Global Shakespeare: Open-Access Online Digital Video Archive

Shakespeare Performance in Asia (SPiA) is the first phase of the Global Shakespeare digital video archive. SPiA, co-edited by Peter Donaldson and Alexander Huang, contains an extensive collection of videos of Asian Shakespeare performances for scholars, students, and any one interested in Shakespeare or Asian cultures. There are interactive maps and timelines, interviews, biographies of directors and actors, for understanding (1) intercultural performance in Asia and (2) Shakespeare's place in the modern world.

While Shakespeare and Asia have been connected on stage and screen for centuries, Asia-related performances in Asia, the U.S., and Europe are currently experiencing an exciting new wave of creativity. Such encounters have generated extraordinary artistic and intellectual energy, leading to the transformation of traditions that has worked in both directions at once.

The center of creativity in Shakespeare performance is shifting from Europe and the U.S. to Asia, where directors such as Ninagawa Yukio, Suzuki Tadashi, Ong Keng Sen, Wu Hsing-kuo, and many others experiment with combinations of traditional and contemporary theatre, new strategies for working across languages and genres, new ways of reaching diverse audiences.

These works are widely recognized as among the most innovative and distinguished in the world; they are changing how we understand Shakespeare, serving as a forum for theatre artists to deal with such contemporary questions as national and Asian identity, and reshaping debates about the relation of East and West.

Shakespeare Performance in Asia (SPIA) chronicles this exciting new wave of East-West cultural exchange.

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Law of Desire as Epic Theatre

Today’s lecture, given by Bradley Epps, Professor of Romance Languages and Literatures and Chair, Studies of Women, Gender, and Sexuality, at Harvard University, discussed the topic of indiscretion. Epps’ argument dealt with the problem that arises when “discrete” and “discreet” are classified as unrelated. He applied this argument to a film, Law of Desire, by Pedro Almodvar. The film addresses the question of discretion and how it is interpreted by the film-viewing public. What were most interesting about the lecture, however, were Epps’ thoughts on the introduction to the film, including the opening credits. Epps discussed the separation between the opening sequence and the rest of the film.

Both are independent of each other and the opening sequence is often regarded as the most graphic sex scene of the film. While Epps’ opinion differed, he focused on the audience and how certain assumptions made by the viewer can be abruptly impacted by simple change of frame. For instance, as the viewer watches the sequence and believes it to be an intimate encounter between a hustler and his john, the camera cuts to two middle-aged men doing a voice-over for a porn film. This abrupt change in subject matter can cause a rift between the viewer and the film, causing the viewer to realize that it is a film that he or she is watching, and not an intimate moment. This effect is interesting and reminds me of Berthold Brecht and his goal to leave the audience independent or “discrete” from the theatre piece in order to enact change in the real world.
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Stardom and Literary Canon

Hamlet is a peculiar play, a canonical work that has always already started for educated English-speaking audiences, and for many audiences around the globe. It is too familiar, and, as such, a formidable challenge for stage and film directors interested in giving their audiences something new to chew on. Show here: Gugu Mbatha-Raw as Ophelia and Jude Law as the titular prince in 'Hamlet' at Broadhurst Theatre in New York City last month. The solution seems to be to tap into the prestige and drawing power of movie stars. Stars to the rescue. But does it work?

A 'Hamlet' With Few Surprises

Review by TERRY TEACHOUT, Wall Street Journal, OCTOBER 9, 2009

Another "Hamlet," another movie star. When Shakespeare's best-known tragedy was last seen on Broadway, Ralph Fiennes played the title role and the production was a transfer from London. Fourteen years later, Jude Law is playing the title role and the production is a transfer from London. Few Broadway producers would dream of putting cash into a home-grown Shakespeare staging: They'd rather buy British, and they won't even do that without a Hollywood-issued flop-insurance policy.

HAMLET

Broadhurst Theatre
235 W. 44th St., ($25-$116.50)
212-239-6200
Closes Dec. 6

So what are the backers of Mr. Law's "Hamlet" getting for their money? A perfectly respectable, perfectly predictable modern-dress version whose been-there-seen-this minimalist décor, created by Christopher Oram, is the theatrical equivalent of a little black dress: Everybody has one and they all look alike. The whole cast, in fact, is dressed in black (except for Ophelia, who is black). Black leather jackets, black pea jackets, black shirts and ties . . . you get the idea. The set is an abstract castle whose sole ornament is a pair of proscenium-high doors that slide open and shut at frequent intervals, much like the elevators in a high-rise office building, and the mist-filled stage is illuminated by narrow shafts of chilly bluish-white light.

It would be inordinately difficult to make anything surprising happen in this enervatingly familiar space. Michael Grandage, who directed the Donmar Warehouse premiere of "Frost/Nixon" that came to Broadway two years ago, barely even tries. A few new touches pop up here and there, some smart (the killing of Polonius is seen from his point of view) and some silly (snowflakes fall on the sorrowful Dane as he delivers his soliloquy on suicide). For the most part, though, Mr. Grandage rings the standard changes on "Hamlet," and his competent actors stick no less carefully to the middle of the Shakespearean road. Only Peter Eyre, who plays the ghost of Hamlet's father and the Player King, makes you sit up and pay attention, speaking his lines in a cadaverous bass voice so ripe and resonant that you can almost feel it in the soles of your feet.

Mr. Law, a well-trained actor with extensive stage experience, gives a performance that struck me as a polished first draft, full of bright glints of wit and lithe physicality (he is a superlative swordsman) but lacking in vocal variety. If I'd seen him playing his first Hamlet on a regional stage, I would have thought myself lucky and marked him down for good things in the future, and I suspect that he would also have made a much stronger impression in a more interesting production.

The audience at Sunday's matinée showed every outward sign of loving everything about this "Hamlet." They sat in rapt silence and laughed in all the right places. Indeed, it was evident that many of the people who had been lured to the Broadhurst Theatre by the prospect of seeing Mr. Law in the flesh were also seeing the play for the first time. Good for them—and good for him. I can think of worse ways to make the acquaintance of so sublime a work of art. If, on the other hand, you've already been around the track with "Hamlet," I doubt that this comfy canter will tell you anything you don't already know.


Mr. Teachout, the Journal's drama critic, blogs about theater and the other arts at www.terryteachout.com. Write to him at tteachout@wsj.com.
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Pleasures of Voyeurism in Law of Desire

Bradley Epps (Professor of Romance Languages and Literature and Chair, Studies of Women, Gender, and Sexuality, Harvard University) presented a lecture entitled "In Praise of Indiscretion: Pedro Almodvar's Law of Desire." Providing a close-reading of the film, Epps moved to discuss the different forms of desire at work in Almodvar's work. Although he discussed a wide range of topics, the opening scene was of particular importance to the lecturer.

The opening scene is important because it is unrelated to the rest of the film. Epps's observation was that this scene sets up the film's discussion of its trope of desire that permeates throughout the rest of the film.The film opens with a beam of light reflected off crumbled pieces of paper in which the credits are written, set to music. This reinforces the audience's need to see in the darkness. After this sequence, the audience is introduced to a young man alone in a room. It soon becomes clear to the viewer that there is another person,an older gentleman, present. However the audience never sees this person as he is positioned behind the camera. Only his voice is heard as he instructs the youth and directs him to masturbate, while informing the young hustler to not look at him or acknowledge his presence. At the closing of the scene, it is revealed that the voices emanating from the scene, the commanding voice and the youth's responsive moaning and groaning, were that of two older gentleman in a sound studio dubbing the sound of the scene--whilst watching and reading form a script. Hence the audience, instead of viewing one scene, is now one more scene removed from the youth's graphic sexual display. Epps posited that this big reveal is Almodvar's attempt to interrupt desire itself by disrupting the audience's voyeurism.

Voyeurism sets up a relationship between spectator and object. In this context, the spectator is the audience of the film and Epps locates the object in the youth performing the sexual act. Hence, Epps registers the big reveal at the end of the scene as an intrusion--as the destruction of the voyeuristic illusion. For my understanding, he is arguing that the audience's pleasure in viewing this young man is somehow tainted or undone by Almodvar's choice to expose how this illusion of desire in a film scene is constructed. In other words, Admovar is taking away from the magical experience of viewing something by taking a moment to explain how that moment is constructed. For Epps, desire is destroyed at that moment. However I have a different reading of the scene; desire is not destroyed but continued. I believe that the big reveal works to prolongue the viewer's desire, instead of crushing it. Michel Foucault once argued that it is not the need for sexual gratification that desire arises out of but the human need to be in desire. The state of desiring is more pleasurable than the climax itself. Knowing that the youth masturbating would eventually come to a climax and inevitably end the viewer's desire, Almodvar entends this desire by turning the camera on the two older gentlemen, who themselves are in desire--moaning and such. In this way, the director is turning the camera on the viewing audience who the two older gentlemen represent as stand-ins. Since they are viewing the young man in the same position as the audience, Almodvar lets the audience see itself in the two gentleman. Thus the audience instead of viewing a stimulus for desire, the young man's actions, come to view desire itself in action. By the time the youth in done, the audience is still in desire. This is my understading of how desire is not destroyed but continued in the first scene of Almodvar's film.
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Fame, Fortune and Political Correctness – The Man Booker Prize in Question

The Man Booker Prize is an annual literary prize which rewards supposedly the best novel of the year written by a citizen of the British Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland. Judges are usually book critics, writers or academics, and the winning author receives £50 000 (approximately $82 000). Indeed, the prestige of this prize is so much so that the official website boasts that “every year the Man Booker Prize winner is guaranteed a huge increase in sales…[and] spin-off [revenue] too in…future publishing contracts and in film and TV rights.” The website also adds that “besides the fortune, the winner of the Man Booker Prize can also be sure of fame, [as the] announcement of the winner is covered by television, radio and press worldwide.”

The question this statement subsequently brings up is, is the point of writing fiction then only for the fame and the fortune? If that is the case, then what is the point of doling out such awards when fame and fortune can easily be sought by writing 400-page novels replete with plot-twists and cliff-hangers? Dan Brown, for instance, sold a million copies of his latest book within 24 hours of its publication; J.K. Rowling, what with the Harry Potter mania this past decade has seen, is now richer than the Queen of England. Both are household and Hollywood names, yet both have not received (nor will they ever, I believe) an award such as the Man Booker Prize. If fame and fortune can be achieved without a literary award, what then is its significance?


Robert McCrum, literary editor of the London Observer, claims that the Man Booker Prize “has become the indispensable literary thermometer with which to take the temperature of contemporary fiction (outside the US).” In other words, the award can be seen as a type of measurement of the quality of a book; if it has a little gold sticker on its cover proclaiming it to have won, or even have been shortlisted, for the Man Booker Prize, a browser in a bookstore is supposed to be assured that the book will be worth the reader’s precious time – that is to say, it has literary value, such as would make it perhaps a classic in a hundred years’ time. However, there are nonetheless some who believe that the winners of the Man Booker Prize only reflect “political correctness” on the part of the judges; they argue that a significant percentage of the winning novels are by writers from former British colonies, or by women, and that this fact is because the judges want to avoid seeming too biased towards white middle-class males. For instance, a certain disgruntled reader questioned the validity of the award going to Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, which won the Man Booker Prize in 1981 and also the Booker’s Booker Prize in 2008 (in light of the 40th anniversary of the Man Booker Prize); according to this reader, who posted his comments on a discussion board on the official Man Booker Prize webpage, Midnight’s Children is “impenetrable rubbish” and was not even one of the top twenty bestselling books in the UK when it was published. This last fact, to this particular reader, highlights the seeming irrelevance of the book and, by consequence, the importance of the award – if no one wanted to read it, then why was it even given an award? And since it was given this award, what was the point of the award, when it certainly didn’t boost sales, as the award claims to do?

Personally, if I’m looking for a substantial read – which I define as an enjoyable balance of sumptuous language, intriguing plot and eyebrow-raising themes – I would look for that gold sticker on the book. That gold sticker assures me that this book, according to literary critics far more discerning than I am, possesses a combination of plot and language which simultaneously display the author’s originality of ideas and his/her craft of writing in a beautiful equilibrium that marks it as something which will be read and studied in years to come. The few books that have been awarded the Man Booker Prize which I have read so far – Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss and lately, Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger – have all fit the bill; each, with its gold sticker on the cover, I have enjoyed tremendously. Whether or not these books were awarded based on “political correctness”, I believe they nevertheless will remain in the canon of what is known as ‘great literature’.


“FAQs”. The Man Booker Prizes. Web. 2 November 2009.

McCrum, Robert. “The Return of the Cracking Good Read”. The Observer. Web. 2 November 2009.

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The Intrinsic Value of the Aesthetic

In our modern understanding, the term art carries a connotation broader than a simple oil painting or a bronzed sculpture. It blankets under its spectrum aesthetic expressions such as music, film, photography, and of course, literature. It is a discipline which has seeped in every instance into the daily fabric of our lives, whether it be a Van Gogh screening on a coffee cup, a Cezanne print in a bathroom, or the strains of Bach on the latest car commercial, aesthetics are not only an expression of our culture, but a victim to it.

Specifically, the designs modern cultures make on art to assign value in a way that is concrete and functional. Plato claims that ‘art has no end but its own perfection’, but this day in age, we commit a far worse slight against it by claiming that it has no value beyond what we assign it. Aesthetics only possess value when they can be made use of by a more practical, functional machine, whether that be the political, evangelical or the commercial. One only has to call to mind the subversion of aesthetics and symbols over the past century to see the injustice done upon them, whether it be degrading of the swastika to a symbol of political tyranny or the use of popular music as a weapon again insurgents. We have begun to look at art solely as a tool whose worth is yet to be determined by the end result of the machine that utilizes it. To say such an attitude towards aesthetics is barely scratching their surface is by no means a stretch of the imagination. In fact, the desperation of political factions to harness and subvert art for their own purposes and agendas is only an acknowledgement of the true power they contain. Aesthetics contain within them the breadth and depth of human experience, and so hold their own intrinsic value as a cornerstone of cultural expression, rather than as a means to an end.

In the terms of theory’s application to this argument, Michel de Certeau’s posit of tactics and strategies in terms of structures of power and individual agency can be extrapolated to reflect the oppression of art by the machine of political institution. In this model, the aesthetics achieve value as tactics. Art is by nature reactionary, whether to other stylistic movements or periods, or to the current conventions and modes. As such, the inherent drive to break out of the ‘strategies’ of accepted form and critical convention and strike new creative ground gives aesthetics agency, and thusly, power. De Certeau asserts that everyday life is merely a process of thievery and reinvention—a reassembly of norms and productions that while still tied to the set, creates individuality within it.
A rationalized, expansionist, centralized, spectacular and clamorous production is confronted by an entirely different kind of production, called “consumption” and characterized by its ruses, its fragmentation…its poaching, its clandestine nature, its tireless but quiet activity, in short by its quasi-invisibility, since it shows itself not in tits own products…but in an art of using those imposed on it. (Rivkin and Ryan, 1249)
Art and aesthetics do not simply have a value beyond the political—rather, they have a value entirely separate from it. As a tactic, aesthetics subvert the strategies like politics, dogma, and even critical theory, by taking the categories imposed on them, reassembling them, and putting forth a unique and innovative product. The very fact that institution and political agenda seek to silence, subvert and make use of aesthetics implies their power—they are the essential representation of cultural and human identity and as such, possess value as of yet unsurpassed.
So then, as a means of expression of cultural identity, aesthetics take the elements of the society they illustrate, and re-imagine them, combining the mundane or the prescribed in ways that are provocative and at times, incensory. In this way, understanding our aesthetics as a means of individual expression, as a form of tactics, nullifies the idea that they are merely a tool of the political, i.e. a function of strategies.

Furthermore, politics and institutions only tap the surface of an aesthetic by using it—the very notion that a piece of art can be used by scores of groups—cults, militias, governments, philosophers, theologians—for varied and often times contradictory meanings, implies that the true value of the art itself must be external to these secondary, applied meanings. A political interpretation of art is little more than a label placard stuck next to the frame on a museum wall. Easily applied, easily replaced, and with no real connection to the piece it imposes categories upon. Adorno and Horkheimer argue this in regards to the United States ‘culture industry’.
In the period from Romanticism to Expressionism, [the detail] asserted itself as free expression, as a vehicle of protest against the organization…The totality of the culture industry has put an end to this. Though concerned exclusively with effects, it crushes their insubordination and makes them subserve the formula, which replaces the work. (Rivkin and Ryan, 1244)
By paying suffocating attention to the effects or details of a piece of art, and then imposing a prescribed formula that renders those effects subservient, the cultural industry removes the agency of art and makes use of it for the purpose of commercial gain. Crushing the pieces of a work into a pre-determined mold tears apart not only the work’s original integrity, but destroys it’s function—to expand and re-imagine—instead forcing it to compress and conform.

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Discretion & Indiscretion: The Laws of Desire and Language

“Writing can get away from a writer, as love can get away from a lover,” explains Bradley Epps, the speaker for this past Monday’s comparative literature luncheon. A professor of romance languages, as well as gender and sexuality studies, at Harvard University, Epps’ talk centered around a somewhat pornographic, yet extremely stylistic film titled Law of Desire (la ley del Deseo), directed by Pedro Almodovar (a famous Spanish director). Epps showed the opening of the film, and then proceeded to discuss it, as related to issues of authorial discretion and indiscretion within film-making and literary production. Epps first explained that the two very opposite words “discreet” and “indiscreet” share the same origin, a Latin base meaning “not separate." Because of this, the two words are forever linked in their nature as opposites that can never be separated from each other: similarly to “hide” and “seek”, or “silence” and “spoken.” For Epps, this is the main issue within Law of Desire: the relationship between what has been hidden and how there is always a possibility for those hidden things to be revealed – through words, written documents, cameras, and other means of literary and artistic production. Throughout the film there is a constant re-articulation of desire, “that which is hidden”, by way of scenes that use discreet techniques to reveal far too much, indiscreetly. Epps calls this “the fragility of authorial discretion as haunted by indiscretion” – that no matter how hard a writer or director tries to be discreet, they are constantly bound by indiscretion, as it is the nature of writing, and film (scripts, scenes, etc), to serve as tools for revealing the hidden nature of all things – especially desire.

The opening scene of Law of Desire is, for Epps, a perfect example of this interchange between discretion and indiscretion. The opening begins with the names of the actors, director, producers, etc. on crumpled pieces of parchment with a single shaft of light illuminating them – already a discreet way of revealing something completely indiscreet: how the film was made. It is obvious what kind of work must go into creating a film, there has to be actors, actresses, a director, a producer, and a screenplay, but the opening credits of Law of Desire seem like an intrusion, with the single shaft of light and crumpled pages. It is as if we are not supposed to be looking at these pages, at these names – that we took them out of a trashcan and opened them back up by a window…an extremely secretive and discreet way of revealing obvious information about the film’s creation, which indiscreetly reveals the sort of film this is going to be even before the first characters walk on screen. This film is already, from the opening credits, about the relationship between the discreet and the indiscreet. As the opening continues, with the young man masturbating for pay, the audience is once again shown something extremely discreet – how the young man’s masturbation is shot with shadows and angles, pornographic yet not pornographic, for we see little of his private self or his sex organs – only to realize again how very indiscreet it is: as the scene ends, we are shown two elderly men reading a script, dubbing over the entire scene while the young man finishes masturbating! This jolting realization that the old men are dubbing this scene reveals something about the film that would surely have been hidden otherwise: this film is about the creation of cinema, and the simulation of cinema, as a way to speak about desire. The opening credits and this opening masturbation scene are, as Epps puts it, “acts of discretion that actually work as a violation of discretion at the same time.” I find this to be quite fascinating, and applicable to literature as well, though Epps did not go into literature as much as film. As a writer myself, I find that it is indeed true that writing can get away from a writer, and as we write ideas are brought forth and characters are shaped in ways that are both discreet and yet so very indiscreet. Much is revealed about an author through writing, and though we have discussed many reasons why an author’s intentions/background should not be considered when analyzing his or her work, the fact that an author’s hidden desires or feelings on certain subjects such as politics, love, sexuality, and ethics often come to light through their use of language is no accident, nor is it always intentional – more often than not it just happens that way. Language, it seems, has always had, and always will have, the power to be both discreet and indiscreet all at once: how we use it, and what we reveal by using it.
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No Longer at Ease with Cultural Production

“To speak of culture was always contrary to culture,” writes Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno in their critical essay titled The Culture Industry as Mass Deception. Horkheimer and Adorno argue that the culture industry, as well as cultural studies in general, have become unoriginal, identical, and disappointing. What once had potential to be enlightening and unique, a way to study and enjoy the differences between various cultural traditions and products, has become “a system which is uniform as a whole and in every part (1242).” The reason for this downfall is, as Horkheimer and Adorno see it, undeniably because of capitalism – corporations, industries, and modern technology.

Yet, the real disillusionment at hand, for these two theorists, is the failures of not only the cultural products, or even the study of those products, but of the artists themselves – the creators of culture and art. Horkheimer and Adorno focus much of their essay on artistic style, reminding the reader that “the great artists were never those who embodied a wholly flawless and perfect style, but those who used style as a way of hardening themselves against the chaotic expression of suffering, as a negative truth (1245).” However, this was always something inherently doomed, for as more and more music, art, and writing was created throughout history, due to an increase in production and social demand, styles began to repeat, and “true genuine aesthetics” began to disappear. “The promise” of art as genuine truth became necessary, and therefore, hypocritical. This is what the two theorists call “the failure of the passionate striving for identity” – and in this day and age, as the culture industry labors heavily on imitation, this failure becomes absolute as artistic creation turns toward “surrogate identities”, ignoring the truth and obeying capitalism and social hierarchy. Where are the true identities of artists now? Certainly not in their works, the essay claims: society demands that this be so – and this demand is both an unstoppable and unhappy one.

How, though, does literature deal with this issue of identity loss through stylistic imitation; Where does mass production, capitalism, and social hierarchy make its mark on the actual cultural products of the modern age? In Chinua Achebe’s novel No Longer at Ease, many of these matters come to light. Achebe’s story follows the life of Obi Okonkwo, who, after being educated in England, returns to his native Nigeria, where he finds himself conflicted instead of inspired, only to finally take several brides, the last of which lands him court – which is where the novel both begins and ends. While this is, on many levels, a story about the inherent disconnect between the “modern” Western world and Obi’s traditional “Nigerian world”, beneath these themes there is a deeper thread of identity loss, and of the failure of culture and art to rediscover identity. Achebe also frequently depicts images of simulation and repetition of styles, as well as an echoing of Horkheimer and Adorno’s concept of all cultural products (film, writing, music, etc.) as predictable and unimaginative due to the demands of modern society and mass production. For example, in chapter two of the novel, Obi’s beloved Clara asks Obi if they can see a film together, to which he refuses on the grounds that last time he went with her to see a film it infuriated him how she would predict the events of the film as they watched: “’That man is going to be killed,” she would prophesy, and sure as death, the doomed man would be shot almost immediately. From downstairs the shilling-ticket audience participated noisily in the action (21).” Here we see the expectations of society – that the man should die, that a film should be full of a “certain kind of” action, and therefore “good” – dictating the style of artistic creation, and the destruction of originality within cultural production. Only, ironically, does Obi himself, who later does not find salvation even through his own cultural self, see the upsetting nature of these films as duplicated failures.

Frequently within the novel, Achebe also makes references to works of art, such as T.S. Eliot’s poetry, in ways that seem to comment on the repetitive nature of art and the “surrogate identities” that artists end up with as their works are used and re-used throughout history. When Clara mentions to Obi how she does not understand why he wants her to meet people she does not want to meet, he exclaims angrily, “You know, you are a poet, Clara…To meet people you don't want to meet, that's pure T.S. Eliot (22).” Here, Eliot is used in jest, to make a bitter, ironic statement in favor of Obi himself, who feels offended. Yet, on a metaphorical level, Obi is transferring the identity of Eliot onto Clara, as someone who would “speak poetically” in the same way a poet might. Eliot’s language and style are repeated by Clara’s objection to meeting new people, and Obi recognizes this and scorns it – in much the same way Horkheimer and Adorno might do so. To add to the irony, it is revealed in the next paragraph that Clara herself has no idea what Obi means by his reference to T.S. Eliot, which only reinforces the loss of Eliot’s identity within the world of No Longer at Ease: not only has Eliot been transferred to Clara by Obi, but she does not even recognize it – lack of education, perhaps, but there seems to be a deeper concept at work, one that mirrors the feelings of Horkheimer and Adorno’s essay. Though Clara becomes the “surrogate identity” of Eliot, she does not comprehend it, and so truly do we get a separation between cultural product and creator; It should be noted, too, that Obi does not attempt to then explain it to her, and so the “genuine-ness” of Eliot’s real words (his actual poetry: The Waste Land, etc.) becomes completely lost, and even Obi’s own educated self fails to create understanding and connection between Eliot and Clara.

Later on in chapter five, Achebe again references other writers and their works of art: When Obi is talking to the British Chairman of the Public Service Commission about his theory for Nigeria to be controlled by educated individuals, not old, traditional Africans, the subject of novels is brought to the forefront. Obi, defending his belief that suicide as an end to a novel ruins “real tragedy”, explains, “Yes. Real tragedy is never resolved. It goes on hopelessly forever. Conventional tragedy is too easy. The hero dies and we feel a purging of the emotions. A real tragedy takes place in a corner, in an untidy spot, to quote W. H. Auden. The rest of the world is unaware of it. Like that man in A Handful of Dust who reads Dickens to Mr. Todd. There is no release for him. When the story ends he is still reading. There is no purging of the emotions for us because we are not there (46).” Here, Obi makes references to Auden, Dickens, and the work A Handful of Dust, using them as examples to back up a claim he is making about “all real tragedies”. The reader realizes that this opinionated individual is the same man who became angry at films that did exactly what society wanted them to do – and here he is again, putting down what society has deemed as “right” or “good” tragedy. Not only that, but the entire statement Obi makes about tragedy can be seen as a direct metaphor of Horkheimer and Adorno’s beliefs once again: “conventional tragedy is too easy”, Obi says, and couldn't that be applied to all cultural products – aren’t they all “too easy”, if they are all merely simulations of the same styles over and over?

Even provided with only five chapters of Achebe’s novel, it becomes clear that the deeper issues presented beneath the story’s plot echo the opinions of Horkheimer and Adorno on the imitative nature of cultural production, and the failure of artists to ultimately assume lasting, “genuine” identities through their works. Horkheimer and Adorno blame industrialization, social hierarchy, and mass production – in Achebe’s novel it is perhaps not as clear that all of these are the causes of these problems concerning cultural production, but the fact that these problems exist and are at work within the character development and world of Obi Okonkwo himself is undeniable. Society/Social hierarchy, at least, certainly seems to be a cause for Obi’s anger at film, and even literary, production. Because of Obi’s dislike of the films of his time due to their predictability, Obi’s transference of T.S. Eliot’s identity onto Clara and the subsequent failure of his own education to create understanding between them (and so the identity of the “poet” is lost), and Obi’s own use of literary works to defend a claim that speaks to the overall concept of “all contemporary culture (like all contemporary tragedy) as too easy”, Achebe’s novel serves as a commentary on the same theoretical issues that Horkheimer and Adorno explore in their essay on the culture industry as “mass deception.” For Achebe, the genuine identities of artists do seem to have become lost in the modern world, as men and women like Obi Okonkwo, who are stuck between two worlds and two cultures, continue to turn to cultural production only to recognize the repetitive nature of it, until they themselves are unable to find salvation through their own cultural identities (like those of the artists themselves), and so too are lost.





Bibliography:

Achebe, Chinua. No Longer at Ease. New York: Doubleday, 1960.

Adorno, Theodor & Horkheimer, Max. “The Culture Industry as Mass Deception”. Literary Theory: An Anthology. Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 1998. Pg. 1242-1246
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Rethinking Immigration in the Age of Global Vertigo

Mr. Suárez-Orozco spoke Monday night on immigration as part of Penn State's Migration Studies Project, a topic that he has spent the last twenty-five years studying and researching. He spoke broadly on immigration worldwide and then narrowed in, discussing his own research done on immigration in the United States. He claims to approach immigration with a Freudian sensibility. He sees the family unit as the core of immigration studies and quotes Freud’s answer to what makes a happy life, “love and work”. Thus, for the best chance at successful immersion into the United States there needs to be work to support and a family to love. However, in his studies nearly fifty percent of immigrant children are separated from both parents, and in cases of a single parent household it is predominantly the father who is the absent parent.

Immigration is of and for the family, Mr. Suárez-Orozco asserts. Environmental and financial factors disrupt the functioning of a family and migration becomes the foremost option. Nonetheless, it causes separations that later result in re-unifications. What was most striking in his lecture were his findings on these re-unifications. When interviewed, children reunited with one or both parents overwhelming used the word “strange” or “stranger” to describe their emotions. Their separation from family members combined with a new, isolating environment led to a broad loss of connection. Mr. Suárez-Orozco feels that the segregation of immigrant children into neighborhoods of poverty and low diversity is one of many negative issues holding them back from success in the country of immigration.
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Sensationalism and Politics in Mid-19th Century Japanese Media Coverage of Natural Disasters

On October 23rd, Greg Smits gave a short lecture as part of the early modern era section of the Global Asias Conference, a series of lectures held to welcome the new Asian Studies program at Penn State. His lecture was entitled “Mass Media and the Politicizing of Natural Hazards in Japan, 1830-1855” and focused specifically on a series of devastating earthquakes and one crippling famine. The media that informed citizens of recent news at the time came in the form of pamphlets and lavishly illustrated books. According to Smits, the sensationalist tendencies of the people creating this form of media led to the politicization of the earthquakes. The first earthquake that received this sort of sensationalist treatment was the 1830Kyoto quake.

According to Smits this earthquake was fairly standard for the region and was not all that devastating. Nevertheless, the pamphlets decided to boost their sales by exaggerating the amount of damage done to the city. Pamphlets described extensive fire damage and looting, although neither occurred after the 1830 quake. Perhaps one element that drove the earthquake to be so greatly out of proportion was that it occurred in an Okage year. Each Okage year has special Shinto religious significance, and during this time many observers flock to the shine of Amaterasu, the sun god, to pay homage. The next major natural disaster to stir up media fervor was the Tenpo famine of 1833-1836. This was the first time that the media in Japan came close to directly criticizing the bakufu government. The bakufu government of the time was the Tokugawa shogunate, and bakufu refers specifically to the feudal military dictatorship ruled by the shogun. As long as the pamphlets did not directly suggest any negligence or incompetence on the part of the shogunate, the government did not censor them. The 1840s and 50s yielded an unusual abundance of significant seismic activity. The unusually frequent earthquakes led to the raising of more arable land, a great commodity considering the nutrient-poor soil of Japan and general dearth of usable land. The media during this time period spun the sudden appearance of new mountains as a silver lining to the inherent destructiveness of the quakes. The 1847 Zenkoji earthquake became widely reported in the major metropolitan center of Edo. The earthquake occurred well outside of the city, in the Shinano province, but the people of Edo quickly learned of its destructiveness. In addition to lurid descriptions of the damage done, the Edo media joked about the many different types of funeral services available in the Shinano province. Despite the high frequency of earthquakes, the media did not comment on any sort of pattern until the 1855 Edo earthquake. This quake resulted in 8,000 casualties, a number endemic to only a mildly powerful quake. The persistent aftershocks, which continued every day for a month, helped motivate the media to spread rumors that cosmic forces were rejecting the legitimacy of the bakufu government. According to the pamphlets, corruption was the reason for the earthquakes, and depictions of catfish, the symbol of earthquakes, strangling coins out of officials. The media also began to denounce the Edo deities, showing paintings of them being defeated by Amaterasu, the deity of the capital city of Kyoto. Needless to say, the government quickly began shutting down press companies and killing dissidents. This event marks the first time in Japanese history that widely disseminated media took a stance against the government.

I found Smits’ presentation to be extremely clear, which was a relief after I struggled to understand some of the other lectures. I particularly enjoyed how he displayed the illustrations of some contemporary pamphlets to specifically detail the media’s representation of natural disasters. What I found most surprising about this presentation was that any media during the Tokugawa shogunate would ever have the gall to directly denounce the bakufu. In this time, samurai could still legally kill commoners without recourse if they felt some affront to their honor. It seems obvious to me that a lower class like those that would manage and work for a press company would have no legal recourse to the fury of the elite samurai class or the bakufu officials. I have no idea why pamphlet releasing companies would ever risk their lives by doing something so obviously reckless. It did not seem in Smits’ presentation that this rebellious discourse actually succeeded in swaying significant public opinion; however, the Meiji Restoration occurred only three decades later. Perhaps the media risked it all to start a rebellion, or perhaps they simply valued sales too highly. One thing that I did not understand was why the pamphlets would contain illustrations of Edo deities succumbing to the might of Amaterasu. Since all emperors are said to descend from Amaterasu, it seems logical that Amaterasu would be a symbol of the government and its might. Of course, in Japanese history people often compete for the image of supporting the emperor while subverting or backing the other branches of the government. Perhaps by invoking the image of Amaterasu as a master deity, the pamphlets sought to ally themselves with the emperor while still criticizing the bakufu.
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