The Da Vinci Code, are difficult to make sense of.

Subjectivization and the re-enchantment of the West The reason for The Da Vinci Code’s appeal is that it explicitly and positively references contemporary spiritual themes and, as such, taps into a broad stream of popular spiritual interest. Indeed, as Stig Hjarvard has shown, The Da Vinci Code, as mediatized spirituality, not only reflects but stimulates alternative religious interest. In a Danish survey, ‘more than half of the respondents report an increased interest in religious issues after reading [The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons]’ (Hjarvard 2008). As to the book’s articulation of popular spirituality, not only is, for example, Wicca explicitly mentioned in the book (Brown 2004: 42), but key contemporary pagan themes, such as goddess worship (Brown 2004: 42, 43, 61, 172), are prominent, as are discussions of popular and subculturally trendy symbols, such as the pentacle (Brown 2004: 59–62), practices such as the Tarot (Brown 2004: 129) and romanticized rituals such as the hieros gamos (Brown 2004: 409–10; see Urban 2006: 53–54, 257). This interest in non-traditional esoteric spirituality, reflected in The Da Vinci Code’s enormous success, has, in recent years, experienced a sharp rise. For example, the fact that the percentage of ‘occult’ books published since 1930 has more than doubled1 and, according to a recent report in The Economist, ‘sales of books about yoga and reiki […] have exploded […]’ (Economist 2002: 35) is indicative of the steady increase of popular interest in alternative spiritual literature. Again, according to recent polls, whilst the numbers of people claiming belief in God or in heaven and hell are decreasing, once questions are asked about non-Judaeo-Christian beliefs, or framed in a non-Judaeo-Christian way, a different picture emerges – one which reflects growing levels of interest in alternative beliefs and practices. Indeed, it is clear that whilst some people would not regard themselves as being ‘religious’ (almost certainly because of the institutionally Christian baggage that term carries), they do understand themselves to be ‘spiritual’. Hence, whilst the numbers of people believing in ‘God as personal’ are falling, those believing in ‘God as spirit’, or ‘universal spirit’, or ‘life force’ are rising (e.g. Heelas 2007; Barker 2004), as are the numbers of people believing in paranormal phenomena. Hence, bearing this in mind, it is not too surprising that a recent study of spirituality in Kendal – a small town in Cumbria, north-west England – identified a religio-cultural shift from organized ‘religion’ toward a more subjective form of ‘spirituality’ (Heelas and Woodhead 2004). It should be 108

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noted at this point that ‘religion’ and ‘spirituality’ have specific meanings in such discussions (see Partridge 2004a: 45–60). In particular, ‘spirituality’ is understood very clearly in terms of the turn to the self, or ‘subjectivization’, rather than being related to mystical forms of traditional religion as, for example, the French term spiritualité suggests. In other words, we are not here thinking of the interior knowledge and experience of a transcendent reality external to the self. Hence, following, for example, Eric Hobsbawm, Anthony Giddens and Charles Taylor (see Giddens 1993; Hobsbawm 1995; Taylor 1991), Heelas and Woodhead identify what they believe to be ‘a major shift […] away from life lived in terms of external or “objective” roles, duties and obligations, and a turn towards life lived by reference to one’s own subjective experiences (relational as much as individualistic)’ (Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 2). The point is that this emphasis on the subjective turn describes the thinking informing The Da Vinci Code. Indeed, also clearly articulated in The Da Vinci Code, there is what might be described as a purposive bohemian shift, a shift away from that which is expected of us in society, towards the subjective life and to the development of its potential, a shift which, I have argued (Partridge 2004a: 96–105, 151–75; see also Albanese 1992: 68–77), can be traced back to the 1960s, to Beat culture, and to influential individuals such as Aldous Huxley and Alan Watts – although, of course, one can go even further back to manifestations of bohemianism, alternative spirituality and holism in the nineteenth century. However, the general point is that it is particularly in the 1960s that we see the emergence of strong grass roots, self-oriented, ecologically aware holistic forms of spirituality so clearly evident in The Da Vinci Code (see Fulder 1996: 16). This turn towards the subjective life in the West has to do with, as Heelas and Woodhead argue, states of consciousness, states of mind, memories, emotions, passions, sensations, bodily experiences, dreams, feelings, inner conscience, and sentiments – including moral sentiments like compassion. The inner subjectivities of each individual became a, if not the, unique source of significance, meaning and authority. (Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 3–4)

It is a state in which the individual achieves ‘the good life’ through personal discipline and commitment to the path they have chosen. They seek life skills, depth of understanding and spiritual insight to enable them to truly know themselves and to be their own authority (Partridge 1999; cf. Hervieu-Léger 2006). This subjectivity-centred mode of life is, however, quite different from, and even, as in The Da Vinci Code, antagonistic to what Heelas and Woodhead refer to as ‘life-as’ modes of being: the key value of life-as is conformity to external authority, whilst the key value for the mode of subjective-life is authentic connection with the inner depths of one’s unique life-in-relation. Each mode has its own satisfactions, but each finds only danger in the other, and there is deep incompatibility between them. Subjectivities threaten the life-as mode – emotions, for example, may easily disrupt the course of the life one ought to be living, and ‘indulgence’ of personal

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feelings makes the proper discharge of duty impossible. Conversely, life-as demands attack the integrity of subjective-life. This is because the latter is necessarily unique. (Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 4)

This has enormous implications for our understanding of the extent of ‘religious’ commitment and influence in the West. We cannot simply seize on the decline of ‘religion’, dismiss ‘spirituality’ and declare ‘secularization’. Things are rather more complicated than that. Hence, the ‘re-enchantment thesis’ seeks to explain both secularization and sacralization. While Heelas and Woodhead have not attempted to account for the dynamics and significance of what I would refer to as ‘occulture’, and while they do not claim to offer the only explanation, they do claim to have provided a theory that significantly contributes to an overall understanding of why, on the one hand, ‘religion’ (especially traditional, institutional Christianity) is declining, and why, on the other hand, ‘spirituality’ is replacing it. Their central thesis is relatively straightforward. Invoking the commonsense Durkheimian principle that people are more likely to find appealing those forms of the sacred that correspond most closely to their own values and beliefs than those which do not, they point out that one would expect ‘spirituality’ to follow the contours of the subjective turn: Life-as forms of the sacred, which emphasize a transcendent source of significance and authority to which individuals must conform at the expense of the cultivation of their unique subjective-lives, are most likely to be in decline […] Subjective-life forms of the sacred, which emphasise inner sources of significance and authority and the cultivation or sacralization of unique subjectivelives, are most likely to be growing. (Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 6)

Hence, the argument is not that the subjective turn will encourage people towards a sacralized interpretation of life, only that, because there is ‘a massive subjective turn of modern culture’, when individuals do seek the sacred they tend to be persuaded by those forms of ‘spirituality’ that are consonant with their own values and beliefs – which have, in turn, been shaped by the subjective turn. Those forms of ‘religion’ that do not follow the contours of this late-modern subjective turn cease to be appealing and thus lose adherents. Unlike the rhetoric of ‘spirituality’, that of ‘religion’ lacks cogency in the western mind (Hervieu-Léger 2006; Heelas 2007; Partridge 2004a). Again, the point is that it is essentially this process of subjectivization, along with the related theory of ‘occulture’ (to which we will return below), that explains the popularity of texts such as The Da Vinci Code. The mainstreaming of previously obscure and exotic beliefs is fundamental to and symptomatic of the process of re-enchantment. Consequently, alternative spiritual theories and practices, bizarre conspiracies and revised histories are gradually being linked together and disseminated within popular culture. For example, any one of the many recent enormously successful series, such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), Angel (1999–2004), The X Files (1993–2002), Supernatural (2005–), Dark Angel

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(2000–02), Heroes (2006–) or, in the United Kingdom, Most Haunted (2002–) (the massive popularity of which significantly helped to revive the channel Living TV2), introduces the viewer to an eclectic mix of spiritual terminology, esoteric practices, paranormal phenomena and alternative spirituality. It is perhaps no surprise, therefore, that, of the couple of dozen people that I have spoken to about The Da Vinci Code, including some students, all of them without exception considered its overall thesis to be generally persuasive. Indeed, one person made the point that the ideas in the book were not new to her, but when questioned further, could not recall where she had learned them. As with others I have spoken to, they appeared to be ideas she just knew and found plausible. That is to say, it would seem that ambient ideas had been absorbed about the Church and various conspiracies, which then gave the fictional narrative of The Da Vinci Code the ring of truth. This brings me to what I want to call ‘occulture’.

Occulture In 1972, the British sociologist Colin Campbell argued that cultic organizations arise out of a general cultural ethos, a ‘cultic milieu’, which, he argued: can be regarded as the cultural underground of society. Much broader, deeper and historically based than the contemporary movement known as the underground, it includes all deviant belief systems and their associated practices. Unorthodox science, alien and heretical religion, deviant medicine, all comprise elements of such an underground. (Campbell 1972: 122)

The cultic milieu includes networks and seedbeds of ideas as well as various authoritative sources and particular groups. More recently, Jeffrey Kaplan and Heléne Lööw have returned to the concept, identifying it as a ‘zone in which proscribed and/or forbidden knowledge is the coin of the realm, a place in which ideas, theories and speculations are to be found, exchanged, modified and, eventually, adopted or rejected by adherents of countless, primarily ephemeral groups’ (Kaplan and Lööw 2002: 3). And, as I have argued, there are established individuals, organizations and traditions feeding ideas into this constantly growing and changing milieu, as well as emergent individuals, organizations and traditions becoming established and influential as a result of their engagement with it. In Campbell’s words, the cultic milieu: includes the collectivities, institutions, individuals and media of communication associated with these beliefs. Substantively it includes the worlds of the occult and the magical, of spiritualism and psychic phenomena, of mysticism and new thought, of alien intelligences and lost civilizations, of faith healing and nature cures. This heterogeneous assortment can be regarded, despite its apparent diversity, as constituting a single entity – the entity of the cultic milieu. (Campbell 1972: 122)

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2.

See http://www. livingtv.co.uk/mosthau nted/. Accessed 20 September 2007.

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Broadening the typology that distinguished between ‘church’, ‘denomination’, and ‘sect’, Roy Wallis added another category into which religious organizations can be placed, namely ‘cults’ – a category which was initially introduced by Howard Becker in 1932 and then influentially developed by J. Milton Yinger in 1957. ‘Cult’, as defined by Wallis, has similarities with both Becker’s and Yinger’s definitions, and can be interpreted in terms of a development of Troeltsch’s mystical religion. Wallis understands the cult to be, like the sect, deviant, in that it exists in some tension with the dominant culture, but, unlike the sect, is not epistemologically exclusivist. It is, in Wallis’s terminology, ‘epistemologically individualistic’ rather than ‘epistemologically authoritarian’ (Wallis 1974: 304). The locus of authority is within the individual (see Partridge 1999). Charisma is internalized.

4.

This is evident from the breadth covered in Kaplan and Lööw (eds) (2002), The Cultic Milieu. Robert Ellwood’s recommendation on the cover of the book is worth quoting: ‘What do deep ecologists, neoNazis, Goths, black nationalists, and urban shamans have in common? They are all part of a “cultic milieu”, an underground culture that embraces everyone, right or left, good or bad, that

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paranormal. However, for the purposes of clarification, I want to argue that when one draws the above lines of thought together and identifies key themes within the milieu, the term ‘occultic’ suggests itself as a more precise adjective than the older sociological term ‘cultic’ (see Partridge 2004a: 24–29).3 This is certainly the case if, as Campbell tends to do, ‘cultic’ is, following Ernst Troeltsch’s schema, interpreted primarily in terms of the ‘mystical’. Indeed, Campbell argues that many of the central ideas within the milieu lead to the formation of cults that are ‘mystical’ in the sense that there is an emphasis both on immediate religious experience and on particular monistic cosmologies, anthropologies and theologies (e.g. divine–human unity). However, whilst the milieu has elements that are both ‘mystical’ and ‘cultic’, the term ‘occult’ describes the melange of beliefs, practices, traditions and organizations more accurately. Although the term ‘mystical’ describes some fundamental aspects of the milieu, it does not cover the breadth of religious belief and expression listed by Campbell as constituting the ‘cultic milieu’.4 Moreover, the term itself is problematic in that, as theologians and students of religion will be aware, ‘mysticism’ carries a lot of well-established baggage that could lead to misinterpretation. For example, whilst some within the milieu might draw inspiration from the Christian mystical tradition, because the ideas are extracted from a Christian theological context and reinterpreted within an occult context, they are often understood quite differently than they are by Christian thinkers. (Indeed, although kept within a Christian context, even Troeltsch’s use of the term ‘mysticism’ is distinctly idiosyncratic.) That is to say, many Christian mystics were devout, often exclusivist Christians who understood the Church to be ‘uniquely legitimate’. They identified the divine with the God of Jesus Christ and, as Grace Jantzen has noted, they distinguished, as many new religionists fail to do, between ‘experiences of God (specific visions, voices, moments of intense emotion or ecstasy) and experience of God in a much broader, ongoing sense’ (Jantzen 1988: 11). They emphasized, ‘not […] intense moments, significant though they may be, but rather […] the long-term union of their wills with the will of the God of justice and love’ (Jantzen 1988: 11. Emphasis in the original.), the aim being the transformation of their lives in accordance with that will. Hence, to describe the alternative culture as essentially ‘mystical’ or, in this sense, ‘cultic’, is misleading. The overall point I am making, therefore, is that the term ‘occult’ most accurately describes the contemporary alternative religious milieu in the West. As Stark and Bainbridge argue, ‘the occult can be characterized as a true subculture – a distinctive set of cultural elements that flourish as the property of a distinctive social group’ (Stark and Bainbridge 1985: 322). Although they make no reference to Campbell’s work, this is essentially what Campbell had argued of the mystical/cultic milieu. However, whilst the research of both support the notion of a distinct community, collectivity or subculture, Stark and Bainbridge are right to identify its essential nature as occultic. Although, they argue, ‘occult interests may reflect a […] superficial phenomenon’, being a ‘transitory and relatively private amusement that is not supported by significant social relations’, it can also be ‘a true subculture’ (Stark and Bainbridge 1985: 322). Indeed, this is, to 112

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some extent, what I am suggesting. What we are witnessing is the emergence of an ‘occulture’. When thinking of ‘occulture’, the narrow, technical understanding of the occult within western esotericism is broadened to include a vast spectrum of beliefs and practices. Indeed, to some extent, what A.D. Duncan said of occultism per se is equally true of ‘occulture’ generally: it ‘is not so much a religion or a system as a “general heading” under which a huge variety of speculation flourishes, a good deal of it directly contradictory’ (Duncan 1969: 55). Western occulture includes a range of ideas and practices, including extreme right-wing religio-politics, radical environmentalism and deep ecology, angels, spirit guides and channelled messages, astral projection, crystals, dream therapy, human potential spiritualities, the spiritual significance of ancient and mythical civilizations, astrology, healing, earth mysteries, tarot, numerology, Kabbalah, feng shui, eschatological prophecies, Arthurian legends, the Holy Grail, Druidry, Wicca, Heathenism, palmistry, shamanism, goddess spirituality, Gaia spirituality and eco-spirituality, alternative science, esoteric Christianity, UFOs, alien abduction and so on. Indeed, returning to the significance of popular literature, good examples of the way such fungible ideas are utilized, understood and disseminated are the various series of very basic, emic introductions to spirituality and well-being. For example, some years ago two very popular series of books were published: ‘Principles of…’ (published by Thorsons) and ‘Elements of…’ (published by Element).5 Overall, they constituted a general introduction to the more ‘respectable’ occultural beliefs and practices. Although some of the books, such as Principles of Numerology, Principles of Wicca, Principles of Tarot, and Principles of Your Psychic Potential are clearly ‘occultic’ in the narrower sense of the term, others, such as Principles of Buddhism or Principles of Colonic Irrigation, discuss subjects that are not ‘occultic’ in themselves but have, nevertheless, become occultural ingredients. They are occultural quorn in that, when added to an occultural stew, they absorb its aromas and flavours and are thereby transformed, becoming the perfect ingredient for the particular flavours of the stew. In other words, within occulture, it is not, for example, Buddhism per se that people are interested in – not that which might challenge occultural bricolage – but rather the principles or elements of Buddhism. As such, Buddhist ideas and practices are de-traditionalized. That is to say, such consumers of occulture are not particularly interested in becoming devout Buddhists, but rather want simply to acquaint themselves with some principles of Buddhist belief and practice, which can then be merged with some elements from other systems in the service of the self. It is not the whole Buddhist dish that people want, but rather some tasty ingredients which can then be stirred into the occultural stew with other appetizing ingredients, the aim being to create one’s own occultic dish according to one’s own occultic tastes. As Danièle Hervieu-Léger puts it, ‘today, individuals write their own little belief narratives using words and symbols that have “escaped” the constellations of meaning in which a given tradition had set them over the centuries’ (Hervieu-Léger 2006: 59). This accounts for the enormous plurality within occulture, within which continuities can exist between profoundly discontinuous belief systems. NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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thrives on standing in opposition to the social mainstream.’ 5.

Both Thorsons and Element titles are now published by HarperCollins: http://www.thorsons. com/default.aspx. Accessed 1 October 2007.

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The left-wing, peace-loving environmentalist may share certain basic beliefs with neo-Nazi Satanists. Popular cultural texts, such as The Da Vinci Code, are central to the efficacy of occulture, in that they feed ideas into the occultural reservoir and also develop, mix and disseminate those ideas. Put starkly, popular occulture is sacralizing the western mind – introducing it to new spiritualities, mainstreaming older esoteric theories, championing the paranormal and often challenging traditional, particularly Christian, forms of religion. This is certainly true of The Da Vinci Code, in that it selectively and eclectically introduces people to alternative spiritual theories, challenges traditional authorities and rationalizes everything with conspiracy. Hence, regardless of whether the narrative and style of the book is good or not, its subject matter reflects the occultural zeitgeist. Because, particularly since the 1960s, the balance between mainstream disenchantment and alternative re-enchantment has shifted, occulture has become increasingly ‘cool’. It has accrued what, following Pierre Bourdieu’s analysis of ‘cultural capital’ (1984), Sarah Thornton (1995) has described as ‘subcultural capital’ (cf. Clark 2003). In other words, to put the point rather simplistically, occulture, on the whole, stands over against mainstream Christian religion and spirituality, encourages countercultural attitudes, tends to support conspiracy theories about the dark side of the mainstream and is, therefore, invested with significant kudos and popular authority. Hence, again, reading through The Da Vinci Code, it is not difficult to trace significant occultural streams of thought from Indian spirituality, to Paganism and Earth mysteries, and to a range of conspiracies relating to ideas of global domination. Indeed, Brown’s earlier book, Angels and Demons (2000), which first introduces his protagonist, Robert Langdon, concerns one of the most enduring and widespread modern conspiracy theories relating to world domination, namely that of the Illuminati. The Da Vinci Code simply develops this popular conspiracist approach in relation to ‘life-as’ forms of religion generally, and to the Church, Opus Dei, the Prior of Sion and the Knights Templar in particular. It is, in other words, an explicitly occultural attack on organized religion. It is the popular occultural challenge of, to use Heelas’s recent terminology (2007), the ‘spiritualities of life’ to the ‘spiritualities for life’. In order to unpack The Da Vinci Code’s occultural and sacralizing significance, it will be helpful to excavate a couple of broad themes within the book that directly reflect current interests and shifts in contemporary alternative spirituality. The first of these is what might be described as the romanticizing of the premodern and the turn to nature, which includes an emphasis on the retrieval of the sacred feminine.

Romanticizing the premodern, nature spirituality and the sacred feminine For an increasing number of westerners there is significant scepticism, not simply about religious authorities, but also about political and scientific authorities. More particularly, while technological advances are appreciated and used, there is a growing emotional, if not actual, turn away from the notion of a technological society towards the premodern and towards what is perceived to be natural and ‘of the earth’ (see Szerszynski 2005; 114

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Partridge 2005: 42–81).6 Indeed, for many people, to turn from the modern to the premodern is not to turn from the conceptually advanced to the conceptually primitive. There is a conviction that contemporary thought has much to learn from premodern and indigenous cultures and that, in some ways, the modern period has seen a regression rather than a progression of our understanding of reality and the human condition. Hence, whether drawing on eastern spirituality or first-century Gnosticism, new spiritual seekers and occultural bricoleurs in general have been keen to show that, far from being a recent phenomenon, much new spiritual thinking is, in part, the resurgence of ancient knowledge. Whether one worships a goddess, maps the stars, practices supposedly ancient rites or reads texts that claim to be of antique provenance, there is a strong sense of continuity with the past. This powerful, sentimental attachment to the distant past is directly continuous with a romanticized understanding of ancient cultures and spiritualities. For example, our ancestors, it is often believed, used to live in a harmonious, symbiotic relationship with the planet. They were in touch with nature, themselves and each other. This continuity with the natural world, it is argued, has been interrupted by mainstream patriarchal religion, modern technology and Enlightenment rationalism and needs to be recovered if we are to survive into the next century and live happily and peacefully in the present. Indeed, it is claimed that there are many personal, societal, spiritual and ecological maladies that can be directly traced back to this interruption. This thesis is clearly evident in The Da Vinci Code. For example, its discussion of human sexual relations contrasts the practice of ‘the ancients’ with that of the Church, the former being natural and spiritually beneficial, the latter being corrupt, unnatural and constructed in order to retain power. The protagonist, Robert Langdon, tells Sophie that ‘Historically, intercourse was the act through which the male and the female experienced God. The ancients believed that the male was spiritually incomplete until he had carnal knowledge of the sacred feminine.’ Langdon later goes on to point out how, for the early Church […] mankind’s use of sex to commune directly with God posed a serious threat to the Catholic power base. It left the Church out of the loop, undermining their self-proclaimed status as the sole conduit to God. For obvious reasons, they worked hard to demonize sex and recast it as a disgusting and sinful act.

Hence, he asks, Is it surprising that we are conflicted about sex? […] Our ancient heritage and our very physiologies tell us that sex is natural – a cherished route to spiritual fulfilment – and yet modern religion decries it as shameful, teaching us to fear our sexual desire as the hand of the devil. (Brown 2004: 410–12)

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6.

That this shift is more idealistic and emotional than actual is evident in the massive occultural significance of the Internet and information technology (see Davis 1998; Partridge 2004a: 135–64).

7.

For an influential Christian theological articulation of a similar approach to spirituality and sexuality, which is typically critical of the mainstream Christian tradition, see Fox’s The Coming of the Cosmic Christ (1988: 163ff).

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8.

For an excellent survey of the shifting attitudes to sexuality in the West, see Allyn’s Make Love, Not War (2000).

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as natural and the condemnation of sexually repressive attitudes, particularly when they are supported by religious doctrine, is a thesis that many would recognize and support today.8 Central to the idea of returning to the premodern and the natural is the belief that ancient wisdom is the uncorrupted wisdom of a humanity unrepressed by external dogma, rationalism and the authority of later institutionalized religion and culture. Again, these ancient cultures (and contemporary indigenous cultures which are understood to retain ancient wisdom and live in a symbiotic relationship with the environment) are often believed to be spiritually superior to our own, and therefore as spiritual and cultural paradigms. The transition from right-brained thinking to left-brained thinking, from earth-centred spirituality to the rape of the planet’s resources, is traced back to the transition from an ancient pagan orientation toward the sacred feminine to the rise of Christendom. Hence, at the door of the Church many maladies of western history are laid (see Partridge 2005: 51–54). For example, Christianity has for some years borne the brunt of much criticism because of its alleged contribution to the current eco-crisis. This thesis has been perhaps most influentially argued by the historians Lynn White and Arnold Toynbee. Christianity, they argue, ‘bears a huge burden of guilt’ for the contemporary environmental crisis (White 1967: 1206; cf. Toynbee 1974). But, more particularly, it is argued that, whereas Paganism’s sacralization of nature would not have allowed large-scale exploitation, Christianity, by situating the divine outside nature, not only left the natural world vulnerable, but positively encouraged its exploitation. Hence, White explicitly linked the eco-crisis to Christianity’s rejection of the Pagan world-view: The victory of Christianity over paganism was the greatest psychic revolution in the history of our culture […] Christianity, in absolute contrast to ancient paganism and Asia’s religions […] not only established a dualism of man and nature, but also insisted that it is God’s will that man exploit nature for his proper ends. In Antiquity every tree, every spring, every stream, every hill had its own genius loci, its guardian spirit […] Before one cut a tree, or mined a mountain, or dammed a brook, it was important to placate the spirit in charge of that particular situation, and to keep it placated. By destroying pagan animism, Christianity made it possible to exploit nature in a mood of indifference to the feelings of natural objects […] The spirits in natural objects, which formerly had protected nature from man, evaporated. Man’s effective monopoly on spirit in this world was confirmed, and the old inhibitions to the exploitation of nature crumbled. (White 1967: 1205. Emphasis added)

Hence, it is argued that nature religions that encourage a holistic, ecocentric attitude of respect for the natural world were replaced by a form of religion that desacralized nature, divorced humans from their relationship with the earth and encouraged exploitation. This in turn formed the theoretical foundations for a scientific revolution that objectified nature, viewed it as passive and thus encouraged humans to control and manipulate it to their own ends. Disenchanted, nature became little more than raw material.

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To a Christian a tree can be no more than a physical fact. The whole concept of the sacred grove is alien to Christianity and to the ethos of the West. For nearly two millennia Christian missionaries have been chopping down sacred groves, which are idolatrous because they assume spirit in nature. (White 1967: 1206)

Theologically central to this rejection is the theistic conception of a transcendent deity who creates the world, but does not invest the divine being in it in a way that sacralizes it. Deity and nature are ontologically divorced. Whether indigenous, pre-Christian cultures were as green as some suggest, and whether monotheism’s alleged displacement of God from nature necessarily leads to irresponsible attitudes to the planet have been matters of some debate (see Szerszynski 2005: 32–37). But, whatever the facts, within the popular imagination and certainly within occultural texts such as The Da Vinci Code, there is no question as to Christianity’s culpability, the value of ancient cultures and the need to turn back to a harmonious relationship with the environment. Moreover, this emphasis on the value of ancient cultures is often linked to notions of a recovery of the sacred feminine, which, in turn, are understood to engender environmentally friendly attitudes (see Merchant 1982; King 2004; Roach 2003; Sjöö and Mor 1991). This type of thesis is evident within, if not central to, much Pagan and eco-feminist thought. Riane Eisler, for example, explicitly contrasts the Neolithic religious pantheon with the Christian one. In the Neolithic, the head of the holy family was woman: the Great Mother, the Queen of Heaven, or the Goddess in her various aspects and forms […]. By contrast, the head of the Christian holy family is an all-powerful Father. (Eisler 2004: 455)

The former encouraged ecologically responsible attitudes, the latter tended to encourage exploitative attitudes. Again, the point is that The Da Vinci Code reflects such concerns. The enormous popular emphasis on the displacement of the sacred feminine by the Church, which is related to humanity’s exploitation of the natural world, is rehearsed continuously. For example, Robert Langdon’s authority is to some extent established when we are told that he is working on a book entitled Symbols of the Lost Sacred Feminine (Brown 2004: 43). Again, symbolizing the Church’s oppressive relationship to the ecologically responsible Pagan goddess religion, we are told that the Church of Saint-Sulpice is built over the ruins of a temple in which worship of the Egyptian goddess Isis had taken place (Brown 2004: 125). There is also some attempt to educate the reader about the true nature of Paganism as an ancient nature religion rather than, as the Church would have it, devil worship (Brown 2004: 60). Hence, over against the Church, Paganism is explicitly commended. Langdon says, The ancients envisioned their world in two halves – masculine and feminine. Their gods and goddesses worked to keep a balance of power. Yin and yang. When male and female were balanced, there was harmony in the world. When

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9.

This passage is a good example of contemporary spiritual bricolage and anachronism, in that popular ideas from the East, such as yin and yang, are mixed with idealized notions of ancient western Paganism.

10. This is typical not only of contemporary Pagans, but also of earlier Romantic pantheists such as Goethe (see Goethe 1949: 73–77). This is significant, of course, in that much contemporary alternative spirituality has its roots in Romanticism (see Heelas 1996: 41ff; 2007: 2–3; Partridge 2004a: 89ff; 2005: 44–50).

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they were unbalanced, there was chaos […]. Early religion was based on the divine order of Nature. (Brown 2004: 60)9

If we are to find true spirituality, balance in life and a oneness with the environment, then, The Da Vinci Code tells us, we need to look to the past, to early nature religion. Indeed, it is quite interesting that, in passages such as this, Brown gives the word ‘Nature’ an upper case ‘N’.10 Nature is sacralized. It has a spiritual, even divine quality. It is never merely ‘nature’. My argument, therefore, is that – as in occulture generally, so in The Da Vinci Code – ancient and indigenous cultures tend to carry the same sort of authority and to inspire the same degree of blind faith that western science has inspired during the modern era. That is to say, a matter can be settled in occulture by a simple appeal to some premodern belief or practice. Because the ancients did it or believed it, it must be true; it must be good for us; it must be beneficial to the environment; it must be spiritually sound. Hence, references to continuity with the premodern are almost ubiquitous in occultural literature. Indeed, the feeling of authenticity and truth seems to be enhanced if, for example, publicity material is adorned with ancient symbols, such as runic characters, or those that simply have the look of antiquity. Symbols suggest hidden meaning and antiquated symbols suggest occulted, premodern truth. They, therefore, engender intrigue in the occulturally curious mind. Hence, it is no surprise that The Da Vinci Code’s protagonist is an expert in what Brown calls ‘symbology’ (which, of course, is not a real discipline, the nearest actual equivalent being perhaps ‘semiotics’). Indeed, the book’s commitment to the authority of the premodern and its related fascination with premodern symbolism and hidden meaning is staggering – though not unusual. Hence, as within occulture generally, much is built on the shakiest of supposedly premodern foundations. Take, for example, the interpretation of Da Vinci’s painting The Last Supper. The figure that we have been told is John the Baptist, sitting to the right of Jesus, is in fact Mary Magdalene: Sophie examined the figure to Jesus’ immediate right, focusing in. As she studied the person’s face and body, a wave of astonishment rose within her. The individual had flowing red hair, delicate folded hands, and the hint of a bosom. It was, without doubt…female. ‘That’s a woman!’ Sophie exclaimed […] ‘Who is she?’ Sophie asked. ‘That, my dear’, Teabing replied, ‘is Mary Magdalene.’ Sophie turned. ‘The prostitute?’ Teabing drew a short breath, as if the word had injured him personally. ‘Magdalene was no such thing. That unfortunate misconception is the legacy of a smear campaign launched by the early Church. The Church needed to defame Mary Magdalene in order to cover up her dangerous secret – her role as the Holy Grail’ […] He paused. ‘More specifically, her marriage to Jesus Christ […] It’s a matter of historical record’, Teabing said, ‘and Da Vinci was certainly aware of the fact. The Last Supper practically shouts at the viewer that Jesus and Magdalene were a pair.’ (Brown 2004: 327–29)

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Interpretations such as this – which are common within those streams of occulture concerned with the Knights Templar and Grail mythology, and which have been most influentially articulated by Lynn Picknett and Clive Prince (1997) – are considered true because a premodern source believed them to be true. The problem is, of course, that not only do scholars of Da Vinci reject such speculation, but even if Da Vinci did paint Mary Magdalene, believing her to be the Grail, that does not make it true. To then claim that Jesus and Mary had children who worshipped the sacred feminine and who should have governed the Church, and that the Priory of Sion was founded to protect these truths, and that Da Vinci and other significant historical figures, such as Isaac Newton, were leaders of the organization is, to say the least, fanciful. However, it is just this type of reasoning, based on a romanticized view of history, a belief in the reliability of particular interpretations of the premodern and a fascination with symbolism that beguiles so many of our occulturally curious contemporaries. Moreover, it becomes all the more convincing when it is claimed that such symbolism was necessary because there has been, throughout western history, a Christian conspiracy to suppress the truth.

Conspiracy culture and semiotic promiscuity Central to much occultural speculation, new religious reasoning and, indeed, the success of many films and books, is the suspicion of conspiracy. Whether it is speculation about the deaths of celebrities, such as John F. Kennedy, Elvis or Princess Diana, concern about the machinations of the Antichrist and the end-times, erroneous theories about Jewish world control, such as those most influentially disseminated in the scurrilous booklet The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, or the belief in extraterrestrial invasion through alien–human hybrids, there has probably never been a time in history when there has been such a variety of conspiracy theories, not to mention the high level of credulity concerning them (see Barkun 2003; Partridge 2005: 270–76, 315–25). Indeed, as Michael Barkun has shown, conspiracy culture has become increasingly more visible since 9/11: Immediately after the terrorist attacks, strange reports burgeoned on the Internet […] Among them were that Nostradamus had foretold the attacks; that a UFO had appeared near one of the World Trade Center towers just as a plane crashed into it; that the attacks had been planned by a secret society called the Illuminati; that US president George W. Bush and British prime minister Tony Blair had advance knowledge of the attacks; and that the attacks signaled the coming of the millennial end-times prophesied in the Bible. (Barkun 2003: 1–2)

This type of speculation is fundamentally occultural and typical of the thinking informing The Da Vinci Code, much of which follows a popular conspiracy model. A standard academic definition of a conspiracy is a belief that ‘an organization made up of individuals or groups was or is acting covertly to achieve some malevolent end […] A conspiracist world view implies a universe governed by design rather than by randomness’ (Barkun 2003: 3). NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Although such conspiracies are unnerving, because they suggest the control of history by a malign will, they are appealing because, like religious belief per se, they affirm that everything has a purpose, that nothing happens by chance and that, therefore, life has meaning. This might be understood as a rational strategy in what Anthony Giddens (1991) has identified as a ‘risk society’. It is not so much that people are exposed to new forms of danger, although they may be, but more that everything seems open to contingent events and that their activities appear not to follow a predestined course. Life seems to be aetiological and subject to random forces. People must therefore learn to be strategic in their approach to ‘open possibilities of action’ that engage them on a daily basis (see Giddens 1991: 28). Conspiracy is a strategy that patterns this apparent randomness and gives meaning to the sense of risk. Hence, a contemporary conspiracy, such as that unpacked in The Da Vinci Code, tends to manifest itself in three broad principles: first, nothing happens by accident – everything in history is willed; second, do not trust what you are told, for nothing is as it seems. Because conspirators disguise their identities and activities, those who seek the truth about history need to look beyond immediate appearances to underlying patterns. ‘Symbology’, to use Brown’s term, is, therefore, an important discipline to master in the conspiracist’s world. Finally, if the first and second principles are correct, then everything is connected. There is no room for coincidence and chance – all events are part of a larger map of conspiracy. Secret societies, strange symbols, the covert activities of large organizations, significant world events and the progress of history are all linked in a complex web of conspiracy. Whether you are tracing the influence of the Illuminati, the covert activities of the Church or the secrets of the Templars, the truth can be found through deciphering codes and interpreting events in a way that uncovers the connections. This focus on the deciphering of codes, the identifying of signs, and what might be described as ‘semiotic promiscuity’ is central to The Da Vinci Code. Almost everything is a sign; a symbol pointing to something else that reveals a world-changing conspiracy. There are few artefacts that do not have a deeper meaning. Indeed, as within conspiracy culture generally, so within The Da Vinci Code, the truths revealed are, says Teabing (Brown 2004: 391), ‘capable of altering history forever’. However, the point is that, again, in a semiotically promiscuous book like The Da Vinci Code, there is no shortage of that which signifies this history-altering truth. Whether one is looking at old paintings or cartoons of Mickey Mouse, there are hints of one’s favourite conspiracy. The following passage is a good example of this: Langdon quickly told her about works by Da Vinci, Botticelli, Poussin, Bernini, Mozart and Victor Hugo that all whispered of the quest to restore the banished sacred feminine. Enduring legends like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, King Arthur and the Sleeping Beauty were Grail allegories. Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame and Mozart’s Magic Flute were filled with Masonic symbolism and Grail secrets. ‘Once you open your eyes to the Holy Grail’, Langdon said, ‘you see her everywhere. Paintings. Music. Books. Even in cartoons, theme parks, and popular movies.’

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Langdon held up his Mickey Mouse watch and told her that Walt Disney had made it his quiet life’s work to pass on the Grail story to future generations. Throughout his entire life, Disney had been hailed as ‘the modern-day Leonardo Da Vinci’ […] Like Leonardo, Walt Disney loved implanting hidden messages and symbolism in his art. For the trained symbologist, watching an early Disney movie was like being barraged by an avalanche of allusion and metaphor. Most of Disney’s hidden messages dealt with religion, pagan myth, and stories of the subjugated goddess. It was no mistake that Disney retold tales like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White – all of which dealt with the incarceration of the sacred feminine. (Brown 2004: 348–49)

Hence, not only is semiotic promiscuity and X Files-type conspiracism ubiquitously apparent in western society, being particularly prevalent within occulture, but it is, I suggest, central to the appeal of Brown’s work. Whether we think of the Illuminati in Angels and Demons or Opus Dei and the Priory of Sion in The Da Vinci Code, what we are presented with is a basic form of conspiracism that many of our contemporaries find difficult to resist and very familiar because it is continually rehearsed within popular culture. It is, indeed, worth noting that there is evidence to suggest that the plot of The Da Vinci Code is lifted almost wholesale from an already enormously popular work of revisionist history and conspiracy, namely The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh and Henry Lincoln. Brown’s indebtedness to this volume is made explicit, in that, as is well-known, the name of the villain in The Da Vinci Code, Leigh Teabing, is made up of the names of two of its authors, Teabing being an anagram of Baigent. Published in 1982, The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail does little more than set out, as fact, the conspiracist view of western religious history underpinning The Da Vinci Code. Indeed, as is now well-known, Baigent and Leigh attempted to sue Brown for having plagiarized their book.11 The point, however, is that The Da Vinci Code draws explicitly on popular conspiracies about western Christianity and, as Baigent, Leigh and Lincoln had done, includes within it theories about the Priory of Sion and the Knights Templar, which had been popular within occulture since the 1960s. Again, as noted above, another popular occultural text that Brown makes significant use of is The Templar Revelation by Picknett and Prince. Indeed, the whole idea of a ‘Da Vinci code’ is taken from this book. Again, a little later, Margaret Starbird’s popular book The Woman with the Alabaster Jar argues the thesis that Mary Magdalene was Jesus’s wife and, as such, became the Holy Grail in the sense that she bore his children and, thereby, passed on the holy blood (Starbird 1993). So, what The Da Vinci Code offers us is a very popular stream of occultural thought that has been around for some time. It should perhaps be noted at this point that, as with a great deal of this type of speculation, there is little evidence for much of it. There is, for example, no evidence of a medieval secret society known as the Priory of Sion with a long history dating back to the first crusade, for which the Knights Templar were its military and financial wing and public face. Although the Prieuré de Sion has, since the 1970s, been popular in many NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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11. On Monday 27 February 2006, Brown attended London’s High Court, accused by Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh of stealing ‘the whole architecture’ of research that went into their book The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail. Baigent and Leigh sued Brown’s publisher, Random House, which successfully denied the allegation. The court case concluded on 7 April 2006. On the conclusion of the court case, see: http://news.bbc.co.uk/ 1/hi/entertainment/488 6234.stm. Accessed 10 August 2006; http://news.bbc.co.uk/ 1/hi/entertainment/488 8506.stm. Accessed 10 August 2006. On Leigh’s theories and writings, see http://www.egoetia. com/. Accessed 10 February 2006.

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esoteric works of fiction and non-fiction, it was actually founded in France on 7 May 1956 by Pierre Plantard at Annemasse as an esoteric Christian organization (see Introvigne 2005). Indeed, Sion referred not to Jerusalem, but to Mont Sion near Annemasse, where Plantard intended to purchase a property and turn it into a retreat centre. According to Plantard, the Priory would restore medieval chivalry and establish an initiatory system of three ‘orders’. Although the Priory remained obscure for several years and failed to attract many members, in 1964 Plantard began to fabricate a history of the Priory, a history that quickly found its way into occulture. It then attracted the attention of the actor Henry Lincoln, who had been involved in the occult milieu for some years. He then persuaded the producers of the BBC documentary series Chronicle to commission a television series on the subject. Aware of the potential, the BBC agreed, and the stage was set for this particular stream of occulture to bubble to the surface and to be introduced to the British public. Intriguing viewers with its conspiracist revelations, the public response was, as the BBC expected, massive. Key occultural ideas were on their way to becoming mainstream. The logical next step was a book to take advantage of its phenomenal success. Lincoln teamed up with Baigent and Leigh to write The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, which quickly became a New York Times bestseller. The rest is occultural history. The point is that The Da Vinci Code is simply the latest manifestation of a rich vein of western conspiracy occulture. It is typically occultural and typically conspiratorial, in that, in its attempt to demonstrate that everything is connected and willed by oppressive ecclesiastical authorities seeking to hold on to the reins of power, it eclectically references numerous other occultural themes, from Rosicrucianism to Wicca, and from the Baphomet insignia to King Arthur (Brown 2004: 42, 231, 268–69, 349, 380, 419).

Conclusion The popularity of The Da Vinci Code tells us much about what our contemporaries value and find plausible. Individuals would seem to be far more convinced by intriguing ideas circulating within occulture, by attractive arguments founded on weak logic and by compelling conspiracy theories disseminated within popular culture than they are by serious historical, religious, cultural, sociological and theological enquiry. This, of course, is to be expected. We are saturated with popular culture, manipulated by its narratives, educated by sound bites and moved by entertainment. Few people would rather plough through tomes on sociology, history, classics, religion and theology than watch The X Files and Supernatural or read The Da Vinci Code. Popular culture is, of course, both an expression of the cultural milieu from which it emerges and formative of that culture and, as such, influences what people accept as plausible. In other words, stories can be ‘vehicles for constructing subjectivities, and hence what stories are circulated is socially consequential’ (Traube 1996: xvi). For example, Lynn Schofield Clark relates the findings of one survey in Minneapolis, in which ‘by a ratio of two to one […] young people said they believed in the possibility of extraterrestrial life’. While this is perhaps unsurprising, 122

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it is significant that ‘they cited a variety of evidence for their views, including television programmes or films such as Unsolved Mysteries, Contact, Independence Day and The X-Files. They mentioned docudramas on alien autopsies, alien abductions, and Area 51.’ Moreover, she notes, ‘religious beliefs came up with surprising frequency among the responses’ (Clark 2003: 3–4; Hjarvard 2008). My point is simply that, whatever is intended by authors such as Dan Brown, there is little doubt that people are both developing religious and metaphysical ideas by reflecting on themes explored in literature, film and music and finding their own speculative theories simply and cogently articulated in popular culture. Hence, The Da Vinci Code, as a site of meaning-making, is one of the many popular occultural texts that are helping people to think through theological and metaphysical issues. Whether we are convinced by its claims or not, many of our contemporaries are finding such narratives to be important spiritual resources. Indeed, it is worth noting that, as a result, particular organizations and movements are thriving on popular occultural exposure and the sub-cultural capital that they are consequently being invested with. It is no surprise, for example, to learn that several secret societies have experienced significant growth since the publication of The Da Vinci Code. For example, Freemasonry Today (edited by Michael Baigent) reported in 2005 that membership of semiMasonic groups had ‘risen by more than 20,000 in the past two years’ (Goodchild and Glendinning 2005). Again, it has been reported that ‘at least 18 “other orders” affiliated to freemasonry, including organizations such as the Rose Croix and the Red Cross of Constantine’ have benefited from popular occulture. ‘Numbers are said to have reached 100,000 – a year on year rise of more than 12 per cent. The greatest rise has been with Christian orders which uphold ancient traditions and rituals based on moral principles’ (Goodchild and Glendinning 2005). While these figures should be treated with caution, that there appears to have been an increase in commitment, possibly a substantial increase, since the publication of The Da Vinci Code is of some significance. References Albanese, C.L. (1992), ‘The Magical Staff: Quantum Healing in the New Age’, in J.R. Lewis and J.G. Melton (eds), Perspectives on the New Age, Albany: State University of New York Press, pp. 68–84. Allyn, D. (2000), Make Love, Not War. The Sexual Revolution: An Unfettered History, Boston: Little, Brown, & Co. Baigent, M., Leigh, R. and Lincoln, H. (1982), The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, London: Jonathan Cape. Barker, E. (2004), ‘The Church Without and the God Within: Religiosity and/or Spirituality?’, in D.M. Jerolimov, S. Zrinscak and I. Borowik (eds), Religion and Patterns of Social Transformation, Zagreb: Institute for Social Research, pp. 23–47. Barkun, M. (2003), A Culture of Conspiracy: Apocalyptic Visions in Contemporary America, Berkeley: University of California Press. BBC (2005), ‘Da Vinci Code Wins Top Book Award’, BBC News (20 April), http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/arts/4466933.stm. Accessed 12 April 2007. Becker, H. (1932), Systematic Sociology on the Basis of the Bezeitungslehre and Gebidelehre of Leopold von Wiese, New York: Wiley.

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Bourdieu, P. (1984), Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (trans. R. Nice), Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Brierley, P. (2000), ‘Religion’, in A.H. Halsey and J. Webb (eds), Twentieth-Century British Social Trends, Basingstoke: Macmillan, pp. 650–74. Brown, D. (2000), Angels and Demons, New York: Pocket Books. ———— (2004), The Da Vinci Code, London: Corgi Books. Bruce, S. (ed.) (1992), Religion and Modernization: Historians Debate the Secularization Thesis, Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———— (2002), God is Dead: Secularization in the West, Oxford: Blackwell. Burstein, D. (ed.) (2004), Secrets of the Code: The Unauthorized Guide to the Mysteries Behind The Da Vinci Code, London: Orion. Campbell, C. (1972), ‘The Cult, the Cultic Milieu and Secularization’, in M. Hill (ed.), Sociological Yearbook of Religion in Britain 5, London: SCM, pp. 119–36. Also published in J. Kaplan and H. Lööw (eds) (2002), The Cultic Milieu: Oppositional Subcultures in an Age of Globalization, Walnut Creek: Alta Mira Press, pp. 12–25. ———— (1977), ‘Clarifying the Cult’, British Journal of Sociology, 28, pp. 375–88. ———— (1978), ‘The Secret Religion of the Educated Classes’, Sociological Analysis, 39, pp. 146–56. ———— (1999), ‘The Easternisation of the West’, in B.R. Wilson and J. Cresswell (eds), New Religious Movements: Challenge and Response, London: Routledge, pp. 35–48. Campbell, C. and McIver, S. (1987), ‘Cultural Sources of Support for Contemporary Occultism’, Social Compass, 34, pp. 41–60. Clark, L.S. (2003), From Angels to Aliens: Teenagers, the Media and the Supernatural, New York: Oxford University Press. Crowley, V. (1996), Principles of Paganism, London: Thorsons. Davis, E. (1998), Techgnosis: Myth, Magic and Mysticism in the Age of Information, New York: Three Rivers Press. Duncan, A.D. (1969), The Christ, Psychotherapy and Magic: A Christian Appreciation of Occultism, London: George Allen & Unwin. Economist, The (2001), ‘The Road Well Trodden: How to Succeed in Publishing’, 19 May, p. 35. Eisler, R. (2004), ‘Messages from the Past: The World of the Goddess’, In R. Gottlieb (ed.), This Sacred Earth: Religion, Nature, and the Environment, 2nd edn., New York: Routledge, pp. 449–61. Fox, M. (1988), The Coming of the Cosmic Christ, San Francisco: Harper & Row. Fulder, S. (1996), The Handbook of Alternative and Complementary Medicine, 3rd edn., London: Vermilion. Giddens, A. (1991), Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. ———— (1993), The Transformation of Intimacy, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Goodchild, S. (2005), ‘Secret Societies Thrive on Success of Bestseller’, The Independent on Sunday, 20 February, http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4159/ is_20050220/ai_n9771656/pg_1. Accessed 12 April 2007. Goethe, J.W. von (1949), Wisdom and Experience (ed. H. Weigand), London: Routledge, Kegan & Paul. Gottlieb, R. (ed.) (2004), This Sacred Earth: Religion, Nature, and the Environment, 2nd edn., New York: Routledge. Haag, M. and Haag, V. (2004), The Rough Guide to The Da Vinci Code, London: Penguin/Rough Guides.

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Harvey, G. (1997), Listening People, Speaking Earth: Contemporary Paganism, London: Hurst. ———— (2000), ‘Boggarts and Books: Towards and Appreciation of Pagan Spirituality’, in S. Sutcliffe and M. Bowman (eds), Beyond New Age: Exploring Alternative Spirituality, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 155–68. Heelas, P. (1996), The New Age Movement, Oxford: Blackwell. ———— (2006), ‘Challenging Secularization Theory: The Growth of “New Age” Spiritualities of Life’, Hedgehog Review, 8: 1–2, pp. 46–58. ———— (2007), ‘The Spiritual Revolution of Northern Europe: Personal Beliefs’, Nordic Journal of Religion and Society, 1, pp. 1–28. Heelas, P. and Woodhead, L. (2004), The Spiritual Revolution: Why Religion is Giving Way to Spirituality, Oxford: Blackwell. Hervieu-Léger, D. (2006), ‘In Search of Certainties: The Paradoxes of Religiosity in Societies of High Modernity’, Hedgehog Review, 8: 1–2, pp. 59–68. Hjarvard, S. (2008), ‘The mediatization of religion. A theory of the media as agents of religious change’, in S. Hjarvard (ed.), Northern Lights Vol.6, Bristol: Intellect Press. Hobsbawm, E. (1995), Age of Extremes, London: Abacus. Introvigne, M. (2005), ‘Beyond The Da Vinci Code: History and Myth of the Priory of Sion’, http://www.cesnur.org/2005/pa_introvigne.htm. Accessed 7 February 2006. Jantzen, G. (1988), ‘Mysticism and New Religious Movements’, Religion Today, 5: 3, pp. 10–12. Kaplan, J. and Lööw, H. (eds) (2002), The Cultic Milieu: Oppositional Subcultures in an Age of Globalization, Walnut Creek: Alta Mira Press. King, U. (2004), ‘Feminist and Eco-Feminist Spirituality’, in C. Partridge (ed.), Encyclopaedia of New Religions: New Religious Movements, Sects and Alternative Spiritualities, Oxford: LionHudson; A Guide to New Religions, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 379–84. Martin, D. (1978), A General Theory of Secularization, Aldershot: Gregg Revivals. Merchant, C. (1982), The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology and the Scientific Revolution, London: Wildwood House. Norris, P. and Inglehart, R. (2006), ‘Sellers or Buyers in Religious Markets? The Supply and Demand of Religion’, Hedgehog Review, 8: 1–2, pp. 69–92. Partridge, C. (1999), ‘Truth, Authority and Epistemological Individualism in New Age Thought’, Journal of Contemporary Religion, 14: 1, pp. 77–95. ———— (2004a), The Re-Enchantment of the West: Alternative Spiritualities, Sacralization, Popular Culture and Occulture, vol. 1, London: T. & T. Clark International. ———— (2004b), ‘Alternative Spiritualities, New Religions, and the Re-Enchantment of the West’, in J.R. Lewis (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of New Religious Movements, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 39–67. ———— (2004c), ‘Alien Demonology: the Christian Roots of the Malevolent Extraterrestrial in UFO Religions and Abduction Spiritualities’, Religion, 34, pp. 163–89. ———— (2005), The Re-Enchantment of the West: Alternative Spiritualities, Sacralization, Popular Culture and Occulture, vol. 2, London: T. & T. Clark International. ———— (2007), ‘Satanism and the Heavy Metal Subculture’, in P. Riddell and B. Riddell (eds), Studies in Demonology and Angelology, Apollos. Picknett, L. and Prince, C. (1997), The Templar Revelation: Secret Guardians of the True Identity of Christ, London: Corgi.

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RBC Ministries (2006), The Da Vinci Code: Fact or Fiction? DVD/Video, Grand Rapids: RBC Ministries. Ritzer, G. (2000), The McDonaldization of Society, New Century edn. Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge Press. Roach, C.M. (2003), Mother/Nature: Popular Culture and Environmental Ethics, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Sjöö, M. and Mor, B. (1991), The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering the Religion of the Earth, San Francisco: Harper & Row. Starbird, M. (1993), The Woman with the Alabaster Jar, Santa Fe, NM: Bear & Co. Stark, R. and Bainbridge, W.S. (1985), The Future of Religion: Secularization, Revival, and Cult Formation, Berkeley: University of California Press. Szerszynski, B. (2005), Nature, Technology and the Sacred, Oxford: Blackwell. Taylor, C. (1991), The Ethics of Authenticity, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Thornton, S. (1995), Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital, Cambridge: Polity Press. Toynbee, A. (1974), ‘The Religious Background of the Present Environmental Crisis’, in D. Spring and E. Spring (eds), Ecology and Religion in History, New York: Harper & Row, pp. 137–49. Traube, E. (1996), ‘Introduction’, in R. Ohmann (ed.), Making and Selling Culture, Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press, pp. xi–xxiii. Urban, H.B. (2006), Magia Sexualis: Sex, Magic, and Liberation in Modern Western Esotericism, Berkeley: University of California Press. Wallis, R. (1974), ‘Ideology, Authority and the Development of Cultic Movements’, Sociological Research, 41, pp. 299–327. Walter, T. (2001), ‘Reincarnation, Modernity and Identity’, Sociology, 35, pp. 21–38. White, L. (1967), ‘The Historical Roots of Our Ecologic Crisis’, Science, 155, pp. 1203–207. The essay has been reprinted in R. Gottlieb (ed.) (2004), This Sacred Earth: Religion, Nature, and the Environment, 2nd edn., New York: Routledge, pp. 192–201. Williams, R. (2006), ‘Sermon for Easter Day’, 16 April, http://www.archbishopofcan terbury.org/sermons_speeches/060416a.htm. Accessed 12 March 2007. Yinger, J.M. (1957), Religion, Society and the Individual, New York: Macmillan.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.127/1

One re-enchanted evening – the Academy Awards as a mediated ritual within celebrity culture Helle Kannik Haastrup Abstract

Keywords

This is a case study of the Oscars ceremony 2007, analysing how the awards show works as a mediated ritual within celebrity culture. In the analysis, I characterize the Oscars as an example of a live media event, and then I analyse how it is connected to celebrity culture and, eventually, I discuss whether it can be said to have religious affinities and perhaps even be an example of a replacement strategy for the decline in organized religion. In my analysis I combine sociological analysis of the media event genre as presented by Dayan & Katz, as well as Couldry, with cultural analysis of celebrity culture and stars as argued by Rojek, Turner, Morin and Dyer. On the basis of this analysis, I want to argue that the Academy Awards ceremony can be seen as a re-enchanted evening on several levels: as a live media event, a mediated ritual and as presenting glamorous stars as objects of identification.

awards show celebrity culture stars media event mediated ritual religion

In 2007, in the United States alone, 39.9 million viewers watched the live Oscars ceremony, and this does not even include the many millions of viewers around the world. The Oscars has always been a popular television show; however, in the past few years the award genre in general is featured more prominently on television. In this article, I propose that this is in part explained by the special combination of being a live mediated ritual and having a close connection to the pervasive celebrity culture. In Celebrity (2001), Chris Rojek argues that as a consequence of the decline in organized religion, celebrity culture can be seen as ‘one of the replacement strategies that promote new orders of meaning and solidarity’ (Rojek 2001: 99). I believe that it is in some ways possible to regard the awards show as an example of such a replacement strategy. In order to investigate this, I have chosen the 79th Oscars ceremony in 2007 – officially called the Academy Awards – as my case study, because the Oscars ceremony is one of the most viewed and well-known of the live broadcast awards shows. This case study of the 2007 Academy Awards is guided by the following research questions: how does the Oscars ceremony of 2007 work as a media event genre and mediated ritual, and how does it articulate celebrity culture as a live media event broadcast worldwide as

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well as a mediated ritual? Does celebrity culture in general and the awards show in particular have religious affinities as a possible part of this replacement strategy to warrant being labelled ‘a re-enchanted evening’, and if so, in what way? Previous research has focused either on the relationship between celebrity culture and stars (Morin 1960; Dyer 1982; Stacey 1994; Rojek 2001; Turner 2004; and Cashmore 2006) or on analysis of the genre of media events as a particular form of communication and as mediated rituals (Dayan and Katz 1992; Couldry 2003; and Cottle 2006). In this article, I combine these two approaches: the cultural studies analysis of the star as a phenomenon within celebrity culture; and the sociological analysis of how the media event genre is a mediated ritual. First, I analyse how the 79th Academy Awards work as a live media event and mediated ritual (Dayan and Katz 1992; Couldry 2001; and Cottle 2006). In my analysis, I also take into account how this global broadcast experience is challenged by local framing, that is, the Danish framing of the awards show and how it succeeds in creating a cult-like viewing. Second, I analyse the overall dramatic structure of the show, which can be divided into what can be called ‘the Red Carpet’ section and the ceremony itself (Meyrowitz 1985; Rojek 2001; and Cashmore 2006), demonstrating that celebrity culture is an integral part of the event. Finally, I discuss how the awards show can be seen as an example of re-enchantment in prime time entertainment and how it fits in with celebrity culture’s religious affinities (Dyer 1982; Rojek 2001; Turner 2004; and Cashmore 2006). Originally, Durkheim (2001) characterized modern society as disenchanted because of the decline in organized religion. I intend to argue that it is in many ways possible to regard the awards show in general and the Oscars ceremony in particular as a re-enchanted form of entertainment, because of its special blend of celebrity culture and mediated ritual.

The awards show as a mediated ritual and a media event In order to characterize the workings of the awards show as a genre I use the definition of the media event by Dayan and Katz (1992). They argue that the media event is characterized by being an interruption of the routine and normal flow of the schedule; that this interruption is monopolistic (all channels switch away from their normal programming); the event is live and organized outside the media; it is pre-planned and advertised in advance; it is presented with reverence and ceremony; it electrifies very large audiences; and it integrates ‘societies in a collective heartbeat’ and evokes ‘a renewal of loyalty to the society’ (Dayan and Katz 1992: 4–9). Dayan and Katz also operate with three kinds of events: contests, conquests and coronations. An example of the contest type of event is a football match, the conquest type of event is landing on the moon and the coronation type of event is a royal wedding. Dayan and Katz define the Academy Awards as a contest that has evolved into a coronation, but they also recognize that an event can evolve from a contest, turning into a conquest and ending up as a coronation, using the moon landing in 1967 as a case in point. However, I want to argue that the Oscars ceremony is defined as being a mix of the two types of events: the coronation and the contest. 128

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The Oscars ceremony does not fit with all the elements in the Dayan and Katz definition of the media event. First, the Oscars does not interrupt the normal schedule on every TV station, but only on ABC, and in Denmark it does not affect the normal programming at all, because the live broadcast is in the middle of the night. Second, the Oscars ceremony is only what you could call ‘almost live’. The show was originally broadcast live; however, in 2004, the network decided to broadcast with a delay. The actual length of the delay is not disclosed, but it is probably approximately five seconds. It is not a secret that the show is not live; however they (the Academy and the ABC network) seem to downplay the fact in order to keep the event appealing.1 Thus, I will henceforth call the Academy Awards ‘almost live’, because the show still retains an important element of simultaneity. The Academy Awards ceremony is not organized outside the media; it is to a large degree organized in collaboration with the media – the ABC network (who were the ones to decide that there should be a delay) and the E! channel (the network that broadcasts the Red Carpet section). The Oscars ceremony is pre-planned, but it is not presented with reverence, even though a certain degree of ceremony is upheld; for example, the event does have a host but he/she is usually a stand-up comedian. However, the event does have a very large audience: the annual Academy Awards is a live global media event with millions of viewers worldwide, and as mentioned previously, in the United States alone there were 39.9 million viewers in 2007,2 making the Oscars one of the most watched television shows of the year, surpassed only by the Super Bowl. The Oscars ceremony presents itself as an important cultural ritual, and in this sense it does integrate society and renew loyalty. It has become a trademark of the event that it has never been cancelled; the Oscars ceremony has only been postponed a few times: in 1968, when Martin Luther King was assassinated, and in 1981, after the assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan (Levy 2003: 19). More recently, after 9/11 and the war in Iraq, the event was toned down but not cancelled, thus upholding the popular Hollywood cliché: that the show must go on. Levy even characterizes the Oscars as ‘a sacred ritual in American culture’ (Levy 2003: 19). The definition of the media event by Dayan and Katz is contested by more recent analysis of what constitutes a media event. A media event does not always have to be ‘manufacturing consent’ as argued by Simon Cottle (Cottle 2006). There are many different forms of media events as media rituals. This is true of media events like 9/11 and the O.J. Simpson case. These are not media events that integrate society or renew loyalty (Cottle 2006: 418). These media events are not contest, conquest or coronation events, but they are conflicting media events. From another perspective, Couldry (2003) in Media Rituals argues that with media rituals it is difficult to operate with the notion of an event at society’s centre. This holds true for the Oscars as well, at least in the Danish broadcast on the TV2 channel, because of the Danish talk show in the commercial breaks. Even though the Oscars fail to meet all the requirements of a media event, the distinction between contest and coronation is still very useful in describing the dramatic structure of the event. NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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1.

The decision was apparently inspired by the American Music Awards and not the infamous breastshowing incident at the Super Bowl halftime show.

2.

This is according to Nielsen.com.

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3.

Every year it is possible to participate in a lottery to win a bleacher seat at http://www.oscars.org/ bleachers.

4.

According to Levy (2003: 169) 23 per cent of the Oscar wins are historical epics (counted in 2002).

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The Oscars – a contest and coronation type of event In the coronation type of event, the drama is defined as: ‘Will the ritual succeed?’ The ritual reaffirms tradition and symbolizes continuity. The event is noticeable in the public sphere because it takes place – at least partly – in the street, often in combination with a church. The role of the audience is ‘renewing contact with the centre of society’, and the ‘time orientation’ faces towards the past (Dayan and Katz 1992: 33) in the sense that tradition is important, because both weddings and coronations connect to past lineage and, through marriage, create a new future for a monarchy. Compared to the Oscars, there are many similarities between a coronation and the awards show. The Oscars ceremony takes place not in a church, but in the Kodak Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, which was built especially for the event. In terms of geography, the theatre and the adjoining streets are used for the stars to arrive in their limousines and walk past the press – giving interviews on the red carpet – and to provide space for the large tents that are used for security checks. The general public is not allowed to watch closely – this part of Hollywood Boulevard is closed off, unless you apply and are selected for a seat in the bleachers.3 The bleachers are a type of enclosure for the spectators (the fans) and are placed very close to the red carpet, thus providing the screaming and yelling when popular stars walk by. The Oscars ceremony is, within the film industry and film culture in general, a symbol of continuity. This is emphasized in different ways during the show: usually a montage is shown, commemorating those who have passed away, and a lifetime achievement award is presented to a great actor or director, who for some reason has never received an Oscar. In this sense, the ‘time orientation’ of the event faces towards the past and creates a strong sense of nostalgia. Receiving an award is thus becoming a part of a tradition of excellence and being celebrated by your peers for the work you have done – in the words of popular Oscars host Billy Crystal: ‘If you get an award, you are shaking hands with Spencer Tracy.’ At the same time, receiving an award can be life altering for an actress or a director and, in this sense, the awards show holds some very real-life consequences and can be important for the future of those involved. In the contest type of event the set-up is a little different compared to the coronation (Dayan and Katz 1992: 33). The contest type of event is fixed, recurring at the same time every year, with rules that are agreed upon. The drama is: ‘Who will win?’ The role of the principal is to play by the rules in a ‘the best man will prevail’ spirit, while the loser is given a second chance. The role of the audience is to ‘judge’ the performance; the rules are supreme, and the ‘time orientation’ faces the future. As mentioned above, the Oscars is definitely also about winning – and even though they (the Academy) changed the phrase from ‘The winner is …’ to ‘The Oscar goes to…’, you do win an Oscar! But there is no second chance for the loser other than the next film he or she can make – next year. It is also traditional to reward a special kind of film and a special kind of performance: grand epic films are often chosen for ‘Best Picture’, such as Titanic (1997), The English Patient (1996) or Gone with the Wind (1939);4 and actors/actresses who play a role where they 130

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have to transform themselves physically are also often rewarded, for example, Nicole Kidman in The Hours (2002) or Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot (1989), according to Levy (2003: 243). You play by the rules in so far as the winners are decided upon through a voting system – by Academy members who comprise past winners and people from the industry – but it is a secret ballot and in that sense the rules are supreme. Even though the rules are specific, you cannot be sure that you have ‘a winner’ on your hands. Time orientation faces towards the present in so far as the result can be a very important factor for the future career of an actor or director. Before and frequently during the show there are references to the website of the media event: http://www.oscar.com. Oscar.com invites people to bet on who will win as well as to host their own Oscars party, with invitations, and a list of nominees available to be printed from the site. This is one way of making what Dayan and Katz called ‘festive viewing’ – a private performance playing dress-up in front of the television (Dayan and Katz 1992: 121). The Academy Awards ceremony is thus a combination of the coronation and the contest type of live media event. The tension between the almost-live broadcasting – ‘Will the show proceed according to plan?’ and ‘Who will win the best actress award?’ – is most prominent in concordance with the tension between the past (nostalgia) and the future in defining the suspense that is the drive behind the mediated ritual of the Academy Awards. As a media event and as a mediated ritual, the awards show has a double structure – it is a combination of a contest and a coronation type of event, and it combines affirmative and consensual elements. However, it has a structure that consists of two parts: on the one hand we have the Red Carpet broadcast by the E! channel with a focus on the live performance, while on the other hand we have the ceremony itself broadcast by the ABC network focusing on the awards given for past professional achievement. Two different agendas are collaborating on the same event. The Danish framing is an example of such a small disruption on a structural level as a result of the live broadcast in Europe. In the United States, the producers of the Oscars control (Levy 2003: 32) the kind of commercials that are shown to ensure that no inappropriate content could spoil the event – such tight control is not possible when broadcasting overseas, so to speak.

The Danish framing and the event as being at the centre of society In Denmark we have two versions of the Academy Awards – the long one and the short one, or the ‘almost live’ and the edited version shown the following evening. If you watch a live media event that is pre-planned but not a routine live transmission, you are part of the shared experience at society’s centre, according to Dayan and Katz (1992: 13). Nick Couldry (2003: 61) argues in his Media Rituals the notion that the shared experience is not really at society’s centre anymore.5 This is a valid point even though the Oscars have many viewers, especially in the United States. However, perhaps his point is even more relevant when it comes to the Danish broadcast of the event. Due to the time difference, in Denmark the pre-show (the Red Carpet) commences at about 1 a.m. when it is sent NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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This is also criticized by Nick Couldry in Media Rituals (2003) where he argues that it is not necessarily only media events as live broadcasts that establish media rituals, but also the final episode of a popular fiction series that can have that status.

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live (or almost live) from Los Angeles. The Danish television network, TV2 Film, has decided, as in previous years when broadcast on DR2, to stage a talk show during the commercial breaks. The talk show is hosted and the invited guests comprise a blend of film buffs, fashion experts and people from the film industry who have a special interest in the Oscars (previous Oscar nominees or winners even). All of the guests, as well as the host, are dressed up as though they are going to the Oscars themselves, and drink champagne to celebrate. This talk show is a cheering squad for the Danish contestants in the ceremony, but it also works as a simultaneous evaluation of the event itself from a European perspective: the performance of the host; the awards being handed out; was it the right winner; did she have a nice dress on; and discussions, anecdotes, and behind-the-scenes knowledge. In this way, the Oscars ceremony is framed into a specific Danish context. Taking Couldry’s critique into account, you could say that the Danish framing is an example of a global event being localized, but it is also an example of the Oscars becoming an event in more ways than one. The time difference between Denmark and the United States consequently moves the Academy Awards ceremony from prime time to midnight and thus invites a cult-like viewing of a mainstream event. In that way the Oscars are not establishing a centre of society. The Academy Awards ceremony dates back to 1929, but it was not until the 1950s that the Oscars became an audio-visual live media event (it had been live on radio though) (Levy 2003). When the Oscars were first broadcast, the attraction of the media event was to watch movie stars on television. Today, you see movie stars all the time on TV – in talk shows, reality shows, lifestyle programmes and on the Internet. In this respect, I would argue that the attraction today is connected to the simultaneity of the almost-live broadcast creating ‘actual connectability’ (Couldry 2003: 98) – sharing the stars’ excitement over whether they are going to win or not, or rooting for your favourites. The Danish framing is comparable to the journalists reporting a sports event and, as mentioned above, the Oscars ceremony is also a contest – the way the event is discussed; who is most likely to win and so on. This framing comments on the pre-show as well as the ceremony itself, thus inserting an extra evaluative frame. The Oscars are a mediated ritual and in this sense are comparable to an annual religious holiday. In the Danish context, an extra evaluative frame is added giving the global event a local, national flavour and, because of the time difference, it establishes a cult-like viewing. However, in order to be able to characterize the structure of the awards show genre in general, and the Oscars specifically, it is necessary to analyse the structure closer, including how it connects with the event as a part of celebrity culture.

Awards show as a genre – the structure of the awards show as a media event Basically, the Academy Awards ceremony is divided into two major parts: the pre-show, which is also known as the Red Carpet, and the actual event itself – the Ceremony. At the Oscars 2007, the broadcast was split between two networks: E! (the Entertainment Channel) that produces the Red Carpet section entitled An Evening at the Oscars and Countdown, and 132

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ABC that produces the Ceremony. The first part, the Red Carpet, is only shown at the almost-live broadcast and not in the edited version. The stars are not the only participants in the Oscars ceremony, but they are the ones in focus. Edgar Morin compares the stars to half-gods: ‘the star is of the same double nature as the heroes of the mythologies – mortals aspiring to immortality, candidates for divinity, [ …] half-men, half-gods’ (Morin 1960: 105). The analogy is supported by Rojek who instead chooses to call it ‘the celebrity ceremonies of ascent’ and maintains that celebrity culture, even though it is secular, ‘draws on myths and rites of religious ascent and descent’ (Rojek 2001: 74). He further argues that three themes can be detected: elevation, magic and immortality. Elevation is the social and cultural process that raises the star above the ordinary public, literally on bill boards advertising films or other products, but also in terms of wealth and a glamorous lifestyle (Rojek 2001: 75). Magic is invoked by the shaman, according to Rojek, with trickery. However, in relation to film stars this is comparable to what they do on celluloid: for example, action stars perform incredible stunts and romantic stars look particularly stunning. Morin speaks of a ‘spillover effect’ in the sense that the actor’s heroic performance on screen becomes part of his or her star persona (Morin 1960: 38). The last theme is immortality, where Rojek proposes that ‘in secular society the honorific status conferred on certain celebrities outlasts physical death’ (Rojek 2001: 78). Marilyn Monroe is an obvious example of an immortal star, but other contenders are James Dean and Greta Garbo. Rojek uses a very broad concept of religion, including magic. However, in this context the concepts are useful in describing the workings of the celebrity of film stars in particular. If we take these concepts and apply them to the Oscars ceremony, it is clear that ascent, magic and immortality are relevant themes both on the red carpet and at the ceremony, as we shall see.

The Red Carpet (An Evening at the Oscars and Countdown) This section does not focus on the awards, but focuses instead on the stars’ performance on the red carpet and the fashion, and it functions as a presentation of the players in the contest. In order to characterize the Red Carpet in relation to celebrity culture, I will focus on the following points: the stars’ behaviour; the balance between the back and front regions (Meyrowitz 1985); Rojek’s distinction between achieved, ascribed, and celetoid type of celebrity; and the themes of magic and ascent. However, I will also discuss Morin’s notion of stars as half-gods and how fashion plays a significant part as well as how the aesthetics of the Red Carpet as a catwalk works. The Red Carpet is where the viewer can watch the stars arrive at the ceremony, and the event is presented ‘from the outside’ – we are shown clips from the nominated films and the journalists/film critics present the event, interviewing the nominated stars and primarily reviewing the women’s fashion. The Red Carpet constitutes what Meyrowitz defines as the ‘middle region’ – where the front region represents a person’s public appearance and the back region represents his or her private life. In-between is the middle region where you have to strike a balance between the two. Meyrowitz’s example is of politicians who can no longer get away NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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with only answering questions about their professional life, because the media are also asking questions concerning their private life. This is comparable to film stars who, on the other hand, have always had to cope with an interest in their private life, from the beginning of the star system in Hollywood where the questions and answers concern both their professional lives as well as their private spheres. The consequence of this type of questioning is to look for ‘the ordinary’ in the very extraordinary lives of the stars, and create a point of identification (Dyer 1982) for the audience. Only the most important celebrities are interviewed on the red carpet. In 2007, the interviewees were stars like Clint Eastwood, Kate Winslet, Leonardo DiCaprio, Will Smith, Jennifer Lopez, Cate Blanchett, Helen Mirren, Catherine Deneuve, Nicole Kidman and Naomi Watts. They were all nominees or past Oscar winners, so they are examples of what Rojek (2001) defines as having achieved celebrity, because they have earned their celebrity by merit. This can be compared to ‘ascribed celebrity’, such as royalty, who have inherited their status, and ‘celetoids’ – people who become very famous very quickly, for a short period of time; for example, reality stars (Rojek 2001). My point is that you do not find any celetoids at the Oscars, because everybody who is there is there because they have performed on or ‘behind’ the screen, and they are there by merit. One exception is perhaps where, in 2007, Jennifer Hudson, who was known from American Idol, a reality singing competition show, was given a part in the film Dreamgirls (2006) as a result of her singing skills. All of this information is provided in the Red Carpet section by the reporters and the climax is when she wins the Oscar and in her acceptance speech tells this story once again. We are thus as an audience witnesses to the birth of a star – from being a mere participant in a reality show. Turner call this tendency – of ordinary people becoming stars through reality television – for ‘the demotic turn’, because celebrity status somehow becomes readily available to ordinary people getting massive exposure over a short period of time. It is the same fascination that reality competitions such as American Idol and an awards show such as the Oscars have in common – we as viewers are witnessing the ascent of stars. This is part of the fascination of live and media events we ‘all’ see it happen at the same time. Another dimension of the Red Carpet is fashion. Fashion and the movie industry have been closely connected since the implementation of the star system, where specific movies and stars were made into trendsetters, from Joan Crawford to Audrey Hepburn, and from Diane Keaton to Gwyneth Paltrow. The Red Carpet is a way of displaying ‘the magic’ of the celebrity – showing off extreme wealth and glamour by wearing expensive haute couture dresses and diamonds worth millions of dollars. There are two commentators: a journalist and a designer, who review the dresses of the female stars. When a dress is commented upon we see it up close and in slow motion replay (just like the goals in a football match), this is often in combination with the camera going up and down showing the details of the dress as well as the body wearing it. The fashion tendencies and trends are summed up at the end (also in the Danish framing). Most of the dresses are not only couture, they are just off the runway and thus predicting what ‘we’ are going to be wearing this summer. Also part of the discourse is the fact that the dresses and jewellery are loans and as 134

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such they have to be delivered back at the end of the evening before leaving the theatre, in Cinderella-like fashion. The commentators do not fail to mention that this is the greatest fashion show on earth in terms of viewers. The evaluation of the star’s fashion sense, or lack thereof, is often also a moral evaluation, for example, showing too much cleavage or not dressing for your age. Catherine Deneuve was criticized for showing her arms. On the other hand, most agreed that Helen Mirren looked stunning despite being over 60, because she glowed and was wearing a dress that fitted her body and her age. As mentioned before, in order to create the right ambience, there are bleachers alongside the red carpet, where selected fans, representatives of the audience, can view and salute the stars and to provide enthusiastic screams when a ‘heart throb’ arrives. In 2007, this was Leonardo DiCaprio and George Clooney. This parade or performance by the stars, posing in their couture clothes, focuses on fashion and appearance. However the function of the Red Carpet pre-show is also to set the tone, briefly presenting the films, the nominees, the special performers and preparing the viewer for what is to come. This is the line-up (as in a sports match) and corresponds nicely with the awards show in part being a contest type of event. The E! channel, which produces the Red Carpet section of the Academy Awards, is a tabloid channel and website (http://www.eonline.com) with news and reality shows about the rich and famous, syndicating many of their programmes outside the United States as well.6 Even so, the Red Carpet presents the more dignified version of tabloid coverage; this is done in a calm and celebratory fashion – there are no paparazzi photographers or coverage resembling the usual tabloid style. It is pure glamour and movie star magic. There are two major players in this game: the fashion magazines/sites and the tabloid/gossip/society magazines/sites where the Red Carpet photos circulate from the Oscars ceremony, as well as the other awards shows like the Emmy, Grammy, MTV Movie and Music Awards. My point is that the Red Carpet section of awards shows has a very long afterlife in the magazines and on the websites, one that far exceeds the few seconds shown on television. The Red Carpet also works as a framing device for the ceremony: we are informed that there are millions or even billions of viewers watching, and that journalists are coming from more than 120 countries covering this event. Rhetorically, placing itself as the main news event – the event at society’s centre, which everybody ‘all over the world’ is interested in. At the same time, the Red Carpet is a live presentation of ‘the magic’ of movie stardom, with the stars parading their glamour and where we as an audience are able to watch many unique celebrities at the same time, thus we are able to compare what is otherwise perceived and marketed as one of a kind.

The ceremony Just like other media events, the countdown to the Oscars is hyped in the media, from the disclosure of who is the host to who are the nominees, and finally culminating in the ceremony itself. In a sense, the media hype is in gear several months before the event takes place in late February. NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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6.

In Denmark the E! programmes are shown on TV2 Zulu.

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The beginning of the year is often called the Awards season, with awards shows like the Golden Globes (The Hollywood Foreign Press Association) and the BAFTAs (The British Academy for Film and Television) broadcasting earlier in the year than the Academy Awards and very often these awards are indications of who will eventually win an Oscar. The defining elements of the awards show in general (apart from the Red Carpet) and the Oscars in particular are the following: the master of ceremonies; the winners of the award giving the acceptance speech (accepting the award is what the show is about); musical numbers and comedy; montages with special themes (sometimes there also seem to be a recurrent theme in the comments); the winners of particular awards; and even the musical performance mixture between scripted and non-scripted performances. At the Oscars, the host is our guide and the glue of the show, introducing presenters and special awards. She or he has an introductory monologue that sets the mood – and again usually emphasizing that ‘we’ have a ‘billion viewers’. This comic monologue is usually a spin on the situation itself, the nominated films and the stars that are present. Ellen DeGeneres was the host in 2007, she is a stand-up comedian and talk-show host and a very popular media personality in the United States. However, the host has to be funny and usually this means popular mainstream funny – not too political, because hosts are chosen to please a wide audience, not only the Hollywood audience but also the rest of the United States. In the last decade, Billy Crystal has been popular as Mr Oscar hosting several Academy Awards, but also Whoopi Goldberg, Chris Rock, Jon Stewart, and Elle DeGeneres have taken the seat (Levy 2003: 32). The host has to be able to pick up on what happens during the show and strengthen a common experience, making the audience feel comfortable, and at the same time distinguishing themselves from the stars who are present and being on the side of the viewer on the outside of the Hollywood establishment: in 2007, Ellen DeGeneres had her picture taken with Clint Eastwood at his seat by Steven Spielberg, who was sitting in the same row, and later she ‘accidentally’ presented Martin Scorsese with a film script. In this way, she pokes fun at herself as being star-struck and trying to promote her own career and transgresses the usual structure with the host on stage and the audience in the theatre, making it easy for the audience to identify with her. The acceptance speech is a key element of the show. If we take a look at what you could call the acceptance speech aesthetic, it usually begins with the presenters opening the envelope and the big screen in the theatre (and on the television screen as well) shows the five nominees anxiously waiting. When the recipient’s name is announced, the image of the winner fills the screen and shots of the winner hugging his/her family or colleagues are shown, as well as reaction shots of those who did not win, where they put on a brave face and applaud the winner. The music playing is usually a theme from the film that the Oscar is being awarded for and sometimes images from the film are shown as the recipient makes their way to the stage. The presenters congratulate the winner and then they have to give an acceptance speech. The speech is, as mentioned, not scripted. Officially, the Academy recommends writing something down, because each winner is only allotted a certain number of seconds. If they 136

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are too long-winded, the music begins to play very loudly in order to get them to stop. The acceptance speech is often an occasion to see the celebrities in a more emotional state – often trying hard not to cry or to forget to thank anyone important, and very often thanking God and family. Sometimes there are political statements, such as Michael Moore’s critique of Bush, and speeches with a film historical perspective, like Halle Berry being the first black woman to win the category of Best Performing Actress in a Leading Role.7 During the acceptance speech, there are a series of carefully choreographed and definitely scripted reaction shots of the fellow nominees, the cast from the film, and family and friends, sometimes resulting in an embarrassing moment when someone is not thanked or mentioned in the speech. When the winner has accepted their Oscar, they go backstage and not back to their seat. Some of the winners mention being stressed by the teleprompter’s countdown of seconds adding to the pressure on the winner to say something coherent, funny and personal as well as being appropriately grateful and happy. The acceptance speech aesthetic is thus a combination of the scripted and carefully produced and sometimes the unexpected physical or emotional outburst: like when Roberto Benigni was jumping on the back of the chairs in order to get to the stage, or when Jack Palance, well into his 70s, was doing one-handed push-ups. The real surprise is the unscriptedness of the event. In a sense, the acceptance speech is the whole event in a nut shell: being selected by the Academy, being chosen and found worthy of the award. Just as on the red carpet there is a balance between the front region and the back region, because the winners in their speeches both thank their co-workers, agents and employers (the front region) as well as their family, God and dear ones (the back region). The musical entertainment is always a presentation of the nominees in the Best Song category including the original artist performing their song live; in 2007, it was diverse artists such as the pop star Beyonce Knowles, the rock singer Melissa Etheridge and singer-songwriter Randy Newman. There are usually several montages, and the montage of those who passed away since the previous year’s show is a staple. In 2007, the montages included one to honour the nominees, made by documentary film-maker Errol Morris; an honorary montage to composer Ennio Morricone; a tribute to the Foreign Film Awards 50 years’ anniversary by Guiseppe Tornatore; a tribute to the American film ‘America Through its Movies’ by Michael Mann; and a tribute to those who passed away. The main theme of the Oscars ceremony in general is nostalgia, with tributes and homage to the history of the movies and deceased film workers, as mentioned above. However, in 2007 the theme also seemed to revolve around global warming, with the film An Inconvenient Truth (2006), featuring Al Gore and directed by Davis Guggenheim, winning ‘Best Documentary’, Melissa Etheridge winning ‘Best Song’ (the title song for An Inconvenient Truth). Her acceptance speech focussed on Al Gore and on what we, ourselves, can do to change the climate. Finally, Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio as presenters mentioned the importance of taking action in relation to global warming. In a sense, the Oscars articulate an example of a television show having a function comparable to what Fiske and Hartley (1978) called a bardic function; that is, a television programme as articulating consensus – to NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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The last time a black woman received an award was in 1939 (Levy 2003: 132).

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This is inspired by Gamson as the process where the practices of entertainment enter the sphere of politics (Gamson in Rojek 2001: 186). Rojek, however, further develops the concept to include celebrity in general.

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celebrate and justify the doings of the individual cultures and to ‘convince the audience that their status and identity as individuals is guaranteed by the culture as a whole’ (Fiske and Hartley 1978: 88). The awards show would like to present itself as having such a function, even though, as mentioned above, media rituals do not always ‘manufacture consent’ (Cottle 2006) neither do they always establish a ‘centre of society’ (Couldry 2003). However, the Oscars ceremony still presents itself at the centre of society and as a manufacture of consent with respect to global warming, at least rhetorically. At the same time, the awards show in general and the Oscars specifically seem to qualify as being examples of the much-hyped experience economy, where the product for sale is part of a larger experience. The Oscars ceremony in 2007 thus distinguishes itself by the recurrent theme of global warming, signalling that it is politically correct to take care of the environment, but this does not exclude the traditional theme of nostalgia as almost inherent in the montages presented and homage given.

The awards show, celebrity culture and the religious parallel The awards show is a part of celebrity culture in several ways. The Oscars are about celebrating achievement and merit in film and on television in a very glamorous and high-profile fashion, as well as making it a live media event and a mediated ritual. You could argue that the awards show in general is the epitome of celebrity culture with its combination of celebrities being exposed and evaluated for their performances in one of the most popular art forms – the movies. The awards show also presents the performance of the celebrity, which is especially prevalent in the Red Carpet section and during the acceptance speech. These two topoi of performance are central examples of what being a celebrity in the media entails: walking the red carpet with photographers and cameras following your every move and the acceptance speech where you have been ‘found worthy’ by your peers. The awards show can also be seen as an example of a so-called celebrification process.8 Celebrification is a ‘general tendency to frame social encounters in mediagenic filters that both reflect and reinforce the compulsion of abstract desire’ (Rojek 2001: 187). ‘Mediagenic’ is defined by Rojek as ‘elements and style that are compatible with the conventions of self-projection and interaction, fashioned and refined by the media’ (Rojek 2001: 187). This is exactly what the awards show does with its special characteristics of the Red Carpet and the acceptance speech, both situations instantly recognizable through mediagenic filters. These are ways of performing in the media that we have learned by watching television – other well-known topoi could be a handshake between statesmen, or stepping out of a building and being harassed by a bunch of photographers. Celebrification also encompasses ‘a reward culture in which individuals are differentiated from another by monetary and status distinction’ (Rojek 2001: 198). In this context, the awards show is not mentioned at all in Rojek’s argument, even though it fits the bill perfectly. The awards show is very clearly both an example of celebrification (by being a platform for celebrities to be seen and as mediagenic filtered topoi with the Red Carpet and the acceptance speech) and as an example of a reward culture 138

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(selecting the nominees and giving away awards – thus picking winners and also making minor celebrities into even more famous celebrities). Celebrity culture must be understood as a modern phenomenon dependent upon the mass circulation of newspapers, radio, film and television – a fact that the different analyses of celebrity culture can agree upon (Turner 2004; Rojek 2001; and Cashmore 2006). As Turner argues: ‘The really interesting (and perhaps most surprising) aspect of celebrity is the degree to which it has become integrated into the cultural processes of our daily lives’ (Turner 2004: 17). One of the explanations for this is the many programmes on television that feature celebrities: talk shows, lifestyle programmes, celebrity reality shows and, of course, the awards show. In the film industry, the star system worked (since 1910) as a way of creating a specific image for the actor/actress who played specific types of roles, often in the same kind of genre films.9 This often entailed creating a specific look and personality that appealed to the audience. In her study of female spectatorship in post-war Britain, Jackie Stacey (1994) analyses how fans described their relationship to their favourite star. She makes a distinction between the identification in the cinema and the extra-cinematic identification – where the inspiration from the stars transforms into practices such as pretending, copying and resembling. This could be anything from buying a dress like the star, rolling ‘Bette Davis eyes’, or playing Hollywood. What these women had in common was that the movie stars made a difference in their life and in how they conducted themselves. The point in this context is that the movie stars were role models both as themselves and as their roles. As Richard Dyer points out, a star’s image consists of all her films and her public persona as a continuous intertextual relation (Dyer 1982). This intertextual relation is comparable to the spillover effect of Morin. The mass media play a crucial role in creating a parasocial relationship between the star and the audience. The symbolic distance between the star and the audience has become smaller in the sense that the tabloids seem to come closer and closer with their paparazzi lenses, making very intimate visual evidence available to the interested viewer. When looking for religious affinities in celebrity culture as well as the awards show, is it really possible, as Rojek argues at the beginning of the article, that the decline in religion has been replaced by celebrity culture, ‘thus becoming one of the mainstays of organising recognition and belonging in society?’ (Rojek 2001: 58). This point of view is supported by Turner, who points out that this gap – the declining interest in religion – has partly been filled with celebrities (Turner 2004: 25). Turner goes on to explain that celebrities are a location for the interrogation and elaboration of cultural identity, ‘Celebrities are signs of how society uses stars as means of thinking about the individual’ (Turner 2004: 25). The study performed by Stacey supports the argument that film stars can be an inspiration for extra-cinematic identificatory practices. Another connection is the well-established connection between celebrity culture and consumer culture (Cashmore 2006); this is not a new development either – the connection with fashion and beauty products was an integral part of the star system in the Hollywood Golden Age. The combination of film stars as role models both in terms of personality and commodification, style and beauty, fashion and success are trademarks of the awards show. NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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9.

One of the crucial points as to what constitutes a celebrity is the star system in Hollywood, starting off with the Florence Lawrence incident in 1910. The company started a rumour that she had died in an accident – it later turned out that she was indeed alive, and this boosted her popularity. Two elements are of interest here: the use of the press to promote a star from a film, where the name of the actor was not considered an asset economically, and the use of the actor’s private life to what we could today call ‘spin’.

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There are definitely parallels between religion and celebrity culture: Rojek characterizes celebrity culture as a giant paradox that democracy, ‘the system which claimed moral superiority on the basis of extending equality and freedom to all, cannot proceed without creating celebrities who stand above the common citizen and achieve veneration and god-like worship’ (Rojek 2001: 198). Whereas Rojek also analyses celebrity culture as being a result of a culture focused on the individual and thus ‘motivates intense emotions of identification and devotion […] it is basically a fragmented, unstable culture that is unable to sustain an encompassing, grounded view of social and spiritual order’ (Rojek 2001: 98). The Oscars ceremony seems to include several of the elements that can be seen as parallel to religion in celebrity culture: the focus on the star as half-god, a site of identification and the ritual of the event from the Red Carpet to the acceptance speeches (where God is often mentioned), and the event’s annual broadcast as comparable to a religious holiday or civil religion (Dayan and Katz 1992: 16). On the other hand, the event is very much a commodification of film and stars, as well as fashion – thus, embodying the focus on commodification by Turner and the focus on religion and individualism by Rojek.

Concluding remarks – distance and closeness The Oscars ceremony can indeed be regarded as an example of a re-enchanted evening in more ways than one. As an almost-live media event, it combines the contest and coronation type of events in creating suspense, but it is also an example of how a mediated ritual not only constitutes a national unifying experience of consent. The Oscars are simultaneously a national (North American) and a global broadcast, and also have a local framing accentuating the specific Danish agendas. The cult-like viewing of a mainstream event that this Danish framing establishes is also a duplication of the festive viewing introduced by the journalists in the Red Carpet section, and presumably the experience by the viewers in front of the television. Dayan and Katz’s seminal definition of the media event is thus challenged by this analysis, because the Oscars ceremony is only almost live and does not, at least in the Danish broadcast, change the normal programming. However, the contest and coronation type of events are very useful concepts to characterize the Oscars’ basic dramatic structure and to demonstrate how the ritual works. The Danish framing also challenges the notion of the event being at the centre of society, as was pointed out by Couldry. Simultaneously, the Oscars have a double structure with the Red Carpet section presenting the players (broadcast by the E! channel) and the ceremony itself of handing out the awards (broadcast by ABC), thus being an event with more than one centre, so to speak. The two sections of the Academy Awards also accentuate different elements of celebrity culture. The Red Carpet section seems to focus on the performance of the star with primarily achieved celebrity on the red carpet, as well as the fashion element, thus being examples of the commodification part of the celebrity culture. The acceptance speech during the ceremony, on the other hand, focuses on the ascent or confirmation of half-god qualities of the stars in relation to the winners. At the same time, the acceptance speech is the 140

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chaotic non-scripted moment of the almost live event. On the one hand, the Oscars ceremony has religious affinities as the ritual annual holiday that never cancels and, on the other, it connects with celebrity culture with the participation of the glamorous half-gods. Even though they all approach the topic of celebrity with different goals in mind using different theories with their different concepts, they generally all support the same key issues: Morin focuses especially on the phenomenon of the film stars, Rojek focuses on celebrity in a more general sense from sports to criminals and celetoids, and Turner analyses the lesser-known celebrity workings from an institutional point of view. The common conclusion reached by Morin, Turner and Rojek is that celebrity culture and stardom are about individualism and identification in a media (mediated) society. According to Rojek, celebrity culture and stardom are about having several religious affinities in terms of ascent, magic and immortality, as well as in terms of the stars being half-gods, creating the spill-over effect from glamorous movies to the actual actor (Morin 1960). However, Turner points out that both celebrities and film stars are used as instruments in a more general sense to think about the individual, and this is empirically supported by Stacey in her analysis of extra-cinematic identification. Celebrity culture today affects how we think about the individual, whether it is through watching stars, or the process of celebrification or using mediagenic filters – there is no doubt that the pervasiveness of this phenomenon calls for further research either in the tradition of Stacey’s qualitative reception analysis or in text analysis of how celebrity is mediated in other programmes from news, talk shows, lifestyle programmes and celebrity reality competition shows. In a broader perspective, it could also be rewarding to analyse how celebrities, as well as ordinary people using mediagenic filters, are at work at social sites such as Facebook.com and Youtube.com, where you can manufacture yourself and your image in terms of taste, fashion, looks and interests. One of the key factors of celebrity used to be a distance between the audience and the stars. This para-social relationship now seems to have evolved into something else, which you can perhaps call a digital closeness. This closeness is established through the tabloid sites on the Internet where photographs from the private lives of the biggest stars are shown on a daily basis. In contrast, events, such as awards shows in general and the Oscars in particular, represent the other end of a continuum – the oldschool glamorous version of celebrity, with the special feature that the stars are shown live, thus generating a simultaneous experience with the most famous people in the entertainment business. Even though celebrity culture has been characterized as a possible replacement strategy, the Academy Awards ceremony is not a religious ritual, but it is a mediated ritual with religious affinities on different levels, particularly in relation to the stars. First of all, the Academy Awards ceremony is an illuminating example of contemporary media culture, because it is a mixture of mediated ritual (a live media event and celebrity culture), and it presents a blend of consumption (movie-going, fan culture and fashion) and achievement (reward culture and distinction) in a re-enchanted way. Second, the Oscars are re-enchanted in the sense that tabloid paparazzi NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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photos are banished and the glamour and performance of style and poise is immaculate on the red carpet and at the ceremony. Third, the Academy Awards ceremony is an event that celebrates the achievement of the individual – the American dream – by staging what success looks like in the media in well-known mediagenic filters. The Academy Awards ceremony is thus an example of how a mediated ritual creates re-enchantment in close collaboration with celebrity culture. The Academy Awards ceremony succeeds in creating an annual special evening that never cancels, thus emphasizing a reliable sense of community and closeness in time (being almost live) nationally and internationally, and offers a rare simultaneity with movie stars on television – an actual connectability that viewers all over the world can enjoy religiously or otherwise. References Cashmore, E. (2006), Celebrity/Culture, London and New York: Routledge. Cottle, S. (2006), ‘Mediatized rituals: beyond manufacturing consent’, Media, Culture & Society, 28: 3: 411–432. Couldry, N. (2003), Media Rituals: A Critical Approach, London and New York: Routledge. Dayan, D. and Katz, E. (1992), Media Events: The Live Broadcasting of History, Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Durkheim, E. (2001), The Elementary Form of Religious Life, London and New York: Oxford University Press. Dyer, R. (1982), Stars, London: BFI Publishing. Fiske, J. and Hartley, J. (1978), Reading Television, London and New York: Routledge. Levy, E. (2003), All About Oscar®, New York and London: Continuum. Meyrowitz, J. (1985 [1992]), No Sense of Place: The Impact of Electronic Media on Social Behaviour, London and New York: Oxford University Press (1992 edition). Morin, E. (1960), The Stars, London and New York: Grove Press, Inc. Rojek, C. (2001), Celebrity, London: Reaktion Books. Stacey, J. (1994), Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female Spectatorship, London and New York: Routledge. Turner, G. (2004), Understanding Celebrity, London and Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.143/1

Religion, philosophy, and convergence culture online: ABC’s Lost as a study of the processes of mediatization Lynn Schofield Clark Abstract

Keywords

Following Henry Jenkins’s argument (2006) that online fan discussions contribute to ‘collective intelligence’ that then feeds into the creative processes of the media industries, this article explores the ways in which online fans of the ABC television programme Lost discussed the religious and philosophical references of the programme as well as the directions the series seemed to follow as a result. By considering the ways in which both popular entertainment producers and fans of popular entertainment contribute to the emergent norms of plural religious and cultural representation in media and expectations regarding the plural religious environment more generally, this article adds to our understandings of the processes through which the mediatization of religion is occurring.

Lost television popular culture religion philosophy mediatization online fans collective intelligence Henry Jenkins

Note to self: Give in to the realization that you will, henceforth, analyze every person on every flight you take for the rest of your life, wondering, if you crash and are stranded on a tropical island full of unexplained phenomena, who will be the leader? (Blankenship 2007)

On 22 September 2004, an impressive number of television viewers willingly entered the surreal world of a group of strangers whose plane crashed on a mysterious and possibly dangerous tropical island. Mystery and suspense, intriguing characters with hidden flaws and an island of smoke monsters and manipulative rival residents (the ‘others’) combined to land the ABC television series Lost (2004–) on the shortlist of favourites among both critics and audiences within weeks of its introduction. Cover stories in Entertainment Weekly, Variety, Time, TV Guide and Newsweek featured the cast; the programme garnered Emmys and People’s Choice awards; parodies emerged on NBC’s Saturday Night Live, Fox’s MadTV and in more amateur YouTube entries; and the programme was even highlighted in the most widely read media studies introductory textbook as a series that made its audience think (Campbell, Martin and Fabos 2007). In addition to strong Nielsen audience ratings, DVD releases of the first three seasons saw strong sales and rentals, and Lost was frequently in the top of the iTunes and ABC.com downloads.

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By the end of the third season, however, the series had seen a significant ratings decline (Jensen 2007). ABC then took the unprecedented course of announcing a fixed end date for the series, thereby promising to Lost fans a final resolution to the programme’s mounting mysteries while also attempting to win new viewers through ‘catch-up’ episodes and renewed promotional efforts. Offering plot summaries for new and returning audiences while promising ultimate resolution seemed an appropriate strategy, for as television scholars Jonathan Gray and Jason Mittell argued, based on their survey of Lost viewers, ‘the best way to experience the complex narrative is for viewers to put their faith in the producers’ ability to deliver the thrills and head-twisting revelations that the show regularly offers’ (Gray and Mittell 2007). By 2008, the series had spawned its own magazine, a series of novelizations and an online scavenger hunt called The Lost Experience, in addition to numerous online forums, blogs, and websites, some of which were directly affiliated with ABC’s parent company and others emerging from enterprising fans. With all of its online content and various series tie-ins, Lost was proclaimed as a triumph of the Internet age: the first television programme to capitalize on the fan participatory culture made possible through the Internet and its related technologies. Indeed, because the programme’s online manifestations helped viewers track the programme’s many clues, word plays and hidden references, they were a model of what media theorist Henry Jenkins (2006), drawing on Pierre Levy (1997), has termed ‘collective intelligence’. As Jenkins explained, ‘None of us know everything. Each of us knows something. And we can put the pieces together if we pool our resources and our skills’ (Jenkins 2006: 4). Convergence culture, Jenkins continued, demonstrates that fans not only work together to make sense of programmes like Lost but as producers listen to fans through these online forums, fans actually exercise some power in directing future content through such discussions. And in the process of contributing to media content, Jenkins (2007) argued, fans learn how to become active in our collective lives together in other arenas as well. To what extent do fans exhibit collective intelligence, especially in specific areas such as knowledge about religion, philosophy and mythology? The programme Lost offers a great deal worthy of discussion with regard to these topics, as evidenced by forums explicitly devoted to its religious and philosophical references (see Marcus 2007b; Lostpedia.com 2008). But do such discussions actually result in greater understanding? Such a goal would certainly be worthy. Prominent scholars have argued that greater tolerance for and understanding of religious and philosophical differences is an increasingly important area for our collective lives together (see Eck 2001; Prothero 2007). And many consider the Internet an emergent public space that holds the potential for bringing together people from divergent backgrounds for increased understanding and cooperation (Castells 2000; Rheingold 2000). Finding common ground across difference is an important predictor of a satisfying communication encounter between people of differing backgrounds (Chen 1998), and it may be that interactions across difference are likely to take place in relation to 144

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discussions of popular culture (Lizardo 2006). Moreover, intercultural communication theorists have found that people who have a high tolerance for ambiguity might be particularly well suited for conversations that cross differences of nation, race and culture (Chen 1998; Miller and Samp 2007). With its unresolved tensions and cryptic plotlines, it may be that the religious, philosophical and mythic referents in Lost provide fodder for discussions of religious difference that increase understanding in a religiously plural world. Thus, online forums devoted to Lost hold the potential to appeal to people who are interested in contributing to and learning from collective intelligence about religion and philosophy as they enhance their enjoyment of the programme. To what extent, then, might this process of contributing to collective intelligence about religion and philosophy in relation to a ‘smart’ television programme like Lost result in changes in how those participants interact in our collective experience more broadly conceived? In other words, do people seem to learn skills online that translate into our collective lives together, as Jenkins (2007) has suggested? If there is evidence for this kind of learning that results in social change, it might be argued that online interactions contribute to mediatization processes, or the processes through which social and cultural activities and interactions gradually come to be shaped by media environments that they then become increasingly dependent upon (Hjarvard 2007). Analysis of more than 500 online entries devoted to the television programme Lost revealed that some fans do discuss the religious, philosophical and mythical references of the programme, and in some cases they do gain greater understanding. There is scant evidence that they learn skills directly translatable to our collective lives, however. Still, this article will argue that there is evidence of mediatization processes, although perhaps in a less direct way than the theory of collective intelligence might imply. This article found that when people believe they are posting about Lost’s religious and philosophical references in a context that may include persons from a variety of religious and philosophical commitments (as is the case in public online forums), they do so within a norm of tolerance and curiosity. The television programme Lost does not actively promote this norm, but the programme may appeal to those who already embrace it. Moreover, through online discussions, participants become aware of and then operate within that norm. When Lost’s producers read contributions to these online forums, they become aware of this norm of tolerance and curiosity and of their need to remain within it in order to continue to appeal to their core audiences (although such awareness of norms on the part of producers or online contributors is rarely conscious). In this more limited sense, then, this article will argue that popular culture may contribute to the mediatization of religion not only because religion and philosophy are increasingly represented in media or are increasingly discussed in our collective lives as a result of fan activities, but because through public online forums, people come to recognize and act within certain norms when it comes to religion and philosophy. In the case of Lost, online participants learn that religion and philosophical differences are most appropriately discussed within norms of tolerance and curiosity – which, NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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in turn, influences future representational decision-making on the part of producers. The mediatization of religion, in this case, refers to the ways in which popular culture may provide a venue through which people can consider and to some extent consensually agree upon the norms that govern representations and interactions that relate to religious and philosophical differences. To use the phrase of Newcomb and Hirsch (1994), mediatization may be conceptualized as the process through which television, webbased materials and other forms of popular culture have become a ‘cultural forum’ for debates about cultural values.

Lost and the mediatization of religion Mediatization has become an interesting way to theorize the transformative role of the media within social life in the contemporary period (Hepp 2007; Hjarvard 2006; Mandaville 2007). Schulz (2004) proposed four different aspects of mediatization: (1) media extend the natural limits of human communication capacities; (2) the media provide a substitute for social activities and social institutions; (3) media amalgamate with various non-media activities in social life; and (4) actors and organizations of all sectors of society accommodate to the media logic. Mediatization, therefore, refers to both the processes by which social organizations, structures or industries take on the form of the media, and the processes by which genres of popular culture become central to the narratives of social phenomena. Applying the concept of mediatization to the analysis of religious change, Hjarvard (2006) observed: The media facilitate changes in the amount, content, and direction of religious messages in society, at the same time as they transform religious representations and challenge and replace the authority of the institutionalized religions. Through these processes, religion as a social and cultural activity has become mediatized. (Hjarvard 2006: 5)

In recent years, a number of US studies have explored processes of mediatization in relation to religion. These studies have largely considered the practices of individuals and groups that self-identify as religious, and the commercially available religious phenomena they consume. Hendershot (2004) argued that the Religious Right’s enthusiastic embrace of the media for their own purposes resulted in the negation of the purported distinctiveness between evangelical and North American culture. Warren (2005) similarly argued that the popular video series Veggie Tales, originally an outgrowth of the US evangelical desire to socialize children into the fold through religious products, ultimately echoed the norms of North American culture. Sullivan (2005) traced the changes in Catholic identity practices that were reflected in and propelled by mainstream media of the 1950s and 1960s. McCloud (2003) looked at how media coverage of new religious movements shaped how subsequent religious movements were understood. Einstein (2007) considered how various US religions have employed branding techniques to adapt to the commercial marketplace, a topic also addressed in relation to concerns of religion, market and national identity in Clark (2007).

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Exploring mediatization through the religious practices of individuals and their patterns of media consumption, Hoover (2006) argued that the plethora of media available for consumption feeds the trend toward ‘seeker’ religion. Also in tracing the religious practices of individuals in relation to media consumption, Hjarvard and his colleagues surveyed more than one thousand adults in Denmark (Hjarvard 2006). They found that whereas most conversations about spirituality, faith and religion occur among family members and close friends (30 per cent), more than 25 per cent of those surveyed noted that they engaged with questions of spirituality, faith or religion through television programmes, films, non-fiction books and the Internet. This is especially interesting given the secular nature of Danish society. What does such engagement with spirituality, faith and religion mean for individuals and religious groups? Surely, viewers and readers of popular culture have been enchanted with fictional narratives that contain religious or spiritual referents, such as the popular Lord of the Rings (2001–03) and The Matrix series (1999–2003) and Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code (2006). Earlier research into popular teen narratives of the supernatural found that there are indeed reasons to believe that such enchantment can shape religious imaginations for young people in some contexts (Clark 2003, 2005, 2006). Yet earlier research, focused on individual and familial levels, did not explore how processes of enchantment relate to emerging norms regarding the increasingly plural religious and cultural landscape in which we live. This is an important area of concern for those interested in how the processes of mediatization are shaping the collective lives of society’s members. Through an analysis of how online fans share collective intelligence regarding religious and philosophical references in the television programme Lost, therefore, this article sets out to explore the processes through which religion and philosophy become mediatized, as norms about representing and discussing religion and philosophy are increasingly shaped and reinforced in venues related to the media rather than in venues related to religious institutions.

Methods: cultural analysis and qualitative methodologies Over the past few decades, studies of media audiences have been guided by an understanding of audience members as participants in interpretive communities, who in turn are constituted as audiences by the media industries (Ang 1985; Fish 1980; Lemish 2004; Meehan 2007; Naficy 1993). Most audience research in media studies has been concerned with identity construction (Jenkins 1992; Mazzarella and Pecora 1999), although some scholars continue to study the processes of ideological reproduction as it occurs in relation to media consumption practices (Andrejevic 2003; Seiter 1999). Within these approaches, scholars embrace a methodology that brings traditional textual analysis into conversation with interviews and, more recently, with discourse analysis of collective online forums in order to understand processes of cultural production (Baym 1999; Clark 2003; Gray and Mittell 2007; Murphy 2005). This study engaged in a similar discursive analysis of online discussions about the television programme Lost, exploring interactions and NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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statements made about the programme’s religious and philosophical references in online forums and on personal web pages. The project followed what Schneider and Foot (2004, 2005) have termed ‘Web sphere analysis’, in which the Web sphere is conceptualized as ‘not simply a collection of websites, but as a hyperlinked set of dynamically defined digital resources spanning multiple websites deemed relevant or related to a central theme or “object”’. Web sphere analysis explores ‘the structural and feature elements of websites, hypertexts, and the links between them’ (Schneider and Foot 2004: 116; see also Foot 2006). Web sphere analysis also acknowledges the dynamism of the Web, where pages may change from day to day and researchers may uncover new links and sites as the study unfolds. Web sphere analysis can be related to the semiotic analysis Klaus Bruhn Jensen (1995) identified as ‘super-themes’, a term that references the ideological and cultural frameworks through which people interpret news stories, thus locating meaning within interpretive communities. Thus, when Lost fans contribute something that eventually becomes part of the Lost ‘Web sphere’, they are making certain assumptions about how to understand the topic. The way the web pages are interconnected through blogs, forums, comments pages and other materials suggests an organizational pattern that also recognizes underlying themes and relationships. For my sample, I analysed conversations about religion, philosophy and related topics as they occurred in 18 online forums and 28 blogs, and in the ‘comments’ sections of 14 online locales related to books and news articles about Lost. In addition to searching for blogs and online forum discussions using Google search strings such as ‘lost and religion’, ‘lost and spirituality’, ‘lost and philosophy’, I also searched on the titles of key episodes that explicitly referenced or depicted something related to religion or philosophy, as bloggers and posters often grouped their comments in relation to specific episodes. More than 500 online entries were reviewed in the public online forums: lost.com, lost-tv.com, tv.com/lost, abc.go.com/ primetime/lost, lost-media.com, losthatch.com, oceanicflight815.com, tvsquad. com/category/lost, lost.cubit.net, lostlounge.tv, and losttv-forum.com, among others. Online entries mentioning Lost’s religious and philosophical references also appeared in the comments sections related to stories about the programme from news outlets ranging from the New York Times to beliefnet.com, and in other philosophically themed public blogs, including internetinfidels.com and philosophynow.com. Religious and philosophical references to Lost were also located and reviewed in several personal blogs, identified here as ‘fansites’ to protect anonymity. Entries were analysed and coded according to religious and philosophical references including ‘Christian’, ‘Buddhist,’ ‘Islam’, ‘other’, ‘Greek/Roman mythology’ and ‘general discussion of religion’.

Findings: religion, myth and philosophy in Lost In the world of Lost there are several obvious religious, philosophical and mythical referents that occur in relation to the characters. Three characters are named for the philosophers John Locke, David Hume (Desmond), and Jean-Jacques Rousseau (Danielle). The only baby on the island is Aaron, whose name is discussed in one episode in relation to 148

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Moses (in the Talmud and Old Testament, Aaron is Moses’ brother). And the story of Desmond and his desire to reunite with his long-lost love named Penelope after a worldwide journey across the sea calls to mind Homer’s epic The Odyssey. Other names from Greek mythology are found on one of the island’s hidden stations, the Hydra (the monster Hercules battled), and on the security system named Cerberus (the threeheaded dog said to guard the gates of Hades). Additionally, episodes titled ‘Exodus’ and ‘The 23rd Psalm’ bring to mind sacred scriptures within the Jewish and Christian traditions. Numerous other references have been located and catalogued by the programme’s fans (see, for example, http://lostpedia.com/wiki/Religion). Although most of the island’s inhabitants are not explicitly religious, a few are depicted in relation to a faith commitment. Sayid, a former member of the Iraqi Republican Guard, is twice depicted in the Muslim practice of Salaat, or daily prayer; Rose, a US Christian, references prayer and at one point prays with Charlie, the lapsed Catholic who is a former Australian rock star and a recovering heroin addict. Hurley, the hapless lottery winner, was raised by a devout Roman Catholic mother. Eko, a Nigerian drug runner, assumed the religious identity of his brother, the (possibly Anglican) priest. Desmond, who developed psychic powers after a strange magnetic blast, was at one time a practising novice in a monastery. John Locke, whose legs were miraculously healed upon landing on the island, seems at times to articulate Buddhist teachings. Locke also built a sweat lodge on the island (on the spot where Eko had first begun to build a church) where he experienced a kind of vision quest. In the fourth season, the cryptic Matthew Abbadon introduces himself as an employee of the doomed Oceanic Airlines – Abbadon being a Hebrew word from scripture associated with the destruction of the apocalypse. Also significant in the religious and philosophical references within the programme are the mentions of the Dharma initiative, revealed to be a psychological experiment with utopian themes and depicted in several places on the island with the wheel of destiny from the I Ching. Moreover, the programme’s narrative addresses themes in relation to redemption, purgatory, forgiveness and karma. For the general audience, these references offer a lot to decode and digest. Not all of the programme’s online fans were interested in discussing the religious, philosophical and mythical dimensions of the programme, and not all fans recognized the referents. Patterns emerged in the ways fans discussed the various religious, mythical and philosophical referents in the programme, however: (1) the references to Christianity were the most easily decipherable, but also the most problematic and generated the greatest discussion; (2) references to Islam and Judaism, in contrast, were perhaps the least commented upon; (3) references to ancient Greek mythology were discussed in relation to literary references, whereas references to Roman, Egyptian, Sumerian and Norse mythology only appeared in the ‘official’ lostpedia entry on religion and ideology; and (4) within fan discussions, references to Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism and philosophy were the most puzzling. These patterns are discussed in more detail below with reference to the unfolding of the Lost narrative and its relation NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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to an emergent norm of tolerance and curiosity with regard to discussions of religious and cultural representations.

‘Redemption Island’ In the first two seasons, Christian bloggers quickly picked up on the references to their faith embedded in Lost. Within a month of its premiere, HollywoodJesus.com had posted a review of the series, noting its theme of redemption (Broaddus 2004). Later that same month (October 2004), another amateur film reviewer observed, ‘I’d call it more Redemption Island than the Island of Second Chances [ … ] characters may be redeemed from being on the island’ (Rotten Tomatoes 2004). Lynette Porter and David Lavery’s book, Unlocking the Meaning of Lost (2006), included two chapters devoted to spirituality and the subject of redemption in the series. Just before the premiere of the second season, Christian film and television critic David Buckna (2005) penned what became a widely circulated quiz of twenty questions that highlighted the Christian references in the programme’s first season. The quiz noted Charlie’s struggle with heroin addiction and his visit to a confessional, and also pointed out that the last name of central character Jack was Shepard. In his desire to highlight the Christian imagery in the programme Buckna noted: One of the recurring numbers on the show is 23. Psalm 23 begins ‘The Lord is my shepherd…’ Jack and his fellow passengers board Oceanic Airlines Flight 815 (8 + 15 = 23) at gate 23, and [he] was assigned seat 23B. (Buckna 2005)

The quiz also included more dubious connections, such as an alleged link between Claire’s necklace with its Chinese symbol ‘ai’ (love) and a reference to Christian scripture. Buckna posted his quiz into the comments section of many forums and blogs referencing Lost. Christian ministers such as Jollyblogger and rhettsmith posted the quiz on their blogs without comment. By the premiere of the third season, Buckna’s quiz had been expanded to 101 questions in order to include new Christian references, and when (Los Angeles) Daily News television critic David Kronke (2006) received a copy of the expanded quiz, he reposted it on his blog with the comment, ‘If you get a passing grade on this quiz (without cheating), you should seriously consider getting psychiatric attention.’ About.com’s Bonnie Covel (2007 also highlighted the expanded version in her online compendium of Lost resources. Yet by the second season, some viewers were quite frustrated with the idea that all of the mysteries of Lost might be explained within a Christian framework. As one self-described non-Christian blogger wrote in response to Buckna’s third season update, ‘I’m sorry, but if this show turns out to revolve around one particular religious belief, I may have to stop watching [… ] If it’s all about sin and redemption, it was a long road to nowhere, IMO …’ (Anonymous 2006). Others expressed frustration at the attempt to read Lost as a Christian allegory. When Christian Piatt’s book LOST: A Search for Meaning (2006) was released early in the third season, one Amazon.com reviewer deemed it ‘a preachy bore’, calling the

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Christian reading ‘nebulous’ and accusing Piatt of committing a fan’s unforgiveable sin: he got many of the series’ facts wrong (Piatt comment 2007). Yet not all references to Christian allegory were treated so harshly. Late in the third season on one fan site, a self-avowed ‘newbie’ who confessed that her knowledge of Christianity was primarily informed by Jesus Christ Superstar and The Da Vinci Code, put forward the theory that the island may be an allegory for the New Testament, with Jack cast as Jesus, Kate as Mary Magdalene, Ben as Pontius Pilate and so forth. A first responder wrote generously, ‘Although I think that theory is really interesting, I highly doubt that is where the show is going’, noting the many threads in the programme that seemed unrelated to Christianity: the listening station with men speaking Portuguese, the utopian society, the possibility of genetic mutation (Fansite 2007). Another agreed, noting, ‘you can easily integrate many religious or cultural beliefs into Lost, that’s what has made this a great show’. This example illustrates that the way in which such referents could be interpreted with a specific agenda, rather than the Christian referents themselves, were the problem. The Christian referents in the series did indeed become particularly overt in the second season. A downed plane on the island was discovered to hold a very enigmatic set of objects: statues of the Virgin Mary that contained heroin. The statues were part of an ingenious plan hatched by priest-poseur former drug smuggler Eko – who, upon landing on the island, began to assume the role rather than merely the costume of his brother, who had been a priest (episode: ‘Fire + Water’). In a key episode, Charlie had a dream featuring his mother and Claire who demanded that he must ‘save the baby’. Dressed as angels in blues, golds and reds, the image reproduced the Andrea del Verrochio painting, The Baptism of Christ. Eko interpreted this dream for Charlie in relation to a Christian framework, leading to his baptism of Claire and her baby, Aaron. Explanations of this imagistic quotation of

Figure 1: In a scene from Lost that received mixed reviews, Claire and her baby Aaron were baptised on the island by Mr Eko, a former drug runner that fellow island residents believed was a priest. NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Renaissance and Baroque art appeared in online fan locations such as lost.cubit.net, losthatch.com and in several individual blogs. And shortly after the episode featuring the baptism, someone began a thread titled, ‘Anyone else mildly pissed off at the overemphasis of religion in Lost?’ on ‘Internet Infidels’, which proclaims itself to be the ‘Secular Web: A Drop of Reason in a Pool of Confusion’ (Internet Infidels 2005). In reply to one question, ‘Why did religion have to creep in and screw this show up???’ Another replied diplomatically, Eh, didn’t bother me. A lot of people are Christian, it would make sense that you’d have at least a few Christians who would want the baby baptized on the island. Besides, consider that the Christian who did the baptism was a murderer and drug runner [ …] I have no doubt plenty of Christians were pissed off about how their religion was portrayed in Lost. (Internet Infidels 2005)

Another added, ‘I was fine with Rose being religious, and Eko being religious [ … ] but “converting” Claire rubs me the wrong way’ (Internet Infidels 2005). This prompted another measured response: I’m waiting to see where they go with it before I decide whether or not to get annoyed. It’s true that they’ve had much in the way of Biblical allusions and religious symbolism so far, but that doesn’t automatically mean that the show is promoting religion [… ] Charlie was raised in the Catholic faith, so it’s not surprising his vision would be cloaked in religious imagery. (Internet Infidels 2005)

Another agreed: ‘The religious stuff doesn’t bother me as long as it’s interesting’, and another replied: ‘I don’t feel any fundie overtones from the show’ (Internet Infidels 2005). These discussions of religious representation are particularly interesting in that they appear in a forum to which self-identified atheists and agnostics post. They suggest that even those least likely to be entertained by religious references did not find those representations problematic, as long as they remained consistent with the programme’s characters and plotline. Contributors to a different forum were frustrated that some fans seemed to want to dismiss the Christian dimensions of the series: not because they themselves were believers, but because they felt that Christian imagery played such an obvious role in the series. Late in the second season, one contributor wrote, ‘Absolutely equal to the scientific portion of the show is the faith aspect. No one’s [sic] saying you have to believe in religion, just understand how it may correlate to the scientific principals [sic] being shown’ (Lost.com 2006). Another responded in agreement: There’s no way religion or its baby brother psychotherapy aren’t important here [ …]. What we need is a clear-minded discussion of the role of religion in LOST [ …] If one were to not recognize the religious importance in the series then they would be missing out on a great part of it all. That’s part of the beauty of the show, and the reason it sucks the more intelligent of us in. (Lost.com 2006)

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In these statements, fans of the programme seemed to defend the right to discuss the religious referents that appeared in Lost, arguing that doing so increased understanding and was not akin to promoting a particular faith aggressively. The fact that online contributors made these statements indicates their feeling that any discussions of Christianity might be considered part of the strong-armed tactics of the Religious Right. Fans seemed to want to distance themselves from those hard-line devotees, even as they repositioned Lost’s religious referents in relation to the ‘intelligence’ required to solve the programme’s mysteries. Those fans who wrote online did seem to enjoy self-identifying as ‘intelligent’. Few of these fans, however, seemed to notice the lack of Jews in the programme: at least, until Lilit Marcus posted an article on Beliefnet.com to that effect early in the third season (Marcus 2006). ‘I’m not asking for a whole subgroup (on the island) – just some representation,’ she wrote, adding, tongue-in-cheek, Slap a Chai necklace on someone. Give one of the background characters a yarmulke and make sure the audience notices. By the end of the episode, there will be at least eight websites devoted to what the yarmulke might mean and what role it plays in the mythology of the show.

During the midseason break in year three, one person started a thread in the ‘lostaways’ forum of lost.tv titled, ‘Nu, such a mechaiyeh! (aka The Nice Jewish Thread)’ (Nu 2007). Rather than mentioning Marcus’s article or main point, however, the vast majority of the over 100 posts in the thread were devoted to humorous trading of Yiddish expressions. Jewish fans of Lost had apparently found one another online, if not in the series itself. Beliefnet blog contributor Lilit Marcus made an online observation about Sayid, Lost’s Muslim Iraqi, a few months further into season three. She wrote: For one episode, (Sayid) got a semblance of peace because he was compassionate and fair. He showed mercy where none was deserved, which is significant for a guy who has spent far too many scenes getting shot and torturing others. (Marcus 2007a)

In season one, Sayid, a former expert in military torture, had prayed in a mosque as a means of infiltrating a former friend’s terrorist cell. Yet Sayid’s religious background did not emerge in other posts, save in one thread titled, ‘Will the island know it’s Christmas?’ One contributor responded, ‘They didn’t celebrate Halloween. Not to mention that it’s assumed that Sayid, Jin and Sun aren’t Christian so are less likely to celebrate a Christian holiday’ (lost-forum.com 2007).

Dharma, karma and enlightenment Notwithstanding the lack of Jews and the singular Muslim, by the end of the second season, it was clear that another religion had gained prominence in the mythology of Lost: Buddhism. Viewers first saw the number ‘108’ in the first episode of the second season, painted on the wall on the inside of the hatch (episode: ‘Man of Science, Man of Faith’). The logo NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Figure 2: In a flashback within an episode of Lost, a sign with the Buddhist/ Hindu greeting ‘Namaste!’ welcomed early visitors to the island and to the Dharma Initiative. for the Dharma Initiative was then introduced in the following episode (episode: ‘Adrift’), and in an orientation film featuring an Asian doctor who ended his message with the Indian greeting, ‘Namaste’, a phrase with religious overtones which means, ‘I recognize the divinity in you’. The word ‘Dharma’ comes from a Sanskrit word meaning ‘to hold’, and the word refers to holding a person to his or her purpose or moral duty. Hinduism’s use of the word refers to one’s obligation with respect to caste, custom or law, whereas in Buddhism Dharma refers to the duty to undertake a pattern of conduct advocated by the Buddha in order to reach enlightenment. It also refers to ‘The Path of the Teaching’, or ‘the journey of the student that ends ultimately in the alleviation of suffering and/or the undoing of karma’ (lost.about.com 2007; see also Tamney 1998; Venugopal 1998). The Dharma Initiative’s logos, which appeared in several episodes in seasons two, three and four, featured a wheel of destiny from the I Ching. Occasionally viewers also saw a dharmacakra, which lostpedia.com identifies as an 8-spoked wheel representing the eightfold path to enlightenment in Buddhism and Hinduism (Lostpedia. com 2008). By midway through the second season, critics and fans had begun to pick up on the references to Buddhism within Lost. Writing for the Buddhist magazine Tricycle, Dean Sluyter penned an article on the subject that noted the many symbolic references to the process of awakening within the series, including the dilating pupils in the opening shots of season one and season two, and the references to light and dark and to ancient wisdom. ‘What’s going on here?’ he wrote. ‘Is mainstream TV really making a meaningful foray into the Buddhist world? Or is it merely rummaging through the thrift shop of Buddhist terminology for the odd hat or trinket in which to play dress-up?’ (Sluyter 2007). He then pointed out the significance of the number 108: ‘maintaining mindfulness in increments of 108 being a familiar activity, of course, to anyone who 154

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has used a standard 108-bead mala to count off repetitions of mantra’ (Sluyter 2007). He also argued that the character John Locke is represented as a Buddha of sorts: he taught young Walt that the seeming struggle of dark and light was a mere game of changing perspectives; he noted that other survivors needed to relinquish efforts at control; and he sat cross-legged in peace and total acceptance at the prospect of changing weather. As fans learned of his pre-plane crash background as a frustrated office worker and his embrace of new life on the island, Sluyter pointed out, we see that ‘Yes, even schmendricks like us may rise to be bodhisattvas’. The very idea of being lost, Sluyter argued, is central to the Buddhist concept of enlightenment: ‘we must be willing to get lost, to cast off the moorings of what we know or think we know’, and in the sense that the series continues to lead its audience into its mysteries, it ‘has provided a kind of mass-audience quasi-meditative experience’ for its viewers, he argued. Chicago Tribune writer Maureen Ryan highlighted Sluyter’s article shortly after its initial publication (Ryan 2006). Unlike the tongue-in-cheek ‘Where are the Jews?’ article published nearly four months earlier, ‘The Buddhism of Lost’ article was not only republished on beliefnet.org but also quickly made the rounds on the Web, with more than twenty Lostrelated bloggers linking to it to their sites in the two months that followed the Tribune article. Despite the article, and unlike the overt Christian references in the television programme, it seemed to take more time for the English-language online fans to sort through the Buddhist references in Lost. ‘Several of the sayings seem to have a Buddhist flavor (didn’t one say something like ‘we cause all our own problems?’)’, one blogger observed midway through the third season on a blog called Completely ‘Lost’ (Fansite 2006). Around the same time on another blog, a viewer made a similar observation: ‘The Buddhist references in this show permeate everything.’ He supported his argument with the fact that several of the crash survivors seemed to be interconnected, mentioning also the prominence of the number 108, The Dharma Initiative, illusions, desire and reincarnation: Locke, the Bald Buddhist Monk in the group, repeats instructions to ‘Let Go’ and goes with the flow of things. And one thing that Buddhism is huge on [… ] Karma from your past life having a direct effect on suffering in your present circumstances (i.e. Fate) until you rectify your misdeeds. Every character in this show has some dark past … (Lostwiki 2006)

On a different forum related to lost.com, toward the end of the third season, a viewer wrote that he had become curious about ‘the Dharma thing’ and had looked it up. He then pasted in some information on Buddhism including material that noted that ‘Dharma’ was the method of eliminating ignorance by practising the Buddha’s teachings. ‘If we integrate Buddha’s teaching into our daily life, we will be able to solve all our inner problems and attain a truly peaceful mind’ (lost.com 2007). Unfortunately, this writer did not elaborate on how he believed that this material related to Lost (2004–). NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Another blogger noted late in the third season that she was beginning to see the benefits to the theory that the island was ‘some sort of Buddhist Shangri-La’ (Fansite 2007). On the official Lost forum at ABC.com, in a location where fans are encouraged to share their theories, 713 people gave approving ratings to an early third-season post that pointed to the importance of Buddhism in the unfolding developments on the island. After several months of discussion in this forum, a new poster added this comment: ‘I am a Buddhist and I can tell you that 108 is NOT “the most sacred number …”’ (Cub3d 2007). A few weeks later, another poster added this correction: In response to Jim Cub3d stating that he’s Buddhist and that 108 is not the most sacred number. The number 108 comes up repeatedly in Hinduism and Buddhism. My father is a Buddhist and I have learned dharma and meditated for years. A traditional mala (like a rosary) has 108 beads. Malas are used for reciting mantras. The 108 beads are said to represent the number of human desires we must conquer to find enlightenment. Also it’s said that there are 108 energy lines that make up the heart chakra [ …] 108 is an auspicious number. (Abc.lost.com 2007)

Two other posters who self-identified as Buddhists confirmed the belief that there are 108 desires one must overcome in the pursuit of enlightenment. Other posters added these comments: ‘Notice [that] everyone in the original Dharma group greeted each other [with] “Namis dai” – not sure if that is the original spelling, but it means how are you in Indian which is where Hinduism started’ (Abc.lost.com 2007). And weeks after a lengthy discussion of the numbers and other aspects of Buddhism, another poster wrote this: In Ben’s flashback when it showed Ben arriving on the island, Ben’s dad and someone else said ‘Namaste’ to each other and then shook hands. I wondered what it meant and so I went on Google and typed in Namaste and found out it is a term used in the religion Wicka [sic] to greet someone. So now I’m starting to think the others have something to do with Wicka [sic]. I really hope the show doesn’t turn out to be supporting Wicka. That would suck! I’m a Christian, NOT a Wickan. (Abc.lost.com 2007)

As is clear from these posted comments, there are some interesting exchanges about Buddhism that have occurred because of references within the programme. There is also evidence of continued misreadings and opportunities online for people to find information that supports their world-view (for example, that Wicca is problematic for Christianity, in a post that somehow overlooked Buddhism or conflated it with Wicca). This makes an earlier comment in this forum by Jim Cub3d seem especially relevant: When a mystery or puzzle is presented in popular culture, the authors have to present a solution that can be understood by the audience once it’s revealed, something they can relate to, something they can go back and see how ‘that makes sense now’ or ‘Sure, I should have seen that!’ Basing a TV show puzzle

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on esoteric Buddhist or Hindu arcana probably doesn’t fill the bill. Interesting how these things fit, sure; but I can’t believe ABC would be asking its viewers to piece together something absolutely none of them have a snowball’s chance in hell of piecing together. (Cub3d 2007)

This last contribution commented not only on the Buddhist references within the series, but also on the implausibility of a television network employing Buddhist references as key aspects to a plotline.

Discussion: popular television and the mediatization of religion This article set out to explore the role of the media in transforming society from one of comfortable distance between religious cultures to one of increased interaction with and desire for understanding among differing cultures. Relying upon theories that suggest popular culture may provide common ground across differences of nation, culture and religion, the article reviewed how fans of the television programme Lost built collective intelligence as they discussed the references to religion, philosophy and myth in various online locations. Several patterns emerged within these online discussions. First, it is evident that many of the English-speaking fans brought some understanding of Christianity to the series (even if it was from Jesus Christ Superstar and The Da Vinci Code), and this informed their ability to decipher at least the more overt Christian references in the early seasons. Second, surprisingly few seemed to comment on the fact that Sayid, the series’ sole Muslim, practised his faith even when he carried out some despicable duties. Third, few commented on the lack of Jews. Fourth, it is notable that Buddhism’s entrance into the series occurred not through a character, but in relation to the ongoing mysteries of the island itself, suggesting that there may have been a religious/philosophical reason for the Dharma experiments, and perhaps even for the ‘lostaways’ state on the island. The fact that Buddhism was only vaguely recognized by the series’ fans may have heightened the programme’s mysterious, exotic appeal, reinforcing Buddhism as an emergent and important ‘other’ in the context of US faith and philosophical traditions. In order to continue appealing to both its devoted fan base and its wider collection of less-invested viewers, the creators of Lost must employ religious and philosophical references in ways that reflect, but do not challenge, viewers’ core assumptions. In reviewing the online conversations of religious representation, therefore, we gain insights into what those core assumptions might be. Christianity, while a recognizable source of imagery and symbolism for many in the audience, is not embraced unequivocally by viewers, as demonstrated by responses to online evangelical quizzes and other attempts to interpret the programme as a Christian allegory. On the other hand, dismissals of the programme’s allusions to Christianity were met with equally passionate concern. Fan consensus suggested that Christianity could be a source of allusions within the series as long as those allusions did not support a narrow viewpoint: namely, that of evangelical Christianity and its penchant for conversion or its claims to unequivocal truth. NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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It is interesting to note that some representations of Christianity seemed to go unquestioned in the series, such as Desmond’s stint in a monastery, Charlie’s visit to a confessional and Eko’s decision to assume his brother’s role as a priest. On the other hand, online fans seemed disgruntled about what they interpreted as Claire’s ‘conversion’ and the positive portrayal of Aaron’s baptism as a resolution to Charlie’s perceived problem. Fans also expressed mixed feelings about representations of Rose as a spiritually expressive African American woman, and several mentioned a distaste for Eko as a negatively coded African American man using religion for his own purposes. This reveals that certain representations are more consensually accepted than others, providing insight into norms governing Christianity’s discussion and representation with respect to race and gender. In contrast to the heightened awareness of Christian imagery in the programme, fewer online discussions centred on representations of Sayid as a Muslim or the lack of Jews on the island, even among fans who were self-identified as Jewish or Muslim. When Buddhism and eastern philosophical traditions emerged in the third season, online fans seemed intrigued but often perplexed and sometimes downright befuddled. Indeed, as one fan suggested, the lack of familiarity with Buddhism among the US population in effect relegated Buddhism to a side interest. The series could lose its casual viewers if its mysteries involved references to a philosophical system that was remote to the majority. Fans and viewers do not directly construct the narratives of a series like Lost – but increasingly, their desire to invest in online joint interpretation strategies of ‘collective intelligence’ may help to dictate the direction and level of complexity such a series can embrace. Message boards, forums, blogs and other forms of expression have become sites for thoughtful discussions about religion that cross faith commitments in a quest to understand and enjoy the narratives of prime time television. Perhaps it is not coincidental that the producers, known for reading the online discussions of fans, made several key decisions over the course of the third season (spoiler alert!): Eko was killed, and later Charlie, removing all referents to Catholic and Anglican religious culture save references to Desmond’s past in a monastery. In one online discussion venue, viewers said that the most intriguing mysteries of Lost included the reasons for Desmond’s psychic abilities, the black smoke monster, the significance of Claire’s baby Aaron, and the numbers (BuddyTv.com 2007) – all of which have been associated with religious referents that may or may not have added meaning for the programme’s viewers. While there is evidence of mediatization of religion and the collective intelligence regarding religion and philosophy, the data here point to the fact that it is limited in several ways: first, those who choose to participate and those who do not choose to participate in these discussions limit the scope; second, it is limited by norms in online fan communities that privilege short over long entries and distant rather than engaged communication; and third, perhaps most centrally, by the lack of interest in delving more deeply in difference. Put simply, the barriers are too high for meaningful intercultural conversations in online fan communities. 158

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This does not eliminate discussions of popular culture from intercultural communication efforts; it merely points to the fact that rarely do meaningful exchanges happen online. Future research needs to explore how intentional efforts to build intercultural and interreligious conversations can be fostered through the common ground of fandom in relation to television programmes. Similar conversations are already taking place with regard to the mediatization of politics and programmes such as The Daily Show. How might popular culture similarly provide common ground for discussions across religious and cultural differences? This is an especially crucial time for such explorations, as fear-based interactions grow and positive intercultural communication is needed more than ever.

Conclusion This article has illustrated the many ways in which online fans of the television programme Lost contribute to processes of collective intelligence. Due to the limits of online communication, however, the article also highlighted the limitations in how participants might engender skills directly translatable to our collective lives together. Although this highlights limits of the collective intelligence concept, the article does provide evidence of the processes of the mediatization of religion. First, programmes like Lost evoke religious symbolism and narratives within contexts that are outside the bounds of what is normally considered ‘religious’; second, by reframing traditional religious symbols and narratives within these new contexts, they create a means by which to understand religion through the lens of popular culture. Third, such programmes extend considerations of religion into locations outside of religious institutions. Finally, mediatization can be said to occur as a result of the emergence of norms in public online forums that reflect, and perhaps shape, norms of discussion that are occurring throughout society and that in turn shape popular cultural representations. Based on the data from this study, I argue that mediatization is in part constituted as popular entertainment producers increase the scope of religious- and cultural-mediated representation of the plural religious environment within these norms, illustrated in the popularity of Lost as it delved into a vast array of religious, philosophical and mythological referents. The mediatization of religion, in this case, refers to the ways in which popular culture may provide a venue through which people come to consensually agree upon the norms that govern representations and interactions that relate to religious and philosophical differences. To the extent that this process of norm-making about representations of religion and philosophy occurs outside the formal institutions of religion, this article has observed one aspect of the processes of the mediatization that, in turn, are shaping our religious and cultural environment. References ABC.Lost.com (2007), http://ABC.Lost.com. Accessed 20 October 2007. Andrejevic, M. (2003), Reality Television: The Work of Being Watched, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publisher, Inc. Ang, I. (1985), Watching Dallas: Soap Opera and the Melodramatic Imagination, London: Methuen.

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Hjarvard, S. (2006), ‘The Mediatization of Religion: A Theory of the Media as an Agent of Religious Change’, paper presented to the 5th International Conference on Media, Religion and Culture, Uppsala, Sweden. 6–8 July 2006. ———— (2007), ‘Changing Media, Changing Language’, paper presented to the annual meeting of the International Communication Association, San Francisco, California. Hoover, S. (2006), The Religion of the Media Age, New York: Routledge. Internet Infidels (2005), Thread on Lost originally posted at http://www.iidb.org/ vbb/archive/index.php/t-152179.html. No longer available. Jenkins, H. (1992), Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Cultures, London: Routledge. ———— (2006), Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide, Cambridge, MA: New York University Press. ———— (2007), ‘The Moral Economy of Web 2.0: Reconsidering the Relations Between Producers and Consumers’, keynote presentation to the Association of Internet Researchers Conference (AoIR), Vancouver, Canada, 19 October. Jensen, J. (2007), ‘“Lost” in Transition’, Entertainment Weekly, 20 April, available at http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20034817,00.html. Accessed 20 October 2007. Jensen, K.B. (1995), The Social Semiotics of Mass Communication, London: Sage. Jollyblogger (2006), Comment dated 25 July, available at http://jollyblogger.typepad. com/jollyblogger/2004/11/lost_tv_show_ab.html. Accessed 29 August 2007. Kronke, D. (2006), ‘Lost Souls’, in The Mayor of Television blog, available at http://www.insidesocal.com/tv/2006/09/lost_souls.html, Accessed 29 October 2007. Lang, M. (2006), ‘Lost as the Neo-Baroque’, Lost Online Studies 1: 3, http://www. loststudies.com/1.3/neobaroque.html. Accessed 29 October 2007. Lemish, D. (2004), ‘My Kind of Campfire: The Eurovision Song Contest and Israeli Gay Men’, Popular Communication 2: 1, pp. 41–63. Levy, P. (1997), Collective Intelligence: Mankind’s Emerging World in Cyberspace, New York: Plenum Trade. Lizardo, O. (2006), ‘How Cultural Tastes Shape Personal Networks’, American Sociological Review, 71: 5, pp. 778–807. Lost.about.com (2007), http://lost.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ/Ya&sdn= lost&cdn=entertainment&tm=14&f=00&tt=14&bt=1&bts=1&zu=http%3A//www. lostpedia.com/wiki/DHARMA_logos. Accessed 29 April 2007. Lost.com (2006), http://lost.com. Accessed 29 October 2007. Lost-forum.com (2007), http://lost-forum.com/showthread.php?s=8549999fa2e7bec 835df4593fc9ec8e9&t=40235, and http://lost-forum.com/showthread.php? t=61202. Accessed 29 October 2007. Lostpedia (2008), entry on religion and ideologies, available at http://lostpedia.com/ wiki/Religion. Accessed 6 February 2008. Lost-TvForum (2007), http://www.losttv-forum.com/forum/showthread.php? t=28611 &page=12. Accessed 29 April 2007. Lostwiki (2006), http://lostwiki.abc.com/page/Fate/thread. Accessed 12 December 2006. Mandaville, P. (2007), ‘Globalization and the Politics of Religious Knowledge: Pluralizing Authority in the Muslim World’, Theory, Culture, and Society, 24: 2, pp. 101–15. Marcus, L. (2006), ‘The “Lost” Tribe’, available at http://www.beliefnet.com/story/ 211/story_21132_1.html. Article appeared first in the Yeshiva University Commentator, 23 October 2006. Accessed 7 May 2008.

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———— (2007a), ‘Sayid: The Real Leader of “Lost”’, in Idol Chatter: Religion & Pop Culture blog at Beliefnet, http://www.beliefnet.com/blogs/idolchatter/2007/03/ sayid-real-leader-of-lost.html. Accessed 29 April 2007. ———— (2007b), ‘Attention “Lost” Fans!’, in Idol Chatter: Religion & Pop Culture blog at Beliefnet, http://blog.beliefnet.com/idolchatter/2007/08/attention-lost-fans. html. Accessed 4 February 2008. Mazzarella, S. and Pecora, N. (1999), Growing Up Girls: Popular Culture and the Construction of Identity, New York: Peter Lang. McCloud, S. (2003), Making the American Religious Fringe: Exotics, Subversives, and Journalists, 1955–1993. University of North Carolina Press. Meehan, E. (2007), ‘Understanding How the Popular Becomes Popular: The Role of Political Economy in the Study of Popular Communication’, Popular Communication, 5: 3, pp. 161–70. Miller, A.N. and Samp, J.A. (2007), ‘Planning Intercultural Interaction: Extending Anxiety/Uncertainty Management Theory’, Communication Research Reports, 24: 2, pp. 87–95. Mittell, J. (2006), ‘Narrative Complexity in Contemporary American Television’, The Velvet Light Trap, 58, pp. 29–40. Murphy, P. (2005), Fielding the Study of Reception: Notes on “Negotiation” for Global Media Studies. Popular Communication 3(3): 167–180. Naficy, H. (1993), The Making of Exile Cultures: Iranian Television in Los Angeles, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Newcomb, H. and Hirsh, P. (1994), ‘Television as a Cultural Forum’, in H. Newcomb (ed.), Television: The Critical View, London and New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 503–15. Nu (2007), ‘Nu, Such a Mechiayeh! (aka The Nice Jewish Thread)’, available at http://www.losttvforum.com/forum/showthread.php?t=28611&page=12. Accessed 17 August 2007. Piatt comment (2007), available at http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Search-MeaningChristian-Piatt/dp/082722138X/ref=sr_1_1/102-8387725-8858507?ie= UTF8&s=books&qid=1178032292&sr=1-1. Accessed 29 August 2007. Porter, L. and Lavery, D. (2006), Unlocking the Meaning of LOST: An Unauthorized Guide, Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks. Prothero, S. (2007), Religious Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know – and Doesn’t, New York: HarperOne. Rammairone, N. (2006), ‘Redemption Island?’, TV Guide (USA), 54: 6 (6 February), p. 9. Rheingold, H. (2000), The Virtual Community, revised edn., Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Rotten Tomatoes (2004), review of Lost, available at http://www.rottentomatoes. com/vine/printthread.php?t=367316&page=25&pp=30. Accessed 25 February 2008. Ryan, M. (2006), ‘The Buddhism of “Lost”’, Chicago Tribune, available at http://www. buddhistchannel.tv/index.php?id=12,2333,0,0,1,0. Accessed 16 February 2006. Ryan, T. (2005), ‘Still “Lost”’, Honolulu Star-Bulletin, Monday 22 August, available at http://starbulletin.com/2005/08/22/features/story1.html. Accessed 29 October 2007. Schneider, S.M. and Foot, K.A. (2004), ‘The Web as an Object of Study’, New Media and Society, 6: 1, pp. 114–22. ———— (2005), ‘Web Sphere Analysis: An Approach to Studying Online Action’, In C. Hine (ed.), Virtual Methods: Issues in Social Research on the Internet, Oxford: Berg Publishers, pp. 157–70.

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Schulz, W. (2004), ‘Reconstructing Mediatization as an Analytical Concept’, European Journal of Communication, 19, (1 March), pp. 87–101. Seiter, E. (1999), Television and New Media Audiences. London: Clarendon Press. Sluyter, D. (2007), ‘The Buddhism of Lost’, reposted at Beliefnet and available at http://www.beliefnet.com/story/186/story_18617_1.html. Accessed 7 May 2008. Sullivan, R. (2005), Visual Habits: Nuns, Feminism, and American Postwar Popular Culture, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Tamney, J. (1998), ‘Buddhism’, In William Swatos, Jr. (ed.), Encyclopedia of Religion and Society, Thousand Oaks, CA: AltaMira Press (Sage). Venugopal, C.N. (1998), ‘Hinduism’, In William Swatos, Jr. (ed.), Encyclopedia of Religion and Society, Thousand Oaks, CA: AltaMira Press (Sage). Warren, H. (2005), There’s Never Been a Show Like Veggie Tales, Thousand Oaks, CA: AltaMira Press (Sage).

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.165/1

Magic spells and recitation contests: the Quran as entertainment on Arab satellite television Ehab Galal Abstract

Keywords

Religion in the Middle East is, in general, related to political discussions on Islam’s position and influence on the development of democracy. The same approach has been dominant in research into new media in the Islamic world. The argument of the article is that the mediatization of Islam with the latest development of religious popular culture supports a process, where a political and rational version of Islam is increasingly being replaced by a more individualized and consumer-based version. The article analyses two different types of popular religious programmes on religious satellite TV: the Quran recitation competition and the Quranic healing programme. By analysing the media’s use of the central symbol of Islam, the Quran, it is possible to discuss the question of re-enchantment as a part of popular culture. It is, in this way, illustrated how traditional religious practices are perceived as instrumental for constructions of ‘the Islamic self’.

Arab satellite TV Islamic media Quran healing magic Quran recitation

The Quran is seldom associated with popular culture, due to the common tendency to view the Quran as a book connected to Islamic orthodoxy. As the Quran is defined as the directly revealed words of God, it is a book to sanctify and treat with respect and awe. At the same time, the rejection of modern popular culture has been a core element of the Islamist project in the 1970s and 1980s. Based on political activism and the principle of dissociation from a decadent, westernized society, the Islamists1 rejected its corrupt values, excesses and consumerism (Abdelrahman 2006). Modern popular culture was condemned as non-Islamic and an expression of hedonism and idolatry. Despite the denial among some conservative religious authorities as well as Islamists, Islam and popular cultural practices have always lived in fruitful interdependence. Contrary to the self-ascription by some Islamists as being the purifier of Islam from superstitious, heretical, modernist and western practices,2 researchers have argued that the Islamic revival is a result of modernization processes, including processes of individualization and consumption. This development has made room for Islam as a powerful discourse creating religious and consumer identities (for example, Roy 2004). In this perspective, it is possible to see the development of a particular Islamic

1.

By the term ‘Islamist’, I refer to persons promoting Islamism. Islamism is here defined as a political ideology of establishing a society and policy on Islamic principles. In practice, the term ‘Islamism’ covers a range of different policies, from radical to moderate, due to different interpretations of the Islamic principles.

2.

One of the main figures to inspire criticism of the western, and particular American, culture, was Said Qutb (1906–66), an Egyptian and a prominent member

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of the Muslim Brotherhood, who was executed by the Egyptian state.

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popular consumer culture as indeed a result of the political dissociation from western culture. With the introduction of Islamic satellite channels, the media also offer different and new variations of Islamic cultural consumption, contesting the secular popular culture: an Arab popular culture that – historically and to the present day – includes all kinds of cultural practices that have no reference to Islam, including pop music, international quiz concepts, reality shows and so on (cf. Abaza 2006, Armbrust 1996, Abdelrahman et al. 2006). The mediated Islamic popular culture challenges these practices by claiming an Islamic perspective on all cultural practices. The question is: how is this claim realized in Islamic TV? What kind of symbolic inventory is presented? How are Islamic symbols and global media genres combined? What kinds of identities are proposed in mediated Islamic popular culture? The Islamic satellite channels are part of broader religious, cultural and social changes in the Arab countries and, in this perspective, it is particularly interesting to look at the Quran in relation to popular culture because of the Quran’s explicit religious status and symbolic power. The article proceeds as follows: I start by presenting some theoretical and methodological perspectives before briefly outlining the background of contemporary development in Arab-Islamic satellite television. I then turn to the analysis and discussion of different genres, such as fatwa programmes, Quran recitation and Quranic healing. Finally, I conclude with some reflections about the Quran, Islam and mediated popular culture.

New media and the return of religion By using concepts like re-enchantment, re-sacralization and return of religion, media research draws attention to a development where media seems to become increasingly ritualized due to its performative genres as well as occupied with religious topics of great variety (cf. Hoover and Lundby 1997; Hoover 2002). The use of concepts reveals that the process described is contesting an expected, supposed or, at least for some time, prevalent lack of religion in media. Max Weber defined the modern world as characterized by rationality and secularization and, by its disenchantment, excluding religion from the public sphere (Weber 1976). The understanding of religion as a leftover from traditional society has since – on empirical grounds – been criticized by several researchers (for example, Casanova 1994; Hoover 2006). Casanova provides a number of examples of religion playing an active role in the political changes of different countries, while Hoover analyses religion’s place in American television. The concepts of re-enchantment and re-sacralization have, in media research, mainly been applied to issues in western media (cf. Clark 2002), but a similar development can be identified in Arab media as well. It is, however, striking that the analytical perspective on religion in Arab media seems mostly to be occupied with its position as either an obstacle or potential for the development of a civil society, democracy and liberal values (cf. Alterman 1998; Eickelman and Anderson 1999; Galal 2002). From a critical perspective, one could argue that the analytical

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approaches towards Middle Eastern media are still waiting for the development of liberalization and democratization, as though this development, with the West as an example, is an evolutionistic precondition for further changes. I am not rejecting the importance of looking into the media’s role in the development of a civil society and democracy in the Middle East, but at the same time I find that by focusing on institutional political change alone, one risks ignoring other aspects of the religious and cultural development in the Middle East. If one only studies the development of religion in Arab media as formal political issues, where religious interpretations either support or reject a democratic development, it is easy to blindly repeat western discourses that point at the Islamic revival as being mainly a matter of political opposition and a nondemocratic movement. The result is not only the ignorance of its connection with issues closely related to globalization, like individualism, consumption and identity policies, but at the same time as a construction of Muslims only being guided by religious prescripts presented by religious authorities. Furthermore, despite the lack of democracy, most Middle Eastern countries have been through a process of secularization. So, when Islam finds its way into new media, it is not a question of traditional Islam just moving into the media and making use of new technological possibilities. It is as a highly modern movement, in which the new Islamic revival has embraced new media, such as video cassettes, fax machines, satellite TV and the Internet (Eickelman and Anderson 1999). If we look at Arab TV’s development since its introduction in 1956 in Iraq, religious TV is a new and explosive element starting in the 1990s. Particularly with the introduction of transnational and commercial Arab TV, religious TV has grown in numbers and diversity. Not that there have not been religious TV preachers before, or Quran radio, but these were given an isolated platform, like the Sunday service previously shown on European public service TV. Furthermore, Syria, for example, still does not transmit the Friday prayer on national TV. The new media do therefore challenge the nationally controlled and, in most Arab countries, distinctly secular public service TV, and have made room for religious public culture and re-enchantment. Of course, this might have consequences for the political development, but it might also affect religion and religious identities. It is the last aspect that is the scope of this article. Being inspired by the American media professor, Stewart Hoover, and his approaches to religion and media (Hoover 2006), I will analyse the use of the Quran in Islamic media as an example of the construction of meaning and identity. Hoover argues that the media take part in the construction of cultural and religious meaning by offering a symbolic inventory that is used by the viewers in their negotiations and constructions of their identity: being religious, ethnic, gender, class and other identities. Hoover further argues that religion in late modernity is characterized by subjective processes of negotiation and individualization and, as such, the analysis needs to take into account the practices in which individuals engage (Hoover 2006: 36). The individualization of religious identity has been described as part of the Islamic revival as well (for example, Roy

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3.

Iqraa is the imperative of the verb ‘read’. The word ‘read’ was the first word revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, according to Islamic belief. Today, Muslims often refer to this revelation as a reminder of the importance to Muslims to educate themselves.

4.

The number of American citizens is a little less than 300 million, which is close to the number of Arabs, estimated to be around 300 million. Both regions are characterized by having one official common language (English and Arabic, respectively) functioning as a lingua franca in the media.

5.

Hoover also states the most recent number of American religious radio stations, which include 800 radio stations, where at least part of their daily programmes are religious, 650 radio stations called Gospel, and 34 radio stations that define themselves as New Age (Hoover 2006: 60).

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2004). Hoover is arguing for the necessity to carry out reception analysis, but his theoretical approach is also helpful for the content analysis. As such, I am analysing the symbolic inventory of the different programmes: how are they constructed, from which cultural sources and, in the perspective of the scope of this article, how do they combine Islamic symbols and practices with other more global popular cultural genres and practices? The Islamic channels are in this regard seen as a cultural practice, where programmes are a product of, and present means for, negotiation and construction of meaning. One aspect of this construction is defined by the motives of the broadcasters, and before going into the specific content of examples of programmes, I will dwell on the Islamic channels as a recent media phenomenon.

Arab and Islamic On Arab TV, a number of Islamic as well as Christian satellite channels have been launched since the first Islamic channel, Iqraa (Read),3 was presented in 1998. And since 9/11, the number of new religious channels has exploded, so that today, at least 21 Islamic and 11 Christian Arab satellite channels are being broadcast. Islamic channels are, in my definition, channels whose main purpose is to mediate Islamic values and perspectives. The increase in religious channels must be viewed in relation to a general huge increase in Arab satellite channels. Since the introduction of the first Arab satellite channel, the state-owned Egyptian Satellite Channel (ESC1), in 1990, the number of Arab satellite channels has increased to at least 350 Arab satellite channels. Compared to religious TV channels in the United States, the number of Arab Islamic TV channels seems to be lagging behind.4 Hoover writes that, in 2000, there were 245 commercial and 15 non-commercial religious television stations (Hoover 2006: 60).5 Arab media and Arab TV are in this context defined as any media or TV channel that uses Arabic as the main language. It follows that some of the Arab satellite channels might very well be broadcast from non-Arab countries, which has often been the case, especially in the 1990s. Channels, such as the Saudi-owned MBC, started broadcasting in London in 1991. The location in Europe has been attractive, due to a higher degree of editorial freedom. With the introduction of commercial and private TV in many Arab countries, more and more channels are being launched from within the Arab world. This is true for the religious channels as well. For example, the channel Iqraa was launched by ART (Arab Radio and Television). Today, ART comprises nineteen thematic commercial channels which include, for example, film, sport, cartoon and news channels. When ART started in 1994, the company broadcasted from Rome, Italy, with a smaller number of channels. Today, while the head office is still in Rome, ART has studios in Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia and Lebanon where programmes are produced. Commercial stations, like ART, typically buy foreign entertainment channel programmes, rather than produce their own, while the religious programmes broadcast on Iqraa come mainly from their own production team. The new Islamic satellite channels do not, unlike many web pages and different kinds of pamphlets with more obvious sectarian affiliation, emanate from religious groups or organizations, but rather from business 168

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investors and consortia. While many of the Christian channels are launched by churches or religious leagues,6 the Islamic channels are mostly non-denominational, with Islam proclaimed as a shared value, but not declared as officially identifying with a legal school, interpretation or creed. So, Islamic channels like Iqraa, Al-Majd and Al-Risala are all owned by Saudi multimillionaires with close affiliations to the Saudi royal family. The religious channels are established as part of greater business empires, which might include other media and other kinds of business investments. Iqraa is an example of this tendency. The owner of Iqraa is Saudi multimillionaire, Salih Kamel. The focus of the programmes on Iqraa is stated as being ‘Islamic values’, which are not defined more specifically. The channel states that it promotes a moderate Islam. It broadcasts a variety of programmes, from children’s programmes and talk shows, to lifestyle programmes – all with a so-called Islamic perspective. The commercial aspect in the business of Islamic satellite TV does not mean that the main players do not differ in religious interpretation and ideology, and nor does it mean that they cannot have a political, as well as a religious, aim. Obviously, the aim is to spread knowledge about Islam and to promote Islamic values and lifestyle. While the interpretation of Islam differs, the general view is that an Islamic approach exists to all aspects of life. The majority of the channels are Sunni Muslim channels, although some have Sufi7 affiliations, and others are Salafi,8 with close connections to the Saudi religious establishment. But even the Saudi-owned channels differ greatly; Al-Majd is much more conservative in promoting Saudi cultural practices, whereas Iqraa is moderate and, to some degree, addresses Muslims all over the world, thereby representing different cultural practices. But in general, the Islamic channels do not directly or openly support any state or political movement.9 Instead, they highlight a pious and religious lifestyle and promote specific Islamic identity policies. Instead of discussing economic and foreign politics, the channels present and discuss the lifestyle of the individual Muslim and the moral and ethical ideals of the Muslim community. The presentation claims to be universal, but might implicitly be more or less in accordance with national cultural traditions, which, as mentioned, is the case with Al-Majd, for example. As such, the channels can be seen as a politico-religious strategy for the Islamic mission (the Arabic concept of Dawa), dominated by Saudi Salafi tradition. It is important to note that the increase in Arab satellite channels parallels the development of transnational media in general. It has resulted in a growing specialization, where religious channels are just one among a range of other specializations. A range of new programmes mixing popular culture, Islam and religious teaching has been introduced. It is not only the religious satellite channels that broadcast religious programmes, but many of the 350 secular satellite channels are also now broadcasting a greatly diverse range of different programmes, including religious programmes. Entertainment is the most popular genre, which applies to Islamic TV as well. Concepts of entertainment are the same: quizzes, cartoons, films, lifestyle programmes, talk shows and so on. The religious programmes are in turn influenced by Islamic symbols, rituals and identity positions; for example, in programmes about ‘How to find a spouse in the NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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6.

Among the Christian channels are, for example, Sat7, launched in 1996, and governed by an independent international board where the majority of the members are elected representatives of Middle Eastern and North African churches and ministries. Tele Lumiere (1991) and Noursat (2003) are both supervised by the Assembly of Catholic Patriarchs and Bishops in Lebanon, and are directed by a committee involving religious leaders from various denominations and a group of laity. Aghapy TV was launched in 2005 by the Coptic Orthodox Church in Egypt.

7.

In 2008, a new private channel is being launched in Egypt, defining itself as Sufiaffiliated (according to a personal interview with the BBC, 17 December 2007). Sufism is a philosophical, sometimes denoted as a mystical, movement within Islam, aimed at fulfilling the love between God and man.

8.

Salafi refers to the celebration of the first Islamic leaders, namely the Prophet Muhammad and the three leaders who followed him – seeing them as the incarnation of the true Islamic society and practice, and therefore as examples to follow.

9.

It is possible to discuss whether a channel like Al-Manar (The Lighthouse) is religious and/or

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political. The channel is owned by Hezbollah, and the goal is mainly political, not religious. Despite its selfdescription as promoting the values of sharia, Islam is only seldomly included in its programmes or argumentation. I am therefore not including it in the types of channels discussed and presented in this article.

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proper Muslim way’10 or ‘How to wear your Muslim headscarf in different fashions and styles’.11 In addition, the core ritual elements of Islam, such as Quran recitation, praying and the interpretations of halal and haram (lawful and unlawful in Islam) have assumed media form. Few have until now studied the Islamic media as part of popular culture. Even though a range of religious programmes use the very popular talk-show concept, indepth studies of these programmes (Galal 2003; Roald 2001; SkovgaardPetersen 2004) focus first and foremost on the changes in interpretation of the Quran, but only peripherally include the relationship to popular culture.

Between text and sacred power The Egyptian-born professor, Abuzaid,12 writes about the meaning of the Quran in his introduction to his book:

10. Shabaab aiyz ytgawwiz (2004–05, young people wanting to marry) at Iqraa.

The Quran is a text which we can describe as centrally representative of the Arab cultural history. It is not because I want to simplify the description of the Arab-Islamic civilization that I name it a ‘text civilization’. […] When the centre of the civilization is the text, considered one of the bases, there is no doubt that the exegesis, regarded as the other face of the text, is a very important instrument in the cultural and civilizing production of knowledge. (Abuzaid 1990: 9)

11. Migalit al mar’a (2001–2006, women’s magazine) at Iqraa. 12. Abuzaid lives in the Netherlands, having moved there from Egypt because of the troubles he encountered due to his interpretation of the Quran.

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Abuzaid is an example of the secular approach to Islamic interpretation, where intellectual effort is the core element that replaces the sacred power of the book. In his book, Abuzaid focuses on text analysis, stressing that the Quran is only the Quran because human beings continuously authorize its divine meaning. As such, he challenges the literal interpretation that some neo-fundamentalists would defend, and his approach can be seen as a part of a process, where religious authority is harshly challenged and, as a result, fragmented. What I am going to argue is that the reconstitution of the importance, influence and meaning of the Quran is not, and nor has it ever been, only in the hands of the authorized scholar. The influence of the Quran has not only survived because of text analysis or interpretation within an Islamic legal school. It has also survived because of its inclusion in popular culture, where it has been reconstructed as a meaningful symbol and sacred power by the Arab-Muslim population. Despite the importance of the written word and interpretative imperatives, most Muslims, from a historical perspective, have not been able to read, let alone understand the text. This is partly due to a high degree of illiteracy in the Arab world and partly due to the classical Arabic of the Quran, which is difficult to understand without scholarly or linguistic training. Other means of maintaining the emotional and spiritual relationship between Muslims and the Quran have therefore been necessary, and of a less intellectual character. As the Quran is considered to be the direct word of God, it does not only constitute the Islamic law (the Sharia), it also embodies all the mystical power of a holy symbol and therefore every single printed edition of the Quran is considered sacred, powerful and blessed. On this basis, the Quran, as written text, has been transformed into popular use, such as using calligraphy to write Quranic verses to decorate wall pictures, books or buildings and, 170

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after the introduction of the printing press, as mass-produced books that were available to anyone. In this context, the Quran has, together with other religious goods, been the basis for the development of Muslim religious commodities, such as prayer beads, skullcaps and prayer rugs, as well as ‘bumper stickers, key chains, posters, board games, jigsaw puzzles, colouring books, fans, clocks’ (Starrett 1995: 53), all framing Quranic verses. The Quran has likewise in Egyptian cinema been given this symbolic status as part of everyday ritual (Galal 2006). The diffusion of these commodities tells us that the Quran is not for reading only; the Quran has a ritual value due to its status as God’s words. For example, one can find the Quran wrapped in a plastic cover – it is not supposed to be unwrapped and read – and placed in the window of a car, protecting the people in the car from misfortune and, at the same time, indicating the religious identity of the owner (Starrett 1995: 53). The Quran is considered a sacred power in itself, affecting the surroundings and persons nearby. The sacred power of the Quran is widely distributed in the new Islamic TV, not only as text-based meaning constructions, but also as the centre of symbolic and ritual practices. As argued, researchers in new Arab media have been particularly occupied with Quranic exegesis, trying to reveal any changes in dogmatic interpretations. What I want to argue is that the Quran can also be analysed as a part of popular culture – popular, partly due to its ritualized forms and partly to its inspiration on lifestyle and consumption. Some programmes, like the fatwa programmes, accentuate the position of the Quran as a basis for the interpretation of the Quran as a textbook. A fatwa comprises religious advice by an Islamic scholar and, in the fatwa programme, an Islamic scholar answers questions about how to live a Muslim life in accordance with the Quran and Sunna.13 Viewers raise the questions, calling in by phone, or by sending a fax or e-mail. The objective here is the creation of legal opinions, meaning and information. But the programme is not only about exegesis, it is also about religious interaction and practice. Viewers take part by calling in and asking the questions, and thereby define what is important for them. The ritual form of the fatwa programme is obvious in its repetitive and endless questions of the same or similar content. Any serious religious channel has one or more fatwa programmes. Iqraa broadcasts at least five fatwa programmes, each with their own religious scholar or sheikh to answer the questions. The question from the believer, followed by an answer from the scholar, could be analysed as a way to practice Islam. The amount of fatawa given on Islamic TV is so huge and, at the same time, contradictory that it is always possible to find a different interpretation in another programme. But what is certain is that the scholar of the programme will always be able to answer any question with reference to Islam, stating that Islam has a perspective on any everyday practice. In this way, the mediation of the fatawa strengthens a development where fragmentation of authority is prevalent, and where the responsibility to take part in the negotiation of the right Islamic behaviour and identity is more and more the responsibility of the individual Muslim. It is the responsibility of the individual Muslim to choose the programme and thereby the religious authority; it is the responsibility of the individual NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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13. Sunna refers to practices undertaken or approved by the Prophet and established as legally binding precedents.

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14. The British channel ‘Islam Channel’ also broadcasts Quran recitation contests. The competitors are British Muslim children, and the participants’ home towns in Britain are always emphasized and not their ethnic background, symbolizing that it is a competition between British Muslims and not between ethnic minorities in Britain.

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Muslim to ask the relevant questions. To take part in this mediated ritual can be seen as a way to state and negotiate one’s Islamic identity. At the same time, the questions raised in the programmes are dominated by questions related to lifestyle rather than motivated by interest in theological discussions. The mediation of fatwa programmes seems in this way to support individualization and consumption, despite its authority-and dogmatic-based foundation. Other Islamic programmes are even less interested in the textual content of the Quran. In these programmes, the Quran, as a sacred power, combines Islam with other globally popular forms of what one could call ‘consumer rituals’. Examples of these are Quran recitation contests and Quranic healing programmes.

Recitation contests The recitation of the Quran is known from the Kuttab (Quran schools), where children are taught how to recite. In the schools, contests are commonly used as an instrument to encourage the children to practice and perform the recitation. With the introduction of the recitation contests in the media, another element has been added. First, it is presented as a national competition or a competition between national states as in the Eurovision Song Contest, and second, the competition is seen as a possible way to become famous, such as in American Idols, The X Factor, and other reality shows. Recitation competitions are broadcast throughout the various channels, such as the religious Arab channels Al-Majd, Al-Risala and Iqraa.14 Sometimes the competition is between adults, sometimes between children. One of the programme styles is to let the participants come into the studio, where the competition takes place. Another programme style takes the form of a phone-in competition, where the participants call and recite by phone. Typically, the host of the programme is joined by two or more experts, who sit in the studio and comment on the performance of every participant. As in other contests, there is a quarter-final, semi-final and final, ending up with a reward for the winner. Iqraa broadcasts an annual international contest – the most recent was in 2007 – where each participant represents his country, and dresses in the traditional clothes of that country. In this particular case, only men participated, whereas in most of the children’s competitions, both boys and girls participate. The participants are judged on their ability to recite verses from the Quran perfectly in both pronunciation and intonation. The programmes do not enter into interpretation and, even though the recitation is in classical Arabic, some of the participants might be from non-Arab countries and may not be able to speak Arabic. The recitation is a question of providing a spiritual experience, enchanting the listener, and not a question of interpretation. It is a spiritual experience regardless of the civil status of the participants, whether children or adults, neither is it a question of religious authority of any kind. Most of the programmes do not make references to a Quran school or name the persons who taught the participants the discipline. The focus is not the religious affiliation or belief but the individual performance and effort, and partly the national or local affiliation. In this way, the contests combine the late modern demand for individual 172

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achievement as central for identity construction and the ritualized embodiment of Muslim practice. Reciting the Quran has, with good reason, been a part of religious practice since the early days of Islam. Recitation has been the only way to mediate the Quran from person to person, for those who are not able to read it. It has an affinity with Arab popular culture in the appreciation of the skills of the person reciting and the recitation’s influence on the audience. A good recitation leads the listener into a state of spiritual ecstasy and might be expressed through the listener’s exclamations, such as ‘ah’ or ‘ya salam’, which are understood as ‘how marvellous!’ (Hirschkind 2006). A popular twentieth-century film singer, the late Umm Kulthum, is said to have had the same effect on the audience when she sang classical Arabic songs as well as religious songs. Charles Hirschkind argues in his study on cassette sermons in Egypt that the musical term ‘tarab’ indicates a special relationship between the singer and the audience (often associated with Sufi performances), which enables an exchange of feelings and harmony between the two (Hirschkind 2006: 36). With the religious channels, religious substitutes for the old popular singers are introduced – not only in the form of the Quran recitations, but new and fairly young Islamic spiritually orientated singers have, in recent years, also had great success as popular singers or as interpreters of the Quran, mixing Islam, youth and popular culture.15 The recitation of the Quran gives the participant the embodied experience of being a Muslim; it not only initiates the child or youth into the Muslim community, but also into the spiritual aspects of Islam. More than an intellectual appropriation of knowledge, the Quran recitation is a question of embodiment, evoking the moment of revelation (Nelson 2001: 188). The recitation contests illustrate the successful function of the media as mediator of religion, where religion today – in the words of Hoover – is much more ‘a public, commodified, therapeutic, and personalized set of practices than it has been in the past’ (Hoover 2002: 2).

Healing by Quran therapy Listening to the Quran recitations can, as suggested, result in a spiritually ecstatic experience, but it also has a healing potential. This is promoted in what I categorize as Quranic healing programmes. In the healing programme, the viewer phones in with a specific problem, and the expert or healer prescribes a specific verse of the Quran for him or her. The Quranic verse has the function of healing, like a magic spell. The programmes are characterized by using a known model, like an agony column in a magazine, or as a variation of the American programmes, such as The Oprah Winfrey Show (1986–) and Dr. Phil (2002–), though less sophisticated and professional in its programme setting. The viewers phone in and ask for advice and help with illnesses or other kinds of problems. The host of the programme leads the conversation, having at her side an expert in healing, either a man or a woman, with special skills that come from a special power and religious knowledge ‘of the Quran and magic’. Typical problems are childlessness, sickness, the sorrows of love, marriage conflicts, conflicts with friends and economic problems. Some programmes specialize in certain problems, such as marriage and family NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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15. For example, Moez Masoud and his programme Stairway to Paradise (2006).

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16. A female religious scholar. 17. The verse ‘The Chair’ is, according to traditional interpretation, considered to be the most effective verse in the Quran for the protection of humans. There are therefore many Muslims, both men and women, who have the verse written on a necklace, or as a decoration at home, or hanging from the mirror in the front window of their car.

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problems, while others deal more with psychological problems. When the expert has all the information necessary, he or she provides a diagnosis and a prescription. At least two Arab satellite channels broadcast these programmes. They are called Shahrazad TV (2006) and Konouz TV (2006, Treasure TV). Shahrazad TV only broadcasts religious healing programmes, while Konouz TV broadcasts a variety of programmes. Shahrazad is the name of the storytelling queen in the Arabic tales 1001 Nights, whose stories include magic, sorcery and spirit possessions, and is therefore a well-chosen name for the channel. Konouz TV transmits music and family entertainment, and a number of different healing programmes; for example, science-based health programmes, where the set-up is exactly the same as in the religious programmes, but the expert is an educated doctor of medicine who gives advice based on medical knowledge. One might also find programmes on Konouz TV where the expert finds the answer in coffee dregs. Again, the set-up is the same. One can therefore say that the need for magic spells has different designs. How is the Quran then a part of the healing? Let me use an example from Konouz TV that was broadcast on 31 March 2007. The programme is introduced by the hostess, a young woman wearing jeans and a tight blouse, and no headscarf. Seated at the other side of the table is the woman healer, Sheikha16 Nohan, wearing traditional colourful clothing and a headscarf, though not in the new hijab-fashion but rather in a semibourgeois fashion. They are sitting in a studio with a very simple setting and a rather static camera positioning. In the introduction, the viewers are encouraged to phone in ‘without postponing the solution to their problems’, as the hostess phrases it. While waiting for the first caller, the hostess asks Sheikha Nohan to describe the symptoms of a man who is possessed. Sheikha Nohan elaborates on a diagnosis, until they are interrupted by a viewer calling in. The person to call is a man, who claims to be calling on behalf of his family, meaning his wife and a daughter aged 24. After the traditional greetings, the hostess starts by asking the names and ages of the family, and about their problem. To remain anonymous, the husband gives only the first letter of their names and says that their daughter, N, always feels tired and constantly feels unwell. But the mother also feels ill and has a fever, while the husband feels sad. He claims that N has a harsh fate. Someone has enchanted her, and magic is the main reason for her sufferings. The hostess promises the husband that Sheikha Nohan will help them and will make them relax, ‘by the will of God’. As they are talking, the hostess and Sheikha Nohan both take notes on their sheets of paper. After they look at the notes and mention the name of God several times, Sheikha Nohan concludes that the family is suffering because of an enchantment. After a while, she asks to talk to the wife and repeats the same conclusion. She then asks her to recite the Quranic verse ‘Ayt AlKursi’ (The Chair).17 The wife starts to recite, but stops when she is interrupted by Sheikha Nohan, who asks the wife why her voice is trembling and stuttering. The wife disagrees and points to the fact that it is not her, but the daughter who is seeing strange things at home. Sheikha Nohan maintains that the wife is also experiencing strange things, but asks to talk with the daughter. The same procedure is repeated with the daughter, 174

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N. Sheikha Nohan asks if she, or her hands, or feet are trembling. N says that her hands are trembling a little. She is also asked to recite the ‘Ayt AlKursi’, which she does. Sheikha Nohan then asks how N now feels, and she answers that everything is as usual. Finally, Sheikha Nohan recites a religious psalm, and ends by asking the good spirited djinns to make a fence of the Quran around the family. Once again, N is asked if anything has changed, and she says that she only feels a little calmer. Again, she is asked to recite ‘Ayt Al-Kursi’, but this time seven times in a row, seven times during the day, over a glass of water, which she then has to drink. Sheikha Nohan then says that this is the last thing that she needs to do, and that the family should contact her after completing the task. The girl will also need to be diligent in keeping clean and to wear an amulet, according to the sheikha. The hostess finishes the programme by wishing a happy feast to everyone, as the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday is coming soon. The set-up is typical of the healing programmes. The expert will often advise the caller to listen to Quran recitations several times daily. A very unspecific diagnosis is typical, such as when a woman phones in asking for help because of a problem with her husband. The healer provides a diagnosis that ‘an acquaintance, not a relative, and not unknown’, wants to hurt the person who is calling. The expert then prescribes a quote from the Quran, which the expert writes on a note and sews into a small cloth packet to send to the caller. The caller is told to wear the small packet under her clothes as protection against the evil-minded acquaintance who wishes her harm. In some of the programmes, most of the time it is the evil-minded acquaintance who is to blame for the problem presented. Sometimes the healer explains that the wicked spell involves the interference of djinns. A djinn is a spirit, which might be evil or good. As djinns are mentioned in the Quran, Islamic orthodoxy acknowledges their existence, but maintains that djinns belong to the other world and therefore cannot possess the living. A more popular interpretation is that djinns visit the world of the living; an interpretation which is said to be more common among the less educated and economically strained people (Hammond 2007: 83–84). When interacting with an evil-minded djinn, the Quranic quote becomes protective. The way to give the healer authority is through her use of religious language. Throughout the programme, Sheikha Nohan repeatedly uses religious Islamic phrases and thereby establishes that her own role is in accordance with Islam, and that she is a religious specialist, which is further emphasized by her use of classical Arabic in-between the use of colloquial Arabic. Both the hostess and the callers speak only colloquial Arabic. Even the title that she has been given, ‘sheikha’ – which is the feminine of ‘sheikh’ and refers to either an old and wise man or a religiously knowledgeable person – emphasizes her position as talking from within the religion. The healing programmes, like the recitation contests, draw attention to the embodied and ritual practices, where the textual interpretation of the Quran only has a marginal influence, if any, and where spiritual and enchanted elements are obvious. One can argue that satellite television in this way supports keeping people in ignorance. Mehdi argues that Pakistani TV also promotes a kind of religious magic, reflecting a tradition among the lower classes to rely on supernatural forces. The use of NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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supernatural forces is, according to Mehdi, used in the rural areas of Pakistan to explain both civil and criminal cases, and she finds that satellite television is legitimizing superstition among Pakistani immigrants in Europe – thereby taking part in preventing growth and development in family relations (Mehdi 2008). Healing through the Quran has been known since early Islam. If a person is ill or in despair, listening to Quran recitation is believed to have healing virtues. In traditional societies, the person skilled in Quran recitation could visit a house struck by illness or despair to give recitations. With the emergence of mass-produced media, the distribution of Quran recitation on cassette tapes, on the radio and on transnational television has been widespread and available on demand. Starrett argues that the different kinds of religious commodities are especially in demand in seasons that are related to life cycles, ‘whose sickness, crises, and transitions mobilize both strong individual emotion and the social networks of material exchange’ (Starrett 1995: 54). Quranic healing has lately gained some respect, for instance in Cairo, where there are some 30 official practitioners. One sheikh, Hosni Rashwan, has written a book about his work, and a psychiatrist, Gamal Abul-Azayem, has devoted a chapter of his book to the phenomenon of Quranic therapy (Hammond 2007: 86). According to a Saudi sheikh, Muhammad Abdullah Al-Ayed, Quranic healing can ‘treat certain hidden illnesses that affect a person’s psyche, such as envy (the evil eye), sorcery, and harm from the devil’ (Abdul Khaliq 2003). On the Internet, a huge number of articles and Islamic web pages also pay attention to Quranic healing. Despite the critics from religious establishments like the Egyptian Islamic university, Al-Azhar, Quranic healing has become a part of popular culture. How the magic works is interpreted in different ways. Sometimes it is interpreted as a direct intervention from God, and sometimes as a psychological process, where listening to the Quran gives a person the mental power and spiritual strength to face the world and his or her problems. When Quranic healing is interpreted to be the result of a psychological process, where listening to the Quran is understood to be comforting and reassuring, Quranic healing becomes acceptable to the educated and modern-minded Muslim. In general, the use of the Quran as a magic spell is rejected as superstition by the Islamic orthodoxy, which considers the Quran to be only healing if the guidelines of the text are followed. The popular use of the Quran, as presented in these programmes, is in general considered as exploitation for commercial uses. How the experts are paid is not quite obvious, but the caller might be paying for each call, and is sometimes asked to call again after the programme to have a special and private consultation with the expert, without being told what costs can be expected. Viewers are always encouraged to call several times to increase their chances of being chosen by the computer as a participant.

Conclusion: Islam as a consumer culture The discussion until now has tried to present some analytical starting points for the study of what one could call ‘the re-enchantment of the Quran on Arab satellite TV’. The Quran’s presence in recitation contests and healing programmes is understood to be an element in a general 176

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re-enchantment on Arab satellite TV. The broadcasted programmes are examples of media consumption defined and legitimized either by the programmes’ Islamic content and/or by their Islamic ritual. By using global forms of popular culture in a culturally or religiously particularistic fashion, the programmes offer identification with a global cultural identity in a globally recognizable fashion. The symbolic inventory borrows not only from Islamic tradition, but also from global symbolic resources. The main imperatives in these programmes are style and signature or, in other words, performance. Taking part in and being absorbed in Quranic enchantment and practice seems to be the objective. The programmes reconstitute, in this way, the important symbolic and ritual value of the Quran; first, in relation to its value as being the basis for legitimate guiding principles or second, as the basis for different kinds of ritual practices. The ritual practices are, as a media performance, in accordance with the individualized and subjective religiosity, where institution, community and locality have less importance compared to the self-expression and self-presentation of the individual. In this context, the mediatized Islam can, as suggested, be seen as part of a wider consumer culture, where to be Muslim is to be chic. With Islamic-defined consumption, success has become associated with being Islamic (Abaza 2006: 198). Abaza argues that this trend has developed from being identified with ‘the underground, harsh looking jama’at18 antiestablishment and pro-Iranian revolution movement, to being associated with a better-off looking, Saudified and petro-Islamized ideology’ (Abaza 2006: 199). In relation to the Islamic movement, it can be seen as a postIslamist piety – an active piety which is thick in rituals and thin in politics (Abdelrahman 2006: 74). The believer’s relationship to religious practices, such as recitation and healing – which might look traditional – is different from their traditional use. Quran recitation is no longer a necessary instrument for the survival of the Quran, as the Quran has become much more accessible for ordinary Muslims. Neither is Quranic healing primarily a way to manage or navigate a society where people’s behaviour or thinking is guided by fears of the sacred. On religious satellite television, participating in Quran contests and healing is the believer’s chance to live an Islamic lifestyle and to use Islamic traditions as an instrument for identity constructions. In this perspective, religious TV gives the viewer the means to consume, practice, emotionally identify with and ritually engage in Islam due to a choice of programmes. Some would argue that the development towards transforming the Holy Quran into a banal consumer object might have proved to be the victory of the global capitalistic economy over the Muslim culture. Some Muslims would raise their voices to reject part of the Islamic media with this argument, explaining the development as disenchanted consumer practices. One of the explanations of the development is the spread of a market-driven economy, which is reflected by the typical owner of the Islamic channels. As Starrett argues, the variety of religious commodities has expanded as a result of innovation required by a market-driven economy at the same time that economic changes have increased the demands for these commodities (Starrett 1995: 52). The same can be said about Islamic TV. NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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18. Jama’at means ‘associations’. It is used in this context to refer to Muslim groups that were established as political oppositional and sometimes violent groups, which dominated the Islamic revival in the 1970s and 1980s.

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References Abaza, M. (2006), The Changing Consumer Cultures of Modern Egypt: Cairo’s Urban Reshaping, Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Abdelrahman, M. (2006), ‘Divine Consumption: “Islamic” Goods in Egypt’, in M. Abdelrahman, I.A. Hamdy, M. Rouchdy and R. Saad (eds), Cultural Dynamics in Contemporary Egypt, Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, pp. 69–78. Abdelrahman, M., Hamdy, I.A., Rouchdy, M. and Saad, R. (eds) (2006), Cultural Dynamics in Contemporary Egypt, Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Abdul Khaliq, J. (2003), ‘Al-Ayed Explains Quran’s Healing Powers’, Arab News (Friday 3 October), available at http://www.arabnews.com/?page=1§ion= 0&article=32939&d=3&m=10&y=2003. Accessed 11 October 2007. Abuzaid, N.H. (1990), Mafhum Al-Nass (Meaning of the Text), Beirut: Al-Markaz Al-Thaqafi Al-Arabi. Alterman, J.B. (1998), New Media, New Politics? From Satellite Television to the Internet in the Arab World, Washington DC: The Washington Institute for Near East Policy. Armbrust, W. (1996), Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Casanova, J. (1994), Public Religions in the Modern World, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Clark, L.S. (2002), ‘Overview: The “Protestantization” of Research into Media, Religion, and Culture’, In S.M. Hoover and L.S. Clark (eds), Practicing Religion in the Age of the Media: Explorations in Media, Religion, and Culture, New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 7–33. Eickelman, D.F. and Anderson, J.W. (1999), ‘Redefining Muslim Publics’, in D.F. Eickelman and J.W. Anderson (eds), New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, pp. 1–18. Galal, E. (2002), ‘Al-Jazeera – borgerlig offentlighed i den arabiske medieverden’, In L. Qvortrup (ed.), Mediernes 11 (September), København: Gads Forlag, pp. 101–15. –———– (2003), Arabisk satellit-tv: Redskab til forandring? master thesis, Carsten Niebuhr Instituttet, Københavns Universitet. –———– (2006), ‘Religion i egyptiske spillefilm: En personlig og moralsk vejviser’, Kosmorama: Tidsskrift for filmkunst og filmkultur, 237, pp. 26–38. Hammond, A. (2007), Popular Culture in the Arab World: Arts, Politics, and the Media, Cairo and New York: The American University in Cairo Press. Hirschkind, C. (2006), The Ethical Soundscape: Cassette Sermons and Islamic Counterpublics, New York: Columbia University Press. Hoover, S.M. (2002), ‘Introduction: The cultural construction of religion in the media age’, in S.M. Hoover and L.S. Clark (eds), Practicing Religion in the Age of the Media: Explorations in Media, Religion, and Culture, New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 1–6. –———– (2006), Religion in the Media Age, London and New York: Routledge. Hoover, S.M. and Lundby, K. (eds) (1997), Rethinking Media, Religion, and Culture, London: Sage Publications. Mehdi, R. (2008), ‘Supernatural means to affect the outcome of family disputes in courts: the case of Muslim Pakistanis in Denmark’, in R. Mehdi, H. Petersen, E.R. Sand and G.R. Woodman (eds), Law and Religion in Multicultural Societies, Copenhagen: DJØF Publishing.

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Nelson, K. (2001), The Art of Reciting the Qur’an, Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Roald, A.S. (2001), ‘The Wise Men: Democratization and Gender Equalization in the Islamic Message: Yûsuf Al-Qaradawi and Ahmad Al-Kubaisi on the Air’, Encounters, 7: 1, pp. 29–56. Roy, O. (2004), Globalised Islam: The Search for a New Ummah, London: C. Hurst. Skovgaard-Petersen, J. (2004), ‘The Global Mufti’, in B. Schäbler and L. Stenberg (eds), Globalization and the Muslim World: Essays on Culture, Religion and Modernity, New York: Syracuse University Press, pp. 153–65. Starrett, Gregory (1995), ‘The Political Economy of Religious Commodities in Cairo’, American Anthropologist, 97: 1, pp. 51–68. Weber, Max (1976), Den protestantiske etik og kapitalismens ånd, København: Fremad.

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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.181/1

Animated animism – the global ways of Japan’s national spirits Lars-Martin Sørensen Abstract

Keywords

This article discusses the tremendous global success of Japanese anime, its uses and negotiations of Japanese religious and nationalist mythology, and the way these features are appropriated domestically and abroad. Emphasis is given to the works of Hayao Miyazaki, whose films have been categorized as ‘de-assuring’ Japaneseness and as promoting an environmentalist agenda. It is discussed whether the indigenous religion, Shinto, which has historically served as a vehicle for nationalism, can be applied to progressive ends unproblematically. The article argues that while the intended meaning of Miyazaki’s films may be to further ecological awareness, another concern of Miyazaki’s, namely to promote traditional cultural values, puts his work at risk of being construed along the lines of contemporary Japanese nationalism. Finally, the broader workings behind the global success of those apparently highly culture-specific films are discussed.

anime Shinto banal nationalism occulture Miyazaki fan culture

In 2004, the Japan External Trade Organization (JETRO) published a report on the current boom in Japanese creative industries, which at the time accounted for 10 per cent of Japan’s gross national product (JETRO 2004: 3). According to JETRO, the income from music, computer games, anime, art, films and fashion had seen an increase of 300 per cent from 1992 to 2004. In comparison, the total increase for Japan’s export in that same period was 20 per cent. The advent of the success was noted by film scholars as early as 1996, when Antonia Levi, who has published extensively on anime, summed up the insatiable appetite for importing anime among American youngsters in the following words: ‘What this flood of dubbed and subtitled video cassettes really represents is a cultural exchange so ambitious that neither the Japanese nor the American government would have dared to plan it’ (Levi 1996: 1). And soon, another influential scholar of Japanese pop culture joined in, conjuring up nothing less than the ‘Japanization of European Youth’ in the title of one of her articles on the spread of what had now been termed ‘J-Pop culture’ (Kinsella 1997). Among western scholars of Japanese animation, it is an uncontroversial and – largely speaking – unproblematic fact that some of the most world-famous Japanese anime draw heavily on the myths, characters and themes of Japan’s indigenous religion: Shinto.1 Domestically, however,

1.

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An exception to this general rule is found in Levi (2001: 43) in which the film Blue Seed and its Shinto input is characterized as ‘blatant nationalism’.

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2.

The term ‘deassurance’ was coined by Napier (2001: 477) to signify undermining or destabilizing. It relates to Robin Wood’s term ‘cinema of reassurance’, ‘which promotes a vision of a world in which all problems are solved and harmony is restored under the aegis of US ideology and values’ (Napier 2001: 465).

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there is controversy over the political uses of Shinto, which is tainted by its past track record as a vehicle for militarism and nationalism, and by its present role as a lever for conservative politicians aspiring to boost Japanese neo-nationalism. In the heart of Tokyo, there is a Shinto shrine where Japan’s war dead – including fourteen convicted Class A war criminals – are enshrined. Over the last decade, Japanese prime ministers have repeatedly paid their respects at the Yasukuni shrine (literally: the shrine of the peaceful country). By doing so, the power holders are engaging in a practice known in Japan as nemawashi (digging around the root): if you want to move an old tree that is firmly rooted in the ground, it is best to dig the roots up little by little, over a period of time, before you move the tree. And the ‘tree’ that is considered ripe for removal is Article 9 of Japan’s constitution, the ‘no-war clause’ that prevents Japan from matching its economic superpower status with military might, which was dictated by the United States after World War II. The sensitivity of this issue – the unease felt by part of the Japanese electorate over this development – needs wearing down, it seems. And to this end, Japanese power holders are reviving Shinto-nationalistic manifestations – the Yasukuni visits – and engaging in attempts to sanitize Japan’s war history. The Yasukuni shrine kills two birds with one stone in this respect. Situated within the temple grounds is a museum, the Yushukan, which clearly promotes a version of Japan’s war history that can only be categorized as ‘revisionist’ – in fact ‘propagandistic’ is a more apt term (Jeans 2005). Here, for instance, the Japanese kamikaze pilots are presented as noble young men, praised for their spiritual purity and the sacrifice of their lives for the nation. So we are facing an apparent schism: on the one hand, a globalization of the spread of Shinto through J-pop cultural artefacts can be detected; on the other hand, Shinto is being re-nationalized by power holders in Japan. The pop cultural uses of Shinto are, as mentioned, generally deemed unproblematic, whereas especially Japan’s neighbouring countries have repeatedly voiced their outrage over the nationalist uses of Shinto and revisionist history writing. But where do the political and the pop cultural uses of Shinto join, overlap and/or merge? And what are the implications and attractions of Shinto-influenced anime to non-Japanese viewers? In order to approach these questions, I shall be analysing three films by Hayao Miyazaki. Miyazaki is widely known as an ecologist, a cosmopolitan and as someone who draws extensively on Shinto mythology. Moreover, his films have been categorized by influential scholars as de-assuring2 hegemonic versions of ‘Japaneseness’. This begs further analysis of both the films in question, and the scholarly arguments employed to substantiate this categorization. One may ask: is it at all possible to apply Shinto to de-assuring ends? Or is that an oxymoron? A few delimitations need to be stipulated. By focusing my attention on Miyazaki, I am guilty of ignoring everything but the tip of the iceberg. The sheer volume and heterogeneity of the phenomenon known as ‘contemporary Japanese anime’ necessitates a cogent focus in order to have some degree of detail in one’s analysis. This inescapably carries with it sins of omission. Also, ‘Shinto’ will be used in its broadest sense. Due 182

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to the highly syncretistic nature of religious practice in Japan, elements from different religions and folklore may blend into what I refer to as ‘Shinto’. Substituting ‘Shinto’ with a more general term such as ‘Japanese religion’ or ‘belief in the supernatural’, however, entails a loss of anchoring in the culture-specific and highly politicized history of institutionalized Shinto.

Shinto – the way of the kami According to religious historian, Ian Reader, Shinto is an explicitly Japanese religion concerned with the Japanese people [...]. The kami, the gods of Shinto, occur in the Japanese world, and the myths and legends of Shinto concern the creation and beginnings [...] of the land of Japan and its people [...] in many senses Shinto and being Japanese are synonymous. (Reader 1993: 64)

This view, which obviously reduces the role played by imported religions, is substantiated by a survey conducted by the Agency of Cultural Affairs, which concluded that Shinto provides ‘a cultural matrix [...] for the acceptance and assimilation of foreign elements’ (Wright 2005: 4). Through the ages, Shinto has demonstrated a remarkable inclusiveness to other religions. Placing a statue of the Virgin Mary at a Shinto altar (a kamidana) is not considered sacrilege by adherents to Shinto, for she is obviously a powerful kami. So what passes for kami is rather flexible too. According to the aforementioned survey, however, it is Shinto that constitutes the firm basis, whereas foreign religions are comparable to the icing on the distinctly Japanese cake. Thus, whenever Shinto is mediatized, ideas and notions of ‘Japaneseness’ are almost inevitably called into play. The central tenet – that the Sun Goddess put her grandson on the throne as the first Japanese emperor, and that all subsequent emperors descend in an unbroken lineage from the Sun Goddess – is crucial in this respect. The Japanese word shinto consists of two characters: ␹㆏ – the character for ‘god’ or ‘spirit’ (shin/kami) and the character for ‘way’ (too/michi). Thus, Shinto is normally translated as ‘the way of the Gods’ – a way which leads to a monistic world-view. The kami belong to the world of humans, and are a part of nature, just like humans are. There is no perceived dualism between man and kami or man and nature, and kami are often conceived of as non-anthropomorphic entities. In this way, Shinto lends itself neatly to the promotion of an environmentalist agenda: a river can be kami, an old tree can be kami, a kami may reside in a well, but anthropomorphic kami also exist. In fact, both dead and living people can obtain the status of kami, as in the case of the Japanese emperor before and during World War II – the zenith of Shinto nationalism. Secondary sources on Shinto often dilate on the untranslatability of the term kami. Here, it is useful to refer back to one of the prime scholars behind the restoration of Shinto in the late eighteenth century, Motoori Norinaga, who wrote that: ‘In ancient usage, anything whatsoever which was out of the ordinary, which possessed superior power, or which was NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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awe-inspiring was called kami’ (Matsumoto 1970: 84). This description is in accordance with the concept introduced by cognitive scientists of religion: that god concepts are ‘minimally counter-intuitive agents’ (Barrett 2004). In this understanding, it is the likeness to humans that makes supernatural entities intriguing and cross-culturally contagious. They are minimally counter-intuitive entities that are just like ordinary people, only with a tweak; they walk like humans, but also boast the ability to walk on water, and this is what makes them universally fascinating to mankind. Like most religions, Shinto consists of an interaction between religious practices and written sources. Two works are of particular importance here, namely the Kojiki (translated in 1969 as The Record of Ancient Things) and the Nihongi (translated in 1956 as The Chronicle of Japan). Compiled in the eighth century under the auspices of the imperial court, these chronicles present the creation myths of Japan, the legends of the imperial house, introduce the hierarchy of ancient kami, and the universal order of Shinto. For our intents and purposes, it is sufficient to note a few points. First, these sources constitute a formidable warehouse of pungent stories, themes and characters begging to be plundered by makers of popular fiction. The ancient kami are shown to be very human-like and extremely down-to-earth. For instance, defecating on each other’s thrones as a means of demonstrating dissatisfaction is not abstained from. Hurling dead cattle at each other is another salient divine pastime. These traits are indicative of Shinto’s preoccupation with purity and purification. The kami are capable of bringing about good fortune, but may also punish humans in various ways if insulted by pollution. Purification thus constitutes a basic principle of religious life. Impurity caused by the two most important Shinto taboos, blood and death, and by various sins, separates man from his fellow men and from the kami. The oldest remedies against any kind of impurity are wind, water and salt. Thus, when the suicide pilots of World War II were called kamikaze (literally: kami-wind = divine wind), their status as purifiers was underscored, and upon fulfilling their missions they became gunshin (soldier-kami) and were enshrined at the Yasukuni shrine along with their deceased fellow soldiers. There are less spectacular ways of cleansing oneself, for instance, by participating in Shinto festivals and ceremonies, where priests perform purification rituals, known as harai or oharai. When entering sacred places, physical ablutions are the rule, whereas at ceremonies symbolic purification is conferred on participants by, for instance, waving a gohei3 (a wooden stick with strips of paper folded into zigzags) over their heads. The purpose is to enable the purified to meet the world with makoto (sincerity)-an ethical and religious sincerity of heart and mind that can lead to harmonious relations among people, and between man and nature (kami). And, perhaps inevitably, the imbuing of makoto through propaganda was exploited by those bent on fanning the flame of rabid nationalism before and during World War II (Sorensen 2006: 64). The idea of the purity of ‘us’, as opposed to the impurity of demonic enemies, has always served despotism. 184

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The princess of de-assurance In several of Miyazaki’s films, the relationship between man and nature is centre stage, as is the case with Shinto. Mononokehime/Princess Mononoke (1997) is set in fourteenth-century Japan. The main protagonist of the film, Prince Ashitaka, is cursed by a vengeful boar-god when killing it and leaves his native village to find a cure for the disease caused by the curse. His quest places him in the midst of a battle between the forces of nature, animals and kami, and, most prominently, the technological progress represented by the humans of the Tatara clan. Ashitaka teams up with San, the ‘possessed princess’ (mononokehime), who has been reared by wolves and is firmly placed on the nature (kami) side of the conflict. San and Ashitaka gradually grow intimate, but San is at war with Lady Eboshi, the head of the Tatara clan. In the climactic ending sequence, Lady Eboshi beheads the Great Forest god in order to defy the forces of nature, and unleashes instant ecological disaster, but San and Ashitaka succeed in putting the head back in place. The film ends on a tone of uncertainty; the forest is restored to its lush greenness – but for how long? And is the Great Forest god really alive and kicking? Ashitaka decides to settle with the Tatara clan, and he and San agree to see each other every now and then – but will they? In other words, the film prompts ecological anxieties over future relations between man and nature. In her influential work on Japanese anime, Susan Napier (2005, 2001) emphasizes the subversive capacity of Princess Mononoke. In Napier’s view, it is a film that de-assures the hegemonic narratives of Japanese history and mythology, stereotypical gender roles and the traditional Japanese view of nature as something wild that can be tamed and cultivated. De-assurance of the traditional Japanese view of nature is brought about by Miyazaki’s portrayal of the forest and its creatures as ‘beautiful, sacred, and awesome, but [...] also vengeful and brutally frightening’ (Napier 2005: 244). Given the psychoanalytic-feminist theoretical framework employed by Napier, the taming of wild nature in turn implies that ‘Abjecting the Other (female, supernatural, premodern, etc.) allowed the modern male Japanese subject to develop’ (Napier 2005: 243). Thus, it is the standard notions of the Muromachi period, ‘the apex of Japanese high culture’ (Napier 2005: 233) in which the film is set, and the development toward modern Japan’s male dominance and technological advance at the expense of nature and women, which is being de-assured by Miyazaki. The alleged deconstruction of Japanese history is partly hinged on Miyazaki’s statement that ‘the main protagonists are those who usually do not appear on the stage of history. Instead, this is the story of the marginals of history’ (Napier 2005: 233). These ‘marginals’ are represented by headstrong female characters (Lady Eboshi, San and her wolf-mother, Moro), and by the ethnic background of Ashitaka, who belongs to ‘the last of the Emishi’, as stated in the dialogue of the film. The Emishi, or Ainu, the indigenous people of Japan, were driven away by the Yamato tribe, the primary ancestors of the contemporary ethnic Japanese. While there is some truth to the claim that Princess Mononoke offers a different depiction of the Muromachi period in comparison with, for instance, the innumerable films based on the quintessential myth of the feudal loyalty and revenge of the 47 masterless samurai (genroku chushingura), it is fair to NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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say that the feminist part of Napier’s analysis is heavily hinged on structuring absences. What we are watching is not modern Japanese male chauvinism, but female beasts and beauties waging savage war and a sensible human prince trying to make peace. And the story’s distinct focus on a sensible male protagonist is, in my view, at odds with Napier’s notion that Miyazaki is offering an ‘alternative, heterogeneous, and female-centered vision of Japanese identity for the future’ (Napier 2005: 232) with Princess Mononoke. Finally, there is the aforementioned question: is it possible to subvert hegemonic narratives of ‘Japaneseness’ by drawing extensively on Shinto? As mentioned, in the judgement of Ian Reader, Shinto and being Japanese are in many senses synonymous. If Miyazaki’s film subverts ‘Japaneseness’, it would seem to be a requirement that the film should also subvert Shinto. So, aligning the film with the fundamental sources on Shinto mythology is the task at hand. And this exercise shows that while the film proclaims to be set in the fourteenth century, the sources drawn from by Miyazaki are of an earlier date. As noted by Levi (2001: 40), Ashitaka’s quest seems based on the merits of Yamato Takeru, an emissary of the emperor, described in both the Kojiki and the Nihongi. On one occasion, Takeru was sent east to subdue the unruly deities and people of that region (Philippi 1969: 238ff.). Hence, people were on a par with kami in the ancient myths, just like in Miyazaki’s film. The unruly people referred to are in fact the Emishi, the ethnic group Ashitaka belongs to. So here we see a reversal of roles. Yamato Takeru, as his name shows, belongs to the Yamato, the ethnic Japanese, who play a minor role in Princess Mononoke. Not casting Yamato Japanese in the roles of the most important historical agents is rather unusual for a period film, and may be construed as de-assurance of hegemonic historical discourse. After all, the concept of the Yamato race was used in roughly the same manner by Japanese World War II militarists as ideas on the Aryan race were used by Nazi ideologists. Whether lay viewers discern this feature in the here and now of reception is a different matter. When Takeru sets out, according to the Nihongi (Aston 1956: 205), he is offered a sword by his beloved, just as Ashitaka is given a knife as gift of parting by a girl when he leaves his native village to head west – not east as is the case with Yamato Takeru. Again, we can note a slight difference in the way Miyazaki formats the material. On his way to subdue the Emishi and the unruly deities, Takeru kills a ‘master god’ (Aston 1956: 209) that has ‘assumed the form of a white deer’ (Aston 1956: 208), which is in fact one of the forms in which the Great Forest god of Princess Mononoke manifests itself. After killing the deer god, Takeru falls ill, just as Ashitaka does after killing the huge boar god in the opening scene of Princess Mononoke. In the Kojiki, it is a god’s messenger in the shape of a ‘wild boar the size of a cow’ (Philippi 1969: 246) that crosses Yamato Takeru’s path and causes the illness that eventually kills him. Interestingly, the disease spreads by very natural means. The deity causes a violent hailstorm that dazes Takeru in the Kojiki (Philippi 1969: 246), and in the Nihongi (Aston 1956) it is the breath of the deity that causes his disease when he is ‘bursting through the smoke, and braving the mists’ (Aston 1956: 208) of Mount Oho-yama. So, we can conclude that nature is 186

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‘vengeful and brutally frightening’ in both the Nihongi, the Kojiki and in Princess Mononoke. Also, we can conclude that the central motif of Princess Mononoke, humans killing kami in the form of a ‘boar the size of a cow’ and a white deer ‘master god’, is almost directly copied. As for the gender issue, Napier emphasizes the historical accuracy in that iron-mining towns like Tatara did exist in Princess Mononoke’s historical era. De-assurance is brought about by the fiction ‘that such a community would have been led by a woman, and one who was both a military commander and a fiercely determined fighter’ (Napier 2005: 239–40). While this may ring true of the Muromachi period, armies segregated by gender (Aston 1956: 119) and armies led by women Aston 1956: 157) were features of ancient mythological Japan, and hence not pure fiction conceived by Miyazaki. Moreover, the recording of the Kojiki was completed under Empress Gemmei, who was also the first ruler of the Yamato capital, Nara – often exalted as ‘the cradle of Japanese civilization’ (Philippi 1969: 6–7). So, not just armies of women, but also empresses, and Sun goddesses are crucial features of ancient mythological Japan. Therefore, the exposition of strong women can hardly be said to constitute a subversion of the Japanese tradition presented by the chronicles. If we sum up the above observations on the similarities between Miyazaki’s film and the chronicles, both the Kojiki (1969) and the Nihongi (1956) would have to be considered subversive in order for Princess Mononoke to be ‘de-assuring’ Japanese tradition. A more apt description is that Miyazaki is mapping the myths and spiritualism of the ancient records onto the Muromachi era. In Wright’s words: Essentially, his films attempt to re-enchant his audiences with a sense of spirituality that eschews the dogmas and orthodoxies of organized religions and politics, instead reaching for the original, primal state of spiritualism in human history and how it can be lived today. (Wright 2005: 3)

Does this make the film conducive to contemporary nationalism? Hardly, if you note the use of the past, which is almost as unsettling as Miyazaki’s vision of the future in the post-apocalyptic dystopia Kaze no tani no Naushikaa/Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984). While nationalism may feed well on dystopian visions of the future, because they nourish nostalgia for the past (a staple of nationalism everywhere), unsettling visions of Japan’s past, viewed separately, appear directly counterproductive to Japanese neo-nationalism. Otherwise, why would Japanese right-wingers devote so much energy and prestige to sanitizing Japan’s war history? Before jumping to conclusions, however, it is crucial to note that the above-listed intricacies may be of very little import to the meaning-making of lay audiences. We cannot assume that the details of Miyazaki’s use of Japan’s mythohistory sink in with lay audiences in Japan or anywhere else, just as we cannot expect audiences to fasten upon the structuring absences that Napier hinges her feminist argument on. A cinemagoer’s experience at the cinema does not allow for entertaining such intricacies and abstractions – not in the here and now of reception at least. Judging by the make-up of the film, the most salient feature of Princess Mononoke appears to be the mystical beauty NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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of the forest scenes depicting the Forest god and the thousands of little kodama (infant-like forest spirits) in contrast to the haunting images of ecological collapse. And perhaps this collision of beauty and destruction is what strikes the responsive chord with audiences. Perhaps this is not just the last, but also the lasting impression of the film: the evocation of an unspoilt, soulful and natural past being destroyed by the technological advance and the greed of humans. In conjunction, Shinto-animism and ecological anxiety make up a powerful and highly marketable cocktail, it seems. Historically, Shinto has repeatedly been redefined and has gained prominence at times when Japan was under pressure from the outside world. The ancient chronicles were written down at a time when the influence of especially China was growing in Japan (Philippi 1969: 6). As mentioned, Shinto was restored and redefined again in the late eighteenth century by – most prominently – Motoori Norinaga. He was the architect behind kokugaku (national learning), a school of thought that promoted a return to the ancient roots and values at a time when Japan had been forcibly opened up by the American navy after centuries of seclusion from the world. Kokugaku laid the foundation for the racist ideology of militarist Japan and its construction of kokka-Shinto (national Shinto), with its divine emperor as both religious and political high priest. These days, the effects of globalization and global warming are increasingly felt in Japan and elsewhere. Not even island nations like Japan are islands in the world any longer. And both the return to the old values and Miyazaki’s ecological anxieties are distinct in his films, and can be substantiated by numerous quotes. In his outline of the purpose of Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi/Spirited Away (2001) Miyazaki writes that: Children are losing their roots, being surrounded by high technology and cheap industrial goods. We have to tell them how rich a tradition we have [...]. In an era of no borders, people who do not have a place to stand will be treated unseriously. A place is the past and history. A person with no history, a people who have forgotten their past, will vanish like snow, or be turned into chickens to keep laying eggs until they are eaten. (Miyazaki 2001)

While Miyazaki is often quoted for being critical of kokka-Shinto (Wright 2005: 10), his fear of globalization and his exaltation of national tradition and history here comes perilously close to that of extreme right-wing ideologists. As was once noted by a famous and infamous German ideologist, in some aspects the political spectrum is not linear, going from right to left, but rather a curve where ‘the extremes of left and right meet’ (Sorensen and Bruslund 1993: 72). The name of the ideologist was Joseph Goebbels.

Spiritual literacy, ‘occulturalism’ and neo-orientalism Spirited Away tells the story of a 10-year-old girl, Chihiro, who winds up in the realm of kami together with her parents, who are soon turned into pigs by a witch. In order to save her parents and herself, Chihiro has to overcome the will and the spell of the witch by working at a bathing house for kami. Here, she teams up with a boy of her own age, Haku, who is also under the spell of the witch. 188

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Essentially, Miyazaki is presenting a coming-of-age story, where the young protagonist Chihiro grows from a somewhat timid and sulky child into someone who learns to overcome fear, and to approach others with an open mind. And obviously, purification is foregrounded by the bath-house setting. In Shintoist terms, Chihiro achieves a state of makoto – she learns to be ‘sincere’. To the Japanese-speaking viewer, the references to Shinto are abundant and instantly realized. It is clear from the opening title that Chihiro is in for a test of some sort. Her name means ‘1000 fathoms’ (Chi = 1000, hiro = fathom, inquire, look for), so it is reasonable for a Japanese-speaking viewer to hypothesize that trials and tribulations await her. The film’s Japanese title, Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi, literally translates into ‘Sen and Chihiro’s spiriting away by kami’. The term kamikakushi means to be hidden by kami, a designation taken from folklore to explain whenever someone inexplicably disappears – upon the return of the missing person, people would say that they had been hidden by kami. So, what to a fair share of western mainstream audiences is most likely conceived of as a fantasy film, set in an exotic locale, populated by chimera, is instantly anchored in Shinto by the Japanese viewer, and this, of course, has consequences for the construed meaning of the film. The most important specific effect that can be theoretically deduced pertains to Chihiro’s relationship to Haku. At a universal level, Haku performs the role of a somewhat ambiguous helper and a potential boyfriend to Chihiro. However, to the viewer who is familiar with the Japanese backgrounds, Haku is more than just a bewitched boy who intermittently transforms into a dragon. According to Boyd and Nishimura: The character Haku is in some respects the embodiment of what we are calling traditional Japanese cultural values. His attire resembles that of the Heian period – he wears something similar to a hakama, part of a Shinto priest’s formal costume. Besides this courtly dress, his speech is formal and traditional. When he refers to himself, he does not use the more colloquial ‘boku’ but the more formal ‘watashi’. And when he addresses Sen, he uses the ancient, more noble aristocratic term ‘sonata’. In fact, Haku’s full name, nigihayami kohaku-nushi, is reminiscent of a reference in the Kojiki [...] ‘nigi haya hi no mikoto’ the name of an ancestor to one of the families of high courtly rank in ancient times. (Boyd and Nishimura 2004: 24)

Haku is in fact not a just a bewitched boy, but a kami, or a nushi, which is roughly the same thing. So the proto-love relationship between the girl (in her early pubescence) and boy is, at another level, a meeting of a girl and a kami. Consequently, Chihiro does not only struggle among chimera in a bathing house to get the boy. She has to struggle in order to purify herself of her sulky and timid demeanour, she has to achieve makoto, and in order to become sincere, Chihiro has to be intimate with Haku, the ‘embodiment of traditional cultural values’ – in Boyd and Nishimura’s wording. Only then is she capable of standing up to the witch and freeing her parents who were turned into swine because of their materialism and their gluttonizing of kami food only minutes after their entry to the realm of the spirits. But this is not the only feature that is lost in translation. For instance, the title used when the film ran in Danish cinemas, ‘Chihiro and the NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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Witches’, also did its fair share to dislocate the experience of Danish cinema-goers from the realm of kami. The general conception of a ‘witch’ does not necessarily entail a religious entity or even supernatural status – a witch is a human with special magical abilities, and this is a pretty far cry from the kami of the Japanese title. The general impression that this is a film of a spiritual nature, however, has been widely noted. For instance, in 2002, Spirited Away was among the top ten of the most ‘spiritually literate films’ listed on the homepage of the New York-based organization ‘Spirituality & Practice’, which clearly renders its services to New Age soul seekers. Part of the motivation for recommending the film reads as follows: ‘Little Chihiro does what spiritual seekers will recognize as “shadow work” – taking back her projections, learning to love all parts of herself, including those mirrored by others – healing both herself and those around her in the process’ (Brussat 2002). So, if we take this particular homepage as a point of departure, Spirited Away with its main protagonist, who must look a thousand times in order to fathom the ‘cultural values of traditional Japan’, is appropriated and recommended as a ‘resource’ for those prone to ‘spiritual journeys’. Thus a certain amount of neo-orientalist, quasi-religious mysticism also appears to be part of the attraction. The British philosopher and religious historian Christopher Partridge has coined the term ‘occulturalism’ to grasp the somewhat loose spiritualism that is constructed and conveyed by, among other things, pop cultural artefacts. In Partridge’s definition: Occulture itself is not a particular ‘occult’ worldview, or movement, or spirituality, but is rather a resource with which people engage [...] Occulture is the spiritual bricoleur’s Internet through which to surf and from which to download whatever appeals and inspires [...] it is the varied landscape the spiritual nomad explores; it is the cluttered warehouse frequently plundered by producers of popular culture searching for ideas, images and symbols. (Partridge 2007: 7)

Partridge lists a number of features and uses of occultural artefacts that attract the western spiritual seeker, three of which are particularly relevant in this context. First, occulture conveys the attraction of the premodern and marks a turn away from technological modernity often by conveying ‘a strong sense of continuity with the past’ (Partridge 2007: 9). Second, occultural artefacts are enchanting, and this apparently applies to Miyazaki’s films in the view of the above-mentioned homepage for soul seekers. Finally, occulture is anti-establishment – you do not need to abide by the requirements of religious institutions, churches or sects to take part in occulture – it is a de-institutionalized, de-traditionalized and, to some extent, individualized pursuit. While this may offer an inkling as to what attracts the spiritualist share of anime fan cultures on the Internet, and therefore to some degree also accounts for part of the Japanese reception, I would argue that two aspects of Shinto feed into the Japanese reception and positions both the secular and the occultural uses of Shinto-influenced anime in relation to environmentalism and nationalism. If western fan cultures’ occultural fascination with anime can be summed up with the words ‘premodern’, ‘enchanting’ and ‘anti-establishment’, then the close ties between Shinto

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and Japanese nationalism, at least theoretically speaking, puts part of the Japanese reception at risk of being best captured by the concepts ‘antimodern’, ‘irrational’ and ‘reactionary’. Shinto’s focus on closeness to, or oneness with, nature, on the other hand, may tint the Japanese reception in environmentalist colours. Be it environmentalist, nationalist or both, Miyazaki’s films are still concerned with national cultural heritage, and, obviously, Japanese nationalism is neither static nor monolithic. In order to grasp this issue, we need to theorize the concept of nationalism in more detail.

My neighbour, the kami, Totoro While Miyazaki’s uses of Shinto characters, themes and stories are fairly obvious in both Spirited Away and Princess Mononoke, the Danish critical reception of Tonari no Totoro/My Neighbour Totoro (1988) provides an illuminating example of how Shintoism passes for non-religious magic. In spring 2007, Totoro opened at Danish cinemas and was hailed enthusiastically by Danish newspaper critics who – almost unanimously – proclaimed that this was indeed a masterpiece. Most critics praised the film for its subdued magic, and for what it did not do: set up black-and-white oppositions between good and bad, and race along at hysterical speed and almost unbearable noisiness characteristic of most American animation films for children – in short, it was praised for not being a typical Disney or Pixar production. Here, we return to one of the features of Partridge’s ‘occulturalism’, namely the attraction of being ‘anti-establishment’. One of the most often repeated qualities of anime – on fan sites, in film criticism, in the comparisons drawn by film scholars – is that it is not Disney. And this recurrent notion has apparently convinced even the establishment, since Buena Vista has bought the rights to distribute the films of Hayao Miyazaki and his Studio Ghibli. But what is more important in relation to the Danish critical reception of Totoro is that no one – to my knowledge4 – caught a whiff of the pervasiveness of Shinto, despite the extensive use of religious iconography in the film – both Shinto and Buddhist. The plot centres on two sisters, who are struggling to cope with their fears over their mother’s illness. They move into an old rural house with their father, and soon find that the house is inhabited by ‘soot sprites’ (little black dust bugs) who roam in the attic. In one shot, the soot sprites are shown huddled together in a corner of the attic behind a gohei – the wooden stick with zigzags of folded paper attached, which is not only used by Shinto priests at purification rituals as previously mentioned, but also signifies the presence of kami. So the funny little creatures, who soon abscond from the house due to a ‘purification ritual’ – the sisters and their father scare them off by laughing out loud while taking a communal bath – are in fact kami. Next to the family’s house, there is a shrine. It is appropriately marked by a torii (a Shinto shrine gate). Inside, a huge camphor tree hosts kami as is evident from the shimenawa (a rope made of rice straw used to designate a sacred place, which is tied around the tree). And inside the tree reside the totoros (the benevolent creatures of nature) – the kami – who help the two girls cope. Apart from these obvious signifiers of sacred places, the girls also seek shelter at roadside shrines, near Buddhist statues, engage in a nocturnal fertility ritual together with the big totoro, and pay their respects to the kami by praying together with their father at NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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This assessment is based on a survey of features and reviews published in seven major Danish dailies: BT, Politiken, Berlingske Tidende, Jyllands-Posten, Kristeligt Dagblad, Information and Ekstra Bladet when the film opened at Danish theatres in March 2007.

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the camphor tree. So, there is an abundance of cues signifying Shinto, yet not one Danish newspaper critic mentioned the word ‘Shinto’. Moreover, it seems that no one caught another prominent feature of this film, namely the nostalgic mourning of a bygone age of innocence and a spirit of community perishing because of the advance of modernity. Maybe this is because it is not evident to non-Japanese viewers that the film is in fact set in Miyazaki’s childhood. As pointed out by McDonald, ‘My Neighbour Totoro [...] takes a longing look back at the 1950s, when some rural and suburban communities still offered refuge from the throes of transformation run amok in the name of post-war recovery’ (McDonald 2006: 177). The nostalgia for the closeness and purity of a rural past is a staple of most nationalisms – and certainly a prominent feature of both My Neighbour Totoro and of contemporary Japanese nationalism. The Japanese keyword in this context is the notion of the furusato (the old village). The notion of the furusato is often used by politicians to evoke a perceived yearning among urban Japanese for the rural roots of the family, and to conjure up the image of Japan as one homogeneous family nation in which the individual members can trace their family lineage back to a pure and idyllic rural village – a place uncontaminated by the onslaught of modernity and the influx of foreigners to Japan brought about by globalization. Obviously, the blessings of the furusato are not within reach for those who do not have Japanese ancestors. And these two traits in concert, Shinto and the nostalgia of furusatoism, make up a cocktail that is exploited by neonationalists in Japan. British sociologist Michael Billig (1995) has coined the term ‘banal nationalism’ to designate the inconspicuous everyday reconstruction of national culture and identity outside the habitual production centres of nationalism – political fora, for instance. In an extension of Billig, Hjarvard (2008) has proposed the concept ‘banal religion’ to designate religious ideas and notions that exist outside institutionalized religions, and which are often both formed by and disseminated through media. According to Billig, banal nationalism is generated and sustained by everyday routines, images and habits of language; for instance, the use of the little words ‘we’, ‘us’, ‘them’, and ‘the others’ to imply and demarcate national identity and belonging. Inherent in Hjarvard’s definition of ‘banal religiosity’ is that it predates and constitutes the foundation upon which institutionalized religions are constructed, a definition that brings the ancient chronicles and Miyazaki’s uses of Shinto mythology to mind. If we merge the concepts of Billig and Hjarvard into ‘banal national religiosity’, the outline of the issue at hand comes within reach. Evoking the furusato in a film studded with images of religious significance can be justly said to contribute to the construction of banal national religiosity, a basis upon which the forgers of Shinto nationalism can operate. According to Billig (1995: 39), manifestations of nationalism can be divided into ‘waved and unwaved flags’. Former Prime Minister Koizumi’s repeated visits to the Yasukuni shrine were waved flags; they were deliberate, explicit and official expressions of nationalism. The exposition of the quiet magic of a Shinto-torii in a film like My Neighbour Totoro constitutes an apparently unwaved flag. Nevertheless, it flags the nation; it reminds the Japanese audience of their national mytho-religious heritage, and it keeps images and notions of 192

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national and religious identity alive – it helps sustain banal national religiosity. But while the image of the torii may constitute an unwaved flag to some – after all, there are thousands of these gates dotted all over Japan – in the eyes of others it might be construed as a waved flag. The dividing line between waved and unwaved flags is not static, and it belongs within the conception of individual recipients: to some Muslim women, the headscarf is merely a garment, something they wear because they have always done so; to others – both the wearers and those who encounter them – this same headscarf is clearly a waved flag signalling religious belonging and intended to do just that. It is, in other words, an empirical matter to decide which is which and what the bottom line is when the work of the maker meets the eye of the user. But while unwaved flags make up the dry haystack, the lit match that sets it ablaze often comes in the form of a waved flag. This is evident from the ongoing debate on Muslim women’s scarves in many European countries over the last couple of years; a sustained controversy over a phenomenon tends to pull the phenomenon from the unwaved side of the spectrum towards the waved. And the same observation goes for the repeated controversies over the nationalist uses of Shinto in Japan. A sidelong glance at the political rationale behind the repeated Yasukuni visits would seem to indicate that a considerable part of the Japanese electorate sympathizes with those Shinto-nationalistic manifestations. If these visits were not marketable to voters, Japanese top politicians would have to be either stupid, which they are not, or very religious, which they hardly are, in order to keep inflicting costly damages to Japanese international political and economic relations by honouring the war dead at Yasukuni. But this, of course, does not allow for the conclusion that Miyazaki’s use of Shinto is construed along blatantly nationalist lines by a majority of cinema-going voters. We may safely conclude, however, that whether or not the use of Shinto in the three films analysed above is conducive to the history revisionist nationalism purported by those in power in contemporary Japan, it is inextricably linked to issues of the Japanese nation state, its problematic historical track record and the unfortunate role played by Shinto in this respect. Or, in other words, substituting national religiosity with banal national religiosity hardly eradicates implications of contemporary nationalism.

Stirred – not shaken It would be misleading to explain the global success of anime solely in terms of the culture-specific peculiarities delineated above, which are bound to either go unnoticed by western audiences or be ‘misconstrued’ if you consider the intended meaning and/or the meaning made by home audiences. If anime is so laden with culture-specific meaning, it seems an apparent paradox that it has become a globalized commodity. Why then does anime generally, and Miyazaki’s anime specifically, travel so well? First, it needs to be stated that while certain layers of meaning of the films are, as previously outlined, not readily accessible to viewers who are uninformed on the Japanese background, there are other layers that lend themselves to universal fascination and meaning construal without hindrance. Also, I have briefly touched upon part of the reason for the present success, namely the magnitude of the anime business in Japan – large-scale NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008

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operation advantages are clearly part of the explanation. The domestic market in Japan is huge, and products can thus be exported at favourable prices – in most cases, the profit from the home market has already covered production costs. Additionally, the export of the Japanese animation industry is being boosted by the Japanese establishment. This can be seen not just by the occasional promotion and sponsorship of anime-related events undertaken by diplomatic representations outside Japan, but also by the inner circles of Japanese political power. When, in September 2007, Prime Minister Abe decided to step down, the Nikkei Index dropped half a per cent on the Tokyo Stock Exchange. However, once it became known that hawkish conservative Foreign Minister Taro Aso was in line as a possible successor, the shares of manga and anime businesses gained. In fact, the manga publishing company, Broccoli, gained no less than 71 per cent in one day, according to BBC Online (BBC 2007). Taro Aso is known in Japan to be a vehement manga and anime fan. Perhaps in an attempt to outdo his more liberal counterpart in the race for the prime ministry, Yasuo Fukuda – who had promised voters not to stir up international controversy by visiting the Yasukuni shrine if he were elected (Ito 2007) – Aso vowed to boost the anime and manga business in order to make ‘warm feelings for Japanese pop culture [...] translate into warm feelings for its foreign policy’ (Tabuchi 2007). So in this manner, two of the key hot topics of this article, pop culture and war responsibility, were also key issues of the political struggle to succeed Abe as prime minister. And the close ties between the creative industries and Japanese officialdom became abundantly clear. The occultural uses of anime have also been noted, but hardly account for a significant share of the total consumption. Here, the mystic qualities of, for instance, Chihiro – perhaps including some of the distinctly Japanese traits – may even be considered assets because they are not ‘properly understood’ and therefore appear enigmatic and mystifying to western audiences. Additionally, there is one attraction to particularly the fan communities of anime that has been mentioned: anime it is not Disney; so being an anime fan promises the counter-cultural capital upon which most sub- or counter-cultures thrive: escaping the mainstream. After having lurked at different web fora for anime fans, my preliminary impression is that the interaction that takes place at these fora has surprisingly little to do with the peculiarities of anime and an awful lot to do with identity construction and youthful global bonding through the Internet and at various ‘cons’ (conventions), where fans meet in the real world. It is hip to be otaku (an anime and/or manga fan). It is cool to either possess, or be knowledgeable about, as many anime series as possible, and it is extra cool to do ‘scanlations’ (unauthorized scanning and translation of manga) and ‘fansubbing’ of anime (dubbed anime are for nitwits) if one does not make a profit selling the pirated films or comics. The object of interest, however, might as well be punk rock, skater culture or any other nerdish and juvenile objects of interest. And, as delineated by Leonard (2005), the anime and manga industry apparently sees little economic motivation to clamp down on copyright violators. The rationale appears to be that Internet piracy boosts global interest in and an appetite for anime. The sustained lobbying of TV stations and cinemas to show more anime by the global otaku culture clearly constitutes an asset 194

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to the producers. Fan activism, to some degree, influences the agenda of distributors and programmers, especially in the United States, and this invites reflections on what has been termed ‘the new media economy’, where the agenda of production, distribution and consumption is increasingly influenced from the bottom-up/many-to-one, instead of the traditional top-down/one-to-many pattern of mass communication and mass production. Describing this development as the name of the contemporary anime game, however, would constitute an exaggeration. Huge conglomerates like Disney and Cartoon Network may lend an ear to the grassroots, but it is still the executives who call the decisive shots. After all, Hayao Miyazaki’s films did not become international mainstream cinema until Buena Vista started distributing Studio Ghibli productions. Finally, it should be noted that while the Internet is, of course, global, the powerhouse of global anime fandom is geographically located in and around the colleges of the United States and Canada. Here, there is a critical mass, screenings to go to, readers and writers for weekly fan-magazines and a sufficient number of Japanese speakers and readers who can translate and disseminate the much-coveted ‘scanlations’ and ‘fansubs’. So, the ‘Japanization of European Youth’ referred to in the introduction of this article is a truth with qualifications. A considerable share of the Japanese product takes a detour around US colleges en route from Japan to European fan communities. It is partly filtered by the preferences, the activism and the influence exerted on distributors by American college students. And this, to some extent, keeps the exchange of youth cultural trends to the beaten track between Europe and the United States, where it has been since the days of Elvis Presley and James Dean. So while the American animation industry may be in for a beating, and the global dominance of US youth pop culture may have been stirred by the success of Japanese creative industries, it is hardly shaken. References Aston, W.G. (trans.) (1956), Nihongi, London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd. Barrett, J. (2004), Why Would Anyone Believe in God?, Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press. BBC (2007), ‘Manga shares gain on leader hopes’, BBC Online, http://news.bbc.co.uk/ 2/hi/business/6991720.stm. Accessed 12 September 2007. Billig, M. (1995), Banal Nationalism, London: Sage Publications. Boyd, J.W. and Nishimura, T. (2004), Shinto Perspectives in Miyazaki’s Anime Film ‘Spirited Away’, Journal of Religion and Film, 8: 2, pp. 1–25. Brussat, M.A. and F. (2002), Film Review: Spirited Away, available at http://www. spiritualityandpractice.com/films/films.php?id=5116. Accessed 4 October 2007. Hjarvard, S. (2008), ‘The mediatization of religion: A theory of the media as agents of religious change’, In Northern Lights 2008. Bristol: Intellect Press. Ito, M. (2007), ‘Fukuda enters race, vows to avoid Yasukuni’, Japan Times Online, 16 September. http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/nn20070916a1. html. Accessed 21 April 2008. Jeans, R.B. (2005), ‘Victims or Victimizers? Museums, Textbooks, and the War Debate in Contemporary Japan’, Journal of Military History, 69, pp. 149–95. JETRO (2004), Japan Regains its Position as a Global Cultural and Trend Leader, New York: JETRO.

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Kinsella, S. (1997), Japanization of European Youth, Available at http://basic1.easily. co.uk/04F022/036051/Japanization.html. Accessed 16 October 2007. Leonard, S. (2005), Celebrating Two Decades of Unlawful Progress: Fan Distribution, Proselytization Commons, and the Explosive Growth of Japanese Animation’, UCLA Entertainment Law Review, Spring Issue. Levi, A. (1996), Samurai from Outer Space: Understanding Japanese Animation, Chicago: Open Court. ———— (2001), ‘New Myths for the Millennium: Japanese Animation’, in J.A. Lent (ed.), Animation in Asia and the Pacific, Eastleigh, UK: John Libbey Publishing, pp. 33–51. Lidin, O. (1985), Japans religioner, København: Politikens forlag. Matsumoto, S. (1970), Moto-ori Norinaga: 1730–1801, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. McDonald, K. (2006), Reading a Japanese Film, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Miyazaki, H. (2001), ‘The Purpose of the Film’, available at http://www.nausicaa.net/ miyazaki/sen/proposal.html. Accessed 17 October 2007. Napier, S.J. (2001), ‘Confronting Master Narratives: History as Vision in Miyazaki Hayao’s Cinema of De-assurance’, Positions: East Asia Cultures Critique, 9: 2, pp. 467–93. ———— (2005), Anime from Akira to Howl’s Moving Castle, updated edn., New York: Palgrave. Partridge, C. (2007), ‘Occulture, Popular Culture, and the Appeal of The Da Vinci Code’, paper presented at the ‘Enchantment, Popular Culture, and Mediated Experience’ seminar, University of Copenhagen, 17–19 April. Phillippi, D. (trans.) (1969), Kojiki, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Reader, I. (ed.) (1993), Japanese Religions: Past and Present, Folkestone: Japan Library. Sorensen, L. (2006), The Little Victories of the Bad Losers: Resistance against U.S. Occupation Reforms and Film Censorship in the Films of Yasujiro Ozu and Akira Kurosawa 1945–52, Ph.D. dissertation, Faculty of the Humanities, University of Copenhagen, forthcoming on Edwin Mellen Press. Sorensen, L. and Bruslund, T. (1993), Wieder den Deutschen Geist, Herning: Systime. Tabuchi, H. (2007), ‘Aso hip with comic book crowd’, Japan Times Online, 20 September 20. http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/nn20070920f2.html. Accessed 21 April 2008. Wright, L. (2005), ‘Forest Spirits, Giant Insects and World Trees: The Nature Vision of Hayao Miyazaki’, Journal of Religion and Popular Culture, 10, pp. 1–40.

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Contributors Justin L. Barrett is Senior Researcher at the University of Oxford’s Centre for Anthropology and Mind and is Lecturer in the Institute of Cognitive and Evolutionary Anthropology. He earned degrees in experimental psychology from Calvin College (B.A.) and Cornell University (Ph.D). Dr Barrett is a founding editor of the Journal of Cognition & Culture and is a consulting editor for Psychology of Religion & Spirituality. He is author of numerous articles and chapters concerning cognitive science of religion. His book Why Would Anyone Believe in God? (AltaMira, 2004) presents a scientific account for the prevalence of religious beliefs. E-mail: [email protected] Lynn Schofield Clark is Associate Professor and Director of the Estlow International Center for Journalism & New Media at the University of Denver’s School of Communication. She is author of From Angels to Aliens: Teenagers, the Media, and the Supernatural (Oxford University Press, 2003/2005), co-author of Media, Home, and Family (Routledge, 2007), editor of Religion, Media, and the Marketplace (Rutgers University Press, 2007), and co-editor of Practicing Religion in the Age of the Media (Columbia University Press, 2002). She is currently writing a book on how U.S. families negotiate the introduction of digital media into their home lives. E-mail: [email protected] Ehab Galal, MA in Arabic and Minority Studies, is presently holding a Ph.D.-scholarship at Department of Cross-Cultural and Regional Studies, Copenhagen University. He is examining the role of transnational television in negotiations and constructions of Islamic identities. Galal has published several articles in Danish on Arab satellite-television and media, e.g. “Giving Women Voice – Constructions of Muslim Women on Arab religious TV” in Babylon (2007) and in English the article “Reimagining Religious Identities in Children’s Programs on Arab Satellite-TV. Intentions and Values” (2006). Galal has previously been teaching Arabic and Media in the Middle East at the University of Copenhagen and Interpretation at Copenhagen Business School. Email: [email protected] Torben Grodal is Professor at the University of Copenhagen, Dept. of Media, Cognition and Communication. He has – besides books and articles in Danish on literature - published Moving Pictures, A new theory of genre, feelings and cognition, edited a book, Visual Authorship, a series of articles on film emotions, narrative theory, art films, video games, evolutionary film theory, intertextuality, and an advanced introduction to film theory Filmoplevelser. He has just finished a new book: Embodied Visions: Evolution, Emotion, Culture and Film that is forthcoming on Oxford University Press. E-mail: [email protected]

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Helle Kannik Haastrup, Assistant Professor, Ph.D. at the Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, Section of Film and Media Studies, University of Copenhagen, Denmark. Haastrup is primarily working on celebrity culture, cross-media analysis and cinematic narration. Her Ph.D. thesis dealt with film and intertextuality and her postdoc-project focused on the relationship between character and narrative in film and video games. She has published several articles on these topics as well as co-edited Intertextuality and Visual Media (1999). Her most recent article in English is “Popular European Art Film: Challenging Narratives and Engaging Characters” (2005). E-mail: [email protected] Stig Hjarvard is Professor, Ph.D., at the Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, Section for Film and Media Studies, University of Copenhagen. He has published books and articles on television history, journalism, globalization, ratings analysis, and mediatization theory. He is co-editor of Northern Lights, head of the Nordic Research Network on the Mediatization of Religion and Culture financed by NordForsk and head of the research programme Newspapers and Journalism in Transition financed by the Danish Research Council for Culture and Communication. Books in English include News in a Globalized Society (editor, 2001) and Media in a Globalized Society (editor, 2003). E-mail: [email protected] Ryan G. Hornbeck is a D.Phil. student at the University of Oxford’s Centre for Anthropology and Mind. He earned an undergraduate degree in social anthropology (B.A.) from Washington University in St. Louis and a M.Sc. in social anthropology from the University of Oxford. He has been researching social relationships in Second Life for over two years. Email: [email protected] Graham Murdock is Reader in the Sociology of Culture at Loughborough University. He has published widely on the dynamics of culture and communications. His writings have been translated into nineteen languages and he has held visiting professorships at the universities of California, Bergen, Stockholm, Brussels, and Mexico City. His current research focuses on the social impact of digital technologies, the politics of risk, the marketisation of culture, and contemporary China. His most recent books are as coauthor The GM Debate:Risk, Politics and Public Engagement (Routledge 2007) and as co-editor Media in the Age of Marketisation (Hampton Press 2007). E-mail: [email protected] Christopher Partridge is Professor of Religious Studies at Lancaster University and co-Director of the Centre for the Study of Religion and Popular Culture at the University of Chester, UK. His research and writing focuses both on new religions and also on popular culture. He has a particular interest in the relationship between popular music and religion. He is the author of The Re-Enchantment of the West, 2 volumes (2004, 2006) and the co-editor of the series ‘Studies in Popular Music’ (Equinox). He is the editor of several volumes on religious belief in the contemporary world, including The World’s Religions (2005), Encyclopedia of New 198

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Religions (2004), and UFO Religions (2003). E-mail: c.partridge@ lancaster.ac.uk Line Nybro Petersen, MA in Film Studies from University of Copenhagen. She is a Ph.D.-scholar at the section of Film and Media Studies, University of Copenhagen. Her doctoral research project focuses on religious discourse in contemporary American television fiction and considers the series as examples of cultural export to Danish society and the reception among young Danish viewers. E-mail: [email protected] Lars-Martin Sørensen has a BA in Japan Studies and a Ph.D. in Film Studies. He is currently a postdoctoral research fellow at the Section for Film & Media Studies, University of Copenhagen. His present research project focuses on the political and pop cultural uses of Japanese religion in anime. He has published a number of articles on Japanese film, is coeditor of the film journal Kosmorama, and a member of the steering committee of the Nordic Association of Japan Studies (NAJS). His doctoral dissertation, The Little Victories of the Bad Losers: Resistance against U.S. Occupation Reforms and Film Censorship in the Films of Yasujiro Ozu and Akira Kurosawa 1945–52, is under publication with Edwin Mellen Press. E-mail: [email protected] Casper Tybjerg is Associate Professor, Ph.D., at the Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, Section for Film and Media Studies, University of Copenhagen. He has written extensively about Danish film history (particularly Carl Th. Dreyer and the silent period). His work has appeared in Film History, Aura, Kosmorama, and in numerous anthologies. He has recorded audio commentaries for DVD editions of Dreyer’s La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (1999), Michael (2004), and Day of Wrath (2006), as well as Benjamin Christensen’s Häxan (2001). His visual essay “Rise of the Vampire” will accompany the DVD edition of Dreyer’s Vampyr (2008). E-mail: [email protected]

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